The Last of the Moon Girls(97)
She was nearly to the door when Helen came out, almost causing a repeat of their earlier collision. Lizzy froze, her hastily rehearsed words suddenly caught in her throat. Helen stared at her, wide-eyed and mute as the seconds ticked by, her hands clamped so tight around her purse strap that her knuckles blanched white. After a moment she seemed to collect herself and stepped to her left. Lizzy checked her, then checked her again when she tried to change direction.
“A little while ago, when you bumped into me, you said I should be careful, and that you’d feel terrible if I ended up getting hurt. What did you mean?”
“Nothing,” Helen shot back, eyes lowered. “I didn’t mean anything.”
“Was it a threat? Were you threatening me?”
“Please. Leave me alone. Leave all of it alone.”
“All what?”
Helen shook her head, as if trying to shut Lizzy out. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what you meant when you said I should be careful.”
“Please,” Helen murmured hoarsely. Her eyes skittered over Lizzy’s shoulder, her face suddenly chalky beneath her too-dark foundation. “I don’t need any trouble. I only wanted . . .”
Lizzy saw it then, the purple-green shadow along Helen’s jawline, not quite hidden beneath the heavy makeup. “Your face—”
Helen cut her off with an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Seconds later, Lizzy heard footsteps and turned.
Dennis Hanley stood glowering behind her, holding a little girl with hair the color of corn silk in his arms. Her face was a mirror of her mother’s, pale and heart shaped, but her yellow-blonde hair was all Hanley. Helen. Of course. Andrew had mentioned her name once, when Hollis came up in conversation.
“Mommy!” The child held out both arms, trying to launch herself out of her uncle’s grasp. “Want Mommy!”
Helen managed a smile as she reached for her daughter, but Dennis stepped away, keeping the child just out of reach. He turned to Lizzy, an eye cocked against the afternoon sun. “Something you need?”
Lizzy felt her spine stiffen, an instinctive and visceral recoiling. He was wearing a long white coat smeared with what looked like dried blood, and there was another smear on the side of his neck. The stench of blood came off him in waves, so thick she could nearly taste it. Salty. Coppery. Sharp. He was glaring at her over the top of the child’s head, still waiting for a response.
Helen rushed in to fill the gap. “I was just apologizing. I wasn’t watching where I was going when I came out just now, and we sort of collided.”
Dennis’s eyes never left Lizzy’s face. “That right?”
Lizzy did her best to look sheepish. “It was actually me who wasn’t looking where I was going. Sorry. I’ve always been a bit of a klutz.”
Helen was about to reply when Dennis silenced her with a look. He jerked his head toward the parking lot, where a rust-riddled Bronco sat with the driver’s door open. “Time to go.”
Helen moved to his side like a dog to heel, leaning in to drop a kiss on her daughter’s pale head. Her bruised jaw glinted in the sunlight, a bull’s-eye of purples and greens, and Lizzy found herself unable to look away. Helen must have sensed her gaze because she ducked her head, a brief but telling gesture. She was ashamed. Someone—almost certainly Dennis—had hurt her, and she was ashamed. The thought sickened Lizzy.
She watched as they walked away, Helen lagging a step behind. She turned her head briefly before climbing into the Bronco. For an instant, their eyes met. A plea or a warning? Lizzy couldn’t be sure.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Lizzy’s first impulse on the drive home was to call Andrew and tell him Dennis Hanley was battering his sister-in-law and should be fired immediately. But did she know that for sure? That Helen was afraid couldn’t be denied. She’d caught the faint tinge of urine on her breath—an ammonia-like odor she’d always registered as fear. And the bruise on her face was real enough. But did the two necessarily add up to assault?
There was no sign of Andrew’s truck as she pulled up, either in her driveway or his. Inside, she found a pair of shiny silver keys on the kitchen counter, along with a note.
Mudroom door lock has been replaced. Off to Boston—A.G.
Lizzy read the note several times. It was hard to ignore the clipped tone, the use of initials—first and last—instead of his name. Cool. Distant. But that was what she wanted, wasn’t it—distance? She considered calling him, running her suspicions about Dennis by him, but if she was serious about closing the door between them, he couldn’t be her first phone call every time something went wrong. If she was determined not to want him, she wasn’t allowed to need him.
Resolved, she began unpacking her groceries, separating what she would take to Andrew’s, and what would stay. Her stomach rumbled as she pulled out a parcel wrapped in white deli paper and opened it. She rolled a piece of swiss cheese and clamped it between her teeth, then rolled another. She hadn’t eaten since Andrew’s scrambled eggs this morning.
Had that really been only this morning?
She pushed the thought aside, focusing on her to-do list instead. It was a little after three. If she played her cards right, she could spend an hour in the barn, then another hour or two scrubbing fingerprint dust, and still make it to Andrew’s by dark. It would feel strange sleeping alone in Andrew’s bed, an uncomfortable reminder of just how careless she’d been with his feelings—and her own. But the truth was, she was still a little jumpy after last night.