The Last Housewife (9)

I called softly into the darkness. “Hello?”

The sobbing stopped. It had definitely come from down there. And I couldn’t, god help me, leave without checking, even though I knew this was how girls died in horror movies. Against my better judgment, I climbed down the stairs, gripping an unfinished wooden rail I was sure would give me splinters.

I stepped off the staircase, eyes adjusting to the darkness. The moment my vision sharpened, I saw her.

She was so pale she practically glowed. Her hair was blond and stringy, falling past her shoulders. She wore nothing but a spaghetti-strap shirt, and her bottom half was naked. She crouched over a futon, trying to cover herself with her hands, her eyes huge and dilated. A sound came out, escaping her involuntarily, something between a sob and a hiccup.

I stopped midstep. “What happened?” Strange, I would think later, that I didn’t introduce myself, ask her name first, something humanizing. But some part of me recognized the scene—woman in danger—and my instincts kicked in: First, identify the threat.

She tried to take a deep breath, but it turned into a ragged noise in her throat. “He,” it sounded like. Her hands were still crossed over her lower half. I couldn’t tell the color of her eyes—they were too bloodshot, the foggy circles of mascara underneath too distracting.

“He? Who?”

“We came down here to do shots.” Her tone had turned pleading, like there was something she needed me to understand. “He said he could show me a trick where he lit his mouth on fire, but only with the amaretto. It was fine for a while, funny, but then I felt sick. And the ground…”

She squeezed her eyes shut. My heart beat fast enough to match her pulse, which I could see, jumping in her throat.

“It tilted. I lay down right here”—she looked at the futon—“and I think I fell asleep. The next thing I knew—” She stopped. The next thing was something she didn’t want to say.

I scanned the room. Just as messy as upstairs. A flat-screen TV and a video game console. And there, in the corner near a mini-fridge, a slip of light-blue skirt, tangled with panties. I snatched the pile and handed it to the girl. Her fingers curled around the fabric.

“I’ll turn around,” I said quickly. With my back to her, I could hear her moving, soft and slow, like she was still reorienting herself to her body.

Her voice was quiet. “I woke up, and he was on top of me. There was this second where I was confused. He was weighing me down, fumbling, and I didn’t understand. That’s why I didn’t move at first. I didn’t realize.”

I started to turn around, but she said, “Don’t. Please.”

I bit my tongue and nodded.

“I begged him to get off. But he just kept shushing me.” There was that sound again, like a sob she’d tried and failed to stop. “When he finished, he sat there and drank a beer.”

I closed my eyes.

“I was too scared to say anything. I was afraid he’d do it again, and I still felt so dizzy. My legs were too heavy to move.”

Now I recognized her tone. She was justifying. Explaining why she hadn’t run or yelled, how the fear and alcohol had combined to make her paralyzed and docile. She was already anticipating the arguments against her. I wanted to turn around and tell her she didn’t have to do that, that I understood.

“I felt like my heart was going to pound out of my chest,” she said.

“Then what happened?”

“He left, and at some point, I think I passed out again.”

This time, I turned around. “Did you just wake up?”

The girl nodded, rubbing her eyes. Now that she was dressed, I saw that her top and skirt matched perfectly, pretty sky blue, like a little set you would sew for a doll. “I can’t make myself go upstairs.” A desperate note sank her voice. “I’d rather die than see him again.”

I thought of the things I’d wanted someone to say to me. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. But I do want to get you out of here.” A beat. “What’s your name?”

She crossed her arms over her chest like she was cold, despite the humid basement, and whispered, “Laurel.”

“Laurel, I’m Shay. Trust me, I understand what you’re feeling. Will you tell me the guy’s name?”

“Andrew,” she said quietly. “I don’t know his last name. I’m sorry. But he lives here.”

I nodded. “Good. What do you think about talking to the police? I can come with you.” I gestured to the stairs. “I was just upstairs, and it’s empty. If you say yes, I’ll go first, and we can slip out the front door and go straight to the station.”

She looked at me with hope and fear. “Okay,” she whispered.

I blinked in surprise, then held out my hand. Laurel stepped forward and took it. Her skin was paper thin. I would always remember that about her, how the skin of her hands was so fragile, you couldn’t help rubbing it with your thumb.

I tugged her up the stairs, moving slowly, listening. But there was nothing, so we proceeded out of the darkness, creeping across the house, closing in on the front door.

Then the thunderous sound of footsteps down the staircase made us jerk to a halt. I threw myself in front of Laurel, who shrank behind me.

But it was just another girl. Short and stocky, with close-cropped pink hair and a silver nose ring. “Hey,” she boomed. “Fellow walk-of-shamers. Excellent.” She waved at the door. “Going back to Whitney, right?”