Читать книгу Don't Scream - Wendy Corsi Staub - Страница 11

Just minutes ago, Brynn was lamenting the fact that Thursday is Garth’s late night on campus; he has a class until nine o’clock and often stays on campus for hours afterward, doing research in the library and his office there.

A sociology professor whose concentration is the study of death and dying, he’s been working for a few years on a book. The den at home was littered with macabre research materials until recently. Brynn asked him to move it all to his campus office after she caught Caleb browsing through a gruesome book on the forensics of death.

The downside of having Garth move most of his research away from home is that it takes him away, too.

Too bad, Brynn was thinking just now, that her husband couldn’t be here to hear Caleb’s happy kindergarten chatter. As he plowed through his favorite meal of macaroni and cheese with ketchup, her older son regaled her with breathless details about snack time, potty time, lunchtime, nap time, construction-paper art time…

Waiting to share a more adult meal with her husband later, Brynn sat with her children at the table in her pretty blue and yellow kitchen. She was multitasking as usual: listening to Caleb’s ongoing account of his first day, overseeing Jeremy in his booster seat, and opening the day’s mail.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY…TO ME.

XOXOXOXO, R

She actually gasped aloud when she read it, dropping the card on the table like a red-hot coal. Then she snatched it up again…as if it mattered. Even if the boys could read cursive, they wouldn’t understand the seemingly innocuous message.

Nor would Garth, if he stumbles across the card—which he won’t, because she plans to hide it, just as she’s hidden the dark truth about Rachel all these years.

“Mommy, what’s wrong?” Caleb asks as she reaches for the phone.

She stammers some kind of reply, her thoughts reeling.

Her hands shaking so badly she can barely hit the right buttons on the dial, she can only think thank God, thank God, thank God Garth isn’t here.

Her husband doesn’t know what happened that night.

Nobody knows.

Nobody but her three sorority sisters who were there.

Or so Brynn always tried to convince herself, despite the nagging memory of that twig snapping in the forest.

Was somebody really spying on them?

Did—does—somebody know?

As Alec pulls into the parking lot of her condo complex after a quick dinner at Mama Rossi’s, Cassie cradles on her lap the still-warm foil-wrapped package that contains her barely touched lasagna.

She’d have been content to leave it behind on the plate, but Alec insisted that she bring it back.

“I’ll eat it later, baby,” he told her, “as a midnight snack.”

Now she debates whether or not to tell him she’d rather be alone tonight. She could just come right out and say it—that she’s tired, and she has to be up early, and she’d rather he didn’t stay over.

Then again, maybe she shouldn’t be alone. Maybe she’s too spooked by that card she got in the mail. Maybe she’d feel more comfortable with Alec there, just in case…

Well, in case the bogeyman shows up.

She smiles faintly, remembering how Marcus used to torment her with bogeyman tales when they were kids, still living at home.

That was before they were both enrolled in fancy Connecticut boarding schools located well over an hour from their home in the city, and more than two hours from each other.

She was eleven when her parents sent her away. After that, she saw them and her beloved big brother only on holiday breaks and the occasional long weekend.

Summers were spent at sleepaway camp, which was fine with Cassie, actually. There were lots of horses at camp, and she would always rather ride than do anything else in the world.

She still feels that way.

“Alec,” she says abruptly, “I think you should sleep at your place tonight. I’ve got an early day tomorrow and…I’m just beat.”

He’s silent for a moment, busy steering into a spot in front of her building. Then he says, “Okay, baby, no problem.”

Her momentary relief that he didn’t argue is followed quickly by regret that he didn’t argue.

If he did, she would relent.

Because, looking up at the dark windows of her condo—she didn’t leave lights on; why didn’t she leave lights on?—she doesn’t want to venture inside alone.

Just in case she finds that she isn’t. Alone, that is.

“Do you want me to walk you in?” Alec asks, but he doesn’t shift the car into PARK.

He thinks I’m going to say no. He probably senses that I just need some solitude.

Her fiancé likes to brag that he’s getting pretty good at reading her moods. “By the time we walk down the aisle, I’ll be able to read your mind,” he often says lately.

But he isn’t reading it right now.

If he was, he’d come inside with her, and he’d turn on all the lights and look under the bed and inside all the closets.

Well, I don’t need him for that. I can take care of myself.

“No, you can go,” Cassie tells him. “Thanks for dinner.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“What’s tomorrow?”

“Friday,” he says, as if that’s all the answer she had in mind.

Oh. Right. He said “see you tomorrow” not because it’s any special occasion, but because they see each other every day now.

That’s what people do when they’re getting married. And after they’re married.

They see each other every day for the rest of their lives.

Till death do us part, Cassandra thinks, and suppresses an involuntary shudder as she plants a light kiss on her fiancé’s cheek and walks slowly up the path toward her darkened condo.

And so it’s begun.

I only wish I could be in four places at once tonight.

Yes, it would be a pleasure to personally witness their reactions to the day’s mail—to see the looks on their faces now that they know the secret isn’t theirs alone.

Listening to them is the next best thing.

The bugs have been in place for a long time now, in anticipation of today.

At first it was titillating to eavesdrop on even the most inane conversations: Fiona barking orders, Brynn reading to her children, Cassandra unenthusiastically planning her wedding, and Tildy…

Ah, Tildy’s private life yielded the most interesting gem of all.

Still, even that became tiresome after awhile.

It was all just mind-numbing chatter.

But not anymore.

“Fiona Fitzgerald Public Relations.”

Brynn is momentarily caught off guard by the unfamiliar voice. She was expecting Fee’s longtime office manager. Then she remembers that Sharon moved away last week—thus “abandoning” Fiona, as Fee so dramatically put it.

“Is…Is Fiona there?” she manages to get out to whoever just answered the phone.

“May I ask who’s calling, please?”

She clears her throat, but her voice still comes out sounding strangled. “Tell her it’s Brynn.”

“Brenda?”

“Brynn!”

“One moment.”

She flashes a reassuring smile at her sons, both of whom have stopped eating and are watching her worriedly.

“It’s okay, guys…Mommy just has to make a quick call, that’s all. I’ll be right with you.”

“Ketchup!” Jeremy bangs the table with his fists.

She is hurriedly squirting another dollop on his already oozing-red macaroni when the voice comes back on the line. “Ms. Fitzgerald said to take a message and she’ll call you back.”

“The message is pick up the Godda—the gosh-darned phone right now!” Brynn says through clenched teeth.

There’s a pause.

“Excuse me?”

“Look, tell her it’s an extreme emergency and I need to speak to her immediately.”

“All right, I’ll tell her. Can I have a number where she can reach you?”

“No, you can’t, because I’m not hanging up! Please tell her to pick up right now.”

The girl hesitates.

Realizing Fiona has already put the fear of God in her new employee, Brynn softens her tone to say, “Listen, I will take full blame for this. Just tell her I need to talk to her. Please.”

“Hang on.”

Pacing the kitchen, Brynn absently glances from the sink full of dirty dishes to the steaks thawing on the white laminate countertop to the cheery blue welcome mat askew on the hardwood floor beside the door leading out to the deck.

The orange prescription bottles on the windowsill momentarily trigger her consciousness. Both she and Caleb are due for another dose of antibiotics. She’d better not forget.

Then there’s a click on the line, and Fiona asks crisply, “What’s going on, Brynn? I’m in the middle of—”

“Whatever it is, this is more important,” she cuts in, furtively taking the phone into the dining room.

“I doubt that. I’ve got a really important new client on the other line, so make it snappy.”

“Mommy!” Jeremy protests from the kitchen.

“I’ll be right back, boys. Caleb, sing to him!”

Ever obedient, her older son obliges with a singsong, “A-B-C-D-E-F-G…”

“What’s this about, Brynn? Emily said it was a life-or-death emergency. I hear the kids in the background so I’m assuming you’re not calling me to dash over and save one of them.”

Yeah, right. Fiona is the last person she’d call in that situation.

“Listen,” she says in a whisper, “it’s about Rachel.”

Silence.

Brynn can hear Caleb singing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” in the kitchen.

Then…

“Did you say Rachel?”

“Yes.”

“Rachel Lorent?” Fiona’s voice is as hushed as Brynn’s.

“Right.”

“I know, today’s her birthday. I was thinking about her earlier, actually, and—”

“Fee, I just got a card. In the mail. From Rachel, supposedly.”

No response.

“Fee?”

“Hang on a second.”

Brynn pokes her head into the kitchen, to make sure the boys are okay.

Caleb has progressed to “Mary Had A Little Lamb,” obviously moving right along through his musical repertoire. Jeremy is wearing most of his macaroni and cheese, the rest scattered on the hardwood floor beside the overturned bowl.

Fiona curses softly in Brynn’s ear.

“What?”

“Me, too. I got one, too.”

“Got what?”

“A card. In the mail. As soon as you said it, I remembered there was an envelope—I was too busy to open it earlier, but…My God, Brynn, what’s going on? Is this some kind of sick joke?”

“Played by who?”

Fiona takes a moment to answer. “Tildy? Or Cassie?” she asks, and exhales audibly, the way she does when she’s puffing on a cigarette. Which she probably is. Sitting right beneath the NO SMOKING sign above her desk.

“You honestly believe that either of them would think this is the least bit funny?”

“No. Of course not. Anyway, it was postmarked in Cedar Crest, so…”

“I know. Fee, I have to ask you…Did you ever tell anyone?”

“Are you kidding me? No. Did you?”

Brynn’s “No!” is as decisive as Fiona’s, but her friend asks, “Are you sure? Not even Garth?”

“I didn’t tell Garth. What about Pat?” she returns.

“Do you honestly think I would violate a sorority oath for him?” Fiona’s tone is laced with disdain.

“One of the others must have, then.”

“Right, Tildy or Cassie must have told someone, and whoever it was probably thought it would be funny to play this sick trick on us.”

“I don’t know…” Brynn examines the card again. “This looks real. This is how Rachel signed everything.”

“Rachel’s dead, Brynn. It can’t be real.”

“No, I know, but…If it was somebody else, somebody Tildy or Cassie told, then how would that person know about the Xs and Os?”

“I don’t know…Lucky guess? Rachel sent a message from beyond the grave? I mean, what do you want me to say here, Brynn?”

I want you to say you did it yourself…that you sent me the card, thinking it would be funny, and now that you know I’m all freaked out about it, you can’t figure out how to get out of it.

But Fiona doesn’t say any of that.

She asks, “When was the last time you talked to Tildy or Cassie?”

“Tildy, not in over a year. I spoke to Cassie when she got engaged last spring. How about you?”

“Me? I don’t keep in touch with anyone lately. If you didn’t live here in town I’d probably have lost you, too.” She is more matter-of-fact than apologetic.

“I think we need to see them as soon as possible, Fee.”

“See them? How are we going to do that? I’m too busy to go anywhere, and Tildy’s in Boston and Cassie’s in Rhode Island.”

“Connecticut. Listen, we’ll have to meet somewhere in between and discuss this. All four of us, together.”

She can hear Fiona tapping keys.

“Just so you know, my schedule is crammed full for the next week,” she informs Brynn, obviously having brought up her electronic calendar.

“Make room.” Brynn’s voice is hoarse, and not from the strep throat. “This is bad, Fee. Really bad.”

“It’s probably just a joke.”

No, it’s not.

Brynn can feel it.

The past has caught up to them at last, just as she always feared it would.

The Zeta Delta Kappa house is brightly lit on this September night. Several windows are cracked open and music spills through the screens to mingle with the spirited chatter from the group of girls hanging out on the front steps.

They’re talking about courses they’re taking and guys they’re dating and the upcoming rush. Every trite word they’ve said for the past hour and a half has been clearly audible from this shadowy bench in the deserted park across the street.

The Zeta sisters have no idea that someone is eavesdropping tonight.

Watching.

Remembering.

Really, all that has changed in ten years are the names, the faces, and the voices.

Flash back ten years and a day, and Rachel could easily have been among the girls on the steps, gossiping, laughing.

Flash back just ten years, though—ten years ago this night and…

No more Rachel.

Across the street, the screen door creaks open.

“Come on, girls, let’s call it a night.”

That’s the housemother’s voice. Sara “Puffy” Trovato, still sounding exactly the same after all this time.

Still bantering, the girls gradually disperse into the house. Finally, the door closes behind the last pair. The porch lamps are turned off.

All is still.

It’s easy to picture the girls retreating to their rooms now to finish course assignments, read magazines, watch TV, or check e-mail. Eventually, one by one, they’ll change into their pajamas, turn out the lights, climb into bed.

Chances are, they’ve all heard of Rachel Lorent. They might be aware that this is the tenth anniversary of her disappearance.

Maybe, as they lie in the dark, the current Zeta sisters are even secretly worried that something will happen to one of them.

Maybe they should be.