The Vanishing Year(78)

All these pictures, her wide, happy smiles. Free of anxiety. Certainly, outside in public. In crowds. Not agoraphobic then, all dated 2008, 2009. A few from 2010. Nothing from 2011. Like she’d simply disappeared in the year between 2010 and 2011. Even if she’d struggled with anxiety, as Mrs. Bascio suggested, she wasn’t home-bound. She was functioning. Oh, Joanie, what did he do to you? I feel it then, the pressure of what being Henry Whittaker’s wife would eventually do to me, and it’s as heavy as a house, perched right on my chest.

I pull down the other articles on my side of the corkboard. Small, typeset blotter notes from the trial. Witnesses and defendants. Jared Pritchett and Michael Flannery. It’s right there in black and white.

It suddenly occurs to me that I’m in danger. In what way, exactly, I’m not certain. I cannot be found in this room. I push my hand against my forehead. I need to leave this place. How? I pin the articles back to the board, restack the boxes, close up the crates. I take one last look around at this . . . shrine. It’s been right under my nose the whole time, like he’d wanted me to find it. I feel the sob catch in my chest. My whole life is a lie. This whole room is a lie.

I back out of the door, slam the padlock back together, and rush to Henry’s office. I slide the keys back into the box in his closet, and I hope I remember the right one. I realize I left the picture in his secret room. No time.

I race to the front door. I need to leave. Call for help. Something. I try to imagine explaining all this to Yates. She’ll lock me up, straightjacket and all.

I realize I have no car. Thinkthinkthinkthink. I’ll walk to the corner store. And then what? Call who? Is there even an “Information” to call anymore? I think of Trisha, with her chipmunk cheek grin and her shiny, excited eyes. I imagine clawing at her to call the police, gasping and panicked. It’d be the most exciting thing to happen in Fishing Lake since the Italian witch lived up the hill.

I turn the handle on the front door and pull. It’s locked. I flip the dead bolt, try again. Locked. The door doesn’t budge. My heart is starting to pound. Bad things are going to happen, I can feel it. The panic crawls up my spine and wraps around my neck and I can feel the back of my head starting to sweat, big fat drops dripping down my neck. My life, unraveling at my feet, and I’m left stumbling and tripping over the threads. I turn the dead bolt and the door lock and give a swift tug. Nothing moves. The fear rises up, choking and tearing at my throat until I can’t breathe and I cough a sob against my forearm.

The door is locked from the outside. I’m locked in. I rest my forehead against the glass and take deep breaths, trying to calm down. Windows. That’s all. Windows. You can’t really lock a person in a whole house. I don’t care if I have to rappel the wall. The claustrophobia is setting in fast and I can’t catch my breath. In. Out. In. Out.

“Going somewhere?”

I whip around and there stands Henry, tall, familiar-looking Henry, with his vacation smile and tousled hair, a soft, fraternity boy curl falling down onto his forehead. His head cocked to the side, his eyes marblelike, little rat beads of eyes. I push my back up against the door, the knob digging into the small of my back.

In his left hand, he’s holding a gun.





CHAPTER 26



He leads me gently to the bedroom, his soft, manicured hand resting on my elbow, almost caring, if it weren’t for the hard metal of the muzzle pressed up against my spine. He urges me onto the bed and I resist with a look, and he sighs.

“You’ve always been obstinate.” He shakes his head with a small smile the way I imagine mothers react to strong-willed four-year-olds, like my resistance is infantile. Cute. My tongue tastes like sulfur. He jabs the gun farther into my skin, pulling my arm behind me and giving it a solid twist. “Get on the bed, Zoe. I could kill you right now. Who would care anyway? It’s not like you have anyone.” He says it off-the-cuff, chillingly calculating.

He shoves me face-first onto the bed and grabs my left wrist; in one smooth motion he handcuffs me to the iron headboard. He pulls on my arm, checking to make sure it will hold.

“So Joanie is Tara.” No point in beating around the bush. My heart thumps in my throat, but my head remains clear, maybe for the first time in weeks. “Then who am I? To you?”

His back is to me, and he’s fiddling with something on the dresser. He turns then, holding a filled syringe.

“You’re my replacement. Do the math, Zoe. When did Tara die?”

My mind spins on dates and facts that up to this point I’d only been peripherally aware of. Three years ago. I swallow hard but say nothing.

He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “And when did your Jared get out of prison?”

I have no idea. I shake my head.

He gives me a pitying look. “Tara was so much smarter than you. It’s a shame really, for so many reasons.” Sigh. “I’ll give you a hint. It’s three years ago.”

My stomach seizes and I feel the sweat on my upper lip. I lick the corners of my mouth, but my tongue is as dry as sandpaper.

“Is that why they’re back now?” My voice is a rasp.

“What people? The people you screwed over back when you were living a disgusting life? Selling drugs on playgrounds?” Henry chuckles softly and shakes his head, tapping the bubbles out of the syringe. “No one is ‘back now.’ I found Jared and killed him. Two years ago, because the police were incompetent and I realized it was you he wanted. He didn’t know Tara existed. Biggest mistake of his life, I’d say.” His mouth twisted once, a sideways kiss. “Mick died of a drug overdose in witness protection. Years ago.”