One We Love, The (29 page)
CHAPTER SIXTY SIX
W
hen someone
mentions HBO, I no longer think of movies, but of hyperbaric oxygen therapy.
HBO means lying in a clear tube for over an hour, while pure oxygen is pumped
in. I advise you to not drink liquids beforehand. It actually wasn’t that bad.
Mostly I caught up on my sleep. The part I didn’t like was staying three days
in hospital, before they let me go home and do the treatment as an outpatient.
I had visitors, of course. Paul had shown up at the ER,
after all the excitement had passed. He’d gotten held up, giving a statement to
the police, but once he got there, he stayed until after they transferred me to
a regular room. And was back the next day. And the next. He drove me home.
At least it wasn’t my mom.
Marshall came, too. I think Hannah got a hold of him and let
him know I was laid up. He showed up on the second day, toting a simple bouquet
of daisies. I guess he remembered that I didn’t like roses anymore. I’d been
taking a nap and when I woke up, Paul was on one side of the bed and Marshall
on the other. They each held a hand.
Awkward.
“Do you mind if Letty and I talk,” Marshall asked Paul. “In
private.”
Paul, bless his heart, checked with me first and when I
nodded, he swallowed hard and excused himself. Before he got to the door, I
stopped him.
“Paul? Would you mind getting me a chocolate shake?” He must
have realized that chocolate trumps daisies. Made his day.
After some um’s and throat clearing, Marshall told me he was
going to give California (and his marriage to Bobbi) a try. I had to sit
through the whole we’ve-decided-to-work-on-our-marriage speech, but to give the
man credit, he looked both embarrassed and proud of the cliché. A two-fer on
the emotional Richter scale.
I couldn’t argue. Didn’t even want to, really. There’s
nothing wrong with a man trying to get his marriage right, and if he was in
California at least I wouldn’t have to watch him do it. I wished him luck. He
kissed me on the forehead, holding his warm lips against my skin for about ten
heartbeats longer than he should have.
Diana came to see me, too. And to apologize. I beat her to
it. Blodgett gave us about ten minutes alone to cry it out, and then shuffled
in to claim the chair at my bedside. He was using a cane. He looked old. He was
pretty sure, although we never learned for certain, that Astrid had been the
one to crack him over the head. He’d been to the shelter that afternoon to
“look around,” using Regina’s accident as a door-opener. Astrid was the only
one he’d talked to, but he couldn’t remember anything more than that and there
really wasn’t any proof.
He held Diana’s hand as he told me he’d decided to retire.
He was tired of waiting. Diana was, too.
It was on the third day, about a half-hour before I was due
to be discharged, that Lachlyn showed up. I could have done without that.
She looked like she could have, too, so I’m not sure what
compelled her to come. Paul braved her presence, refusing to leave even when
she glared at him. He flinched, but he stayed.
“What do you want, Lachlyn?” I was too tired and too beat up
to be polite.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “I almost didn’t come.”
I waited.
“If you’re wondering whether we knew Astrid was killing our
women, then no. We didn’t. But I suspected something was wrong. I . . . ” She
stopped, clearing her throat. She glanced at my water pitcher and I waved a
hand at it, giving permission. She shook her head, but Paul poured her a glass
anyway.
“Actually, it was Regina I noticed,” Lachlyn continued after
taking a sip. “She was acting very strangely. Distant. I don’t know when it
occurred to me, but I suddenly realized I was watching
her
watch
Astrid.” She lifted her hands helplessly—a gesture that seemed alien to her.
“When she fell—”
“She didn’t fall. She was pushed.” I wouldn’t allow
euphemisms for Regina’s death.
Lachlyn gave a nod of acceptance. Another alien gesture.
“She was pushed. So, I started watching Astrid. But I didn’t know what I was
supposed to be watching for. And then you showed up.” She took a deep shuddery
breath, looking away. “I thought maybe Regina had told you what she was afraid
of. But then you seemed as much in the dark as me. It made us certain though,
that there was something really bad going on.”
“Us?” I repeated.
Lachlyn flushed. “Me. Just me. Clotilde . . . I never spoke
to her of my suspicions.” She made direct eye contact, no blinking.
Such a rotten liar.
“Regina hadn’t told me anything,” I said, moving her away
from the subject of Clotilde. “The circumstances of her death felt strange, but
I probably wouldn’t have thought any more of it, if you all hadn’t been so
resistant to letting me do my job.”
She smirked. “Your job? That should have been my job. I’d
known for years that I was supposed to take charge of Regina’s case load if
anything should happen; and she, mine. Can you imagine how it felt to know that
Regina didn’t trust me? She was my . . . Anyway, I knew there was something
about the paperwork that had worried Regina and when she appointed you, then it
meant she expected you to find it. Maybe she believed that I would have ignored
it. Or hidden it.”
“Would you have?” I asked.
She didn’t answer. “Astrid . . . I know you’ll never
understand this, but she was a good soldier in this war. It just . . . She saw
too much. It got too hard. Something broke inside her, a long time ago.”
Lachlyn raised a hand to her heart. “I know what that feels like, especially
now. I guess Regina felt I wouldn’t be able to do . . . what needed to be
done.”
“Maybe Regina chose me because she knew how difficult it
would be for you. Maybe it didn’t have to do with trusting me or not trusting
you. She could have just been looking out for you. You’ve been in this battle
for a while, too. Maybe she just didn’t want you to suffer anymore than you
already have. Maybe she wanted to make sure you didn’t break, either.”
Lachlyn looked startled. Her hand dropped to her lap, and a
little iron returned to her posture.
“Maybe,” she said. And then she left.
T
hey closed the
shelter. Most of the women had been relocated to other facilities during the
media uproar that erupted when everything came out. They just never re-opened.
I heard from Beth that Clotilde is gearing up for a run at the state capitol.
More power to her, I guess. At least, figuratively.
I never heard from Lachlyn again. And that was okay.
What wasn’t okay was not getting a chance to say good-bye to
Mikey. Karissa and Mitch took off with their kids as soon as she was physically
able to make the move. I could probably have tracked down Bernie or even gone
back to the cousin’s farm, but it seems too stalker-ish. I just hoped they
gotten him some help, wherever they went. If they were able to trust the system
again. Which I doubted.
One good thing? At her last session, Bettina told me about
running into “her man” and the missus while they were dining at Houligan’s Pub.
I couldn’t tell her that I knew, so we had to play the story out with a
pseudonym. She chose “that fat asshole.” Worked for me. She said she realized
how stupid she’d been—her words—and that she was going back to try to make her
marriage to Frank work. Seemed to be a lot of that lately. Unfortunately, she
never gave me permission to report him. I had no choice but to let it go. His
tires were mysteriously slashed, three days in a row. Coincidence?
T
hat was a hell
of a lot of good-byes, now that I looked back on it. But not everyone left.
Paul didn’t. Sue didn’t. Ma wouldn’t, although I tried to convince her that the
weather in Florida would suit her arthritis better. She reminded me that she
doesn’t have arthritis.
I can dream.
Thank you for reading THE ONE WE LOVE.
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THE ONE WE LOVE
Donna White Glaser
Following the sudden death of a co-worker, psychotherapist Letty
Whittaker learns she has “inherited” her colleague’s case load. As professional
executor, Letty assumes responsibility for Regina’s clients, including those
from Devlin House, the local domestic abuse shelter where Regina had
worked . . . and died.
As Letty takes up her duties, she makes some disturbing
discoveries: a set of files that Regina had stolen from the shelter; an AWOL resident,
missing since the morning after Regina’s death; an ethics complaint Regina had
made against an unnamed peer. Are the files—or the abused women they
represented—connected with Regina’s death? Is the missing client on the run
from her abusive husband or somebody even scarier? Who was Regina reporting to
the state licensing board, and why?
And,
more importantly, just what kind of trouble has Letty
really
inherited?
Also By Donna White Glaser
Coming Soon:
THE LIES WE TELL
I’d love to hear from you! Please sign up for my New Release
mailing list or contact me via my website at
http://www.donnawhiteglaser.com
THE SECRETS WE KEEP:
Book Three in the Letty
Whittaker 12 Step Mystery series
Read on for a sneak
peek—
And pick up your copy
today!
ONE
For
someone who was at the bottom end of an eight-month binge, Trinnie’s place
wasn’t too awful. I’d seen worse. To be honest, I’d lived in worse. Bottles and
glasses everywhere, but it wasn’t rancid with filth the way a lot of dumps get.
Maybe she didn’t use the kitchen as anything other than a liquid re-fueling
station. The stove top was free from grease, the curtains over the sink white
with yellow flowers. An empty ice tray sat on the counter, but no visible signs
of any food source other than several booze bottles existed. Sunlight shone
through the clear glass of one of the bottles that stood on the window sill,
casting a tiny rainbow on the far wall. I was able to set my Big Book—AA’s
bible for sobriety—on the table without worrying that it might sprout mold
after we left.
Beth
popped open the refrigerator. “Hey, Letty, check it out.” She pointed at the
bottles of wine standing alone on the top shelf. “We’ll have to get rid of
these for her if she plans on going through with it.”
I
set my book down on the table, automatically straightening a chair.
Finishing
her examination of the fridge, Beth headed through the open archway into
Trinnie’s living room. The closed curtains created a dark cave, so I flicked
the lights on. The matching blue-and-white striped couch and loveseat were
brand new, looking as out of place as a nun in a biker bar. In contrast, the
cherry coffee and two side tables clashed with the golden teak tones of the
couch set. Burn marks ran down the length of the outer edge of the coffee table
and a side table. Trinnie had the dangerous habit of resting her cigarette on
the edge of the table instead of in the overflowing ashtray. Mismatched lamps
gave off a grimy light and had a low-end Goodwill store feel to them.
An
empty pizza box and several sticky glasses covered the coffee table, further
indicating where Trinnie spent her time. An old-fashioned, plug-in-the-wall
phone sat in the middle of the couch, next to her copy of the Big Book. The
book, navy blue and steady-looking, perched sedately in the midst of the
alcoholic mess.
Beth
propped hands on hips and peered down the hallway. “Must be sleeping pretty deep
if she hasn’t heard us clattering around in here.” She fashioned a megaphone
out of her hands and yodeled down the hall. “Yoo-hoo! Anybody home? You have
company!”
We
stood a few minutes in indecision. “I’m going to start the treasure hunt in the
kitchen,” Beth said. “Is it only booze I’m looking for or does she dabble in
other stuff, too?”
“Just
booze, I think.” With a sigh, I headed down the hall. Trinnie slept in the back
bedroom, but I paused to listen at the first.
Why would anyone want to be a
burglar?
The adrenaline rush made my mouth taste tinny, and I had to pee
like a racehorse.
On
the off chance that she’d passed out on the floor, I peeked into the bathroom.
Sometimes drunks need a little siesta on the tiles. When you’re an active
alcoholic, you think this is mighty clever.
Other
than the tan, seashell-dotted shower curtain, the room was a jarring
Pepto-Bismol pink. She’d carried the seashell motif even further, gluing a wavy
strip of wallpaper border waist high. She’d either had an inner-ear infection
or was drunk when it was applied. Several threadbare towels lay piled on the
floor in a damp, musty heap.
An
old-fashioned bottle of coke syrup and an economy-size bottle of extra-strength
ibuprofen balanced on the rim of the sink. I’d almost forgotten that trick.
Drunks will try anything to avoid a hangover; I know I did. This particular
method worked fairly well if you discounted the enormous damage to your stomach
lining.
At
the end of the hall, I paused again, hand hovering over the knob of Trinnie’s
bedroom door.
Maybe we should just leave?
I
took a deep breath and opened the door.
Blood
climbed the walls like lacy red ivy, lush sprays blooming in chaotic, scattered
patches. Trails climbed to the ceiling, then puddled in mirrored images on the
floor. Red, the color of action, but frozen in the stillness of violent death.
Trinnie
lay sprawled across the bed, a pale island in a lake of bloody gore. Naked,
torn, emptied. Her eyes, pale blue and blank, rested lightly on my face as
though mildly surprised at my entrance.
My
eyes, fleeing that unwavering, relentless gaze, kept tracking the horror. Kept
recording the details. A butcher knife lay casually among a jumble of wine
glasses. A crucifix hung on the wall dripping unsanctified blood.
Back
to Trinnie. My horrified brain struggled to both process and reject the carnage
before me. Failing to do either, it locked up.
Which
is why I barely registered the shadowy form rushing from the dark closet behind
me. It grabbed me, one hand twisting in my hair, the other around my throat.
Terror sizzled through my body. We lurched sideways, banging into Trinnie’s
dresser, knocking over several wine glasses. They made an absurdly delicate
tinkling sound as they toppled over. Then, the thing flung me forward. The
thought of landing in the middle of that blood swamp finally broke through my
stuttering brain. Almost mercifully, my temple struck the bedpost. I blacked
out.