Heartstopper (40 page)

Of course that’s when I woke up. Before I had a chance to redeem myself. Before I could exact my revenge. I like to think that’s what real life is for. Redemption and revenge. And if it’s a choice between the two, I’ll take the latter. It’s a lot more fun.

Anyway, I tried to tell a few people about my dream, but no one was interested.

When Fiona finally woke up, about ten minutes after I’d been sitting beside her, she just looked at me and said, “Hi.”

“Hi,” I told her, putting my arm around her shoulders.

And she leaned her head against mine, and we sat there like that for several minutes, until I was afraid she was going to fall asleep again. And that’s when I started to wonder if maybe she suffered from narcolepsy, which is when people just fall asleep in the middle of whatever it is they’re doing, not because they’re tired, but because something in their brain isn’t wired properly. I mean, you’ve got to admit, something was seriously out of whack here. I asked her if she was hungry, and she shook her head. I asked her if she was scared, and she said no. I asked her why not, and she asked me when Cal would be getting here. I said he wouldn’t, that he had no idea where she was. She stared at me for about thirty seconds. You could actually see the moment when everything finally fell into place, and she realized what was happening. That’s when she asked me if I was the one who’d killed
Liana Martin. I said I was. And you know what she did? You’re really not going to believe this one! She smiled, laid her head back on my shoulder.

Well, let me tell you, that was the last thing I’d been expecting, and it really freaked me out. I mean, that’s like being in a crowded grocery store and being pushed to the front of the checkout line, except in this case the cashier is the angel of death, and you’re yelling, “Me first! Me first!”

“Aren’t you scared?” I asked her.

She shook her head. Strands of her hair brushed against the side of my mouth. I smelled apricots.

“How come?”

She shook her head again, as if to say she didn’t know.

“Tell me about yourself,” I urged. Something in me suddenly wanted to get to know her better.

“Nothing to tell.”

“Sure there is. What about your family? Your mother and father.”

“Both dead.”

“How?”

“Cancer. My mother first, then my father, a couple of years later.”

“Any brothers or sisters?”

“A brother. I haven’t seen him in five years.”

“Why not?”

“He lives in Fresno,” she said, as if that explained everything.

I always thought Fresno was a silly name for a city, and I said so. She giggled. Said she agreed.

“Is Fresno where you’re from originally?” I asked.

She said it was.

“Is that where you met Cal?”

Again, the answer was yes.

I thought I was going to have to keep asking questions, that it was going to be like pulling teeth to get anything
out of her, but that’s when she fooled me again, went from being a virtual mute to a veritable Chatty Cathy right before my eyes.

“I met Cal six years ago when my father was sick. He was working as an orderly in the hospital. I thought he was really good-looking. I guess that must make me seem awfully shallow,” she apologized, as if she were the only person in the world to fall for someone just because they looked good, as if that weren’t the way the world worked. “I’d stare at him when he came to serve my father his dinner. One day, he caught me, asked me to come back when he was finished working. We started hanging out together. After my father died, he moved in with me and my brother. But they got into a fight and Randy said Cal had to move out. So I went with him. We moved into a basement apartment, but then Cal got into a fight with the landlord, and we had to leave there too.”

“Sounds like Cal gets into a lot of fights,” I ventured.

“He’s got a temper. He likes things done a certain way. He doesn’t like excuses.”

“When did you move to Florida?”

“A couple of years ago. Cal said it was the land of opportunity.”

“What did
you
say?”

She shrugged. “It didn’t matter to me where we lived.”

“You didn’t mind leaving your friends?”

“Didn’t really have any,” Fiona said wistfully. “I used to have a couple of girlfriends at work—I was a receptionist at this hairdressing salon—but after I quit my job, I pretty much stopped seeing them.”

“Why’d you quit your job?”

“Cal didn’t like me working. My father was the same way. He wouldn’t let my mother work, said her job was taking care of him.”

“Is it true Cal beat you?”

“Only when I deserved it,” Fiona said quickly. “When was that?”

“When I didn’t listen, when I did something wrong, when I gave him a hard time.”

“When was that?”

She blushed. “You know.”

“You mean, during sex?”

“Sometimes I didn’t do things right. Sometimes he’d hurt me and I’d cry. He didn’t like that. Said it destroyed the mood.”

“What sort of things did he make you do?”

“Sometimes he’d take me from the back,” she said, her voice a monotone, as if she were reading from a list of groceries. “Or he’d tie me up, poke at me with different things. Sometimes he’d hit me with his belt. Sometimes he used his teeth.”

I could barely contain my disgust. “He’s an animal.”

“I deserved it. I should have tried harder.”

“What more could you have done?”

“I didn’t always pass inspection.”

“What?”

“We had inspection every day.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Cal said it was the only way he could be sure.”

“Sure of what?”

“That I was being faithful.”

“What are you talking about? What kind of inspection?”

“He’d make me take off all my clothes and lie down on the bed.” Tears of shame began to tumble down Fiona’s cheeks. “Then he’d look behind my ears, inside my mouth.” She took a deep breath. “Between my legs.”

Well, I’ve got to tell you, I almost threw up right then and there. Talk about your sick puppies. You’ve got to wonder what gets into people. Oh, I know he was probably abused himself as a kid. That’s the way it usually works, isn’t
it? He’s just doing what comes naturally. Still, people like that have to be stopped. He’s a real menace, a danger to society and all that crap. He deserves to rot in jail.

I like to think I’ve done my part in that regard.

But to be truthful, my revulsion wasn’t directed solely at Cal. I was equally repulsed by his wife. I mean, to give in like that, to acquiesce to such perverted demands, to just lie there and allow yourself to be inspected like a piece of meat! She disgusted me. And I think she must have seen that disgust reflected in my eyes, because she gave me this sad little smile and said, “Are you going to shoot me now?” And then she said, “Don’t worry. It’s okay.” Like she was giving me permission, for God’s sake. Like she understood. Like she agreed.

Which was kind of against the whole point.

Anyway, I almost changed my mind. I mean, talk about destroying the mood. But what could I do? I couldn’t very well let her go. So I shot her, although the only enjoyment I got out of it was the thought of what was in store for Cal. I’d already planted some of the trophies I’d taken from Liana and Candy in his house. I knew it was only a question of time before the sheriff requested a search warrant and those items were recovered. Then I disposed of the body.

So now Cal Hamilton sits in the county jail, charged with murdering two women, as well as being the chief suspect in the disappearance of a third. Of course he’s very vocal about protesting his innocence, says he never even heard of anyone named Candy Abbot, that he’s being framed for Liana’s death, that he loved his wife. You can bet all the newspapers are full of the story—I even caught something about it on CNN—although nobody believes him. You almost have to feel sorry for the guy. Except of course, nobody does. Certainly not me.

No, I’m quite content to let Cal Hamilton sit on his ass in jail for at least another month. It gives the town a chance to
catch its breath, shed the shackles of fear that have gripped it these last weeks, and it stops all the nonsense about calling in the FBI. No, sir. No need for that now. A cold-blooded killer has been put behind bars. Our sheriff is a hero.

Anyway, I now have all the time I need to regroup, and to plan my next moves carefully. The academic year is winding down. In approximately another six weeks, summer will officially begin. In the meantime, there’s lots to look forward to: the warmer weather, the holidays, the freedom. Of particular interest is Torrance High’s upcoming musical extravaganza. It takes place in four weeks and runs for three nights. The cast is full of eager, young hopefuls, and I intend to choose my next leading lady from amongst their nubile lot. Actually, she’s already got the part.

Kiss me, Kate, indeed.

A
month later, Sandy sat in the darkened school auditorium—between a nervous Rita Hensen and a snoozing Lenny Fromm—and waited anxiously for the play to begin. Directly behind her sat Avery Peterson, who’d come alone, and two rows behind him, Sandy’s husband, Ian, who most decidedly had not. Practically glued to his side, her arm laced proprietarily through his, was Kerri Franklin, resplendent in a hot-pink jumpsuit and a chunky necklace of brightly colored beads that disappeared into the deep V of her plunging neckline. “Boobs and baubles,” Rita had pronounced as Kerri bounced triumphantly down the center aisle, along with her mother, Rose, in funereal black from head to toe. Rose, clearly not pleased to be here, hadn’t stopped grumbling since she took her seat. “She’s only in the chorus, for God’s sake,” the woman had muttered loudly. “I don’t see why we had to make a special trip.”

“We’re not here just because of Delilah,” Kerri reminded her in a voice that carried for several rows. “Ian’s daughter is playing the lead, and we thought it would be a nice opportunity for you to meet her.”

Sandy thought Kerri had delivered that last sentence with a little more relish than necessary, and with undue emphasis on the
we.
Clearly the information had been intended as much for her benefit as for Rose’s.

“Bitch,” Rita whispered, obviously agreeing with Sandy’s silent assessment. “Please tell me you finally contacted that lawyer I told you about.”

Sandy shook her head. “I haven’t quite gotten around to it.”

“What do you mean, you haven’t gotten around to it?”

“I’ve been meaning to do it.”

“So why haven’t you? The man’s an inconsiderate asshole.”

“He’s not an …” Sandy stopped, unable to say the word out loud. But why did he have to be here tonight?

Originally, Ian had requested tickets for opening night, and Sandy had decided it would be wiser—and no doubt safer—to attend one of the other two performances. So it was decided: Ian would attend Thursday, Tim on Friday, and Sandy on Saturday. That way Megan would have a family member present for each performance and everyone would be happy.

Sure.

It was one of those ideas that worked well in theory. Unfortunately, like many a good idea, this one hadn’t gone exactly as planned. An hour before the curtain was scheduled to go up on Thursday night, Rose Cruikshank had complained of chest pains, and Ian and Kerri had had to drive her to a hospital in Fort Lauderdale, where she’d been examined and released. Obviously she was feeling better tonight, Sandy thought, although she seemed bound and determined to make everyone else suffer.

“God knows we hear enough of that awful caterwauling at home,” she groused.

“Stop that, Mother,” Kerri scolded weakly. “Delilah has a lovely singing voice, and you know it.”

“Then why is she always in the chorus? Why isn’t she playing one of the leads?”

The question—which was followed by a loud snort—went unanswered, although everyone within earshot silently supplied the correct response. Simply stated, Delilah wasn’t leading-lady material. And it wasn’t just her size, Sandy realized. It was something else. The girl was too accessible, too lacking in guile. Like an overgrown puppy, she was just too eager to please. She could have the most glorious singing voice in the world and she would still never be the star of the show. At best, she’d be the overweight, wisecracking sidekick. It was the Megans of this world, the slightly aloof, long-legged beauties, whose pretty faces hinted at a depth that might not be there, and whose voices were no more than pleasant, who would always walk away with the leading roles. Onstage and in life.

It wasn’t fair, but then, what was?

Was it fair that her husband had left her for a big-bosomed bimbo, that he’d brought that bloated bottle-blonde to the school play—the school in which she taught, for God’s sake, where the patrons were largely her colleagues and students, all there to witness her humiliation? Why had Ian chosen the night of their daughter’s final performance to make his own breathtakingly public debut with Kerri Franklin? Everyone knew they were an item. Did he have to rub it in her face?

“Take a good look behind you,” Rita was saying. “Then tell me honestly: Do you really want him back?”

Sandy slowly swiveled around in her seat, her eyes doing a quick scan of the auditorium, as if she were looking for someone in particular. She saw the McGoverns and the Perchaks and the Arlingtons and the Falcos. She spotted John Weber and his wife, Pauline. And she saw Ian comfortably ensconced three rows behind her, the world’s stupidest grin on his handsome face as Kerri leaned closer to whisper something in his ear. She saw him laugh, saw his hand reaching out to squeeze Kerri’s
knee. Then he looked up, caught Sandy watching him, and acknowledged her gaze with a small wave of his free hand and a nod of his head.

Good God, he’d actually waved. As if she were no more to him than a casual acquaintance, or a patient he’d run into outside the office. He didn’t even have the good sense to remove his hand from Kerri’s knee. He really was an … a piece of work, Sandy amended silently.

“Well?” Rita asked, as if reading her thoughts.

Sandy closed her eyes and said nothing, understanding her humiliation was complete. Because the answer to Rita’s question was yes. She still wanted him back.