One of Those Faces (95)

I put both hands to either side of my head and focused on breathing. As I stood, I swallowed a mouthful of bile and choked. I grabbed my phone from my bag and pressed 911 but didn’t dial. There was something tangled in the hair under the nape of her neck. I bent down and pulled the piece of paper out from under her head and then dropped it immediately. It was my note in red from the night before.

The sound of my heart pounding drowned out all thought. My breathing quickened until I couldn’t see the rest of the room, only her and the note. I folded the note into my palm and surveyed the room. Her phone wasn’t anywhere. Don’t touch anything. I glanced under the bed and on top of her twisted bedsheets.

I backed away and then ran out of the unit, gasping in the empty hallway. I covered my hand with my sleeve and closed the door, tugging my hoodie tighter around my face as I ran back into the elevator. I reached the first floor and pushed the door and ran half a mile before I doubled over and fell to the pavement.





CHAPTER FIFTY


Shadows flashed past on the floor of the train as it crawled over the river. I held the note in one hand and my phone in the other. The note had become damp from the sweat on my palms, the red letters bleeding onto my skin. I saw her body when I blinked.

“Evanston Main coming up.” The conductor’s voice shattered through the bloody vision.

As the train pulled up to the platform, I grabbed my bag and stood directly in front of the doors. My stomach dropped as I left the station. The thought of going back filled me with dread. But where else could I go? Where else was safe?

Once I was on my old street, I could see the for sale sign posted in the dying grass on the lawn. They weren’t wasting any time getting what money they could from my father’s estate.

My hands hadn’t stopped shaking since I’d left Jenny’s apartment. When I stood on the porch of the house, I tried to steady them as I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered in through the glass inlay on the front door. I glanced to the empty driveway before walking down the steps and jumping the rickety wire fence to the backyard and landing in the tall grass. I took a ballpoint pen from my bag and shoved it under my bedroom window, prying it up until I could force it the rest of the way up with my fingers. The window had always jammed on the way down, and it could never be properly locked from the inside.

Once the window was open wide enough, I slung my bag to the hardwood floor and paused for any sound before grabbing the windowsill and hoisting myself inside. My shoulder clipped the bookcase on the way in, and I gasped as I rammed into the floor. My chest immediately tightened upon entering the house.

I sat up, clutching my shoulder and leaning against the bed frame. This was about how far I had made it when my father had grabbed my neck that day and rammed me against the bookshelf the night I left for good. My pulse quickened, and my throat burned with the memory.

I stood and turned the light switch, but nothing happened. They had probably cut the utilities. I peered out into the hallway, which stretched farther into the darkness of the house. It was still midday, but it was so dark inside. The house had absorbed this gloom long ago. It was hard to remember what the house had looked like when Mom had been alive. With heavy feet, I walked down to the study; the double doors were wide open. Now there were books in boxes stacked along the floor, only a few remaining on the shelves. His imposing oak desk was still perfectly intact from my last visit.

I sank into the leather armchair, goose bumps rising along my skin as if he were watching. His favorite photo of Mom was framed on his desk and then a picture of me at sixteen, in the clothing he had picked out, exact replicas of what Issi had worn years before. Each growth spurt after her death had resulted in a violent tantrum. The other framed photos were all of Issi and me when we were little. I leaned forward in the chair and opened each drawer. They were full of loose papers with his scribbles all over them.

I pulled out the very bottom drawer. There was the old scotch bottle. I reached for it, but something shook beneath it. I set the bottle on the desk and touched the bottom of the drawer, and it immediately flipped up to expose additional space underneath. I removed the false bottom and froze. There was a small manila envelope with Harper Mallen scrawled on top in red.

I stared at it, my heart racing faster until my fingers wrapped around the envelope. I abandoned the scotch and staggered back to the bedroom, then closed the door behind me. I wasn’t ready to see what was inside. Not now.

I crammed the envelope into the bottom of my bag before slumping down onto the floor. I brought my knees into my chest and faced underneath the bed. Her eyes were wide open, looking into mine from the dark. I shuddered and refocused my gaze.

There was a lump underneath the bed, against the wall. A blanket, maybe. I reached across the floor, my hand scraping the dust from the surface, and grabbed the lump and dragged it out. I recognized the coat immediately.

I rubbed my hand over the small parka, the fabric stiff with age, the top layer of dust coming off on my fingers. It was the coat I hadn’t taken the night of the accident. I clenched my fists around the fabric and squeezed it close to my chest.

Hot tears burned my eyes. No one had seen that night for what it was. They’d all seen what they wanted to believe. A terrible accident befalling the professor and his daughters after his wife’s untimely demise. They’d forgotten my real name. They’d pretended I was as talented as Issi while I was constantly beaten in darkness for my inadequacies. They’d forgotten who I was. And I’d forgotten too. I thought running away would save my life, but I’d never truly regained myself.