I open the green phone, which I’ve left turned on. The suicide note I typed while in the park is still there, ready to be sent. I hit SEND. It registers as sent at 10:47 pm.
I power the phone off and take a look around.
Well, you tried to make it look like a suicide, didn’t you, Vicky? And I have to say, it looks pretty good. The gun right by his hand on the couch. Open bottle of bourbon. A bottle of pills spilled all over the place.
Did you enjoy doing it, Vicky? Was it harder than you thought?
No, I’m pretty sure you enjoyed it.
89
Vicky
Whoever first said “the waiting is the hardest part” didn’t know the half of it.
I’m at work, doing inventory in the kitchen for another grocery run. Usually I go on Monday, but Monday was Halloween, and I （obviously） didn’t work that day. And yesterday, Tuesday, was one of those days that all plans went awry and we had to put out small fires—the stove wasn’t working, one of the abusive husbands showed up demanding to speak to his wife, we had three new women come in with various bruises or welts or burns, one with an infant.
Even today, Wednesday, November 2, has been crazy. It’s already nearly four o’clock and it feels like my shift just began.
But that’s good. I’ve worked double shifts both days since Halloween. Focusing on these women and their children at the shelter has kept my mind off Gavin and the investigation.
I hear a car pulling up, tires crunching over gravel. Safe Haven’s been around thirty years, and we still don’t have a paved parking lot, could never spare the funds. But for me, it has the benefit that people can’t drive up without being heard.
I check. Every time I’ve heard a car arriving these last two days, I’ve checked. Is it Gavin? Is it the police?
I don’t know which would be worse. Gavin could only find this place by following me. He wouldn’t have known where I work from Christian—Nick. I told Nick I volunteered at a nonprofit shelter （only half true; I don’t get paid much but I do get paid）。 But I never gave a name. I didn’t want him ever coming here.
If Gavin knows where I work, then he’ll also know my name, my real name, Vicky Tremont. We get half our money from state grants, so we are an open book. My name and prints are on file with the state, after the fingerprint-based background check they did on me.
I walk over to the window. A police squad car is parked in the lot. Two uniformed officers, with their swagger and gear, heading for our front door.
Go back to what you’re doing. Check the groceries. Clip out coupons. It’s an ordinary day. You don’t know anything. Christian Newsome? Never heard of him. Nick Caracci? Nope.
They can’t be here for me, can they? Did they find a stray fingerprint, which would have immediately matched for Vicky Tremont—
“Vicky.” Miriam, my boss, sticks her head into the kitchen.
I look over at her, raise my eyebrows, afraid my voice might shake. Just turning my head causes pain in my ribs, the spot where Gavin kicked me two nights ago.
“The heater’s not working upstairs,” she says. “Surprise, surprise.”
“It—oh.” Relief floods through me. “Want me to take a look?”
“You’re the only one who has a prayer of fixing it.”
“Sure. Who—was someone at the door?”
“Cops. They want to talk to the woman who came here two nights ago, Jamie. About pressing charges against her husband.”
? ? ?
I shake out my nerves and take several deep breaths. They’re not here for me.
I go to work on the radiator upstairs in Dorm A. Lacking air-conditioning is one thing, but we have to keep this place warm. Last winter, the heat went out in February. We scrambled for blankets and space heaters and prayed that we didn’t burn the place down.
It’s cold out, and we have an infant in here. And no funds for a repair call.
I manage to get the radiator working. The pin inside the valve head is stuck in the down position, so I wrench it free and put some lubricant on it to stop it from happening again. Not that hard to fix, but every move I make, I’m reminded of that kick to the ribs from Gavin.
Once the radiator is gurgling and hissing, my work is done.
I look out the window again. Will Gavin come tonight?
Or will he wait until tomorrow, November 3, D-Day?
Gavin is a problem. He was a mistake on my part. A loose end.
I hate loose ends.
90
Jane
“Mrs. Bilson, this is exactly why we called this emergency town hall meeting,” says Alex Galanis, village president, sitting the middle of a long table. “So we could be transparent. As transparent as the chief is able to be with an ongoing investigation.”