Also by Sandra Block
Little Black Lies
The Secret Room
The Girl Without a Name
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Copyright © 2018 by Sandra Block
Cover and internal design © 2018 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Kathleen Lynch/Black Kat Design
Cover image © Trevor Payne/Arcangel Images
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Block, Sandra, author.
Title: What happened that night / Sandra Block.
Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Landmark, [2018]
Identifiers: LCCN 2017041155 | (trade pbk. : alk. paper)
Subjects: | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3602.L64285 W48 2018 | DDC 813/.6--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017041155
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-One
Chapter Ninety-Two
Chapter Ninety-Three
Chapter Ninety-Four
Chapter Ninety-Five
Chapter Ninety-Six
Chapter Ninety-Seven
Chapter Ninety-Eight
Reading Group Guide
A Conversation with the Author
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
To my roommates,
Who have always been there for me.
Prologue
It sucks me in.
It is a freak of nature. An undertow, a vortex, a tornado, all in one.
I can’t fight it. The pull is too strong and my limbs bend to it. Like a rag doll, I fall down backward. My elbow hits the floor, and I start shaking. I can’t stop. My leg bangs against a table. My head is turning side to side, my neck wrenched, aching.
Oh my God, I think she’s having a seizure.
Hey…hey…are you okay?
My watch is hitting against the tile in time with my head. Last time I broke my watch, and I can’t afford a new one. But I can’t stop my arm from smacking the floor.
Should I get a spoon or something?
No, you’re not supposed to do that. Just get her away from anything sharp.
Hands pull me away from the table. The hem of my shirt gets caught under someone’s shoe and rips. Now my back is lifting up. My pelvis, rising and falling like my body has been possessed. I am possessed. My eyes are clenched shut, and someone tries to pry them open.
What should we do?
I’m calling 911.
I can hear myself yelling no. It comes out as a moan. My head is shaking back and forth, hard, as if it might rip off my neck. I don’t want to go to the hospital. Needles, doctors, questions. EEGs, EKGs, MRIs.
Pills, fake sleep. Questions.
They call 911. Burly EMTs barge into the room, clipboards in hand. A gurney is sprung up beside me.
Does she h
ave a history of seizures?
Is she on any medications?
Ma’am, can you hear us? Ma’am.
Questions, more questions. I have no answers. I cannot speak.
Dahlia.
The voice breaks through the fog, strong and commanding. I recognize the voice with utter relief. It’s Eli’s voice.
Thank God, Eli is here.
He bends down, his body shadowing the overhead light. My knee bounces against the floor a few more times, then stops. Like magic, I feel the spell lifting.
The vortex unwinding.
A deathly silence fills the room. People standing around me, their breathing audible. My sore body, ripped shirt, bruised elbows, Eli holding my hand. The stillness after the tornado.
I open my eyes.
Chapter One
Dahlia
As with any other support group, the cookies are stale.
I should know. I’ve been to my share.
In this particular one, the coyly named S.O.S., for Survivors of Suicide, the punch is also overly sweet. You might wonder who would come to such a group, since the most successful members are inherently absent. But here, survivors stands for the people they left behind, or the lucky ones who tried but didn’t hit the six-foot-under mark.
People like me.
Or my best friend, Eli, who is sitting beside me. I haven’t been to S.O.S. for a while, which is a good thing, of course. I haven’t felt the need.
But today is my anniversary, so I’m here. And Eli is here for moral support.
Fred is the leader of the group. He favors bulky madras shirts and torn khakis, a scruffy almost-beard and thick glasses that are always smudged. I haven’t figured out if he’s a millionaire or near the poverty line. Fred formed S.O.S. twenty-five years ago after his brother’s suicide. His brother never left a note, and Fred never found out why. This is his life’s mystery, which is why he comes back every week. To make the not knowing a little easier.
I know why I tried. Eli knows why he tried. No mysteries there. Just life’s boringly familiar tragedies, nearly claiming another soul.
“Would you like to go next?” Fred asks the young man across from me. He looks a tad younger than me, a couple years out of college. Muscular, strong cheekbones, mixed something. Japanese or Korean, maybe. He probably graduated from somewhere around here, pick a college…MIT, Northeastern, Boston University. Or Harvard, like me. If I had bothered to graduate.
The young man clears his throat. “I’m James.”
The room says “Hi, James,” a response stolen right out of the AA handbook. (Yes, I’ve been to that one too, but not for me.) I can see Eli perk up. James doesn’t let off any gay vibe that I can tell, though Eli’s gaydar is better than mine.
“I’m here for my sister, Ramona. She killed herself a year ago.” His hands are laced together and he is looking at them. Long, tapering fingers. “Jumped off a bridge,” he went on, as if someone had asked him. And he was probably used to that. Bystanders are ghoulish that way; they always want to know the how.
There is a long pause, which the group waits out.
“Do you want to say any more?” Fred asks.
James shakes his head. His face gets flushed, but his eyes do not fill. I’ve become almost scientific at determining when people are about to cry. There are so many tells. The lip tremble, the jaw clench, the eyes reddening. And for James, the blush. Hang around S.O.S. long enough, and it becomes an art.
“Thank you, James,” Fred says, and like robots, the group members repeat this. Then they move on to the next member. I’ve already said my piece, as has Eli, and I’m getting ready to call it a night. But the circle hasn’t finished its tale. We have three more members to go.
Luckily, the last of the bunch turn out to be taciturn as well. Sometimes you get someone who goes on and on. Not the new ones; they’re too stunned to say much. Usually it’s the borderline personalities, who are always leaning over the edge, literally and figuratively. Then, a week comes around when they don’t show up, followed by murmurs about how something was in the paper, etc. And I feel guilty as hell for wishing they would just shut up already during their turn when twenty minutes had gone by. But at the same time, I have to admit, I feel an odd sense of relief for them. I would never voice this in the group, of course; it’s anathema to S.O.S. But it’s a tough world out there. Some people just aren’t cut out for it.
Fred calls the meeting to a close with a spiritual quote that doesn’t mention any particular God, and metal chairs squeak as the circle stands up.
“You want to go for a drink or something?” Eli asks. Drink means soda for me, something stronger for him. I don’t drink; Eli drinks too much. “We could hit a club.”
“Nah. Not tonight. I’ve got a date with a book.”
“Lame.”
“’Tis,” I agree.
“All right,” he says. “Let me run to the bathroom, then we’ll go.”
He lives two floors above me, so we came together and we’ll leave together. As he walks off, a few women turn their heads, though they know from his spiel that it’s not in the cards. Still, it’s hard not to turn your head. Eli is soap-opera-star cute. Perfectly sculptured blond hair, blue eyes, and a gym-built body. The kind of guy where you say “He’s got to be gay” because he’s so good-looking, and it turns out you’re right. I wander toward the stale-cookie table for something to do.
James walks over as well and reaches for a peanut butter cookie. Biting into it, he makes a face.
“Stale,” I confirm.
He nods, then quickly swallows and surveys the tray again. “How about the oatmeal?”
“Not any better.”
“Huh,” he says, then adjusts his napkin. “I know you, by the way.”
“You do?” I search my memory, but I’ve never been good with faces.
“Miller and Stein?”
“Yeah,” I say, still trying to place him. Not a secretary. Maybe a new lawyer?
“I’m in IT. I debugged your computer last year.”
“Oh.” I have a vague recollection of this. I would ask how he remembers me, but I’ve got purple hair (or was it pink then?), three nose rings, and an arm full of tattoos. So I’m memorable, for a paralegal anyway. We stand awkwardly for a moment, the cookies too stale to munch on as an excuse. “Sorry about your sister,” I say.
He nods. “Sorry about you.” His dark eyes meet mine just a second, then they fall away.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Eli coming over. “Hey,” he says, wiping his just-washed hands on his red Bermudas.
“Hey,” I answer back and make introductions, though James has already been introduced in the meeting. Eli assesses him, likely judging him as a potential suitor for me—not for him. I’m sure he will come up wanting, somehow. Eli finds something wrong with most of my potential suitors, for whatever reason. Protective, he would say. Overprotective, I would say.
“Ready to go?” Eli asks.
• • •
Eli is waiting behind me in the doorway, whistling. I twist open the third bolt lock, then yank open the door, which sticks as usual. I always tell him he doesn’t need to stop at my doorway. He always does anyway. It’s our thing, I guess.
“You sure you don’t want to come out?” he asks. “Shakers. You could meet a nice gay man.”
“I already have a nice gay man,” I say, patting his shoulder.
He smiles, then takes a buzzing phone out of his pocket. “What’s up?” He gives me a head bob goodbye, heading to the stairwell. “I don’t know. I figured I’ll probably take the T,” he says, his voice fading as the door closes behind him.
As I walk in, Simone skulks out from behind my bedroom door. She patiently accepts a head rub, then skulks off again. The apartment is small and feels even smaller on these hot and sticky nights, especi
ally when the A/C is on the fritz. I venture into my room, which is essentially a smaller box inside of a box, kick off my flip-flops, and lie down on the bed. Glancing through my phone, I find nothing new. No urgent emails or notifications. No likes or loves on my social media pleas for self-validation.
The phone screen throws a faint glow into the room, the date beaming at the top of the screen. September 30.
My unhappy anniversary.
Jumping up off the bed, I open the window to an anemic breeze. The cicadas are a wall of buzzing. It’s fall, but it doesn’t feel like it. I used to love the autumn. A season of promise, new beginnings. My mom would take me to buy a new dress for Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, which always felt like the real new year to me. Not the one dolled up with fireworks, glittering balls, and morning television show best-of lists. A day with cold days behind and ahead of it.
Fall is literal change, signaled by the breakdown of chlorophyll and a bite in the air. Though that was in Chicago, where I’m from. In Boston, September is more an extension of summer. The days are long and muggy. Back in college, the days would turn into muggy nights full of revelers, in clusters outside of the dorms, afraid of missing something cosmically important at 3:00 a.m. Groups of students would buzz around Harvard Yard like some kind of sociological experiment, the smell of pollen, beer, and sweat in the air.
Turning away from the window, I open the bureau drawer, which squeaks, and throw on a nightshirt. My cell phone rings on my bed, and I glance at the screen. My mom again. Last time I let it go to voicemail, so this time I answer.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Oh, Dahlia.” Her voice registers relief, and I feel guilty that I didn’t pick up before. “How are you?”
“Okay,” I answer. As I lean out the window, an ambulance flashes down the street.
“How was your day?”
“Fine,” I say. “I ended up taking off from work.”
There is a pause. “Are you sick?”
“No, just…” I don’t finish the statement. “Hey, guess what? Sylvia’s getting married,” I say with forced enthusiasm. Sylvia is my “friend” from work. It’s a spot of normalcy I know my mom would appreciate.
“Oh, that’s wonderful. Good for her.” She pauses. “And how’s Eli?”
“Fine. Same old, same old.”
“Did you do anything fun tonight?” she asks, likely hoping I had a date lined up.