Heartbroken (14 page)

“Maybe so,” said Birdie unconvincingly.

Roger found it necessary to look through both houses and the bunkhouse again, as well as to take another turn around the island. She wondered if he did this to satisfy his curiosity about the new house. John Cross accompanied him, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, looking grim and purposeful. His jacket was a pricey Burberry. She’d bought one for Theodore. He’d returned it.
It’s not my style, Mother. Thank you, though
.

Birdie knew they weren’t going to find anything or anyone. There wouldn’t be any evidence that someone had been there. And they didn’t, and there wasn’t. To their credit, neither man sought to make her feel like a fool. She was glad Joe wasn’t there to give her a hard time for inconveniencing everyone, causing a fuss. He’d have everyone joking around, cracking open cans of beer.

“Well, there won’t be anyone heading out here tonight, that’s for sure,” said Roger. “Big storm coming.”

Those clouds had been looming all day. They didn’t seem to be moving at all, just a thick black cloak hanging over the mainland.

“Are you alone here tonight?” John Cross asked. He regarded her with an annoyingly concerned frown.

Birdie gave a quick, tight nod. She’d been weathering storms on this island since long before John Cross was born. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “Really. And I’m sorry for all of this. I don’t know who it could have been. Or where he went.”

“That’s what we’re here for,” said Roger. He gave her a gentle pat on the arm. Then he climbed gracelessly over the Cross boat and onto his own. “Make sure your radios are charged in case you lose power tonight,” he added. “Landlines will go down as soon as the storm gets bad, like they always do. And I know we’re supposed to have cell service now, but it seems to be spotty.”

Birdie hadn’t been able to make a call since they’d arrived. They’d been communicating mostly via e-mail, Joe having bought them each a “rocket stick” that allowed them Internet access on their laptops. And the landline had been working fine, which hadn’t always been the case.

“Something to do with the mountains.” Roger was going on about the cell service and how bad it was, though Birdie had stopped listening.

“I hope you both have plenty of fuel for your generators and boats. Marina’s still open, if not. Storm’s still a few hours east.”

John looked at the sky, then back at his house. He seemed worried. He was new to the islands. He and his wife were inexperienced, both as boaters and as residents. All their gear, boat, kayaks, outerwear, was expensive and brand-new. Birdie wasn’t sure what the woman did; she hadn’t paid much attention to her when they’d dropped by to introduce themselves. She was petite and plump, didn’t seem to have much to say.

“You have my number, right, Birdie?” said John.

“I do. Thank you,” she said. She had it somewhere. In a desk drawer, she thought. She’d find it if she needed it. She wouldn’t need it, though.

First Roger pulled away. Then she watched John traverse the channel, tie up at his dock, and go ashore. He gave her a wave, pantomimed that she should call him, then disappeared.

She looked back at the tall pines and the rooftops peeking through the foliage. She listened to the boat bumping against the
dock. In the distance, she could hear the hum of the generator, which, combined with the solar panels, powered everything on the island—all the electricity, the water pump, and the heater. She felt her isolation. She was alone with Heart Island. It was exactly—as she’d said so many times—the way she wanted it.

chapter ten

E
mily knew that people made choices. She understood that. You chose to do well in school by studying hard and following the rules. You picked your profession, succeeded or failed by the amount of effort you put into it. You decided on the person to marry, whether or not to have children, how many. And all of those choices tangled and wrapped around one another, mingled with and impacted one another. And the resulting ball of twine? Well, that was your life. It all sounded right and perfect to Emily.
You don’t always choose what happens to you, but you choose how you deal with it
. That’s what her mother always told her, and it seemed true. Except that life, real life, wasn’t like that. Moments spun out of control, looked like one thing and were really something else. You made mistakes, and there were consequences that could not be reversed. There were accidents of circumstance.

She was thinking about this as she sat in the backseat of her own car, with Dean in the driver’s seat, Brad again on the passenger side. She was so tense that she was afraid she would throw up. Her stomach churned; she could taste the bile in the back of her throat. That had always happened to her, ever since she was a little girl. Whenever she got too worried or upset, whenever things were going really, really bad, she puked. It always made things worse.

There were some late diners in the restaurant. Emily recognized them as the husband and wife she’d waited on a few times. They’d
recently had a baby, a sweet and pretty little girl. This was their date night; once every other week since the baby turned six months, they had a sitter. They always looked so giddy, so excited to be out, even though it was just for burgers at the Blue Hen. Emily loved the way the man looked at his wife when she ordered, as if she were the most fascinating creature he’d ever known. When they were there, Emily could hear them laughing, whispering. Once she’d seen the woman wiggle her foot out of her shoe and touch his calf with her bare toes. She watched them get into the car. He didn’t open the door for her, and she shot him a look over the roof. He gave her a sheepish grin and ran around, made a show of sweeping his arm and offering a deep bow as she got inside. Her laughter carried on the cold night air, weird and echoey.

“The husband is still there,” said Dean. He sounded stressed “There’s his car.”

Paul’s new Charger was parked in the front.
Park in the back
, Carol always complained.
Those spots are for customers
, she chided.
But baby, then no one will see the new ride my sugar mama bought me
. She would always answer him with a smile,
Silly man
.

“They’re not rich,” Emily said. She knew that was what he thought. And she wanted to clarify for him that it wasn’t true. He seemed to have a hostility about wealthy people, as though they had something he deserved instead. Maybe if she could convince him that they were just a normal couple who worked hard at their business, he would leave them alone.

Dean turned to glare at her over the seat. “Bullshit. We’ve been to their house.”

In December, Carol and Paul had thrown a huge Christmas party at their home for family and friends and employees. Emily thought about their house sometimes. Not that it was so opulent; it wasn’t. It was smallish compared to what the new homes on the market looked like. It didn’t have that straight-from-the box-feeling, as if
everything were picked brand-new from a catalog. Emily could tell that Carol and Paul had chosen each piece of furniture, art, even the hand towels in the bathroom with great care. Paul was an amateur photographer, so the walls were covered with framed shots of their travels around the world, their children and grandchildren. Every pillow, throw, and fixture was perfectly placed in its environment. Their two French bulldogs, Max and Ruby, happily tottered about seeking affection and scraps from the abundant spread. Each dog had a huge plush cushion beside the bed in the master suite with his or her name embroidered into the fabric.

“Look at this place,” Dean kept saying. There was something odd in his tone, something darker than envy.

Their home
glittered
, with two huge Christmas trees, a lifetime of collected decorations and ornaments. The party was packed with friends and family, old employees who had remained in touch, vendors, and neighbors. Carol greeted everyone with equal enthusiasm. It was their home; they’d raised both their children within its walls. They’d devoted their time, their energy, and their love to making it a beautiful place where everyone who knew them felt welcome. It was the kind of home Emily had only dreamed of, the kind she hoped to make for herself someday. As she sat in the dark backseat of her car, that day seemed a long, long way off.

“He’s leaving,” said Dean. He exhaled his relief.

Emily watched Paul leave the restaurant, then close and lock the door behind him. She wanted to start screaming, try to force her way out of the backseat. She could envision the scene, hear her own voice slicing through the quiet, see herself running toward Paul. But she didn’t do anything. She was paralyzed, strangled by her own fear.

“What if he recognizes my car?” she asked.

“He can’t see it from where he is,” said Dean.

He sounded very sure of himself. He always seemed so, even though his judgment proved fallible again and again. He never lost
confidence. But Emily didn’t think they were that far away, or that the few trees between the car and the restaurant were enough to block them from view. She said a silent prayer that Paul would look over in their direction. She willed it. But no. Emily felt her nausea increase as Paul gunned the engine and sped off in the opposite direction.

“They were going to stop doing it, you know,” said Emily. “Paul was going to start taking the money to the bank every day, not just on Friday nights.”

Dean spun around again to look at her. Brad was staring at Dean now. He hadn’t said a word since they’d left the house. Since they’d parked, he’d sat there like a gargoyle, staring at the restaurant.

“You never told me that,” said Dean.

“Why would I?”

He gave her a dark, threatening look, and she found herself bracing—for what, she didn’t know. He’d never hit her, not really. He’d grabbed her hard one time. Once he’d pushed her. But he’d been so sorry afterward that he cried. He’d been so nice after that; for a full week, he was so sweet and considerate. It was almost worth it. Even her mother had never laid a hand on her. But you didn’t need fists to hurt and scar, did you? Words could hurt worse. And those wounds never did seem to heal.
Sticks and stones can break my bones. But words can break my heart
.

“I hope you’re wrong,” said Dean. He got out of the car and pulled the seat forward for her. “Climb out.”

She hesitated, wondering what he would do if she stayed rooted, started yelling and making a huge scene. She felt Brad’s eyes on her and turned to look at him. She held his gaze and once more found it so disturbingly blank that she averted her eyes, lest she be sucked into the black hole of whatever he was.

Dean reached in and grabbed her arm, pulling her from the car. She struggled a second, then let him yank her out. Her arm ached
from his grip. She rubbed it as she stood before him, fighting back tears of pain and anger.

“Why are you doing this, Dean?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “It’s wrong.”

For a second, she saw something flicker across his face—sadness, fear, sorrow. Then it was gone. He was high, she realized. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. She had no idea what he was on; it could be any combination of their yield today. The man she loved, the one she trusted to take care of her, was nowhere to be seen. If only she could tell him how much she had loved him at the end of their workdays, when he came home tired and they cooked dinner together. She’d never loved anyone as much as she’d loved him on those nights.

“What you’re going to do is knock on the door, okay?” he said. “When she opens it, go inside and give her some sad story, tell her you have no one else to talk to, that you need a friend. You know she won’t turn you away.”

No. Of course she wouldn’t. Because that’s the kind of person Carol was—a good person, a kind person. Dean and Brad would use the powerful instinct that Carol had to mother and help; they would use it to hurt her and steal from her. Because that’s the kind of people
they
were.

“After a few minutes, excuse yourself to the bathroom,” Dean said. He’d obviously given this a great deal of thought. That was why he’d kept coming to pick her up from work, gotten friendly with the kitchen guys. Even Paul had invited him back to see the office. All the while, he must have been planning. She’d had no idea. He went on, “When you go back there, unlock the rear door.”

Who is this man?
she wondered. He was cold and hard, a criminal, an addict. Had he always been this? Had her mother seen it all along? How could she have known when Emily had been so blind?

“Then go back to her and keep her busy.”

She still didn’t say anything. She was out of words.

“If you keep her out of her office, no one gets hurt,” he went on. “There’s no trouble at all. Right? So, that’s your job: Keep Carol from getting hurt.” He leaned in close and whispered into her ear. “Because you don’t know this guy. You have no idea what he’ll do if push comes to shove. Trust me.” Emily wasn’t sure if he was talking about Brad or about himself.

Dean’s breath was rank; he was holding on to her shoulder.

“Don’t worry about the money; they’re insured,” he said. “Just keep that bitch from getting her head blown off.”

Emily’s whole body throbbed with anxiety. If she stayed, if she did what Dean wanted her to do, she could keep Carol from getting hurt. If she ran to get help, what would they do to her? Would they chase her? The nearest establishment was a gas station about a mile up the road. How long would it take her to make it there? Ten minutes, at the very least. It would take the police another five or ten after she made the call. A lot could happen in fifteen minutes—if they let her get away at all.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

He smiled, relieved. “Okay? Really?”

She nodded, and he leaned in to kiss her on the forehead. “Good girl.”

She leaned over and vomited on the ground next to his boots.

“Christ, Em,” he said, disgusted. “Pull yourself together.”

W
hen Emily got to the door of the Blue Hen and started knocking, tears streaming down her cheeks, her near hysteria wasn’t an act at all. Through the glass, she saw some type of battle on Carol’s face. There was concern first, then a flash of suspicion that faded quickly. She knew Emily. She trusted her. But she didn’t want to deal with a drama at ten
P.M
.; she was tired. Finally, fatigue gave way to worry.