Making Faces(83)

Fern shook her head adamantly, took a fortifying breath, and walked toward her bike. No. She wasn't going to do that. In recent days she had thought about what came next for them. She had made her feelings known. She loved Ambrose. She had always loved him. And if Ambrose wanted her in his life permanently, not just as a temporary distraction or a safety net, he was going to have to be the one to say the words. He was going to have to ask.

Fern knelt by her bike where it was chained to a downspout and clicked the combination absentmindedly. Her mind was far away, wrapped in Ambrose and the thought of losing him once more, and she reacted slowly to the sudden rush of footsteps coming up behind her. Steely arms wrapped around her and shoved her to the ground, causing her to lose her grip on her bike so it teetered and toppled beside her.

Her first thought was that is was Ambrose. He had surprised her in the dark before, just outside the employee entrance. But it wasn't Ambrose. He would never hurt her. The arms that gripped her were thinner, the body less corded with muscle, but whoever it was, he was still much bigger than Fern. And he intended to hurt her. Fern shoved frantically at the weight that pressed her face into the sidewalk.

“Where is she, Fern?” It was Becker. His breath reeked of beer and vomit and days without a toothbrush. The immaculate Becker Garth was coming undone, and that scared Fern more than anything.

“I went to her mother's house but it's dark. I've been watching it for two days. And she's not at home! I can't even get in my own house, Fern!”

“They left, Becker,” Fern wheezed, trying to keep the terror at bay. Becker sounded hysterical, like he had lost his sanity when he'd forced Bailey off the road. The police didn't think Becker knew that they had Bailey's 911 call. Maybe he had thought he could just come back home now that the dust had settled and nobody would be the wiser.

“WHERE ARE THEY?!” Becker grabbed Fern's hair and ground her cheek into the sidewalk. Fern winced and tried not to cry as she felt the burn and scrape of the concrete against her face.

“I don't know, Becker,” Fern lied. There was no way she was telling Becker Garth where his wife was. “They just said they were leaving for a couple days to get some rest. They'll be back.” Another lie.

As soon as Rita had been discharged from the hospital, she’d given her landlord notice and Sarah had put her house up for sale with a local realtor and asked that it be kept private. Rita was devastated by Bailey’s death and they were afraid. With Becker unaccounted for, they didn't feel safe in their homes, in their town, and they liquidated everything they could and had decided to take off until Becker was no longer a threat, if that day ever came.

Fern's father had arranged to have their belongings sold and what couldn't be sold was kept in a storage unit owned by the church. He'd given them $2,000 in cash, and Fern had dipped into her own savings account. In less than a week, they were gone. Fern had been so afraid for Rita. She hadn't thought she needed to be afraid for herself.

Fern heard a snick and felt a slide of something cold and sharp against her throat. Her heart sounded like a racehorse at full speed, echoing in the ear that was pressed against the sidewalk.

“You and Bailey turned her against me! You were always giving her money. And Sheen tried to take my kid! Did you know that?”

Fern just squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for deliverance.

“Is she with Ambrose?”

“What?”

“Is she with Ambrose?” he screamed.

“No! Ambrose is with me!” Just inside the door of the bakery. And so, so far away.

“With you? You think he wants you, Fern? He doesn't want you! He wants Rita. He's always wanted Rita. But now his face is all messed up!” Becker spit the words into her ear.

Fern felt the nick of the blade against her skin, and Becker moved the knife from her throat to her face. “And I'm going to cut you up so you match. If you tell me where Rita is, I'll only mark up one side, so you look just like Ambrose.”

Fern squeezed her eyes shut, panting in panic, praying for deliverance.

“Tell me where she is!” Becker raged at her silence and backhanded her. Fern's head rang and her ears popped and for a moment she lost herself, floating out and beyond, a momentary reprieve from the terror that gripped her. Then Becker was up and dragging Fern by her long red hair before she could get her feet under her, pulling her over the curb, crossing the street, and moving across the field that extended into the dark trees behind the store. Fern scrambled, crying against the pain at her scalp, trying to stand. And she screamed for Ambrose.





“Do you feel that?”

The words came into Ambrose's mind as if Paulie stood at his shoulder and spoke them in his ear. His deaf ear. Ambrose rubbed at his prosthetic and stepped back from the mixer. He flipped it off, and turned, expecting someone to be standing there with him. But the bakery was silent and empty. He listened, the silence expectant. And he felt it. A sense of something wrong, a sense of foreboding. Something he didn't have a name for and couldn't explain.

“Do you feel that?” Paulie had said before death had separated the friends forever.

Ambrose walked out of the bakery toward the back door, the door Fern had exited less than ten minutes before. And then he heard her scream. Ambrose flew through the exit door, adrenaline pulsing in his ears and denial pounding in his head.