Comes the Night (17 page)

Maryanne waved widely, as if signaling her presence from miles across the prairie, rather than a few hundred feet across Heritage Park. Alex nodded, but kept her hands deep in her pockets, the left one wrapped tightly around the diary.

Alex would not have been caught dead hanging with a girl like Maryanne Hemlock in her old life. Of course, chances were Maryanne would be making a wide berth around Alex if they’d met last year.

Old life... Had it really been just a handful of weeks ago?

Since the nightmare of the rape? Since she found poor Connie’s diary?

Since she’d decided to try to turn her life around?

After a few cyber-silent weeks, Alex had finally messaged her Halifax friends. Well, not every one of them, of course. But Anika and Chelsea.

She didn’t tell them—hadn’t told a living soul—about the attack, but she’d told them how she was changing her ways. No more drinking every night. No more drugs—and thank God she’d not gone so far down that road that she couldn’t turn back. No more crime, petty or otherwise. No more raising hell. Chelsea had messaged back, “Yeah right!” Anika hadn’t replied at all. But seven days later, Alex had received a small package in the mail. A tiny, tidily-wrapped cardboard box addressed to Alex Robbins, Harvell House, Mansbridge, N.B. That was all. No postal code, no street address. But that was all you needed in this small town.

She’d opened it slowly, though she knew by the return address that it was from Anika.

It was a pendant. A small silver one with a rose stone quartz pendant attached. Anika had made it herself, of course. Alex had looked up the stone’s meaning:
carries soothing energy, provides comfort to those with a wounded heart
.

Leave it to Anika to somehow know without knowing. Alex had worn it ever since, always under her tees and sweatshirts, and when she lay down in her small bed and stared up at the ceiling, she positioned the stone to lay exactly over her bleeding rose tattoo.

Maryanne stopped just short of the gazebo steps, her hand still on the low door’s latch. She looked up at Alex huddled inside. “You look pale as a ghost.”

“As opposed to dark as a Heller.”

Neither of them chuckled.

They were down from it now, the exhilaration of the last cast out. As usual, Brooke had seemed no worse for the wear, but Maryanne had that jittery thing happening again. And Alex... well, she’d had a few jitters too, but hers were from the shock of those new memories. Now came the repercussions of what they had done. Along with that sickening, guilty feeling.

“I see Mr. McKenzie was driving a loaner car again this morning,” Maryanne said. “All six-foot-something of him crunched down behind the steering wheel of a Smart Car.”

“His sister’s,” Alex said. “That’s what I heard. Rumor has it he had one drink too many, the other night, swerved off the Old Road and into the ditch. Busted the radiator and some other stuff.”

“Gotta love those rumors,” Maryanne said, then cringed. “I wish we could say the jerk deserved it.”

“Sure. The jerk deserved it.”

“Come on,” Maryanne said. “You know what I mean.”

Yeah, she knew. Though Mr. McKenzie was a complete tool, Maryanne’s swoop down on him could have had more serious consequences. That’s why she’d asked Maryanne to meet her here today, without Brooke. Because the casting was getting out of hand.

But Alex didn’t feel nearly as bad about McKenzie’s car as she did about the Walker horses.

It took almost a full day for the two animals to be recovered. The white stallion had been found miles down the river, the black one miles beyond that. They both were exhausted, had cuts and abrasions on their legs from running wildly through the woods. And both, according to the vet from Fredericton, were probably ruined now. He’d never seen horses so skittish. Terrified of even a touch. This same vet had just last week checked the animals out and proclaimed them in perfect health.

Not anymore.

It had taken six men—including Seth and Bryce—to get the horses into their trailers and both had nearly knocked themselves senseless against the walls of it as they drove back to the Walker farm. Even back in their familiar stalls, they stood trembling.

“Ruined!”

That’s what Seth had said when he’d burst through the door of Harvell House that night.

He’d come looking for Brooke, spouting accusations.

“You did this! You unlocked the gate and let the horses out!”

She’d smiled. Brooke had sat in the parlor, cool as anything, denying Seth’s accusations. Denying that she’d been anywhere near those horses, or the Walker farm.

“Really, Seth,” she’d drawled. “Whatever would take me way out there to your farm? I mean, now that you’re with Melissa. It’s not like we’ve got something going on behind her back, right?”

Seth’s face had turned crimson, as if he badly wanted to say something but was forced to stay silent. As if every
second
of that silence notched up his temperature. And his fury. But Brooke obviously had him by the short and curlies. Which probably meant they
did
have something going on the side, and if he persisted in accusing Brooke, she’d do some talking of her own. With an avid audience—a room full of teens, not to mention a now-threatening Patricia Betts, and an imposing looking John Smith—Seth had backed down.

Yet as Seth had slammed the door to Harvell House on his way out of the building, the smart-ass smile on Brooke’s face trembled ever so slightly.

“Some kids say it was the Mansbridge Hellers that spooked the horses so bad.” Maryanne kicked a foot through the small mound of leaves at her feet.

“I doubt if it’s just the kids saying it’s the Hellers. Lots of superstition around this town. Lots of... old stories.”

“Like Ira Walker’s stories? Was he the only one who saw Connie? I bet not.”

Alex ignored Maryanne’s pointed stare. She hadn’t called this little meeting to talk about local lore. This wasn’t about Connie. It was about
them
.

“We’re going too far. This... this casting out is getting out of hand.”

Maryanne’s foot stilled on the gazebo’s floor. Her posture turned defensive. “What do you mean? You’re not taking this away from me.”

“Don’t play stupid,” Alex snapped, pointedly looking down at Maryanne’s locked fists. “Look, the other night Brooke attacked Seth and that—”

“That was
Brooke
, not me! Not us!”

“We’re terrorizing animals! And running teachers off the road! Maryanne, I’m scared we’re going to—”

“What are you really scared of, Alexandra Robbins?”

“
Don’t
call me that!”

“Answer the question!”

How could she? That question had surprised her. Caught her off guard. Cut her straight down to her gut.

“I’ve seen the way you look before we cast. I’ve seen the way you come back in.” Maryanne’s tone was suddenly lowered, almost sympathetic. And yes, curious. “What happens to you out there?” She turned toward Alex, so they were facing each other on the bench. “What is it that comes back in with you, Alex? That doesn’t come back in with Brooke or me?”

Alex started to turn away, but Maryanne shot a hand out to grip her jacket. “Tell me, Alex. What happens to you?”

Alex leapt up, pulling away from Maryanne. “Nothing! Nothing happens to me out there! It’s just the same for me as it is for you. Nothing more, nothing less.” She took a calming breath. “Look, I’m not saying we should stop casting out. But we have to be more careful. Rein it in. All of it. And Maryanne, you and I have to watch out for Brooke. Watch over her.”

Alex stood there while Maryanne studied her for a silent moment.

Finally, Maryanne released her breath on a sigh. “Okay,” she said, her shoulders relaxing.

Alex shifted her weight from one cold foot to the other. “Okay what?”

“Okay, I’ll stop pushing you.”

“And... ?”

Maryanne rolled her eyes. “And okay, yes, you’re right. It is getting a little out of control, and yes, we do have to watch Brooke. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Exactly what I wanted to hear.” With that, Alex started for the gazebo’s door.

“Alex?”

She paused, her hand on the latch. “Yeah?”

“What happened to Connie Harvell? How did she die?”

Alex whirled around, simultaneously patting her coat pocket to make sure Connie’s diary was there. It was, shoved in with the tissue and pen and coins. She closed her hand around it.

“Is that why you’re scared when we cast out?”

“No,” Alex whispered. “That’s not it at all.” It took every ounce of her strength to turn away again.

“Then tell me. How did Connie die, Alex?”

She stopped in her tracks. Her hand trembled around the diary, and the diary trembled within it. But Alex knew she would have to tell Maryanne and Brooke. She’d known it for a while of course, but she knew it thoroughly now that Maryanne had asked her. Now that it was on the table.

Alex unlatched the door and stepped down onto the brittle grass. She lifted her face to the darkening sky and closed her eyes. “I’ll tell you. I’ll... I’ll read it to you.”

With that, she started to walk away.

“When? Alex... when?”

She kept walking, leaving Maryanne’s question hanging, but the answer was,
tonight.

Alex

A
LEX SAT IN
the attic in flickering candlelight, with Brooke at her left and Maryanne at her right. It was near one o’clock in the morning. They were all tired, irritable. But all had a single purpose in mind.

Tonight there was no banter between them. For a change, the other girls didn’t hassle Alex to hurry up or instruct her to leave nothing out. Tonight Brooke sat without pressing and prodding and poking, and Maryanne was as patient as she could possibly be, though she practically vibrated with anxiousness.

Alex opened Connie’s diary. She hadn’t used a bookmark or, God forbid, dog-eared a precious page. She didn’t need to. As if guided by some kind of physical memory from her hand going here so often, she opened the diary exactly where she needed to.

And she began to read.

It’s been two days since I’ve been able to pull you close to me again, Dear Diary, and I couldn’t wait to hold you and tell you all my secrets. I’ve missed you—more than I should and more than is logical—but you’ve been my only companion these last long months in this attic. The only one to know my voice. You and the child in my belly.

And now I’ve heard my baby’s voice too.

That’s right, Dear Diary. My baby girl was born just two days ago.

She came early in the morning. I didn’t cast out the night before because I knew she was so near to being born. The pain had started in my lower back, just a nagging ache. Nothing new with my big belly. But as the evening progressed, it moved to my stomach, my pelvis, my legs. Bands of pain tightening down on me, then mercifully loosened. Then started again. My labor had begun.

When Billy came up the stairs with my six o’clock meal, he found me kneeling on the floor, my face flushed with pain and a pool of water beneath me. He dropped the tray. Dropped it and ran screaming for his father. “It’s time, it’s time, it’s time!” Mother came then too, up the narrow stairway. But she followed several paces behind my stepfather and stood at the back of the room by the wardrobe.

She didn’t look up at me. She wouldn’t meet my eyes—not even once. I wondered if she was ashamed of me or ashamed of herself.

But my stepfather—that monster—met my eyes. He bellowed about the pain that God himself was giving me for being such a whore. And he demanded again that I tell him who was the father of my bastard baby.

Billy stood still. Still and threatening behind his father. Smirking. So very sure that I wouldn’t tell. He was right. But it wasn’t in fear of him hurting me. What more could he do? It was a different fear that kept me silent. If my stepfather knew the child was his own bloodline—his own grandchild—he might lay claim to her.

I couldn’t condemn my baby to that fate. Never. I needed to be able to imagine it in the arms of loving parents who’d waited for the miracle of a child. The baby wouldn’t be long in my arms. I’ve known that for quite some time. I’d heard the story in the fall—of what had become of me.

In my loneliness when I’d first cast out through the glass, I crept to windows or screened-in porch doors and listened as I hid in the dark shadows. Sometimes all there was to hear was a television. Or a radio. Sometimes all I heard was snoring, but I didn’t mind. It was such a human sound. But often I’d hear talking. And I’d listen so carefully. This was how I found out long ago what everyone in Mansbridge thought had become of me.

I’d gone to Toronto, so the story went. That’s what I heard way back in September when I hovered outside a bedroom window at the Dufty house. Gone to stay with my late father’s widowed sister—but only for a bit.

No one said a thing about a baby—and oh, they would have! So no one knew of the pregnancy outside of Harvell House.

It was Billy himself who’d told me what would happen to my baby when it finally arrived. “You can’t keep it,” he taunted, wanting to hurt me all the more—any way he could. “Father said so and he’s the boss here now. He knows people in Montreal. They’re coming for the baby as soon as you have it. Coming to take it from you, Connie—you’ll never see it again!”

“You won’t either, Billy!” I thought this, but I didn’t dare say it. I didn’t want for a moment to put that thought in his head!

It was clear that my stepfather’s plan was for me to ‘come back home’ once my baby was adopted and I’d recovered my girlish form. No doubt he’d say that Toronto was just too big and cold and lonely for a small town girl like me, and I would be allowed to leave this attic at last.

Then, two days ago, my baby pushed from me, tearing my sanity until I screamed. When my stepfather stood over me, demanding one more time to know who had fathered my bastard, I bit my lip until it bled rather than tell him it was Billy’s.