The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (5 page)

“Nick,” I started my speech again. “I have to say something. About today.”

He looked up, biting on an almond.

“I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

His head tilted. His eyes lit up, curious. Maybe hopeful.

“I should have told you about my father a long time ago.” Good, I told myself. It was a start.

Nick’s eyes retreated, disinterested. Or disappointed? He sucked the spoon clean, didn’t say anything. He didn’t ask a question, didn’t make an accusation. He jabbed the spoon back into the ice cream. Go on, I told myself. Explain.

“My history with my father is…complicated. Until today, I hadn’t seen him in years. He was out of my life, permanently, for a thousand good reasons. Until yesterday. Yesterday, his neighbor called to tell me he wasn’t doing well, so I had no choice. I had to look in on him. It was very last-minute. I wasn’t, I mean…it wasn’t like I was keeping him a secret from you.” Despite all my planning and rehearsing, I sounded defensive. Pathetic. But I couldn’t stop. “In fact, I was going to tell you about him afterward—”

“Don’t worry about it. Not a problem.”

What? How was it not a problem? “But Nick, I don’t want you to think I was hiding him from you—”

“Relax. It’s cool.”

How was it cool? “But I shouldn’t have kept him—”

“It’s no big deal.” His voice was too easy, stinging me with indifference.

“It’s not?”

“Of course not. It’s not my business if you have a father or a sister or a cousin or an ex-husband or a hundred other relationships I don’t know about.”

It wasn’t? “It isn’t?”

“Why would it be? You’re a grown woman. You have your own life. Your own past. Your relationships with your family or anybody else are your own business. They become my business only if you want them to.”

Oh. Okay. Suddenly, painfully, I got it. I felt it like a jab in the gut. Nick was clever, using this situation to draw up rules, set guidelines. After all, if he didn’t claim a right to know about my relationships, I could hardly complain when he didn’t reveal much about his.

“Nick, we’re getting married. We should know about the people in each other’s lives—at least the important ones. I was wrong not to tell you about my father. I’m sorry.”

“No need to be.” His tongue darted along the spoon, glib and easy. Snakelike. “Really. You don’t have to talk about it unless you want to. It’s fine.”

How could he say that? Why was he being so amenable? What was that subtle edge in his voice? “How is it fine? You have a right to know. We need to be open with each other. I didn’t talk about him, but it wasn’t that I was keeping a secret from you. It had nothing to do with you. It was that I didn’t want even to think about him—”

“Zoe. Let it go. It’s not a problem.”

Lord, he was infuriating. Letting the issue go. Accepting my behavior. Agreeing with me. Not getting angry or hurt. How could he be so goddamned pleasant? Didn’t he care about me at all?

Go ahead, I told myself. Tell him how awful you feel, how much you need him to want to know and accept your past. Tell him you want him to hold you. Admit that you’re so tangled up inside that you can’t begin to express it.

I stood silently, wondering why I couldn’t speak. Something about Nick was different, holding me back.

“It’s been a long day,” he offered. “You should go to bed.”

“I’m not tired.” I was exhausted, aching to snuggle up beside him like normal and sleep.

“Last chance. Sure you don’t want any?” He held out the spoon, his eyes teasing, waiting for me to grab it. Stainless steel beckoned, promising smooth, creamy cold mocha.

“No, thanks.” I resisted, still not sure why.

The half of his face that wasn’t paralyzed lifted into a knowing smirk, and he took a fresh spoon from the drawer. Container in hand, he led the way to the living room. I followed and sat beside him on the sofa, eating ice cream from the carton in silence. Slowly, comforted by his closeness, I began to relax. If Nick was upset that I hadn’t told him about my father, he wasn’t going to admit it. Probably we wouldn’t discuss it further; we would simply move on, silently learning from the experience. He’d relax and warm up again in a day or two. For now, I’d have to give him some space, let him absorb the fact that I had some secrets, too. Relieved, sated with ice cream, I leaned against Nick. He sat with his arm wrapped around me, but his body felt oddly stiff, not our usual snuggle. I gazed up at him. Nick’s jaw was tight.

“What, Nick?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’?”

“You’re angry.”

“I’m not angry.”

Then why did he seem distant? “Nick, what’s going on?” I shifted so I could face him and waited.

Finally, he answered. “Okay, Zoe. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am angry. I’m trying not to be. I’m trying not to be controlling. But what you did today was beyond me.”

“I said I was sorry—”

“About your father. But I’m not mad about your father or family secrets or your privacy—”

I sat up straight, defensive. “Then what are you mad about?”

He sighed loudly, shifting his weight, sitting up straight. “Okay. Let’s do this. Let’s get into it. You took Molly to meet her grandfather today, right? And while you were there, she watched a violent struggle and saw a murder victim.”

Right. She hadn’t had a great experience. “You’re angry about Molly? Molly’s tough. She’ll be okay. I’ll explain—”

“You’ll explain? Zoe, she’s a kid—how are you going to explain this stuff to her?”

I couldn’t, of course. No one could. “I’ll just be honest, Nick. Molly will be okay—”

“How do you know? How can you be sure about what’s going on inside her head? How much violence do you think a kid can look at before it takes a toll on—”

“Wait, so what are you saying?” I got defensive. “That it’s my fault? That I should have prevented it? How was I supposed to know that there would be a corpse in my father’s kitchen?”

His eyes pierced mine. “It’s not just about that one corpse, Zoe.”

It wasn’t? Then what was it about? What was he talking about? Oh, great, I thought. The past. Nick was going to list every traumatic event that Molly had ever been exposed to, implying that I hadn’t protected her well enough. That I wasn’t a good mother? Well, maybe he was right; Molly at six had witnessed more violence than most people would in their lifetimes. In the last year alone, she’d seen the work of a local serial killer and a murderous slave cartel. No question, she’d been exposed to far too much danger and gore. But I couldn’t change that. I was monitoring her closely, watching for signs of emotional damage. And Molly seemed, so far, to be incredibly fine.

I braced myself for a tirade. But Nick didn’t bring up the past. In fact, he didn’t speak at all for a while. He sat quiet, brooding. Nick seemed very un-Nick-like. Uncertain. Unsteady. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost a whisper. “When I walked into that house today, I saw you collapsed on a chair, covered with blood. Zoe, do you have any idea what I thought?”

Oh, Lord. I hadn’t, no. How stupid was I? How self-centered? Why had it not even occurred to me? Nick must have thought I’d been stabbed. That the blood was mine. I leaned over and touched his face, reassuring him. “Oh, God—Nick. You thought he’d cut me? I’m sorry—I should have known. But I’m fine, Nick. Really—”

He watched me, his jaw tightening again. “Zoe. That’s not quite the point.”

It wasn’t? “Then what? Tell me.” I sat up straight and faced him. His eyes had darkened, turned steel-gray, and the scar on his cheek gleamed jagged and purple.

“Christ, Zoe. How is it that you don’t see it? Don’t you get what could have happened today?”

I began to blither an answer. But Nick wasn’t listening. He continued slowly, his voice low, like distant thunder. “It wasn’t just you and Molly who could have been hurt.”

“Nick, I was trying to prevent a—”

“Someone else was there, too.”

I stopped speaking mid-sentence; my mouth hung open, silent. I finally understood.

“You put the baby at risk. You could have hurt our kid—”

I blinked as if he’d slapped me; my face went hot. “Nick, I would never—”

“But you did. You wrestled like a thug. You fought over a carving knife. You got off easy with some scrapes and a concussion; it could have been a lot worse.”

“But the baby’s fine—the doctor said so—”

“Then we were lucky, weren’t we?”

Yes. I supposed we were. I blinked, refusing the tears that blurred my vision.

Nick’s eyes drilled through my skull, penetrating my aching brain. Oh, God. What had I done? Nick was right. Trying to save a stranger, I’d risked our baby’s life. I’d jumped on my father and fought without hesitation. What kind of mother was I? How could I be so irresponsible? What could I say? I wanted to run, to dissolve into the night.

“Look, I know you didn’t mean to hurt the baby. You acted out of sheer instinct. But I’ve got to wonder, what about your maternal instincts? Where were they? Why didn’t your children’s safety come first?” Nick’s gaze seared me; I could almost smell burning skin.

“Nick, it went so fast. I had no time to think. Of course, the kids come first. Nothing’s more important than they are.” Didn’t Nick know that I’d do anything for Molly or our baby? That I’d throw myself in front of a train for them?

Nick’s eyes thawed a little; his shoulders relaxed. “Well, today’s over. Nothing we can do. We all survived. Let’s put it behind us and move on. Come to bed. Let’s get some sleep.” He offered his hand, but I didn’t take it. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even look at him. I was ashamed, hating myself.

Nick watched me for a moment. “Zoe?” Then, leaning over, he kissed me, his lips forgiving me, and lifted me, his arms guiding me to my feet. Silently, he led me upstairs, leaving the remainder of mocha-almond to melt in its box. I went along passively, my head throbbing, and got into bed, where I clung to him, spooned against his familiar body, and stared at the darkness until sometime near morning, when I must have fallen asleep.

T
HE DREAMS BEGAN IN
that predawn stillness, like clockwork, acknowledging my father’s reappearance in my life. In my sleep, I recognized his basement steps and felt a clammy, familiar dread, anticipating what lay ahead as I descended the steep and narrow staircase. The banister was as high as my shoulder, hard to hold on to, and I shivered, wanting to turn back, continuing anyway, having no choice. Some part of my mind reasoned that, maybe, this time it wouldn’t unfold badly. Maybe it would end well. Or maybe I could control the outcome; after all, it was my dream. But, even with that contradictory awareness, I was compelled to continue, passively following some script of my unconscious mind, searching for something long lost. Darkness stretched ahead, distorting the walls, concealing obstacles, and the air smelled moldy and dank.

Don’t go on, I told myself. Turn and go back upstairs. My feet, of course, wouldn’t obey, couldn’t stop, and I proceeded silently, seeking I didn’t know what, barely avoiding a gaping hole in the floor, sidestepping shadows, straining to remember what I was searching for.

And then, past the hulking furnace, beside the cedar closet, I remembered why I was there. Run now, I told myself. Run while you can. I forced myself to spin around, but it made no difference. The woman was there, in the corner, digging up the floor. Then she wasn’t in the corner anymore; she was at my back, chasing me—not running or walking, but floating effortlessly above the concrete floor. I glanced behind me and, at eye level, I saw a row of polished pearls, ten of them, round and iridescent, her toes suspended in the air. I ran, breathless, tripping, falling, but before I hit the floor, of course, I sat up, sweating and suddenly awake.

And I stayed awake for the rest of the night, listening to Nick’s soft snoring, touching his chest for reassurance, hanging on to the arm that he’d unconsciously wrapped around me. Unable to shake the terror of my dream, I watched the sky out the window, waiting for rays of sun to rise and deliver me from darkness, if not from dread.

S
USAN STOPPED KNITTING HER
sweater and gaped at me in disbelief. “Wait. Back up. You went to Mount Airy why?”

I swallowed with a dry mouth. “To see my father.” My voice sounded small and tired.

“Wait,” she said again. “Excuse me. I must have heard you wrong.”

“No. You heard right. Molly and I went to see my father.” I looked away, watching a gaggle of girls, including Molly and Susan’s youngest daughter, Emily, scamper across the soccer field. It was the next day, Sunday, and we sat under a tree near the bleachers in Fairmount Park, watching the kids’ mini-team play an away game of soccer. Nick had been gone when I woke up; weekend mornings he rowed his shell on the Schuylkill River. I’d called the hospital to check on my father, but by 8 a.m. he was already off the floor for tests, and they said he’d be gone most of the day. So, as I always did when I needed grounding, I’d turned to Susan. I needed to tell her what had happened to my face, but she cut me off right at the start.

“Your father.” She said it as if it were an accusation.

I nodded, exhausted, dreading having to make yet another explanation.

“You’re telling me that you have a father, right here in Philadelphia. And you never once in all the years we’ve known each other mentioned him?”

Bingo. Correct. I hadn’t.

“And while you were hiding your family from me, I completely let you into mine. You’ve been to all the holiday dinners. The barbecues. The Christmas extravaganzas. And you’ve seen our dirty laundry: my dad passing out after too much bourbon; all four of my brothers’ ugly divorces; Uncle Bill’s transvestite lover; Aunt Sybil’s hypochondria…You even have my nana’s recipe for roast duckling with drunken cranberry sauce—not that you ever use it.” She was indignant, sputtering, but she stopped to breathe and forced herself to resume her knitting, trying to appear calm. “Then again, maybe I’m not being fair. A person can’t be expected to remember everything. Probably, you just forgot to mention him. I mean, it’s not like he’s important or anything. He’s only your father.”