Reputation(87)

He turns back to Alexis. “Tell me,” he says again. Alexis shakes her head stubbornly.

“Just tell him,” I urge. I’m afraid things are going to escalate. Maybe I should make a run for it.

But then I think of Greg Strasser. How he’d stepped back from me that night in his house, that beatific, pitying smile on his face. How he’d said softly, “You’re better than this.” It pisses me off that I’m thinking of him right now—it’s because of him that I’m in this mess in the first place. But I remember how inspired I’d felt. Someone finally believed in me. Someone had thought I transcended where I came from, how I acted, what I was.

You’re better than this.

I launch myself onto the man’s back once more, wrapping my arms around his neck and digging my fingers into his eye sockets. He lets out a squeal and rolls onto his side, and Alexis springs up. A sharp elbow to my ribs jolts me away, and when I open my eyes again, the man is coming for me.

His shoulders hunch. His face is flushed with blood. I back up into the corner—with nowhere to run. He advances toward me, hands on his hips. He’s at the end of his rope. He’s had enough.





35





LYNN


FRIDAY, MAY 5, 2017


It’s been a bitch of a drive. Puking up whatever my husband spiked my drink with certainly took the edge off, but I still feel blurry, and twice now I’ve steered the car into the opposite lane—thank God there isn’t any traffic. Part of me wonders if I’ve even followed the right vehicle, but then I see my husband pull up to a dark house only a few streets over from our own and get out. My vision wobbles. This must be Kit’s place. I’ve never been. It’s certainly grand enough, a typical Blue Hill craftsman made of old stone and slate and copper. The yard needs a cut, though. Then again, I’m sure landscaping isn’t at the top of Kit’s list.

I press my phone to my chest, grateful that I’ve remembered it in my languid stupor. I can’t quite feel my feet on the pavement as I walk up the driveway. Something suddenly stabs at me: My children are at home, alone. Am I nuts? Something could happen to them.

But then, perhaps Greg’s murderer is here.

I reach the front door and hesitate, not sure what to do. Ringing the doorbell seems ridiculous. I twist the knob, and, surprisingly, it opens easily. Idiots. Perhaps in the throes of passion, Kit forgot to lock it behind her.

Acid burns through my chest. I hate them.

The first floor of the house is so dark that I need the flashlight app on my phone to move forward. A thud rings out from somewhere above, and I freeze. But when I crane my neck upward, I’m so light-headed, I have to feel the wall for balance. A wave of nausea sweeps over me, and I stop and shut my eyes, gasping in breaths. You can do this. You have to power through this.

And then I hear the scream.

It’s a yelp—quick, surprised, scared. But it’s quickly subdued, almost like someone has clapped a hand over a mouth. The haziness shakes off me. It came from upstairs. Then I hear heavy thuds, the sounds of breath, and then a crash. Is it Patrick in there? Are he and Kit fighting?

Another thud sounds. A sharp crack, like bone hitting wood.

I start to shake.

To think I have any control over him. I’m such a fool.

My feet feel like blocks of cement as I haul myself up the stairs. I creak down the hallway, following the sounds. At the end of the hall is a closed door with a little strip of light peeking out from the bottom. My hands tremble as I tap my phone’s camera function, getting everything ready. I need to record this—maybe for more reasons than one. But what am I walking in on? What if Patrick turns his attention on me next? I know the same things Kit does, after all.

Maybe it’s the drugs in my system, maybe it’s the adrenaline coursing through my veins, but when I reach the door, I rap on it hard. The crashes inside continue. They haven’t heard me. So I jiggle the knob—it’s an old-fashioned crystal knob, probably original to the house. Locked. But I need to get in there. I hear another yelp. Another growl. Someone whispers, “No.”

I fumble for my wallet. I find an Amex in one of the front card slots and pull it out, the little hologram chip catching the orange overhead light. I push it into the door, wiggle it appropriately, and I hear the lock give and feel the doorknob turn. My nerves are crackling. I’m in. I push against the door quietly, but as soon as it’s open even an inch, the sound rushes at me like fire. Growling. Whimpering.

Shakily, I press the record button on my phone. I take a tentative step into the room, wrinkling my nose at a lacy red bra flung haphazardly against the baseboard. My foot kicks something else, too—something that looks like a black wool hat. I frown at it, something sparking in my memory. It’s not a hat but one of those face masks one uses in frigid winter weather so as not to get windburn. Patrick uses it when we go on ski trips in Colorado.

Why has Patrick brought a ski mask?

In the room, a lamp has been knocked to the ground, and light spills across the carpet. I see the mattress moving, but I don’t yet see bodies. I take another step but then realize my mistake—I’ve let the heavy door to the room go instead of carefully shutting it. It bangs shut noisily, the sound ricocheting off the thickly plastered walls.

The room goes silent. I take another step, my phone outstretched in front of me.