Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(86)

“But it wasn’t a sedative. Instead it was . . . melting and floating and bliss. We giggled; we smiled; we danced. And within a matter of weeks, we’d do whatever Madame wanted, party, chat, entertain, live it up, more men, lots of men, whatever she wanted, as long as she kept the happiness coming.” I pause and it comes to me, what I’ve been half remembering for a long time now: “Vero learned to fly.”

“I took up quilting as part of my sobriety,” Marlene says. “In the mornings, I’d visit craft stores, pick up scraps of fabric. I’d pick out the gray of your eyes or maybe the chestnut brown of your hair, or the pink of your first dress. I sewed my grief into quilts, and before I knew it, people were asking if they could buy them. So that became my first job, first honest dollar I earned on my own, selling a quilt to my neighbor. Later, Hank helped me figure out how to sell on the Internet. Then I learned I was pregnant.”

“Life in the dollhouse . . . unraveled. You could feel it. The rooms became more frayed. Madame Sade angrier, edgier. And we became . . . tired. We didn’t talk anymore, didn’t huddle together and tell stories for comfort. We were either up, up, up or passed out cold as part of the down, down, down. Dinnertime became more strained. Looking at the two older girls sitting at the other end of the table. Harsh. Gaunt. Knowing. Vero and Chelsea know they must escape. But how?”

“I made a family,” Marlene whispers. She sounds embarrassed, having finally put together a life just as her first daughter faced the abyss. “I married Hank. I gave birth to a beautiful little girl. I got a real job at the liquor store. And I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol in twenty years. I’m so sorry I didn’t sober up sooner. I’m so sorry I didn’t learn my lessons quicker. If I could go back in time, if I could undo what I did—”

“You failed Vero.”

“I’m sorry—”

“But what I did was worse.”

She doesn’t talk; her fingers tremble in my own.

I have arrived at the end of my mental corridor, outside the largest door of my memory banks. The one clearly marked “Keep Out.” But my hand is on the knob and I’m going to do it. I have to do it. Right now, this moment. There’s no turning back.

“I stopped shooting up the drugs. Bit by bit, day by day, I took less, stashed more. I couldn’t do it anymore. The life, the slow decay. We had to get out. Maybe if I could just think straight.

“I stuffed the vials in a hole in my mattress, where Madame Sade wouldn’t find them. My roommate watched me do it, but I didn’t worry. We were in this together, her and I. We were sisters. I tried to get her to stop, too, but it was harder for her. She was tired by then, even more tired than me. Even if we got away, she would say, where would we go?

“I tried . . .” My voice breaks. I’m turning the handle now. I can see the door opening, watch the dark crack yawn open before me.

“I knew,” I say flatly, staring at no one, my gaze locked on the sight of this woman’s hands folded in my own. “I told myself I didn’t, but I knew what she was going to do.”

“I’m sorry,” Marlene whispers, as if she already understands what’s coming next.

“She took my stash. Every single vial. One afternoon when I was down in the kitchen, my turn to cook. By the time I returned, she was dead, collapsed on the rug. I didn’t know what to do.” Screaming, begging, pleading. Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, don’t leave me. I can’t do this alone. “Madame came. We’d never had anything happen like that before. She was incensed, furious. Nothing to be done, she announced. Just have to wait till nightfall when the caretaker could deal with the body. Then she left her. Just like that. And I was all alone in the room with my best friend’s corpse.

“I brushed out her hair, long dark locks so much like my own. I closed her eyes, a pale blue like my own. And then . . . I knew what I had to do.”

Marlene is still clasping my hand, willing me to finish. The cops, Tessa and Wyatt, have moved from the corner table, are standing now, waiting with baited breath.

I will myself to look up. I will myself to stare them all in the eye as I say what I have to say next.

“I switched our clothes. I wrestled her into the bed, tucked her in. Then I took her place on the rug.” Wet with vomit, rank with urine. “Rolled myself up. Ordered myself not to move again.

“Eventually, the door opened. Footfalls sounded as the caretaker arrived. I couldn’t see, only hear, as he heaved me up, tossed me over his back. Thump, thump, thump, down the stairs, his shoulders digging into my stomach. I’m going to vomit. I can’t vomit. I’m already dead.

“Outside, he heads into the woods, striding heavily over rocks and tree roots. It’s raining. I can feel it through the rug. A dark and stormy night. Perfect for digging a grave. Shortly, he stops. Tosses me to the ground. I want to scream. But I don’t. I’m already dead.

“Then, suddenly, he lifts me up. He heaves me in. Just like that. No last visit from Madame Sade, no final words from the so-called family. Just . . . whomp. I am garbage and now I’m gone. Then, of course, he picks up his spade and begins refilling the grave.”

Marlene’s grip on my hands is so tight now, our knuckles have gone white. I’ve lost all feeling in my fingertips. But I don’t draw back. I stare at her, and I realize for the first time how truly angry I am. Because six-year-old Vero had believed in her, the power of a mother’s hugs. Six-year-old Vero had fought to be brave for her, the eternity of a mother’s love. Except six-year-old Vero never should have been in that house at all.