Dark Corners READY FOR PRC (9 page)

She sighed. “I don’t think you killed him. I don't know who did. I want things to be they way they were—I miss having my best friend. I need a second chance … please.”

I weighed the truth behind her words. She seemed sincere, but I couldn't be sure. I would let her stay for dinner.

“At least you can’t say I am boring,” I mumbled.

“No, never a dull moment with you.” Susan understood immediately that the conversation was dropped, a veritable ‘to be continued.’  After a few moments of awkward silence, she asked, “Have you been writing?”

“No. I can’t. Nothing comes to mind. I can’t think of anything new, I can only remember. I think it’s the medication or my muse is dead.”

She shrugged. “You weren’t writing much before you started seeing Dr. Livingston. Have you written anything at all since you moved here?”

“Yes. Just not in this house. But I don't really see how my writing is any of your business. Thanks for bringing it up though.”

“So that subject’s off limits too? Exactly what can we talk about, Ella?”

I walked out of the kitchen without explaining myself.

“Where are you going?” Susan called behind me.

“To get a drink.”

“There’s a shock,” she grumbled

I pretended I didn't hear that last comment; I didn't want to talk about my drinking either.

“This is my house. If I want another drink, I’ll damn well have one. Everyone works through things in their own way.” It was something I’d told myself many times—so many times I almost believed it. I poured a double of vodka then went back into the kitchen for round two.

“Would you like anything, Susan?” She glanced up.  “Or are you afraid to come over to the dark side?”  I jingled the ice in my glass at her.

“Wine would be nice.”

“I'm not sure I have any.” I couldn’t remember the condition of our wine cellar. It was more Danny’s project than mine, but I went down there anyway. I had few bottles left, nothing to brag about. I brought three back into the kitchen, set them on the counter and dusted them off.

“You have your choice—Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon, or Chianti.”

“So … red, red, or red.”

“Your lack of knowledge about your drink of choice never ceases to amaze me,” I told her.

She grinned. “I’ll have the merlot.”

I uncorked the bottle letting it breathe. “What are you making?”

“Pasta.”

I took in the massive amount of groceries on the counter. There was a lot more than could possibly be put in the pasta she was preparing. “What's all of this?”

“I assumed you hadn’t been to the store, so I picked up some of the essentials for you.”

“I was going tomorrow.” My words were hollow with the lack of any real intention.

Susan chose to ignore my lie. “Are you going to help me?” she asked not making eye contact.

I sighed and considered her offer. There was a time she wouldn't have had to prompt me to help, but now it was hard to even be in the same room with her.

“Never mind,” Susan said the frustration evident on her face.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked.

“Make a salad?”

 I decided that it was better to be occupied than to sit there pulling up old resentments in my mind, and I began washing the spinach. We worked in silence. There was nothing to say. We were two complete strangers who just happened to be having dinner. The tension in the air was thick like smoke and it choked out any small talk that might have been attempted.

At the table Susan gave me a tight smile. I didn’t bother returning it. Instead I took a long drink of my vodka, hoping it would make me feel less ridiculous for forcing myself to participate in this charade. Whatever friendship we had died with Danny.  It was time we both admitted it. She sat in front of me as a bitter reminder of all I lost.

“When did we become like this?” she asked, then laughed bitterly. “That’s become the tagline of my life.”

I frowned.  “What do you expect from me?” It pissed me off that she might expect anything from me. I owed her nothing.

“Ella …”

“You know what, I don’t want to talk about it.”

She sighed and her nostrils flared. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s too late.”

“I hope that isn’t true. I need you in my life and like it or not you need me. Friends are important—and sometimes friends make mistakes and you have to forgive them.”

“Oh, Really?  And what does your friendship manual say about loyalty? Or did you just gloss over that section?”

She looked down at her plate.  Her eyes welled with tears. Damn it. Forgiveness was not something that was in my nature to give and I certainly wasn’t dishing any out tonight. The best I could do was change the subject for her. “How’s business?” I asked.

She rebounded quickly. “It’s okay, pretty steady. I work all the time, though I'm thinking about hiring some extra help.”

We ate and kept the conversation light and neutral. The rest of the evening was pleasant enough. There were even moments when it seemed like old times and Susan seemed happy after dinner, a renewed sense of hope showing on her face.

I was so wrapped up in myself, however, that it wasn’t until she was leaving that I noticed how worn down she looked. I had the sneaking suspicion she had ulterior motives for this impromptu visit. I guess I would have to wait to find out what they were. I headed to bed contemplating what I needed to do to discover the truth in all areas of my life.

Chapter Six

Knocking sounds and whispers swirled through the vents. I pretended to sleep, trying to ignore them, but they scrubbed against whichever part of my brain caused fear like sandpaper. I spent most of the night with a pillow over my head to drown out the noises.

In the morning, I shuffled into the living room expecting the place to be trashed. Hell, based on all the noise I heard the night before I expected to find a Mack truck parked in my living room. However, everything seemed to be as it ever was—for the house at least. For me the day was different.

Somewhere in the night I had decided enough was enough; I was starting my own investigation. Where to begin was a problem though. Should I begin with the murder or the house? Were they connected or coincidence?

Regardless, this was a new day and a new resolve, which meant I should start it with a non-liquid breakfast. I would do this right and sober. I may not know what my first step should be, but I owed it to Danny to figure it out.

Shuffling into the kitchen, stretching my arms, I felt almost normal. I opened the refrigerator to inspect what goodies Susan left for me and it was as bare as it was yesterday. Nothing. Not even my moldy cheese was in the refrigerator. The cabinets that I had watched Susan stock with cereal and various dry foods only the night before were empty as well.

How could everything be gone? Moved would be one thing—I’d dealt with that repeatedly—but just
gone
?  It was a new level of weird. I checked the trashcan and it too was empty, like the previous night never happened. Focusing to the best of my ability, I tried to remember for certain whether Susan had visited last night or weeks ago.

I considered calling her to check, but hesitated. If I were to call, admit that I was uncertain whether or not she had been here, I would be all but admitting to her that I was mentally unfit. The missing food would be a moot point. Whether she had been here or not, she’d think I was crazy. I poured myself a glass of water, but my hands shook too much to take a drink. The shrill sound of the phone carried through the house; the water in my hand sloshed to the floor. The phone rang again. I took a deep breath, set my glass down, then calmly walked over to answer it.

“Hello.”

A strange humming on the other end kept me from hanging up immediately.

“Hello?” I tried one more time, but received the same reply. I gently hung the phone back on the receiver and went to the kitchen, consciously trying to keep my breathing slow and steady. I reached for my water on the counter, but it was gone. I glanced around the room to find it six feet away on the table. I looked from the counter to the kitchen table then back again. Without warning a familiar wave of panic washed over me. My chest tightened like someone was squeezing and the room started spinning. I knew I needed to take one of my pills, but I couldn’t make it up the stairs. Fear ripped through me like a heart attack, collapsing me to the floor. . . .

Danny’s disbelief about the person or thing coming in the house created tension between us for a couple days. Eventually, however, it blew over like every argument we had ever had. Danny liked to refer to it as the “incident” and thought of it as an amusing anecdote to tell to our friends. One morning he surprised me with a weekend trip back to Chicago to visit some old friends and do some shopping.

The break was much needed and appreciated. The stress that had been building inside me had me ready to snap. Danny arranged for Susan and Doug to check on Piper while we were gone and we hit the road.

Walking down Michigan Avenue and Navy Pier with the tourists, eating in wonderful restaurants, and visiting old friends who accused us of dropping off the face of the earth was just what I needed to get my head back in the game. The weekend flew by though and before I knew it, we were on our way back.

“I'm glad to see the old you,” Danny said, taking my hand as he drove.

“What do you mean?”

“This weekend was like old times. You’ve been so introverted since the move.”

“I’ve been trying.”

“I know.” He kissed the back of my hand.

“I thought I’d adjust faster than this too.  I just can't seem to get used to the house.”