He stopped looking that closely in my mouth a long time ago, which drove me to stop swallowing and tuck them high in my cheek. I’d become ill, but I noticed that I was less tired and my brain less fuzzy.
I wanted that back. That clarity of mind.
This time I stopped the pills differently. In one of his books, I read about a character who was trying to get off pills and cut the amount a little each week. I tried it and it worked. I didn’t get sick, and I’ve been completely off the pills for several weeks. I feel as if I can think. I can read his books faster, and they make more sense.
They give me ideas.
People don’t treat each other the way he treats me.
I don’t belong to him.
But I’m scared to leave. He says I will go to prison, and I know he’s right.
Because of the bodies.
29
Rowan pressed her cell phone against her ear, her heart breaking.
Why do I get my hopes up?
“I’m sorry I don’t have better news,” Evan said on the other end of the call.
“It’s okay. We’re used to it.” Her voice was stiff, her tongue struggling to get the words out.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
“I’m sure you’ll figure out who it is.”
“I suspect it’s related to Jerry Chiavo too.”
Rowan closed her eyes, and Jerry’s despised face appeared. She let the hate flow over her and wallowed in the sensation. He was the only person who raised it in her. “My parents pleaded several times for him to tell them where Malcolm was buried. I—” She stopped and opened her eyes, surprised at what she’d almost admitted.
Evan was silent for a moment. “You talked to him too,” he finally said. “I saw your name on his visitor list.”
“Yes.” Guilt and shame replaced the hate boiling inside her. “He told me nothing. I got nowhere with him. There was no point in trying again.”
Evan sighed into the phone. “I’m sure that wasn’t pleasant for you.”
“It wasn’t.”
“But I fully understand why you did it.”
“Thank you,” she said sincerely. “Many times I’ve regretted going. That perhaps I made a big mistake.” She’d never told her parents or sisters that she had gone.
“You had to try.”
He understands.
“I did.”
Evan ended the call a minute later, and Rowan set down her cell phone, suddenly realizing that Thor was pressing hard against her thigh, his head raised to meet her eyes.
“Hey, boy.” She knelt to give the dog a quick hug. “You always know when I’m struggling, don’t you?”
He wagged his tail faster, his eyes cheerful, believing she was no longer stressed.
If you only knew.
He darted away, snatched up a rubber ball, and moved to the door, looking at her expectantly.
ball
Rowan grabbed the long-handled ball thrower. It hurled the ball much farther than she ever could. Thor would wear himself out with the sprints. “I need a distraction,” she told him as she opened the slider. He raced out the door and to the edge of the field, a black blur against her grass. She strode after him, trying to force down the memory that had been bubbling since Evan had brought up Jerry Chiavo.
It didn’t work.
Five years ago
She’d only seen his face in past newspaper articles. It didn’t match the face of the old man who had just walked into the visitors’ room, a long chain leading from his cuffed hands to the shackles at his ankles. He was seventy now, and his hair had gone completely white. The large, soft build she’d seen on the news had turned into a very overweight body with stooped shoulders.
She immediately looked toward his feet, where she’d always kept her gaze. Even when she hadn’t been blindfolded and he’d worn a mask, she’d kept her eyes on his feet. She half expected to see the hiking boots with red laces that he’d often worn. Instead, she saw prison slippers.
He sat heavily in the chair and looked her over.
His eyes were sharp as he assessed and judged her.
It made her skin crawl, and she was thankful for the perforated plexiglass barrier between them.
He was an old, broken man on the outside. But his eyes revealed that inside he was as cruel and manipulative as ever.
“The girl has grown up.”
Rowan caught her breath but sat perfectly still, not allowing any expression to cross her face at his continued refusal to use her name. Like his body, his voice had aged. It was deeper and rougher. Perhaps he’d taken up smoking in prison.