Stillhouse Lake, Page 6

  I can't.

  I make a pizza for dinner, and we've all eaten and are watching a movie together when the doorbell rings, followed by a loud, brisk knock. It makes my throat seize up, and I come off the couch in one convulsive leap. Lanny starts to get up, and I urgently motion her back, silently gesturing for her and Connor to go down the hall.

  They look at each other.

  The knock bangs again, louder. It sounds impatient. I think about the gun in its safe under the couch, but then I slowly ease the curtain back and peek outside.

  Police. There is a uniformed officer on our front porch, and the old feeling of anxiety threatens to drown me for a moment. I'm Gina Royal again. I'm back on our old Wichita street, my hands cuffed behind my back, looking at the handiwork of my husband. Listening to myself scream.

  Stop, I tell myself, then let the word ring through my body like Javi's cease-fire command at the gun range.

  I disarm the alarm and open the door, not allowing myself to think about what could happen next.

  A big, pale policeman is standing there, sharply dressed and creased and polished. He's a foot taller than I am and broad in the shoulders, and he has that wary, unreadable look I'm so familiar with. Comes standard-issue with badges.

  I smile at him despite the wail of panic going on inside me. "Officer. How can I help you?"

  "Hi, Ms. Proctor, right? Sorry to drop in like this. My son told me your boy lost this on the bus today. I figured I'd return it." He hands over a small silver flip phone. Connor's, I recognize it instantly. I color-code the kids' phones, so they don't mix them up and I can tell at a glance which is which. I feel a flash of anger at my son for being careless, and then one of real fear. Losing a phone means losing our tight control of information, though the only numbers he has programmed in are to his friends here, to me, and to Lanny. Still. It's a breach in our wall. A lapse of attention.

  I don't say anything in a timely fashion, not even thank you, and Officer Graham shifts a little. He has a strong-boned face, clear brown eyes, and an awkward little smile. "I've been meaning to stop over and say hello. But look, if this is a bad time--"

  "No, no, of course not, I'm sorry, I--I mean, thank you for returning this." Lanny has reached forward and paused the movie by now, and I step aside to let him come in. As he does, I shut the door and, by sheer reflex, rearm the system. "Can I offer you some refreshment? It's Officer Graham, right?"

  "Lancel Graham, yes, ma'am. Lance, if we're not being fancy." He has a solid, old-school Tennessee accent, the kind that comes from never venturing far from your doorstep. "If you've got some iced tea, that'd go down nice."

  "Of course. Sweet tea?"

  "Is there any other kind?" He has his hat off immediately and self-consciously rubs his head, disordering his hair. "Sounds wonderful. I've had a long, thirsty day."

  I'm not used to liking someone instinctively, and he seems to be working hard to charm me. It puts me on my guard. He's going out of his way to be polite, respectful, and he has a way of carrying himself that minimizes his broad frame and muscles. Probably damn good at his job. There's a certain timbre in his voice; he can probably talk down an angry suspect without laying a finger on anyone. I don't trust snake charmers . . . but I like the easy smile he gives my kids. That goes a long way.

  It occurs to me then that I should be damn grateful that it's a cop who's brought back this phone. It's password-protected, of course, but in the wrong hands, knowledgeable hands, it could have done damage. "Thanks so much for returning Connor's phone," I say as I pour Officer Graham iced tea from a pitcher in the fridge. "I swear, he's never lost it before. I'm glad your son found it and knew who it belonged to."

  "I'm sorry, Mom," my son says from the couch. He sounds subdued and anxious. "I didn't mean to lose it. I didn't know it was gone!"

  Most tweens, I think, would miss their phone if parted from it for thirty seconds, but my kids are forced to live in an alien world, one where they can't use their phones for much beyond the basics. No such thing as smartphones, to them. Of the two of the kids, I'd have said Connor was more into the tech; he had buddies, geeky buddies, who texted him, at least. Lanny was . . . less social.

  "It's okay," I tell him and mean it, because, God, I'd busted on my poor son enough for a lifetime this week. Yes, he'd forgotten to set the alarm. Yes, he'd lost his phone. But that was normal life. I needed to ease up and stop acting like every single lapse was lethal. It was stressing me, and all of us, out.

  Officer Graham perches on one of the barstools at the counter to sip his tea. He looks comfortable enough and gives me a friendly grin as he raises eyebrows in appreciation. "Good tea, ma'am," he says. "Hot day out in the squad car. I can tell you this goes down well."

  "Anytime, and please, call me Gwen. We're neighbors, right? And your sons are Connor's friends?"

  I glance at Connor as I say it, but his expression is closed. He is turning his phone over and over in his hands. I think with a stab of guilt that he is probably worried what kind of rant I'll tear off on once the company is gone. It comes to me with ruthless clarity that I've been far too militant with my kids. We've finally settled in a nice place, surrounded by peace. We don't have to act like hunted animals now. There are eight broken trails between the address the troll discovered online and us. Eight. It's time to stand down from red alert, before I damage my kids irreparably.

  Lancel Graham is looking around the place now with a curious expression. "You've sure done a great job with this house," he says. "I was told it got trashed, right? After the foreclosure?"

  "God, it was a total mess," Lanny says, which startles me; she usually isn't one to voluntarily jump into a conversation with a stranger. Especially a uniformed one. "They destroyed everything they could. You should have seen the bathrooms. Utterly gross. We had to wear white plastic suits and face masks to even go in there. I puked for days."

  "Must have been kids partying here, then," Graham says. "Squatters would have had a little more care for the place, unless they were high all the time. Speaking of that, I should tell you that even out here, we have our own drug problems. Still some meth cooking going on up in the hills, but mainly the big business is heroin these days. And Oxy. So you keep an eye out. Never know who's using or pushing." He pauses in the act of raising his glass to his lips. "You didn't find any drugs in here when you were clearing up?"

  "Whatever we found, we tossed," I tell him, which is entirely true. "I didn't open any boxes or bags. Everything went out that wasn't nailed down, and half of that we pried up and replaced. I doubt there's anything hidden around here now."

  "Good," he says. "Good. Well, that's most of my job around here in Norton. Drugs and drug-related robberies, some drunk driving. Not a lot of violent crimes, thankfully. You came to a good place, Ms. Proct--Gwen."

  Except for the heroin epidemic, I think but don't say. "Well, it's always nice to meet neighbors. Strong ties make the community better, right?"

  "Right." He drains his tea, stands, and pulls a card from his pocket, which he lays down on the counter and taps with two fingers, as if nailing it in place. "My numbers are on there. Work and cell. You have any trouble, any of you, don't be afraid to call, okay?"

  "We will," Lanny says, before I can, and I see that she's studying Officer Graham with a shine in her eyes. I resist the urge to sigh. She's fourteen. Crushes are inevitable, and he looks like the poster child for what workouts can do. "Thanks, Officer."

  "Sure thing, Miss--"

  "Atlanta," she tells him, and stands up to offer her hand. He gravely shakes it. She never calls herself Atlanta, I think, and nearly choke on my sweet tea.

  "Pleased to meet you." Graham turns and shakes Connor's hand, too. "And you're Connor, of course. I'll tell my boys you said hi."

  "Okay." Connor, by contrast to his sister, is quiet. Watchful. Reserved. Still holding on to his phone.

  Graham puts his hat back on and shakes my hand last of all; then I walk him to the door. He turns, as i
f he's forgotten something, while I'm disarming the alarm to let him out. "I heard you go to the range, Gwen. You keep your guns here?"

  "Mostly," I say. "Don't worry. They're all in gun safes."

  "And believe me, we know gun safety," Lanny says, rolling her eyes.

  "I'll bet you're both good shots," he says. I don't like the quick brother-sister look Connor and Lanny exchange; the fact that I've not allowed them to touch my guns, or to learn to shoot, is a constant bone of contention between us. It's bad enough that I run panic drills in the middle of the night. I don't want to add loaded weapons to the mix. "I'm there evenings on Thursdays and Saturdays. I'm teaching my boys."

  It isn't quite an invitation, but I nod and thank him, and he's on his way in another few seconds. He stops in the open door again and looks at me. "Can I ask you something, Ms. Proctor?"

  "Sure," I say. I step out, because I sense he wants it private.

  "Rumors say this house had a safe room," he says. "That true?"

  "Yes."

  "You, ah, been in there?"

  "We got a locksmith out to open it up. There wasn't anything inside it. Just some water bottles."

  "Huh. I'd always thought someone was stashing something in there, if it even existed. Well." He points back to where he left his card on the counter. "You call me if you need anything."

  He leaves without more questions.

  Something tight and animal-hot eases up in me as I lock the door again, enter the code, and walk back toward the couch. Having a strange man in my house makes me itch all over. It reminds me of evenings spent on the couch with my kids. With Mel. With the thing that wore Mel as a disguise. I'd never seen through it. Oh, he could be cold and uninterested and cross, but any human in the world has those flaws.

  What Mel really was . . . that was different. Or was it? Would I even know?

  "Mom," Lanny says. "He's kinda hot. You should check that out."

  "Throwing up in my mouth," Connor says. "Wanna see?"

  "Quiet," I tell them, settling in between them on the couch. I reach for the remote, then turn and look at my son. "Connor, about the phone."

  He braces for impact and opens his mouth to apologize. I put my hand over his, and the cell he still holds tightly in it, as if it might get away.

  "We all make mistakes. It's okay," I tell him, staring right into his eyes to make sure he understands that I'm being honest. "I'm sorry I've been such a terrible mom to you recently. Both of you. I'm sorry about my freak-out over the alarm. You shouldn't have to tiptoe around your own home, afraid of when I might blow up at you. I'm so sorry, honey."

  He doesn't know what to say to any of that. He looks helplessly at Lanny, who leans forward, brushing dark hair from her face and hooking it behind one ear. "We know why you're so tense all the time," she tells me, and he looks relieved that she said it for him. "Mom. I saw the letter. You've got a right to be paranoid."

  She must have told Connor about the letter, because he doesn't ask, and he doesn't seem curious. On impulse, I reach over and take her hand. I love these kids. I love them so much it steals my breath and squeezes me flat, and at the same time, it makes me feel weightless and exalted.

  "I love you both," I say.

  Connor comfortably shifts and reaches for the remote control.

  "We know that," he says. "Don't go all unicorns pooping rainbows on us."

  I have to laugh. He presses the "Play" button, and we sink back into fiction again, warm and comfortable together, and I remember when they were so little I could rock Connor in my arms while Lanny fidgeted and played next to me. I miss those sweet moments, but they're also tainted. Those moments happened back in Wichita, in a home I thought was safe.

  While I played family time, Mel had so often been absent. In his garage.

  Working on his projects. And every once in a while, he made a table, a chair, a bookcase. A toy for the kids.

  But in between those things, in that locked workshop, he'd let his monster loose while we were just ten feet away, lost in the wonder of a movie or the shouting fun of a board game. He'd clean up and come out smiling, and I never knew the difference. I hadn't even wondered about any of it. It had seemed harmless, just his hobby. He'd always needed alone time, and I'd given it to him. He'd said he kept the outer door padlocked because he had valuable tools.

  And I'd swallowed every word of it. Living with Mel was nothing but lies, always lies, no matter how warm and comforting they had seemed.

  No, this is better. Better than it's ever been before. My smart, savvy kids, just the way they are. Our home that we've rebuilt with our own hands. Our new, reborn lives.

  Nostalgia is for normal people.

  And for all we pretend, as hard as we can ever pretend, we will never, ever be normal again.

  I pour a glass of scotch and go outside.

  That's where Connor finds me half an hour later. I love the quiet hush of the lake, the moonlight on the water, the sharp crispness of stars overhead. Soft breezes sway and whisper the pines. The scotch provides a nice counterpoint, a memory of smoke and sunlight. I like finishing the day this way, when I can.

  Connor, still in his pants and a T-shirt, slides into the other chair on the porch and sits in silence for a moment before he says, "Mom. I didn't lose my phone."

  I turn toward him, surprised. The scotch sloshes a little in the tumbler, and I put it aside. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, I didn't lose it. Somebody took it."

  "Do you know who?"

  "Yeah," he says. "I think Kyle took it."

  "Kyle--"

  "Graham," he says. "Officer Graham's kid. The taller one, you know? He's thirteen."

  "Honey, it's okay if it fell out of your pocket or your backpack. It was an accident. I promise, I'm not going to bust you for it, all right? You don't have to accuse anybody just to--"

  "You're not listening, Mom," he says fiercely. "I didn't lose it!"

  "If Kyle stole it, why would he give it back to you?"

  Connor shrugs. He looks pale and tense, old for his age. "Maybe he couldn't get it unlocked. Maybe his dad caught him with it. I don't know." He hesitates. "Or . . . maybe he got what he wanted off it. Like Lanny's number. He was asking me about her."

  That's normal, of course. A boy asking about a girl. Maybe I'd misinterpreted her friendliness toward Officer Graham. Maybe I hadn't spotted a sudden infatuation. Maybe she just wanted to get to know his son. She could do worse, I thought. But what if he did steal the phone? How is that okay?

  "You could be wrong, baby," I say. "Not everything has to be a threat, or a conspiracy. We're okay. We'll be okay."

  He wants to tell me something else, I can see it in his body language. He's also afraid that I'll be angry at him. I hate that I've made him afraid to tell me things. "Connor? Sweetie? What's bothering you?"

  "I--" He bites his lip. "Nothing, Mom. Nothing." My son's worried. I've created a world for him where defaulting to a conspiracy theory makes sense to him. "Is it okay if I just . . . stay away from them, though? Kyle and his brother?"

  "If you want to. Of course. But be polite, all right?"

  He nods, and after a second I pick up my scotch again. He stares out at the lake. "I don't need friends anyway."

  He's too young to say that. Too young to even think it. I want to tell him that he should make all the friends he can, that the world is safe and no one will ever hurt him again, that his life can be full of joy and wonder.

  And I can't tell him that, because it isn't true. It might be true for other people. Not for us.

  Instead, I finish my scotch. We go inside. I set the alarm, and once Connor is in bed, I take all my guns to the kitchen table, lay out the cleaning kit, and make sure that I'm ready for anything. Like practicing my aim, cleaning my weapons feels soothing. Feels like putting things right again.

  I need to be ready, just in case.

  Lanny spends the rest of her suspension acing her homework and reading, headphones blasting, thoug
h she does go running with me twice. She even does it voluntarily, though by the end of the run she's swearing she'll never do it again.

  On Saturday we call my mother. It's a family ritual, the three of us gathered around my disposable phone. I have an app built in that generates an anonymous Voice over IP number, so that even if anyone is reviewing my mom's call logs, the number won't lead them anywhere close.

  I dread Saturdays, but I know the ritual is important for the kids.

  "Hello?" My mother's calm, slightly fragile voice reminds me of her advancing years. I always picture her as she was when I was younger . . . Healthy, strong, tanned, lean from all her swimming and boating. She lives in Newport, Rhode Island, now, having left Maine behind. She had to move before my trial, and twice after it, but finally people are leaving her alone. It helps that Newport has that New England closed-in attitude.

  "Hi, Mom," I say, feeling the uncomfortable pressure in my chest. "How are you?"

  "I'm fine, honey," she says. She never says my name. At sixty-five years old, she's had to learn to be so cautious about talking to her own child. "So glad to hear your voice, sweetheart. Everything okay there?" She doesn't ask where we are, and she never knows.

  "Yes, we're fine," I tell her. "I love you, Mom."

  "Love you too, sweetheart."

  I ask her about her life there, and she talks with false enthusiasm about restaurants and picturesque views and shopping. About taking up a scrapbooking hobby, though what she can scrapbook about me I have no idea. The reams of articles about my monstrous ex? My trial? My acquittal? It's almost as bad if she doesn't include any of that, and only has my pictures up to my wedding, pictures of the kids, without any context for our lives.

  I wonder what kind of decorations Hobby Lobby sells to ornament the pages dedicated to serial killers in a scrapbook.

  Lanny leans over to say, in a bright voice, "Hi, Grandma!" And when my mother responds, I hear the shift in that faraway voice . . . Real warmth. Real love. Real connection. It skips a generation, or at least, it skipped over me. Lanny loves her grandmother, and so does Connor. They remember those dark, awful days after The Event, when I was dragged off to jail and the only light left for them was my mom, who'd swept in like an angel. She'd rescued them into something like normalcy, at least for a while. She'd been a lioness in their defense, fending off reporters and the curious and vindictive with sharp words and slammed doors.