A friend indeed, p.26
A Friend Indeed, page 26
CHAPTER 45
JO
I wrench the shower’s faucet to turn up the heat. Dana’s house has much better water pressure than our hovel. Hot water pummels my head and shoulders. My neck’s knotted. I sense that I’m missing something. Something important, related to Dana.
I crank the heat higher. I revisit our rendezvous in the school bathroom this afternoon. Jesus. The truth hits like a blast of ice water. Dana’s been lying through her perfect teeth. I should have realized sooner.
When I asked why Owen had Stan’s burner phone, she claimed not to know. Then noise in the hall distracted me; I had to get back to my class—I let it go.
But thinking back, her voice should have tipped me off; how hard and thin it got, a crust of ice over a pond, easily shattered. I’ve heard Dana lie before. I’ve watched her tell whoppers. Her face gets still, her eyes wide and innocent.
I snap the faucet shut. How dare she lie when she needed my help? How dare she keep lying!
My spine’s rigid as I step from the shower. My toes find the soft mat. I yank at a towel, drag it over myself. Struggle into sweatpants and a hoodie.
I find Gloria alone in the kitchen, chopping broccoli. The air smells of roast chicken.
“Where’s Dana?” I ask.
My tone must be off because she frowns. In her hand, the knife flashes. “In her studio.” She sniffs, resentful. “Working.”
I know Gloria wants me gone. It’s more work for her with me and Ruby here. She’s aware I’m not rich and feels I’m no better than she is.
I speed-walk down the hall. The door to Dana’s studio lies open.
She’s at her workbench, bent over a blue and white flower arrangement. Cornflowers, delphiniums, irises, and anemones rise from clouds of chrysanthemums, peonies, and daisies.
Hearing the door, she looks up and smiles. “Hey, is dinner ready?”
Seeing my face, her smile dies. “Jo?” She puts down her knife and straightens.
I barely dried my hair, which drips cold down my collar. As always, her studio’s frigid. The overhead lights are bright, the tiles icy. I march closer.
In Dana’s hand is a single blue iris. Her favorite flower, named for the Greek goddess of rainbows and sacred oaths.
“Jo, what is it?”
Storming down here, I felt loaded with fury. Now, faced with her fear, my rage misfires and fizzles. Flower clutched to her breast, she looks baby-bird fragile. I’m more disappointed than angry.
“I just realized why Owen had Stan’s burner phone,” I say quietly. “You didn’t kill Stanley.”
She sets down the flower and grips the counter. She tilts forward. Her hair falls into her face, a perfect, shimmery curtain. Owen uses that trick too.
I wait, my resentment rebuilding. I deserve an explanation.
“I’m so sorry.”
I shake my head, hard bullets of anger clicking back into place. “No, Dana!” I hiss. “Fuck your sorrys!”
She blinks, fingers splayed on the counter. She’s got lovely hands, her fingers long, white, and slender. Beneath her bright work lamp, those preposterous diamonds sparkle.
I step to the edge of the bench. Only the counter lies between us. “Tell me everything. I want every detail.”
Dana inhales, pulls herself together. “Okay.” She stares at that single iris, laid flat on the counter. “That night. Stan and I fought.”
“What about?”
She hesitates. “About you.”
“Me?”
She nods. “Chad got a C-minus on his Antigone essay.” I wait. I remember that essay, a half-baked examination of sibling love and rivalry. It should have been a D or a D-minus. Chad’s smart but lazy, like many beautiful people. The world’s kinder to them. They get used to making less effort.
“Stan was mad,” she says. “He wanted me to talk to you.”
I cock my head. Huh. Stan felt he owned me.
Dana looks sheepish. “I know. I told him that’s not how it worked. Chad deserved a C-minus. He had to try harder. Stan just went on and on about how his grades mattered, how he had to get into Harvard.” She clears her throat. “He’d given up on Owen. But Chad was the son he could brag about. Football star. Yada yada.” She rubs her forehead. “I couldn’t take it anymore. He was being such an ass. We argued. I slapped him. He caught my wrist and twisted it.” She touches her wrist, as if it still hurts. “I left the room.”
“Where was this?”
“The den,” she says. “I went upstairs and had a shower to calm down.”
“Then what?”
“I heard more yelling: Stan super loud, and someone else softer. I . . . I just stayed in the shower. I was upset. I had to calm down. Then I’d go down . . . try to sort things out. When Stan got worked up, he could be a real dick. Not just with me but with the twins. Chad could handle him, mostly, but Owen . . .” She bites her lip. “I should have gone straight away to help.” Her head bows.
I stay silent, waiting.
“I thought they were in the den, but when I got there, it was empty.” Her voice softens. “I looked everywhere, in the living room and the kitchen. I didn’t think of the studio until I’d checked everywhere else.” She blinks repeatedly, like there’s something in her eye.
I grit my teeth. We don’t have time for her dramatics. Who knows what the cops have surmised? All this time, I thought I knew the real story, that that was the basis for our lies. Now I’m learning the starting point was a world away, like I was dropped in the Gobi with a map for the Kalahari. “Then what?” I ask.
“I found Stan dead on the floor in my studio, with blood everywhere.” Her eyes latch onto mine. “A knife was sticking out. Here.” She touches her throat. “I ran over and pulled it out.”
I grip the cold counter. “Who else was there, Dana?”
Her head tilts, eyes full of horror. “No one!” She looks toward the service entrance. “That door was open.”
I follow her gaze. That door exits onto the side of the house. I’m not sure I believe her. My jaw hurts. We can return to this later. “What next?”
“I figured . . .” Her voice slips away.
I won’t let her evade me. “You figured what, Dana?”
Again, she hides her face. Her voice is tiny. “When I saw the knife, I knew Owen did it.”
I nod. That’s what I thought. “Why would he?”
“Stan saw Owen kissing Emmett and lost it. You have no idea, Jo! Stan could be awful! Hateful! He’d get after Owen and . . .” Her eyes squeeze shut. “He’d torment him! Say horrible things! Even hurt him.” She shakes her head, as if to shake off her memories. “But Owen denies killing his dad. He swears he didn’t do it!” She sounds frantic and pathetically hopeful. She’s still in denial.
I tug at my hair. My God. Emmett was there too? “Then what, Dana?”
“I ran to grab a towel to stanch the blood. But there was so much . . .” Her voice drops. “I went to find blankets.”
I blink. Had she already decided to wrap him up and dump him?
She’s hoarse. “When I came back, the knife wasn’t there.”
“Did Owen take it?” I ask. “Or Emmett?”
“I don’t know,” says Dana.
I turn to her tool rack. Pruning shears. Wire cutters. A long knife for cutting foam. Short, sharp knives with pointed tips, all bought to replace the ones the cops took. “Did you ask Owen?”
“He said no.”
She attempts a smile, like that will win me over. “I panicked that night,” she whispers. “Owen would be bullied in juvie. Or in jail, if he was tried as an adult. He’d never survive!” Her eyes are pleading.
Despite myself, my chest softens. She looks tragic, and beauty is compelling; we’re wired to respond to it. Those big eyes blinking at me. Dana looks like a scared, pretty baby. Or a kitten.
She wrings her hands. “I couldn’t let Owen go to prison! He’s so . . .” She gives up. “You know him, Jo! I couldn’t call the cops and turn in my own son! I . . . I just couldn’t.”
“So you called me.”
She doesn’t respond. Her face is so pale it’s translucent, like the petals of her white flowers. Against that blanched background, her eyes seem even bluer.
If she’d told me the truth, the whole truth, would I have helped her? “First you hit yourself so I’d believe Stan beat you,” I say. Bitterness has left my voice flat. How brilliantly she played me, ruining her own perfect face so I’d never doubt her. “Then what?”
“I was frightened.” Her lip trembles.
I nod. I get that. If it were Ruby—not that Ruby would kill someone, but if—would I have done the same thing?
“He’s my baby! The one who needs the most help. The one who struggles.”
I recall her back when Owen was little, taking him to therapists and doctors. He seemed much better lately. Until this.
I look away. It’s hard to think with Dana’s pleading baby-gaze on me. I stare into a cooler ablaze with bright flowers. I don’t blame Dana for lying to protect Owen. Good mothers defend their children. But how dare she lie to me! I put everything on the line for her, including my daughter, yet she didn’t trust me.
I inhale slowly, then exhale. I must stay calm to find a way through this mess. Yet I’m not calm; I’m buzzing.
“Jo?” Her voice is petal thin and equally fragile. “Do you think Owen killed him?”
My jaw clenches. Her question, so full of false hope, leaves no doubt. She knew it was Owen from the get-go. This is worst-case scenario. The boy’s fifteen and troubled. He killed his own father. What’s to stop him from talking—if he hasn’t already? Teenagers talk. We’re fucked if he confesses.
Fresh anger rises in me. I tamp it down. I need to focus. We’re rats on a sinking ship. If Owen goes down, Dana and I drown with him.
CHAPTER 46
JO
There’s no time to lose. I tiptoe down the dark hall. As well as being suspended from school, Owen’s grounded. This makes searching his room a challenge.
Luckily, after dinner, he went downstairs to watch a movie with Chad. Dana’s in bed with a headache. She barely touched her food.
I left the girls in Zoe’s bedroom, both glued to their iPads. All my good mothering intentions have gone out the triple-glazed windows. What’s some extra screen time compared to your mom going to jail? When all of this is over, I’ll make it up to Ruby. We’ll bake cookies and read together. We’ll visit museums.
I fear Owen’s door might be locked, but it’s not. I slip inside and lock it. His room smells like a thrift shop, musty and stuffy. I flick on the light.
I brought latex gloves, just in case, lifted from the nursing station at school. I tug them on and wiggle my fingers. My hands look pale and creepy.
I’m not sure where to start. I scan the neatly-made bed and a tall bookcase. Its bottom shelves are full of mostly sci-fi and natural history. The upper shelves display plastic models of monsters, Lego spaceships, and a chess set, while the middle shelf bears Owen’s weird wood carvings. The sight of them sets my fury refizzing. Dana even lied about the murder weapon so I’d be less likely to suspect Owen.
A dozen mobiles hang from the ceiling, some bought and others handmade from wire and natural objects. They sway in a light draft, casting shadows, rustling, and ticking. The sound is unsettling.
I walk to Owen’s desk, stacked high with books, papers, and comics. I leaf through them and find a sheet of paper in a physics textbook. I turn it over. Jesus. It’s a pencil sketch of a man with a knife in his chest. Blood spurts everywhere. Owen’s done a fine job with the shading. Detective Shergold would be orgasmic.
I fold the drawing and shove it into my jeans. I slow down and leaf through every paper. Nada. Maybe I’m wrong, and there’s nothing here. Owen probably tossed the knife, although he’d have wanted to keep it. He’s a hoarder. I walk to the chest of drawers.
I start at the bottom. The lowest drawer holds ancient stuffed animals. I pull out a lumpy dog, which reminds me of one my dad gave me when I was small and how fiercely I loved it. I shove the dog back in the drawer.
Next come old Lego catalogs, picture books, and music sheets. There’s a drawer full of shells, pebbles, and twisted wire for his mobiles. Another holds playing cards, stickers, and broken electronics. He’s got enough to build a bomb.
I check my watch. It’s been twenty minutes. I’m worried Owen will tire of his movie. Throat dry, I move to the closet.
I find a half-smoked joint and a Bic lighter in his raincoat. No surprise. I shove the joint into my back pocket and keep looking.
When I’m done with his hanging clothes, I grab his desk chair and carry it over. A shelf at the top of his closet holds hats and folded sweaters. I climb onto the chair. My fingers wiggle between layers of wool. Nothing.
Behind the sweaters stands a blue plastic tub. I tilt it, hearing the instantly recognizable rattle of Legos. Keeping the box tilted, I use my other hand to rake through the sharp blocks. Something smooth finds my fingers.
It’s long and hard, wrapped in plastic. I hold my breath and extract a knife. It’s shaped like a dagger. The tip is curved. Holy shit. There are flecks on the blade. I can’t believe it. Could he really have failed to wash it? It’s inexplicably stupid.
As a teacher, I’ve seen plenty of teens make dumb choices. Teenage brains suck at risk assessment. Apparently, their prefrontal cortex remains undeveloped. But this— My breathing quickens. Still balanced on the chair, I glance toward the door.
Who in their right mind would keep the knife they’d used to stab their father? I am Owen’s teacher at school. He’s far from stupid. Is this some sick sort of trophy?
My eyes dart about the room. Have I misjudged him entirely?
I push the knife into my hoodie’s pocket. My hands are clammy. It feels vital to leave this room ASAP. I clamber down, feeling shaky.
Dana and I have been luckier than we deserve. No. She’s been luckier than she deserves, considering her lies. If the cops had thoroughly searched Winderlea, our lives would be over. They’d get the truth out of Owen. I’m as jittery as his mobiles.
Dana was blind about her husband. Why not her son? I should have guessed sooner.
I drag Owen’s chair back to his desk and switch off the light.
Before opening the door, I listen hard. All’s quiet but for my heartbeat and the click of his mobiles.
I look both ways down the dark and empty hall. I can just make out a trio of Stan’s heinous abstracts. All in brown, they look like shit.
I creep quietly past Dana’s bedroom.
I’m descending the staircase when I see Owen coming up. The knife in my pocket feels heavier. The staircase seems much too narrow.
I must look odd because he shoots me a suspicious frown. I will my voice to sound normal: “You off to bed then?” It comes out croaky.
This boy, now within feet of me, killed his father.
“Yeah.” He frowns. “Why are you here?”
I don’t think he just means here right now. But here in his house, with his mother. I stop walking. It’s a good question. “I . . . I’m going,” I say.
As soon as I say it, it’s obvious. I’ll pack up and leave. I’ll sever all contact with Dana.
All those years and all those lies—I can’t take it anymore. I don’t need her. Everyone has a limit. I’ve reached mine.
Owen shrugs. Maybe that’s not what he meant after all. “Goodnight, Jo.”
“Goodnight.”
I stay where I am until I hear his bedroom door shut. I feel the knife in my hoodie’s pocket.
Back in the guest room, I shove clothes and toys into my suitcase. I’ll take it out to my car, then come back for Ruby. Leaving tonight, while Dana’s asleep, feels essential.
Above all, I must not panic. I need a good plan. One that doesn’t involve Dana.
CHAPTER 47
DANA: TWENTY-NINE DAYS SINCE STAN’S DEATH
It’s been five days since Jo up and left. No note. Nothing. I know she’s pissed that I lied. I get it. But still. She’s never not answered my calls. She even unfriended me on Facebook.
I reach for my phone and dial her number. It goes straight to voicemail. Damn. How long will she keep this going?
Trying to shake off my irritation, I bend back to my flowers. I’m working on a bridal bouquet, an orb of tiny white roses. It’s the choice of the bride. I’d never choose roses for a wedding. They’re too conventional, even dull. Jo carried a single protea—a spiky hot-pink flower the size of a soup bowl—when she married that bum, Trevor.
The front doorbell sounds. Gloria calls from down the hall: “I’ll get it.”
Minutes later, there’s a tap on my studio’s door.
“Come in,” I say. I expect it’s Gloria, come to ask about something.
The door opens. “Mrs. McFarlane?” My stomach drops. It’s Detective Shergold. She walks in, followed by Detective Bellows. They’re both unsmiling, in similar long, dark coats. Men in black, except one’s a woman.
I’m the first to speak. “Detectives? What is it?” I sound guilty.
Detective Shergold unbuttons her coat. Detective Bellows answers: “We need to speak with you, Dana.”
I nod, incapable of speech. They’re here to arrest me. This is it. I can feel it.
I look down at the bouquet. I’m gripping the stems so hard a thorn’s jabbed me. I thought I got them all but must have missed one.
“We wanted you to be the first to know,” says Detective Bellows. “We’ve made an arrest.”
I look up, not computing. He’s not smiling, but his eyes are triumphant. “W-what?” I stammer.
A moment ago, I was sure they’d come for me. That spark of panic flares into a fireball. My insides warp and flap. Owen. Oh my God. Owen. Would they arrest a minor at school? Could they do that?
Detective Shergold coughs. Beneath her blunt bangs, she eyes my butcher-block table. “Can we sit?” she asks.
