Nice Girls(96)

Then I finally climbed out of John Stack’s car and closed the door. I entered the code to the garage and slipped inside the house.

The TV was airing an old rerun of Who’s the Boss? Amid the quiet and the soft lights, I felt myself thawing in the living room.

Dad was sitting in the armchair, his body turned away from me. He had fallen asleep, his head bent sideways on top of a sofa cushion. I could see the bald spot at the back of his head—it was prominent now, about the size of my fist. I wondered if he knew how big it had gotten.

I reached out and tapped him on the shoulder. I kept tapping, softly, until Dad began to stir.

He groaned, rubbing his eyes.

“Hi, Dad,” I said faintly.

“You decide to come home?”

“Yeah.”

“Next time, you need to answer your phone when I call you,” he said, his voice icy. “I’ve been worried since yesterday.”

“Sorry.”

Dad finally glanced over. He sucked in his breath. His face was blank as he took in the blood and the bruises and the pale, flaky patches that covered my body. Then the horror ran across his eyes.

“Good God, Mary.”

I found myself nodding along, my eyes starting to burn.



After we wiped off most of the blood, Dad disinfected the cuts with an old bottle of rubbing alcohol. I drifted in and out of sleep as he worked—I was exhausted, but the rubbing alcohol jolted me awake, as if my wounds were being seared open.

Afterward, I chugged down three aspirin and a glass of water. I changed into an old set of pajamas and climbed into bed. I kept a warm washcloth over my hands—they were hardened, but they still pulsed with pain.

I was drowsy until I heard car keys jingling in the hallway. I sat up, shivering.

But it was only Dad. He came into the room and shut the window blinds. Then he tucked me in, pushing the bedcovers up to my chest and smoothing out the wrinkles.

Dad seemed to linger, one hand awkwardly propped on my shoulder. I waited for him to say something. He seemed to be waiting for me. But neither of us knew what to say.

Instead Dad reached out and held my hand. His hand was large and coarse, almost apelike. But he held mine delicately, as if he were afraid of breaking it. I gave his hand a squeeze and then Dad left.

I heard the garage door open and close from downstairs, then the sound of a car door slamming shut in the driveway and the whir of the ignition. I kept vigil through the night until I couldn’t anymore.



When I woke up, it was already midday. I could hear Dad cooking lunch downstairs. Through the window blinds, the world looked white. I knew that this was what the winter weather watch had promised. The snow from two days ago had been a precursor.

When I looked outside, I saw the fat flakes of snow that now tumbled down over the cul-de-sac, the neighborhood, and the rest of Liberty Lake.

John Stack’s tank had disappeared.

And Mom’s car was sitting in the driveway.





Epilogue




John Stack’s car was found the day after Thanksgiving. It was about ten days after I came home. Two bird-watchers had found it while they were exploring the area. They saw a large black vehicle sitting outside the woods, its windows rolled down and the car doors left open. Snow had covered the interior.

“We thought somebody’s car might’ve broken down on Thanksgiving,” said one of the bird-watchers. Her eyes were small, and they blinked rapidly. “They might’ve tried searching for help in the snow and, you know . . . But then we saw all these extra tire tracks and footprints around the car and it was pretty obvious.”

“Foul play,” said her husband, nodding. A pair of ski goggles were bulging on his forehead.

The police were called in, who ran the license plate of the car. They discovered that it belonged to a resident named Johnathan Stack. They searched the area nearby.

Less than half a mile away, at the western edge of the woods, the police discovered the body. It was unclear why the body and the car had ended up in two different locations. But Johnathan Stack had been “brutalized” with “absolute savagery,” his body left out in the snow.

“Never in my sixteen years on the force have I seen such evil done to a body,” said Police Chief Todd Johnson. His mustache quivered. “John was a respected member of the community and someone I called a friend. He didn’t deserve to die like this.”

Dad and I watched the press conference on TV. We’d recently put up the Christmas tree, and the lights glowed in the background. But it felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room.

Dad grew paler as the news continued, but he said nothing. He polished off his Bailey’s hot chocolate and poured two glasses of whiskey right after. He handed me one.

Within the first week of December, there was a media blitz.

When the police searched the woods near John Stack’s body, they found the cabin. The news showed pictures of it, a gray husk in the middle of nowhere. When I looked at the photos online, I could retrace my steps inside of it. I pored over each photo, looking for a sign that I had been there.

Dad and I kept the blinds closed. I rested inside and never left the house. As the days passed, I felt like there were eyes on me. And I was afraid of Kevin waiting outside.

I had no plans to talk to the police. I didn’t want to go through the hassle of an investigation. I didn’t want to be charged for John Stack’s murder. And I knew that Kevin would take the chance to incriminate me. I had a past, and I had no desire to be scrutinized by the police, the media, the public.