The Dead Girls Club - Damien Angelica Walters Page 0,106
I need to tell them what I saw. Instinctively, I think of Ryan, but I can’t. He won’t understand.
My mom picks up on the second ring. “I saw her, Mom. I saw Becca. She was here, right across the street.” I’m sobbing as I speak, choking out the words.
There’s silence on the other end, then she says, “Heather, this isn’t funny.”
“I’m not trying to be funny. It’s not a joke. I saw her.”
“Stop it, Heather. Stop it right now, I mean it.”
“I swear, Mom. I swear on my life. It was her. It was Becca. She’s alive. She’s okay.”
“Heather, you need to get hold of yourself. I have no idea why you’re harping on this, on her, but you need to stop.”
“Would you fucking listen to me! I saw Becca and she. Is. Alive!”
More silence, but of a different kind. The call’s been disconnected. I call back, but it goes straight to voice mail. I toss my phone aside. I shouldn’t be surprised. How could she understand? She didn’t see Becca.
Before my next patient’s arrival, I check out the window, scanning the lot and the street, just in case. I flip through the book again, inhaling the memories. I do the same after the patient leaves, too. And before and after the next one as well until, somehow, it’s the end of the day. I stand by my car for a long time, waiting and hoping. No Becca, though.
When I walk in the house, Ryan’s sitting in the breakfast nook, a letter open before him, elbows on the table, upper body curled over, his face serious. But I’m sure he’s fine. He’s always fine.
“You’ll never guess what happened today,” I say, gripping the top rail of one of the chairs, barely pausing between words. “It’s the strangest, most amazing thing, and—”
“When were you going to tell me?” he says, his voice thick.
“Tell you what?” I say.
“That you want a divorce?”
My hands tighten, the force momentarily lifting the front legs. “What are you talking about?”
He picks up the sheet of paper, heavy stock with an embossed logo. “This. From your fucking attorney. Asking if you’ve gathered the rest of the requested information yet. The rest of the information? That sounds pretty clear-cut to me.”
A letter from Rachel’s firm. Today of all days. “I can explain,” I say, reaching forward.
He yanks the paper away. “I’m sure you can,” he says. “It all makes perfect sense now, the way you’ve been acting, how you’ve been treating me. Never in a million years did I think things would end like this, that you wouldn’t even say a goddamn word. I didn’t even know you were that unhappy. Why didn’t you just talk to me? Why?”
“Please, listen to me. Yes, I went to see her, but only because I knew her when I was a kid. I needed to see what she was like now and I wasn’t sure how else to do it.” I touch his hand, but he pulls away. “It sounds ludicrous, but someone’s been following me, and the other night when I crashed the Jeep, someone tried to run me off the road. Then today, an old book was delivered to my office and it was from my friend I told you about. The one with the alcoholic mom. I didn’t tell you that she went to jail for killing her, for killing my friend, but she isn’t dead, like I thought. She isn’t.” My words rush and crash, and even I can tell the story’s tangled and doesn’t make sense, but if I can just get him to listen to me, it’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.
He shakes his head. “Are you even listening to yourself? What you’re saying makes no sense. You’re being followed? Your dead friend isn’t dead?” He waves the letter again. “And this isn’t real? Jesus Christ, I don’t even know what to say.”
“Please, none of this is what you think. It’s not. I don’t want a divorce. I’ve never wanted a divorce. I went there for her, not for us.”
Palms out, he backs toward the front door. “Stop it. Just stop. I’ve been as patient as I can be, but I’m done. I have nothing left.”
Then I see the duffel bag on the floor. Its implication falls like a ton of bricks.
“You’re leaving? But the letter— Please, I told you, I don’t want a divorce.” I can barely get the words between my tears. “I went there for … for research. Rachel, she’s the lawyer,