Over the Edge (11 page)

"That hardly matters."

I'd seen her at last year's Christmas function. She couldn't be even thirty yet. A real beauty. Dark-eyed and tanned, even in winter. An insane figure, accentuated in a perfectly fitted red dress. Brock had introduced us and given her a perfunctory peck on the cheek. At the time I'd thought
my husband works with
that
every day?

My thoughts wandered further back. Our marital problems started well before Christmas. That party—he'd been with her even then.

A disgusted sound puffed from my throat. "I can't believe this." It was so . . . Hollywood. The successful older man taking up with the younger, beautiful woman at work. I knew men really did this—all too often. But only someone else's husband. Not mine. Never mine.

"What are you going to tell Lauren? You're going to leave your only . . . child for someone who's y-young enough to be your daughter?"

"Jan—"

"You'll break Lauren's heart. And for that I'll break you in two!" I picked up my cane and shook it at him, like some mad old lady. I'd have laughed if the whole thing wasn't so awful. Just look at me. Thirty-six years old and already ancient. Used up.

"Put that thing down."

The cane slipped from my hands, the pain in my knuckles too great to hold its weight. It hit the floor with a rattle that pierced my ears. I ogled the thing, shiny and slick, my mouth ajar and sweat trickling down my spine. Despair sucked me in until I nearly fell over. I grasped the sofa cushions, steadying myself. There. There went my heart, pulsing again. Draining so much energy.

How miserable that I was sick at this moment, my anger left with no way to vent, my muscles like puddles of water.

"I will talk to Lauren." Brock sounded so calm, so quiet. "We'll work it out. She'll come to visit me as often as possible. We can take joint custody. I'd never walk away from my daughter, you know that."

"You
are
walking away, Brock. You step through that door, and she stays here—that's w-walking away. Just try explaining to Lauren how
Alicia
"—I sing-songed the name—"is more important than she is."

He looked at his hands.
Hit a nerve, did I, Dr. McNeil?

"And what am I supposed to do, Brock? I don't think I can even d-drive. You're just
leaving
us to fend for ourselves?"

"You'll get better."

"Will I, now."

"Yes." His voice sharpened. "Probably about as soon as I pack my things."

I glared at him. "
You're
the liar here, not me."

He pinned me with a look. "It takes two to make a marriage fall apart."

"Do tell. And what exactly is it that I've . . . done to you? Other than take care of you and our house and child. Other than love you"—my voice caught—"with my
entire life.
"

He looked away, his jaw set. "You've put me through a lot of worry in the past few days."

Well, excuse me.

"Brock. I didn't know you were leaving. Naïve as that makes me, I didn't know. This illness, the phone calls—they're not faked. I know you'd l-love to believe that. Makes it easier to walk out that door. 'Cause what kind of man leaves his w-wife when she can barely walk? Not to mention when some man's stalking her."

Brock stared at the floor. Shook his head.

I tore my eyes away from the sickening sight of him. Brought a hand to my forehead.
Should
I have known he had someone else? Had I been that stupid? All those late nights 'at work,' the months of his pulling away from me. Maybe I had known, but I hadn't allowed myself to
see.
How could I, after all Brock had done for me? That mistreated, ailment-faking child had grown up but was never quite whole until Brock stepped into her life with the missing pieces.

Now Brock was missing a few of his own. Like common sense. And morals and loyalty.

Out of nowhere, Stalking Man's voice played in my head. I looked back to Brock. "Tell me—would your p-professional reputation be ruined if you reversed your opinion on Lyme?"

His jaw tightened, and his narrowed gaze rose to mine. "Is that what this is all about? You want to bring me down. You want to ruin me."

Like you're ruining me?

All the same, I had to admit there was a certain logic to his accusation. He was leaving me for some young assistant at work. Someone who helped daily in the lab, on his research. Why shouldn't I strike back at him professionally?

Still, how quickly Brock had concluded that. Just three days ago who would have believed I was capable of such a thing? Who'd believe, that is, except someone just as low, who could recognize the wash of the very traits he was drowning in.

"How did you ever g-guess?" My tone ran as chilled and hard as a brick dam against snow melt. "Yes. I made it up. All the symptoms, the phone c-calls. My fear. I lied to you. Lied to the police. Launched a f-formal investigation into thin air. Which, I believe, is a . . . crime." Tears bit my eyes, but I blinked them back. I would not cry in front of this man. Not here, not now. Not
ever.
"If that's what you want to believe, Brock, go right ahead. Must make you feel better. Because only a louse would walk out on a s-sick wife just home from the hospital."

He jumped up. "I don't have to listen to this."

Sudden fear raked nails across my chest. This was really going to happen. Within an hour or two he'd be gone. "Brock, please. He threatened to infect Lauren, don't you hear? We can't let him get to Lauren!"

Brock whirled on me, then stomped over to shake a finger in my face. "
Don't
you bring my daughter into your little scheme, Jannie. Don't you dare! Because if you do, I'll take her away from you. That's a promise."

He jerked away and strode from the room. I sat like a stone, listening to the thump of his footsteps as he hurried upstairs to pack.

Chapter 15

BY THE TIME MARIA BROUGHT LAUREN HOME, lugging her backpack and suitcase, Brock had thrown together two suitcases of clothes and put them in his car. Child returns, husband leaves. He was now in his office with the door closed. My insides had numbed. I hardly knew how to greet my own daughter.

"Sweetie." In the hall I leaned down, pasting a smile on my face. My feet were planted apart, one hand on the cane so I wouldn't fall over. Maria and Katie hung in the doorway, watching. I could feel their shock at my appearance.

"Mom!" Lauren hugged me gently, then pulled back, her eyes shiny. The freckles on her nose looked darker, or was that just my imagination? "I'm so glad you're home."

"Me too." I rubbed the top of her head, my heart turning inside out. What it would do to her to hear her father was leaving. "You and Katie take your things up to your room, okay?"

"Glad you're back." Katie touched my arm as she followed Lauren.

"Thanks, honey."

Maria shut the front door as we watched them disappear upstairs. She regarded me with a shake of her head. "Jannie, you look . . ."

"I know. Let's sit down."

I clumped into the den. To the couch where I'd heard the words that would change my life. Maria took the armchair. "Before I forget, Lauren has some homework to finish. She promised me she'd do it when she got home."

"Okay."

"So." Concern etched Maria's forehead. "They still don't know what's wrong with you?"

"Brock does. I'm faking. And he's leaving me."

Maria's chin tilted down. She looked at me through her white-blonde bangs, eyebrows raised.
"What?"

In low tones I told her about Alicia. I said nothing about Stalking Man. That was too much for this conversation. And what if Maria didn't believe me either?

Her gaze coasted toward the stairs. She licked her lips. I watched her struggle to absorb this new reality. "He's going to tell Lauren before he leaves?"

"That's the plan."

Maria made a sound in her throat. "Oh. How
awful.
That's going to be . . ."

Yeah.

I shifted my position. My head felt so heavy, as if my neck didn't want to hold it up. "Look, I hate to ask you for anything m-more, but I'm going to need help getting Lauren to school until I can find someone around here to take her. Trouble is, none of her friends in this . . . neighborhood go to her school. Maybe I can hire somebody—"

"No, no, don't do that. Of course I'll help." Maria raked a hand through her hair. "I don't understand why Brock thinks you're faking. I mean, just 'cause you did that as a kid—"

Two sets of girl feet pounded down the stairs. Maria's mouth clamped shut.

"Mom, we want a snack!" Lauren and Katie made for the kitchen.

"Go ahead."

Dully, I watched the girls through the pass-through window. "We'll talk later," I whispered to Maria.

She nodded.

Ten minutes later, Maria and Katie prepared to leave. "I want you to call me tonight, tell me how you're doing." Maria firmed her lips in a non-smile.

Don't leave. Don't.
Because when they did, Brock would have to talk to Lauren. And the secure world I'd spent nine years building for my daughter would crumble.

I pictured Stalking Man invading our home however long ago. Standing over my bed as I slept. At the thought of his coming back for Lauren, abject terror seized my throat. Somehow I would keep that fright to myself, not let it affect my daughter. But I couldn't shield her from her own father.

My body started to shake. I slumped over on the couch, then lifted my feet up to lie down. In the kitchen I could see the edge of Lauren's right shoulder as she sat at the table. A schoolbook thumped down before her.

Brock's footsteps sounded on the hardwood floor.

My eyes closed. I needed to get up, be a part of their conversation. Hold Lauren's hand. But my muscles wouldn't move.

Memories marched through my head. Brock after Lauren's birth, holding her for hours. Not even wanting to give her to me for feeding. His tea parties with five-year-old Lauren, both of them sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by an array of stuffed animals and a tiny tea set. I'd taken a picture once, the two of them tipping dainty cups to their lips, Brock's pinky extended to match his daughter's. Brock at the school play last year, insisting we sit on the front row so Lauren could see us during her performance.

How could he leave her? How could he leave
us?

"Hey, Punkin." Brock's steps reached the kitchen.

"Hi, Daddy!" Lauren's chair scraped against the floor. Eyes still closed, I heard the rustle of clothes and pictured them hugging. The chair scraped again as she returned to her seat.

Fresh fear wound its way down my limbs. It curled and crept and stuck to my veins until I would burst with it.
How
was I going to do this? Where was I going to find the energy to take care of a crushed child?

"Whatcha working on?" Brock asked.

"Science."

I had to get up. I needed to go to her. My muscles gathered for the attempt to rise.

"Listen, Punkin."

I sat up, heart skidding. Swung my feet to the floor. Vertigo hit. I closed my eyes, fighting for equilibrium. Whoa. It hadn't been this hard to get up when Maria and the girls arrived.

"What?" Lauren's voice sounded so innocent, so unprepared.

Silence from the kitchen. I fumbled for my cane, thrust myself toward the edge of the couch. My feet needed to center under me so I could get up. My left hand pushed against the cushion until I managed to stand. I started to move toward the kitchen.

"What is it, Daddy?"

I reached the armchair. Where he'd sat when he told me. That armchair would never look the same again. I stepped around it. The sound of a long sigh reached my ears.
Brock.
It was a sigh of defeat.

"Just wanted to tell you I have to go on a trip for a week."

I made it to the threshold. Leaned against the doorjamb.

"No, I don't want you to go!" Lauren looked up at her dad, disappointment pulling at her profile.

Brock turned toward me, his eyes grazing mine before bouncing away. "Afraid I have to. In fact, I have to leave right now."

"Where are you going?"

"On a business trip. You know, boring stuff."

Coward.
All the same, relief washed over me.

Lauren's shoulders slumped. "But it's Sunday night. And I just got
home.
"

"I don't want to go. But I'll call you every night, okay?"

Lauren glanced over her shoulder at me. "Who's going to take care of Mom?"

Brock stilled. "Guess you'll have to do that."

Lauren looked from him back to me, reticence scrunching her eyes. Even a nine-year-old knew how ridiculous that sounded.

How strong the pull of this Alicia must be. To make Brock do this.

Lauren got up. She and her dad hugged each other. Brock kissed her on the head. "Be a good girl, now."

"Where's your suitcase?"

"Already in the car. I'll talk to you soon. Be a good girl, okay?"

Lauren's head hung. "Yeah. Okay."

Brock turned toward the door leading to the garage, then veered toward me. He leaned in close enough to whisper without Lauren hearing.

"
You
tell her."

Then he was gone.

Chapter 16

THROUGH THE GLASS HE WATCHED THE ADULT FEMALE TICK crawl on a spindly branch. She was hungry.

In this spring season the tick was reaching the end of her life cycle. Hatched from an egg into larva in July nearly two years ago, she'd been no bigger than a period at the end of a sentence. She'd fed as a nymph and had a second feeding the following spring. That fall she molted into an adult. Denied a blood meal at that time, she'd gone dormant over the winter. Now she sought a meal once again.

He'd chosen this tick with purpose. She was big enough to be spotted with the naked eye. She'd grown significantly since her nymph stage, now measuring about one-eighth of an inch wide. The back of her body was black, seeping into bright red. She was noticeably bigger than her male counterpart, and much brighter. Males showed no red.

After her long-awaited feeding this female tick would lay eggs, then die.