Girl in the Rearview Mirror Page 22

  A jangling screech filled the room, terrifying me before I realized it was the phone, its ring throaty and demanding. I grabbed Stacy’s elbow so she wouldn’t answer.

  We waited through a dozen rings. When it stopped, the silence of the house intensified.

  Stacy was leaning away from me, frightened. I let her go. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to upset you. I’m going now.”

  I went out through the dining room, my steps rattling the porcelain figurines. I shut the door behind me.

  The night was a warm, dark mouth. No streetlights, no yard lights. The smell of fire was strong. I walked into it blindly. Rocks shifted under my feet when I went wide of the driveway. Finally my eyes adjusted, and I could make out the slanting mailboxes, and the chain link fences glinting in the moonlight, and the pale, crumbling edge of the road.

  I started to jog, slow and noisy, scuffing the pavement. Stacy might be calling Iris on her heavy telephone.

  Then I stopped. A black sedan had parked right behind my car. We were the only cars on the street, but the sedan was so close its nose kissed my bumper.

  My eyes darted to the lit windows of the nearby houses. But they were all covered; I didn’t see a face, even a shadow, moving. I pulled my keys from my pocket and held them between my fingers like claws, as my mom had taught me to do in parking lots at night. I wondered what exactly I’d do if I was attacked. Punch and prod with the little key?

  A moth or fly or a ripple in the air brushed my skin. I ignored it. I walked quickly, holding my head high.

  A light hit me in the face, a hot bright beam. I threw a hand over my eyes, but yellow spots flared in my vision. My keys fell to the ground with a distant jangle. Someone came toward me, a scraping sound like boots.

  “Hey!” A man’s voice, deep.

  He grabbed my wrist, and I yanked away and stumbled, landing squarely on the pavement, the wind knocked out of me.

  Once, years ago, I fell from a tree behind my mom’s house. I hit the ground and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I wasn’t in pain; I felt only panic. My lungs were disabled, unplugged. A few yards away, my mom dozed on a deck chair, heavily pregnant, oblivious. A can of Coke sat at her feet. I remember so clearly that precise shade of red.

  After I fell on Iris’s street, the light dropped from my face and slid down my body.

  “Miss?” the man said. “Miss?”

  I touched my mouth and tasted hot mineral pavement, the rasp of sand on my tongue. I sat back on my heels and slowly looked up. Shiny loafers. Dark canvas pants. Broad belt, heavy with the weight of a holstered revolver. A cop.

  The morning after the accident, two police officers came to my hospital room. I was groggy, dazed. They told me Erica had died. Without pausing to let it sink in, they started in on their questions. I still remembered their formal posture, and the dull glint of their weapons, and their demeanor: distrustful, cold, robotic in their protocol.

  At the sight of this cop, I felt a surge of old guilt and shame.

  “Get up.” He reached an arm down to me. It was bare, thick and veined, tattooed with an eagle grasping a machine gun in its claws. I stared at it, still catching my breath. He seized my elbow and hauled me to my feet. His fingers were hard as metal tools. When he released me, I brought my arm into my chest, shocked.

  The cop was short, compact, with a weight lifter’s torso. His head was shaved bald and looked shiny, almost plastic.

  His flashlight trailed over me, my ankles, my legs, my midriff. “You don’t have a weapon, do you?” The light reached my face and stayed a moment longer than necessary. My eyes stung.

  “No,” I said, trying to resist the impulse to lower my gaze, thinking I might seem guilty. Had Iris seen me in her yard and called the police?

  He was chewing gum, snapping it in his jaws. He seemed keyed up, like he’d been bored and this was his fun. He was young, I thought, and new to this. Enjoying it. His flashlight flicked over my chest again before pointing at my car.

  “This your vehicle?”

  I nodded. The pain in my arm was sharp as a warning. Be careful. After Erica, I’d expected the cops to be on my side, and I wouldn’t make that mistake again. I followed him, keeping my distance.

  In the beam of his flashlight, my car looked abandoned, slanting over on its lame tire, dust coating its sides like talc powder. The cop stepped close to peer into the windows. I worried about the cash. But the windows were intact; no one had broken in.

  “Is there a problem?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer. Stepping away, he set the flashlight on top of his car. Through the dark windshield, I thought I saw a siren perched on the dash.

  “License,” he said, extending a hand.

  I dug out my phone. My credit card and ID were wedged in the case. “I was just about to move my car. If that’s the problem.”

  He squinted at my ID. “Finn Hunt, 4411 McClintock.” He threw his glance to me, like a dart. “Correct?”

  I nodded.

  “That across from the old car wash? Got, like, pink palm trees on the sign. Let me think.” He snapped his fingers. “McClintock Village. Right?”

  I stared at him.

  His eyes glittered playfully. “A friend of mine lives there.”

  I swallowed. “Funny.”

  “Small world.” He scratched his neck with the corner of my ID. “You might be neighbors.”

  I crossed my arms. My skin was covered in a film of dirt. It itched badly. His mocking smile seemed to suggest that he knew something about me. Maybe he was friends with Iris—maybe she’d asked him to mess with me.

  He handed back my license. Then, as though settling in for a while, he leaned back on his heels and sank his fingers through his belt loops. The eagle on his forearm was spreading its wings. There was a ring around it, decorative, like a laurel. “Strange time for a stroll, Finn.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “It’s dark. Late. No one’s out.” He gestured. “You noticed?”

  “I just left my friend’s house.”

  “Aha.” He rose up on his heels, crossing his arms. “And where does she live? Or is it a he?” He flashed his narrow teeth.

  I wanted to lie but didn’t think I could pull it off. “She lives back there. The white house.”

  “And you parked all the way over here?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m surprised,” he said. “After what happened, I mean.”

  He waited for me to pick up the bait. When I didn’t he said, “A week ago someone set a car on fire. Right on the street. About this time of night. Lit the thing up.” He chewed his gum. His gaze was over my head, on Iris’s house. “Must have used a bucket of kerosene. Huge fire. Dangerous. Could have jumped to a house, easily. Could have leveled three or four of these shoeboxes. Pardon the expression.” He lowered his eyes to mine again. “Iris Jamison is your friend, isn’t she?”

  I didn’t nod; we weren’t friends, and I was still absorbing his words.

  “Her car was the one burned.”

  I hadn’t wanted to take my eyes off him, but I couldn’t help turning to Iris’s house. It sat in darkness. No silver and white car in the port. The smell of fire filled the night. I thought of Stacy, peering out the chained door. Creepers.

  “You’re surprised,” he said. “I’d have thought she’d tell you. She was real shaken up.”

  “Of course.” I said, “I mean, of course she was upset.”

  “Really, she got lucky. Think if the car had been in the driveway. If the fire had spread to the house.” He shook his head. “We’re taking it seriously. Gotta check out any strange cars after dark . . .”

  I felt my shoulders relax. “I understand. I hope you catch whoever did it.”

  He smiled. “I’m sure we will.” He reached up and shut off the flashlight. We were plunged into darkness.

  Startled, I backed away. I heard a distant bark. It only made me feel more alone. “I’ll be careful.”

  “Good.” I could see
his white, wet teeth. His dark clothes were invisible; his forearms, neck, and scalp were pale shapes. “That’s all I need. I’ll say good night now.”

  He moved to my car and took hold of the door handle. Unwillingly, I unlocked it. He opened the door for me, kept his hands on it as I slid in. I moved quickly, pulling my legs in fast, away from him.

  “Drive safe.” He almost whispered it. Then he was pressing the door shut, and I felt a rush of relief as my lungs untightened and my throat opened.

  But he changed his mind and swung the door back open. He leaned down. “By the way. Your tire’s looking pretty bad. I’d get it fixed if I were you. Can’t be so careless.” He clucked in disapproval.

  I garbled a mouthful of agreement and apology, and he shut the door in the middle of it. I reached over and hit the lock. Hearing it, he smiled and rapped the window with his knuckles. I watched in the rearview as he strolled back to his car. I scratched my key at the ignition, finally slid it in, got the car started. I pulled forward, the tires spitting gravel. Behind me, the sedan glinted on the side of the road. Was he in it? I couldn’t tell. I had to force myself to look at the road; my eyes kept leaping back up to the mirror.

  I turned off Iris’s street. Back to the main road, past the bank and the Treatment Center. I was tempted by the blazing lit-up truck stop and had to grit my teeth as I got onto the dark highway. I wanted miles between us.

  Below my panic was a disgusted, smeary feeling.

  29

  I stopped at a gas station and locked myself in the bathroom. I wetted paper towels and wiped the dust from my legs. The paper dissolved in clumps. I remembered wiping Amabel’s legs under the pink lights of The Grove’s restroom. She’d spilled her milk. I could see her so clearly, her scraped knees and sleepy eyes. I saw myself speaking to her, my clean clothes, my calm. The image felt much more real than the moment I lived in. The girl in the mirror looked feral, eyes hooded and dark, lips cracked and purple. A bruise rose on my elbow, where the cop had grabbed me.

  I leaned against the filthy door. It was only a jerk cop, I told myself. Put him from your mind.

  I drove north without seeing the road.

  Someone had burned Iris’s car. I thought back to the last time I saw her driving it. Leaving the Martins’ house. Days and days ago. The dented-up white panel in front, the dull silver sides, her arm holding a cigarette out the window. Someone had doused her car in kerosene and let it burn.

  No wonder she and Guy were anxious. They must be hiding out somewhere, leaving her poor sister home alone.

  I needed help. And I wasn’t going back to my apartment tonight, absolutely not. McClintock Village. Might be neighbors.

  Bryant’s parking garage smelled luxuriously of oil and wax. The fleet of expensive cars seemed asleep under the low lights. I hurried between them, a creepy, jumping fear in the empty, echoing concrete.

  When I stepped outside I felt safer. The courtyard was extravagantly lit with lamps and spotlights and glowing fountains. Sprinklers chattered, saturating the air with cool spray and the friendly smell of wet soil. After Verde, this was Oz.

  Bryant opened his door, surprised. “Finn. There you are.”

  I rushed into him, wrapping my arms around his familiar narrow shoulders.

  When I drew away, he looked at his hand. “You’re covered in dirt.”

  “I’m sorry.” I brushed at his shirt.

  “It’s fine.” He headed back into the kitchen. “What happened? I called you a couple times. I was starting to worry.”

  I felt a kick of shame in my belly, like a flick of a belt. I’d avoided his calls all day. “I’m sorry. My phone died.”

  I trailed after him. He’d been working at the island. A paper bag of takeout was crushed on the counter, and a tumbler of bourbon sweated beside his laptop, which was opened to a spreadsheet dense with numbers.

  “You’ve been back awhile.”

  “A few hours.” He hit the sleep button, plunging the screen into darkness. “Like I said, I’ve been calling you.”

  “I’m here now. I really wanted to talk to you.”

  He hummed. A muscle in his jaw jumped. “I heard you went to the funeral,” he blurted. “That’s why you wouldn’t come to Flagstaff, wasn’t it?”

  I was relieved. He was angry about the funeral, not . . . Not last night.

  “Yes,” I admitted. “I knew where they went to church, and figured out the time.”

  “Jim wasn’t pleased. He thought it was disrespectful.”

  I flinched at the idea of the Senator complaining about me to Bryant. I looked at the floor. My legs were still mottled with dust from Iris’s yard. Only yesterday, I’d worn Marina’s dress to the church. I’d been so clean, so sad, so sorry. “You should have seen it. That big church and no one there for Ammy.”

  Remembering how Marina mentioned my going home, again I had the feeling they’d all discussed me.

  “They shouldn’t be upset I said goodbye,” I mumbled.

  He sighed. “Just don’t lie to me. Please?”

  I nodded, but my fingers crossed at my side, a gesture I’d taught Ammy. I was crossing my fingers, she’d crow, usually after she agreed to pick up her room or wash up for bed.

  “Good.” Bryant took his glass to the bar and refilled it, pouring me a drink, too. He sat on the couch, lying back against the cushion.

  I joined him. My body stiffened on contact with the slick leather. The dizziness I’d felt, lying down here to sleep on Sunday afternoon. The silhouette of the Senator’s driver looming over me, the too-soft sink of the cushions, the residual damp stickiness in the morning . . . I took a bracing swallow of booze. “I have to tell you something.”

  Bryant was already halfway through his drink. “Yes?”

  “I went to see Iris today.”

  He rolled his head to look at me. His eyes were glossy. “The redhead?”

  I nodded.

  “I thought you were going to let it be,” he said.

  “No, listen.” I told him how angry I’d gotten—how it was her fault. He protested, but I spoke over him. I explained that I’d found her address and decided to drive down. Confront her.

  “I went around to look in the window a little. Just to see if she was home. She was there, with Guy. You remember . . . her brother. When they left, I rang the doorbell. Her sister let me in. She talked to me. She said Iris is still expecting money—that they’re going to leave town.”

  Bryant bowed his neck, frowning. “That’s all very convoluted.” His glass had dripped on his pant leg, and he rubbed at the spot with a thumb.

  In a leap, I thought: He doesn’t know Iris’s story. They didn’t tell him.

  “Iris threatened Philip,” I explained. “She said she was pregnant, and it was his.”

  Bryant winced. The very idea sickened him. I rushed on.

  “Tonight I found out she’s definitely not pregnant. I have proof.” I brought out the birth control pill case, set it on his coffee table. He stared at it, blinking. On the thick polished glass it seemed vulgar, like I’d tossed a hank of hair, or a dirty sock.

  After a moment, he sighed. Rubbed his head with his hand, mussing his hair. “Finn, this isn’t good.”

  “I know,” I said. “I think she’s still blackmailing Philip.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. It must be. Why else would she be expecting money?”

  “No, Finn. Not Iris. You.”

  “What?”

  “Listen to yourself! You’re snooping around someone’s house? You’re breaking in, stealing things? What are you thinking?”

  “You don’t un—”

  “They told you to keep out of it. I told you! It’s none of your business. You’ll only make things worse.”

  It was a slap. I brought my hand to my hair. “How could I make it worse?”

  “Let’s say she goes to the police, saying you broke into her house. Say it gets out that the Martins’ nanny broke in. The media would go insane.”<
br />
  “Quit saying I broke in. I didn’t. Stacy let me in.”

  “Stacy?”

  “Iris’s sister.”

  He slammed his glass on the table. “Now you’ve introduced yourself to her sister? What good can possibly come of this, Finn? Tell me, how will it help Philip?”

  He was furious. I shrank back. “I thought—”

  “No, you didn’t think.” He managed to control his voice, and spoke softly, holding my knee. “Listen to me. I can forgive you for going to the funeral, even if you weren’t invited. You loved Amabel. Even the Martins can forgive that. But this kind of thing . . . This is really dangerous, Finn. You might get into real trouble. Trouble I can’t help you get out of.”

  I wet my lips. “I know. As I was leaving, a cop stopped me.”

  He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “For what? Trespassing?”

  I shook my head. “More like . . . a warning. He told me someone burned Iris’s car.”

  Bryant draped a hand over his eyes, as if he had a headache.

  I fumbled into the silence. “You don’t think Philip . . .” My voice failed.

  He lifted his hand. His face was rigid with the importance of his words. “Listen to me. They’re dangerous. Iris and Guy. They’re criminals. Stay away from them. Don’t go anywhere near them. Do you promise?” He followed my glance to the table. “Do you think these pills prove anything? Do you really want Philip to know what you did? Do you really think he’ll be grateful?”

  I shook my head. I was trembling. I’d never seen Bryant so angry.

  The condo filled with silence. A current of air-conditioning raised the hairs on my arms. I’d been wrong. Bryant wasn’t out of the loop; Iris’s threat wasn’t news to him.

  “You’re right,” I said. “It was dumb of me to go there. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  Bryant exhaled. “I didn’t mean to yell at you. This just freaked me out.” He rubbed the back of his head, not looking at me. “I’m going to shower.” Standing, he reached and snatched up the pill case. He took it away with him.

  I was left alone in the dark living room, the thick smell of leather in my nose, the dust of Iris’s backyard pressing into Bryant’s upholstery. I swallowed the last of my drink, spilling down my front. I went to the bar and made another. My hands shook. I drained my glass. Had I eaten today? My knees felt weak, hollow.