The Last Thing She Ever Did(32)

He hurled more at her, but all she saw was the movement of his lips.

“Women get raped in prison too . . .”

Liz stood there, fighting to stay on her feet as she thought of Charlie and what she’d done. Passing out had brought a respite from the trauma of the day before. Trauma she knew was of her own creation. Silent tears fell down her cheeks and watered the floorboards, but no words came from her lips. She wanted to go and get him—not it—and carry Charlie over to Carole and David’s. She’d throw herself down on the walkway and plead for forgiveness.

While she went through this mental process, Owen was in her face, giving her a steady stream of reality wrapped in blame. He offered it all up in a loud whisper. Owen could be like that. He’d make a big show at the table in a restaurant when the server was out of earshot, letting other diners know what kind of imbecile the waiter had been, but never loud enough for the offender to hear. Confrontation Owen-style was always directed in an environment that he could control. If he was angry at Liz for something she had done, he’d save it for the middle of a car ride when he could berate her, bring her to tears, and then reel it back, tell her how none of it was her fault.

He raised his voice a notch. Not to yell. Only to make certain that she could feel his anger. “You were drugged up. Everyone will look at you as a woman who killed the neighbor kid and then did not do one goddamn thing about it . . .”

Liz caught only fragments of Owen’s tirade. Her mind raced ahead as she planned what she would do. She’d drown herself in the river. It wouldn’t be a cry for help but a deliberate act to rid the world of the likes of her.

“Come on,” he said, tugging at her shoulders once more. He’d watched her unravel enough and softened his tone. But not his request. There was no way that he’d do that. All of this was, in fact, all her fault. “I can’t get rid of it by myself.”

“Where are we going to go?” she asked.

“Somewhere out of town. I don’t know. We can’t leave Charlie in the garage.”

He had said the boy’s name.

“I don’t think I can do it,” she said.

“I don’t see how you have much of a choice, Liz. I need someone to watch and make sure no one sees me. You think I can drive the car, find the spot, get out, dump it, and risk being seen?”

Back to it.

“Well,” she said. “I can’t. I can’t.”

“You’ve got to. You killed him, Liz. You’ve got to help me or we’re both going to prison.”

“But you didn’t do anything.”

“I lied for you. I’m in this mess because of you. I’m an accessory after the fact.”

“But it was an accident.”

“It stopped being an accident the second you put that kid under the plastic tarp in the garage, Liz.”

She fumbled for a jacket from the hook near the door.

Owen told her that he’d open the garage door so he could back in the RAV4. They’d put the body in the back and cover it up with the stack of Bend Bulletins that had been left behind by her grandparents. Liz had saved them. They were at least thirty years old, and she thought the historical society might want them. She’d told Owen a thousand times they couldn’t be tossed into the recycling bin. But not that night. That night the newspapers would be used to cover the biggest mistake she had ever made.

“If the cop or anyone else asks us what we’re doing, we’re going to the recycling center.”

She nodded. “Right. The recycling center. Is it even open?”

Owen swung open the door and held it for her. “It’s open twenty-four hours.”

“We’re not leaving him there,” she said.

He put his fingers to his lips. “No,” he whispered. “We’re not.”

Liz got in the car while her husband pulled open the garage door. She maneuvered the RAV4 around and backed it inside, keeping her eye on the street in front of their house and the Franklins’.

“The police car’s gone,” she said, mostly to herself.

Owen closed the garage door and opened the hatch in the back. He pushed down the seat while Liz watched him through the rearview mirror. He grunted a little as he hoisted Charlie’s body into place. The light was shadowy, but for a second Liz was sure she’d seen the little boy’s arm dangle from under the tarp. The sight, real or imagined, nearly made her vomit. Every mistake she’d made that day had a moment when she could have done the right thing. This was another one. She could stop what Owen had insisted they do and plead for Carole and David’s mercy.

But she didn’t. Fear had gripped her. Not the fear of going to prison but the fear that came from knowing she’d be a pariah for the rest of her life. That there would never be a way back in.

A second later, the hatch slammed shut and Owen opened the garage door, motioning for her to pull out of the garage. He shut the door and jumped in on the passenger’s side.

“Get on the highway and head south,” he said.



Heading south on US Highway 97, Owen was mostly silent. They’d changed positions in the car on the on-ramp when it became clear that Liz, despite the adrenaline that coursed through her body, hadn’t sobered up completely. She’d creased a fender on a mailbox in their neighborhood.