Tell Me You're Sorry (12 page)

“Please, for Christ's sake, we need to keep moving,” Jill muttered. She grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up. Then she handed her the purse. “C'mon . . .”

Lacee finally got her breath, but still felt shaky. She glanced back toward State Street. There was no sign of anyone. “Jill, I don't think he's following us . . .”

“Damn it, I saw him just after you fell. Now, please . . .” She pulled her toward the alley.

Lacee balked when she saw where they were headed. In the alleyway, several Dumpsters and recycling bins lined the backs of the buildings. A black SUV was parked about halfway down there. Though well lit, the alley had several shadowy alcoves and doorways. And this close to the water, God only knew how many rats were lurking around.

“That's my car right there,” Jill said.

Lacee didn't budge. She still felt rickety—and confused. “You—you parked in an alley?”

“I do it all the time, and they've never given me a ticket. Now, c'mon, move your ass.” She pulled her toward the SUV, stopping only for a moment to reach into her purse and pull out her keys. She pressed the lock device on her key ring. The SUV's lights flashed as they zeroed in on it. “Get in, get in,” Jill urged her.

Lacee opened the front passenger door, but glanced back toward the end of the alley. There was no one. This whole time, she hadn't seen Ray What's-his-name at all, not since she left the Starbucks. Was Jill overreacting, or paranoid—or what?

“Lacee, get in, for God's sake,” Jill said, hurrying around the front of the car.

She climbed inside and shut her door. A moment later, the driver's door opened and Jill scooted behind the wheel. She closed the door and pressed something on the driver's side that made all the doors lock. Then she turned the key in the ignition. But they didn't move. With a hand on her forehead, Jill just sat there for a moment and caught her breath.

At last, she let out a sigh. “Well, what the fuck are you waiting for?”

Lacee didn't understand—until she peered into the rearview mirror. Jill wasn't talking to her. She was addressing the man in the backseat.

Lacee hadn't seen Ray since she'd ditched him at Starbucks.

But she was looking at him now.

All at once, he lunged forward. He slapped a rag soaked with something over her mouth and nose. Lacee struggled and clawed at him, but it didn't do any good. His gloved hands were almost crushing her head. The chemical smell on the rag was overpowering. Everything went out of focus.

She could hear the window humming as it descended on the driver's side. She realized her new friend, “Jill,” didn't want to get a whiff of the stuff they were using on her.

“Just breathe in, Lacee,” she heard the woman say. “It'll be easier for you
. . .”

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

 

H
is cell phone rang. Ryan rolled his eyes. “I'll bet it's her again.”

He had the phone on the table, beside the pizza pan. There was one corner piece left. In Ryan's opinion, the Nite N' Gale had the best thin crust pizza around. He and Billy ate there practically every weekend—and always the same order: two Cokes and one large sausage and cheese. They were usually the last ones to leave. Tonight, they'd scored a window table—looking out at the parking lot and the train station. A few drops of rain slashed across the window. Some brief flashes of lightning were followed by the rumblings of distant thunder.

Ryan glanced at his caller ID, and nodded. “Yep, it's her,” he muttered. He set the phone back down, and the ringing stopped.

“Why the hell does she keep hanging up?” Billy asked. He had a piece of pizza in his hand. “You'd think she'd at least leave a message.”

“Beats me,” Ryan said. “She pulled this same shit on me two nights ago.” He pointed to the last piece on the pan. “Do you want this?”

“ ‘Chow down, wide load,' ” Billy said, quoting from one of their favorite movies,
Stand by Me
. “Did you ever figure out what it was about?”

Ryan shook his head. “No clue.” He bit into his pizza.

She'd called and hung up without leaving a message at least six times on Thursday night. It was bizarre. He didn't phone her back. He figured if his dad's new wife really wanted to talk with him or if it was an emergency, she would have left a message. Still, he told his grandmother the next morning, and she phoned home to find out if anything was the matter. “I guess it was some kind of mixup,” his grandmother had reported. “She said she was awfully sorry. Between you and me, I think she's a bit ditsy.”

Now, here his father's new wife was pulling the same routine again tonight. As he ate the last piece of pizza, Ryan stared at the phone.

“Why don't you just switch it off?” Billy suggested.

“Are you kidding? What if Emily calls? I don't want to miss her.”

“I hate to tell you, but Emily Cantrell isn't going to call,” Billy said. “She did this same thing to you last weekend.”

Billy was right. Last weekend, Emily had told him she'd call if she got off early from babysitting. That left him practically catatonic and panting by the phone until one in the morning. He really liked her, but she was kind of jerking him around. And they hadn't even had a date yet.

“She's babysitting again tonight, and said
maybe
she'll phone, right?” Billy asked. “Well, it's ten-thirty, and the only person calling you is your stepmother. I rest my case.”

“Don't call her my stepmother,” Ryan muttered.

“Well, maybe you should finally arrange a meeting with her,” Billy said. “Then we could come up with an appropriate nickname for her. You don't even know what she looks like, do you?”

Ryan shook his head. Apparently, she hated having her picture taken. With her iPhone, Ashley had snapped a shot of her and his dad at their quickie, little wedding ceremony—just Ryan's brother, sister, and grandmother, the bride and groom, and a minister in attendance. The bride's family hadn't come. Ryan hadn't been invited. Ashley had sent the photo to him on her phone. Ryan could hardly see the bride's face in the shot. She was turned toward his dad, kissing his cheek. All he could see of her was the wavy auburn hair, a small bouquet in her hand, and a tight blue dress that showed she had a nice rack.

A bright flash of lightning seemed to make the lights in the restaurant flicker. One of the other customers in the place let out a startled “Whoa!” A few people laughed. Gazing out the window, Billy shifted in his chair. “Boy, looks like it's going to get nasty out.” A few more drops hit the windowpane.

The cell phone rang again. Ryan grabbed it and checked the caller ID again:

“Is it her again?” Billy asked.

Ryan nodded.

“Listen, if you're in no mood to talk with her, why don't I pick it up?”

“What?” Ryan murmured.

“I'm curious as hell to find out why she keeps calling.” Billy grabbed the phone. “I'll pretend I'm you. She doesn't know what you sound like. She's never talked to you, and your voice mail greeting isn't you. She'll never know the difference. How about it?”

Ryan crunched up his napkin and tossed it on the empty pizza pan. “Knock yourself out.”

Billy clicked on the phone. “Yo, this is Ryan!” he announced—in a husky, dumb-macho voice.

Chuckling, Ryan shook his head and flipped him the bird.

Across the table, Billy grinned at him. “Yeah?” he said into the phone. “Yeah . . .” The smile ran away from his face. “What?” he asked in his normal voice. “Wait a minute . . . wait . . .”

Ryan leaned forward. “What's going on?” he whispered. He wondered if something had happened to his brother or sister.

Billy was still holding the cell phone to his ear. “Um, Lacee, could you just—just—”

He fell silent. Gaping at Ryan, he shook his head.

“What is it?” he asked, louder.

“Hold on,” Billy said into the phone. “I'm not—”

Ryan reached for the phone in his friend's hand. Billy surrendered it to him. “She hung up,” he murmured.

There was another flash of lightning outside.

“What did she say?”

Billy shrugged. “She—she said your dad was in a lot of trouble, and talking crazy. She said the only person who could help him was you. She wants you to come over—right away. She was whispering the whole time and sounded really scared . . .”

A deafening clap of thunder seemed to shake the restaurant's foundation.

“Jesus,” Billy murmured.

Ryan looked down at the cell phone in his hand. He clicked on the options, and stared at the “last call return” option. He hesitated before pressing it. “What kind of trouble is my father supposed to be in?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, did she mention anything about Ashley and Keith?”

Billy nodded. “She said they were safe—for now.”

“ ‘Safe for now'? What's that supposed to mean?”

“I don't know, man. I tried to tell her I wasn't you, but she wouldn't let me get a word in edgewise. The last thing she said was ‘Please come, we need you here.' Then she hung up.”

Billy nodded at the phone in Ryan's hand. “So what are you waiting for? Call her back.”

Frowning, Ryan clicked on the “last call return” option. It rang and rang—then finally went to what sounded like an automated voice mail greeting from the service provider.

“Hi, this is Ryan,” he said, after the beep. “I think we got cut off. Call me back, okay? I—I don't know about driving over there right now,” he glanced out the window, “what with the weather and everything. Anyway, call me back as soon as you can. Bye.”

He clicked off.

Billy stared at him. “What are you going to do?”

There was another rumble of thunder.

Ryan took a deep breath, and then he waved at their waitress. “Can I get the check, please?” he called.

 

 

Ryan could hardly see a damn thing. Even with the wipers on full speed, a curtain of heavy rain cascaded down the windshield. Every few seconds he got a mere peek at the wet, tree-lined road ahead—and then it was all a watery blur again. The speedometer was only at 30 miles an hour, but Ryan sat hunched forward with his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. He used to think he could drive the fifteen-minute route between Billy's house and what used to be his home blindfolded—but not tonight. He'd already dodged several fallen branches on Waukegan Road. And his usual shortcut side street was under about two inches of water. He'd skidded and slid most of the way to the next road.

Billy had volunteered to go with him, but Ryan had insisted on dropping him off. He figured if he had to deal with his father—after six months of chilly silence between them—bringing along Billy wasn't such a good idea. Plus he didn't want Billy stuck there while this family drama unfolded.

He listened to the rain beating on the roof of his VW bug. He'd switched on the radio for some comforting background noise, but static kept interrupting the music—along with frequent bulletins: “There is a severe weather alert for Lake and Cook counties—thunderstorms with heavy winds and rain. Expect flooding in some areas. If you're home right now, stay put. It's not a night to be out on the road . . .”

He'd tried to phone Lacee again, but had gotten the same generic voice mail as last time. He'd called Ashley, but it had just rung and rung. He'd even dared to call the home line—at the risk of getting his father—but again, no answer.

Biting his lip, he turned down another street. Puddles splashed and hissed as he drove through them, and he felt the car weave again.

He wondered what kind of “trouble” his father was in—and how his going over there was going to help matters any. Could this have anything to do with his mom's suicide?

He remembered that evening five months ago, and how devastated everyone had been. His father and he had hugged and cried on each other's shoulders. He figured the old man's tough-guy “men don't cry” attitude—along with this whole blowup between them—was suddenly a thing of the past. He figured the family would need to stick together if they expected to get through this. His kid sister and brother needed him. They needed their grandmother, too. Their dad wanted her to spend the night. So Ryan drove his grandmother back to her house so that she could pack some overnight things. Ryan started packing, too—his big suitcase. He decided it was time to move back home.

He hadn't quite finished packing when he heard a car pull up in front of the house. Peeking outside the bedroom window, he saw his dad's BMW parked in the driveway. There was a light snow. In the backseat, Keith had his window down and his arm stuck out to catch some flakes.

Just then, the phone rang. His grandmother answered it in her bedroom. Ryan could hear her whispering angrily. Baffled, he headed out to the hallway.

“I thought you two just made up,” his grandmother was saying. “He's in his room right now packing his bags. I can't believe this. Brent, I am so disappointed in you. Sharon would be disappointed, too . . . You don't know why she did what she did . . . Well, I wouldn't be so quick to pin the blame on someone else—what with the way you've been behaving lately . . .”

Numbly, Ryan treaded down the stairs to the tall window beside the front door. He brushed aside the sheer curtain and stared out at the car. He could see his father in the front seat on his cell phone. Both Ashley and Keith were in back.

“Yes, I know they need me,” he heard his grandmother crying. “But they need their big brother even more. And he needs them . . . No! I'm not leaving him here alone—not after what he's seen today. How could you do that to him? What kind of father are you? I'll tell you what, you leave Ashley and Keith here with us. Then you can go home, and be the one left to grieve all alone. . .”

Her voice dropped back to a whisper, and Ryan couldn't hear her anymore. Both his brother and sister waved at him from the backseat of the car. Ryan just put his hand up to acknowledge them. He knew they couldn't see the tears in his eyes.

After another moment, the BMW backed out of the driveway. He heard his grandmother sobbing in her bedroom.

He started upstairs, but stopped and sank down on a step halfway up. His grandmother came down to sit two steps above him. “I guess you heard,” she muttered, sniffling.

“He couldn't even step out of the car and come inside to face me,” Ryan said.

She squeezed his shoulder. “People who are grieving do all sorts of crazy, awful things,” she sighed. “Sometimes they hurt people close to them. I'm so sorry, honey . . .”

“Keith and Ashley need you there,” he said.

His grandmother refused to leave him alone. So Ryan got Billy to stay for the night. He and Billy drove his grandmother back to the house so she could be with Ashley and Keith. Billy helped her with her bag and walked her to the front door.

Ryan remembered waiting alone in Billy's car, watching the gentle snowfall—and what used to be his home. He'd gazed at his old bedroom's dark windows. He'd told himself right then, he'd never go back into that house again if his father was there.

Now, here he was, driving through monsoon conditions to help the old man. His father was in some kind of trouble. Ryan wondered if this was all just a ploy on Lacee's part to lure him over there. Maybe she thought if she got them together, he and his dad would make peace. If that was the case, she'd sure picked one hell of an awful night for it.

He didn't know much about Lacee except for what his brother and sister had told him. She was pretty—but nowhere near as pretty as their mom. She'd moved here from Boston and had been working at a temp agency when she'd met his dad. They'd hailed a taxi on Michigan Avenue at the same time, argued about whose cab it was, and then shared the ride. By the time Lacee had reached her destination, his dad had gotten her phone number. Ashley had thought the story incredibly romantic, because it had happened around Valentine's Day. But hearing about it had made Ryan want to puke.