The Dead Girls Club - Damien Angelica Walters Page 0,73
another panic attack, the way I did in the field.
No. That was not a panic attack. I do not have panic attacks. It was a momentary spot of alarm. Anyone in my situation would feel the same way.
I stop moving my hands. The skin is streaked with small red smears from a rubbed-off scab. I close my eyes, but even after several rounds of deep breathing, I feel as though an electric current is thrumming beneath my skin. “To hell with this,” I say.
I risk calling the hotel again. One more time can’t hurt, can it? This time it’s a man who answers, and he sounds bored. I use the same tactic as before, but instead of shutting me down, he puts me on hold. After a few minutes he returns with the helpful message that Lauren isn’t working today or tomorrow but she’ll be there on Tuesday. Did he not even consider the potential danger in giving out that kind of information?
I can’t risk going to her apartment again. Not on a Sunday. Too many people around. Too many chances of being spotted. But I have to do something. I finally remember that we have daffodil bulbs inside the shed. I think it’s the right time of year to plant them, but I don’t really care whether they take root or not. I find them next to a bucket of gardening tools. On my knees, skin protected inside soft gloves, I start on the flower bed to the right of the flagstone patio. I weaponize the tools, stabbing and spearing the dirt, tossing it aside in messy piles, creating a series of holes resembling small graves.
I’m the dirt and Lauren—or whoever—is the metal, piercing and pricking and tearing me apart. What will be left when they’re done? And who? I press the base of my palms to my brows. Banish the thought.
The bulbs go in and I smooth the dirt over top, repeating the entire process on the bed running along the left side of the patio. In the end, it looks like a toddler was playing here. Dirt’s on the stone edging the beds, on the patio, in the grass. I try brushing it with the gloves, but it doesn’t help much.
Back to the shed for the outside broom, but I trip over the bottom lip as I step up. “Shit!” I say, dropping the bucket and flailing for purchase. The gardening tools tumble out with heavy metal clinks, but I keep myself from falling. And in the far corner I spy a metal detector partially hidden behind the weed trimmer and a tarp. But we don’t have a metal detector. We’ve never had one.
I strip off my gloves and rub my temple with a knuckle. Is it possible it’s been here all along and I just haven’t seen it? But I’ve been in this shed dozens of times. It was never here before. Why would we even have one?
I think of the multiple holes in the field. If you were looking for a knife, a metal detector would find it. Or at least indicate where a person should dig. No, that’s utterly foolish. Even if someone used a metal detector there, it wouldn’t be Ryan. I’m creating a link where none exists. Transference, I remind myself, then dart inside for my phone. I know it’s absurd, but there’s no harm in asking him, no matter how illogical it seems. It’ll make me feel better. But I pause before dialing. I can wait a few hours, can’t I? He’ll be home soon enough.
But I want to know now.
He answers on the third ring, his tone guarded. “Everything okay?”
“Yes, but I was in the shed and found a metal detector. When did we get one?”
“Huh?” he says. “You called me to ask—”
“Just tell me,” I say. “Please.”
“O-kay,” he says. “It’s my dad’s. Karen borrowed it for the kids. She gave it to me the other night to give back, but I needed the room in my truck, so I put it in the shed for the time being.”
“The kids needed it.” My voice is flat. Unemotional.
“Yes,” he says.
“And you didn’t use it?”
“Why would I use a metal detector?” There’s a muffled thud, then he says, “Hold on, don’t … hold it—Heather, I gotta go before Sean hurts himself.”
“Okay, goodbye,” I say, but I’m speaking to empty air.
I turn the phone over and over. Now I have my answer. Nothing nefarious or sneaky. A perfect logical explanation. So why do