Inevitable Sentences (11 page)

“You wear too much makeup,” Priscilla fought back with the silly, childish statement. Lizzie’s makeup resembled the kind the goths wore—whitish foundation; dark, heavily lined eyes; and almost black lipstick.

“What are you hiding from?” Lizzie passed right over the makeup comment and directed her challenge to something meatier. “What are you afraid of?”

Priscilla didn’t answer. Yet she knew Lizzie was right. When she was thin she had dressed more in style. What did that get her? Dwayne. The result? He beat her, especially if any other man glanced at her. She finally gathered the right words to answer Lizzie. “I’m happy the way I am. I don’t have to worry about getting into bad relationships. That’s your department.” The last statement was for Lizzie’s benefit as much as her own. “If a man wants to date me, he does it for who I am today, not some sexy chick he wants to conquer.”

“My, my. Aren’t you Miss High and Mighty?” Lizzie sneered. “Well, get off your high horse. You’re upset with yourself and jealous of me because you’ve lost your sense of adventure and I haven’t. If you ever had one.”

“Speaking of that, does Chad know about your other adventures?” Maybe this could dissuade Lizzie from her cockamamie scheme.

Lizzie narrowed her eyes at Priscilla. “What are you getting at?”

“You’re nothing but a groupie.” Priscilla nodded as Lizzie’s eyes widened.

“What?” Lizzie crinkled her forehead and frowned. “How do you see that?”

“You follow notorious killers around like a girl following a rock star.” Priscilla began to feel better. She might be able to persuade Lizzie she had a bad and perhaps a dangerous habit.

“I still don’t get what you’re talkin’ about.” Lizzie crossed her legs and bobbed the one on top up and down. The furious motion made her whole body jump with each movement, shaking the table.

“Yes, you do.” Priscilla actually wagged a finger at Lizzie. “You even wrote to Scott Peterson. You like to live on the edge. You always have. You’re doing it again with Chad.”

“You’re wrong.” Lizzie waved her hand back and forth. “I may have done that in the past—”

“Florida? The guy you were involved with was in prison for killing a woman. His wife is a groupie like you. Too bad, though. She got to him before you did.” She shook her head. “It didn’t matter. You still became his pen pal and soon a regular visitor.” Priscilla cocked her head at Lizzie and raised one eyebrow as if to say “gotcha.”

“It’s different with Chad. He really loves me and I love him. He makes me feel important. Like I have brains not just boobs.” Lizzie pouted like a little girl. She abruptly changed her mood and bolted up as though she had had a brilliant idea. “You’re jealous. You want him to choose you, don’t you?”

“Hardly. I’ll admit he’s handsome and articulate.” Priscilla straightened. She felt less nauseous. “Although I don’t know him on a professional level, I can guarantee he’s like the other serial killers I’ve counseled. He becomes exactly what his victims want so he can manipulate them. He’ll tell you what you want to hear to make you putty in his hands.” She shook her head. “Dwayne’s gone, Lizzie. I’m no longer a victim.” Her eyes clearly accused Lizzie of being in that role.

“I told you there are no victims with me and Chad,” Lizzie said through clenched teeth.

Priscilla was astounded by Lizzie’s total denial of Chad’s history.

Lizzie ignored Priscilla’s other comments. Instead, she got up and slid into the booth beside Priscilla.

Priscilla grasped the booth seat with both hands. What was Lizzie up to?

Lizzie pressed her mouth against Priscilla’s ear. “You’ll help me or I’ll have to tell the warden and anyone else who cares about why you’re really here. And why you’ve changed your appearance.”

Priscilla’s hands held the seat so tightly they hurt. She wanted to shove Lizzie out of the booth and run for the door, but she couldn’t. She didn’t have the strength.

“How far can you run, Priscilla?” Lizzie whispered.

Priscilla’s entire body stiffened. She stared at the wall in front of her. Her eyes stung.

“You drove Dwayne’s getaway car in those robberies,” Lizzie continued. “You were as high on drugs as he was. I’ve protected you. I’ve never told anyone. You owe me.”

Sadly, their friendship had come to this: blackmail. As if it had ever cost Lizzie anything to keep Priscilla’s secret.

When Priscilla and Dwayne had first married, she’d begun to drink to dull the pain of the beatings. Soon she had turned to cocaine. That was easy enough with a dealer husband happy to provide it for her. The robberies started next, with the promise of drugs held out as leverage for her participation. No. Priscilla had to be honest: She’d done more than use. Dwayne forced her to deal. However, that last robbery, when the security guard went down, she’d been outside, unarmed and simply waiting. When Dwayne got caught, he never implicated her, and his unexplained restraint gave her all the opportunity she needed to flee California, resume her maiden name, sober up, and start a new life.

Much as she wanted to believe Dwayne’s silence sprang from some unexpected well of goodness, Priscilla secretly worried otherwise. Some nights she awoke in terror, having a dream he had finally revealed her part in the crimes. Or that he was scheming to get back at her, waiting until she had become entrenched in a happy and fulfilling life and would barely remember her darker days with him. Then he’d attack. He’d do it in person. His fondness for physical retribution could still make her shudder, even with all the miles and years between them. The fear never really left her. She had always wondered if it was only a matter of time until he arrived to deal some Dwayne-style justice. And he’d see that she served hard time, too, somewhere—if he didn’t kill her.

Staring ahead, avoiding Lizzie’s eyes, Priscilla weighed her choices: she could report Chad’s escape plan and take a chance on Dwayne’s ongoing protection, for whatever his dubious reason, or she could help Lizzie to buy her silence. Either way, she could end up in prison.

Finally, Priscilla moved away from Lizzie and leaned against the wall. “What makes you think the prison administrators would believe you? After all, I’ve been a good employee these past couple of years and no one has come around asking about me.”

“I saved the letters you sent me while you were traveling in the drug underworld.” Lizzie’s lips formed a crooked smile. Priscilla had never noticed the evil in it before.

“How can you betray me? We’ve been friends forever.” Priscilla’s voice was weak. How could she have been so stupid as to send those letters to Lizzie, detailing her less-than-legal activities? Had she been trying to tell Lizzie she, too, could live on the edge? That she wasn’t as dull as Lizzie thought? Why had it mattered? How immature she had been. Those drugged days were a blur.

Lizzie slid around to her own seat. “Let’s face it. We really haven’t been good friends. You’ve always thought I wasn’t as good as you. You thought I was nothin’ but a screwup.”

“That’s not true,” Priscilla said with a steadier voice. “I thought you never gave yourself a break. You have much more going for you than what you give yourself credit for.”

Lizzie leaned across the table. “I don’t care what you think. It doesn’t matter any more, and it doesn’t change Sunday’s plans or your part in them. Like I said, you’ve got until Saturday evening to decide.”

Their eyes locked. Priscilla stood, grabbed her coat, and rushed out of the restaurant, almost knocking over a chair on her way to the door. When she got outside she laid her forehead against the building and cried. The wind lashed her like a whip—a punishment for all she had done in her past. She was no better than Lizzie. She turned and lifted her face into the icy wind and realized she was shivering with such force she could hear her own teeth chattering. She lifted her hand. Her coat was still in it. She wrapped up in it and stumbled to her car. At the curb she stopped and threw up.

“Oh, God,” she whispered. She wiped her face with a glove, crawled into her car, and pounded her head against the steering wheel. “What will I do?” she wailed. What was she asking? The inevitable moment had arrived. She’d have to face her own demons as she had counseled others to do.

Priscilla bolted upright, turned the ignition on, and drove away. Should she keep driving out of Michigan? Where would she go? She would eventually be found. People would wonder why she had suddenly disappeared. Her past would surely catch up to her one day, no matter where she hid.

C
ELESTE HEARD A CAR
drive up to the lighthouse. Lights flashed briefly across the living room wall, dancing in and out of the shadows. She checked the clock. Nearly seven. She was expecting Priscilla. But when no one came to the house after several minutes, Celeste became nervous.

She pulled the drape aside to see who the visitor might be, her hand quivering. Why? What did she think she’d find in the yard? It was too late for a delivery. Drivers never ventured this far after five in the winter. Her heartbeat picked up speed and sent blood rushing through her veins like short bursts of electrical current. She knew that the hesitant person outside could be an unwanted intruder. Perhaps he was one of the former partners of a woman living in the shelter. Maybe Adrian’s husband hadn’t been fooled and he had come for her. Could this be the moment she’d feared now at her door?

Celeste couldn’t face losing another person like she had Pilar. She should have bought a gun like Max begged her to do when she had decided to open the safe house. Ha! It didn’t feel safe at the moment. Her every nerve was on fire. She had to get control of herself. It would do no good for her to fall apart, especially since she and the women had practiced over and over for this likelihood. She had hoped they never would have to set an escape in motion.

Finally, Celeste gained enough courage to tentatively peer out from behind the drape. When she had a clear view of the yard she was surprised and relieved to see Priscilla sitting in her car. Celeste’s relief immediately fled when she realized Priscilla’s head was bent over the steering wheel. After a few moments she saw Priscilla slowly lift it and stare at the lighthouse. Her face was nearly as white as the snow lightly falling. Perhaps she was ill. Celeste grabbed a jacket from the hook near the door and headed for the car.

Priscilla caught sight of Celeste and waved halfheartedly. She hastily exited the vehicle.

“I thought you might be ill,” Celeste shouted over the relentless wind. The snow smacked her face.

Priscilla shook her head. She made her way to Celeste though she appeared unsure of where she was going. “Things haven’t gone well over the past couple of days,” she said. “I was thinking through my options.” She walked past Celeste and into the house.

Celeste followed, uncertain what to say or ask. She’d never seen Priscilla in such an odd mood, like a zombie. “Do you want to share what’s going on with me?” she asked as she removed her jacket and brushed off the snow before returning it to the hook.

“No. It’s something I can’t discuss and must handle in my own way,” Priscilla snapped.

Celeste backed away, wondering what could possibly have made Priscilla lash out for no reason. Clearly she faced a weighty problem. What was it? “Well, then. Are you in the mood for group counseling or—?”

“Of course,” Priscilla barked more angrily than before. “Why do you think I drove twenty-five miles to get here?” She rapidly added in a quieter, controlled voice, “I’m sorry, Celeste. I don’t mean to take my problem out on you.”

“If you need this time for yourself, the women will understand.” Celeste placed a comforting hand on Priscilla’s arm. “There’s no need to push yourself.”

Priscilla yanked her arm away. “I said I can handle the group. It’ll take my mind off me and my problem.”

Stunned by yet another uncommon and cross response, Celeste smiled weakly. “The women are waiting in the living room. They’re always anxious to meet with you.” She changed the direction of their conversation to make it more upbeat by talking about a happier subject. “I’m keeping the children who are still awake in my room. They’re watching
Finding Nemo
on DVD. None of them have seen it before.” She furrowed her brow. “Can you imagine?”

Priscilla didn’t respond. She turned from Celeste and walked to the living room. “Good evening,” she greeted the four eagerly waiting women. “Let’s get our group underway.” She sounded like her usual self. Yet Celeste knew better. Priscilla only attempted to hide the devil dragging her into a depth Celeste had never encountered in her before.

The room filled with a low rustling as Priscilla and the women got themselves comfortable for their hour-long group session. For a few moments, Celeste watched them from the doorway. What or who was Priscilla afraid of? Certainly it couldn’t be Celeste? Was it something from her past life with Dwayne?

C
ELESTE LEFT THE GROUP
to their privacy and checked on the children. Adrian’s three and Lisa, Lorraine’s five-year-old, were watching the movie. After Lisa’s relentless pleading, “Pleeeeeease let me stay up this once,” Lorraine and Celeste had given in. Like all the children, Lisa needed a break from her real life and brutal memories as much as Lorraine and the other women did. No one could know how deep the emotional scars dug into their psyches. The movie was the perfect diversion.

The sight of four children sprawled across a bed both comforted and saddened her. She’d never be able to comprehend why anyone would want to hurt a child or a woman.

Celeste surveyed the room, happy she had kept the lighthouse furnished as it had been when it operated as a bed-and-breakfast. She couldn’t possibly have improved on the atmosphere, unlike the dorm-room settings the women might have had to endure in other shelters. And possibly quite different from the places they’d escaped from. The thought of all those safe houses saddened Celeste. She swiped a tear from her eye and hurriedly checked to see if the children had noticed. Fortunately, they were concentrating so hard on every scene in the movie they never saw her. She wouldn’t interrupt their fun.