The Dead Girls Club - Damien Angelica Walters Page 0,74
I still feel uneasy?
Maybe because there was a dead squirrel in my mailbox? Because someone else was digging in the field? Because I broke into my colleague and friend’s office? Because someone knows what happened in that basement? Knows what I did? Plenty of options there.
“Enough,” I say.
But my hands won’t stop moving. My thoughts won’t stop connecting dots they have no business connecting. Dots that don’t connect at all. And then I put the phone down and take to the stairs.
I start with the small drawer in Ryan’s nightstand. Nothing but old receipts and a few forgotten gift cards. In his dresser, drawer by drawer, I sweep beneath each folded pile of clothing, patting them down, seeking anything out of place. Underwear, socks, T-shirts. I leave nothing untouched. On his side of the walk-in closet, I do the same, examining jacket pockets and shoes. I return to his dresser and undo his socks, checking each one individually before wrapping them back into each other.
I go through the closet in the guest bedroom and each drawer of the dresser there, checking through the extra blankets and sheets. In Ryan’s office, I rifle through the stack of papers on the desk. Store receipts, his business credit card statement, the balance higher than I would’ve thought, and the most recent bank statement for his account, the balance considerably lower.
I turn on his laptop. Go through his folders, his browser history, skim his email. Nothing, there’s nothing. I catch sight of my reflection in the screen. My teeth are bared, my hair sticking up in every direction, my skin suffused with a rosy glow. Shame pushes even more warmth through me, and I sit in his chair. Let my head droop. Will myself calm. I should be happy I’ve found nothing. So why aren’t I?
A laugh pierces the air, so sharp and startling I lurch forward. It takes a moment to register that the sound is coming from me. It sounds nothing like me, nothing like humor or human. It’s guttural, bestial, and I can’t make it stop. I cover my mouth, grinding my lips against my teeth. Still, it spills out. And out and out.
I jerk to my feet, sending his chair spinning, and shamble to our bedroom. Collapse on the bed and scream into my pillow. I give it all my frustration, my worry, my fear. I give it everything I don’t have a name for. Tears rush out just as fast, and I don’t even try to hold them back.
When they stop falling, I strip the pillowcase, sodden with snot and sorrow, and sit on the edge of the bed, head in my hands. What the hell is happening to me? Searching through Ryan’s things? Sneaking into Alexa’s office?
Who the hell am I becoming?
I sense that the walls are moving closer when I’m not looking. The ceiling dropping, the floor rising. Eventually I’ll be trapped in the very center of a small cube, with nowhere to go and no way out.
With robotic limbs, I return to Ryan’s office and put his chair back in its proper spot. I double-check, making sure it all appears as it did before. I can’t do this again. I can’t fall apart. I finish cleaning up out back. Take a shower. Afterward I feel a little stronger. A little more in control. I settle in with a book in the family room. Wait for Ryan. Keep calm. Everything’s fine.
He doesn’t mention my phone call when he gets home. Neither do I. We order Chinese takeout and watch Godzilla: King of the Monsters. It feels normal and right and safe. I want to bottle this moment and trap it forever.
My phone chimes with an email’s arrival, and I grab it from the coffee table. And there, in my inbox: LAUREN THOMAS. The sender, not a subject line. The latter is blank.
I click it open.
IT’S TIME WE MET. I WANT TO TALK ABOUT BECCA.
That’s all there is, but I hiss in a breath. Did Mikayla mention someone was there? Did Lauren put two and two together? Is that why she’s sent this now?
“Everything okay? Heather?”
“Oh, yes,” I say. “It’s from a patient’s mother.”
“Bad news?”
“No, not exactly. It’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine.”
Another question sits on Ryan’s lips, but he doesn’t ask, simply turns his attention back to the characters on the screen. I can’t pull mine away from the characters on mine.