Marion comes into the bedroom and faces her, her arms folded across her chest. “Your mother was here,” she says.
She’s trying to act normal, but she’s not fooling Avery. “I know,” Avery says carelessly. “What did she want?”
Marion seems to relax a little. She sits down on the bed. “She was going up and down the street, trying to find out who called in the tip about Ryan Blanchard. The police won’t tell her who it is.”
Avery stares at her. “I heard shouting.”
Marion nods. “Your mother was very upset, ranting about the police not doing their jobs. She’s out of her mind with worry.”
Avery flicks her eyes to the television set. “The news will be on in a minute.” She picks up the remote and turns on the TV but mutes it until the program starts. “I was thinking of leaving tonight,” she says. But Avery wants to punish Marion. She says, “Until I heard you say that you’re the one who called about Ryan Blanchard.” She turns to face Marion now. “You think I didn’t hear all that? You think I stayed in my room like a good little girl?” She sneers at her, feeling angry and superior. “I was right behind the kitchen door, and I heard everything.” She leans in close to Marion’s face and hisses it again. “Everything.” She pulls back. “Why would you do that, Marion?” When Marion doesn’t answer, she shouts, “Why would you do that?” And she turns and grabs the small lamp off the bedside table beside her and throws it against the wall, where it shatters violently, narrowly missing the television. But Marion remains maddeningly calm.
She says, after a long pause, “I wanted to get back at his mother.”
“Why?” Avery demands.
“I hate her,” Marion says. “She’s a volunteer at the hospital and acts like she’s better than everyone else. She’s not even a nurse. But she’s got all the doctors wrapped around her little finger.”
“Why?” Avery wants to know how this woman gets people to do whatever she wants.
“Because she’s beautiful. That’s the only reason.”
“My father too?” she asks.
“Your father especially,” Marion says bitterly.
She’s jealous, Avery realizes. That’s why she did it. Avery can understand that, but she doesn’t like that Marion interfered with her plans. “Is she having sex with my father?” she asks. Marion looks at her as if surprised that a nine-year-old would say such a thing. She might be only nine, but she knows things. She knows what adults do.
“Yes.”
“How do you know?” Avery demands.
“I saw them together, at the hospital. They didn’t know I was there.”
Avery digests this information. Finally, she says, “You’re going to take it back.”
“What?”
“You’re going to go to the police and say you made it up, about seeing me get into Ryan’s car.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You can, and you will.”
Forty-three
Marion stares back at the girl on the bed, the one who thinks she’s pulling all the strings.
“I can’t,” Marion repeats.
“You have to,” Avery says, “or I think we’ll need a change of plan.” Avery looks at her angrily. “You said you’d help me, Marion. But that isn’t what you’ve done, is it? You’ve used me. So you tell the police that you lied about Ryan, or I’ll tell them where I’ve really been all this time.”
Marion looks at her, amazed that this nine-year-old thinks she’s really that stupid. Stupid enough to put herself in the hands of a selfish, vindictive child.
Avery looks away, unmutes the television set. The news is starting. “Oh, and I’ll be watching for it on the news, so I know you actually did it. Because I can’t trust you anymore, can I?” She turns and gives her a cold look.
“Fine,” Marion says at last. She gets up and says, “I just wanted to see her suffer, the way you wanted to see your father suffer.” But Avery has turned her attention to the television and won’t look at her. Marion doesn’t stay to listen to the newscast. She leaves the room and goes back upstairs, locking the door silently behind her.
She’s not going to recant her statement to the police. Not now. Not ever. Poor little Avery.
Little fool.
* * *
? ? ?
Ryan Blanchard hears a commotion coming his way. He stares catatonically at the painted concrete of the cell wall in front of him.
An officer is hauling a drunk, angry man down to the cells.
“Get your fuckin’ hands off me,” the drunk shouts.
“That’s enough,” the officer says.
Ryan is suddenly fearful that the officer will put the belligerent drunk in the cell with him. But he marches him past and puts him in the empty cell next door, where the man continues to curse in a loud, slurring voice. Ryan exhales in relief. But then he realizes that this is nothing. Real prison will be much worse.
They’ve taken everything away from him—including his shoelaces—so that he has nothing to kill himself with. But maybe there’s a way.
They think he killed a child. He’s afraid his lawyer thinks so, too, and he doesn’t know what his mom and dad think. He’s too frightened to cry anymore.
* * *
? ? ?
It’s late. The night is clear and cold, and the crescent moon is crisp in the inky black sky. Al doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting in his freezing car behind the dumpster, thinking about killing his wife. He knows how he’ll do it. With his bare hands. He knows what he’ll do with her body. He knows she’s at home, alone. She won’t be able to fight him off. When it’s done, he’ll take her body through the kitchen and put her in the trunk of the car. The car will be in the garage with the garage door closed. Funny how so many of these houses have a garage attached to the house, he thinks—it makes it so easy to remove a body without anyone seeing. And then he’ll bring her here. Someone might see him taking her out of the trunk and lifting her into the dumpster—that’s a risk. He’s not even going to wrap her in a blanket. He’s not sure how he’ll get away with it; he’s not thinking that far ahead. And he doesn’t really care. Everything’s gone completely to hell anyway. He thinks about what his wife said, how she thinks he’s a child killer. He could never harm an innocent child. But he could strangle his wife.
Maybe she saw something in him that he hadn’t even realized was there.
He turns the key in the ignition with a shaking hand and starts the car. He pulls the car out from behind the dumpster and drives around to the front of the motel. He means to take the exit onto the highway, back to Stanhope and his adulterous wife, but instead he finds himself slamming on the brakes, suddenly unable to breathe. He pulls into an empty parking spot. His entire body is shaking.
He sits in the car, trembling like a leaf. What was he thinking? He can’t kill his wife. He’s losing his mind. He got carried away with a fantasy.
He pushes open the car door, walks across the pavement to the flashing neon sign indicating the office of the motel, and requests a room. As he pays and gets the key—his hands still shaking—he realizes that the bored woman behind the counter has no idea what’s been running through his disordered mind. He almost wants to warn her about people. People like him.