Sunset City (15 page)

Sally had told me the same thing and I hadn't believed her.

“If she changed her mind, why would Brandon kill her?” I said. “It makes no sense.”

“Exactly,” Audrey said. “That's what I've been saying.”

“How do you know all this? About the deal with Sally? How do you know about Hawaii?”

“She called me. Didn't I tell you? I went there as soon as I got her message.”

“Went where?” I said. “When was this?”

“Help me pack this shit. Hey, here's your dress. I told you I'd give it back.”

She tossed me the yellow sundress that she'd borrowed. I ignored it and it fell to the floor. I could hear blood beating in my head. My mind, slow and cold, tried to put it together. Danielle and Brandon fought, and Danielle went to the motel. At some point she called Audrey. Danielle changed her mind about the land, like Sally said. She talked to Sally and negotiated her new deal. Audrey went to meet her.

“You were at the motel,” I said. “That's what you're telling me?”

She kept filling the bag, her back to me.

“Did you see Brandon there?” I said.

“No.”

“Did you see anybody else? What time did you leave?”

“I don't know, I didn't keep track.” She turned to me, stricken. “Do you think if I stayed, she'd still be alive?”

“Oh, god. You've been driving yourself crazy, haven't you?”

“I guess,” she said.

“What about what's-his-name? Eddie?” I said. “The guy Danielle would meet there.”

“How the fuck do you know about Eddie?”

“Ash told me.”

Audrey laughed. “I forgot I told him about that. That's not even his real name. We called them all Eddie.”

“What do you mean, all? How many were there?”

“I don't know, a few. It wasn't even the money. She liked it, she got off on it. Dani was so twisted.”

“Well, maybe it was one of them?”

“No one was there,” she said. “Just us.”

“Did the cops know this? When did you leave?”

“Let's do some lines, all right? Is there any more?”

“I can't,” I said. “I don't feel well. Come on, tell me what happened.”

“She was saying this stuff, her big plans, and I was like, okay, cool. Hawaii, right? Let's go. But she goes, ‘Audrey, I was thinking by myself. Leaving everything behind.' Like I'm what she wants to get away from.”

She started to cry again, stuttering over the words. It annoyed me. I felt impatient.

“Go on,” I said.

“Everybody leaves me,” she said. “Everybody.”

“What happened, Audrey?”

“Look, it doesn't have to be Hawaii. Let's go to California. You would like California. I've been there before. I've been to the ocean. Have you ever seen the ocean?”

“No.”

“Please come with me,” she said.

She hunched over the coke on the table. She was blotchy from tears, skinny and red-eyed as a drowning kitten. I could easily picture her at fifteen, hiding in a dirty barn. She didn't look pretty, or like anyone I wanted to go anywhere with. I thought of Danielle, her head beaten in, the blood.

“It was you,” I said. “You killed her.”

She sat in the kitchen chair, trembling, her big eyes open. She didn't say a word. She didn't say no. After a minute she took a breath and said, “Come on. We better go.”

She reached for my hand and I heard a guttural animal noise coming from my own throat. I recoiled and she gripped my arm, fingernails digging into my wrist. Our eyes met. I couldn't hold her gaze.

“We can be together,” she said.

“No,” I said.

She was hurting me. I tried to pull my arm away from her. Her blow knocked me into the wall. I hadn't seen it coming. I shook my head, dizzy and stunned, and doubled over as she pummeled my torso with her fists. She was stronger than I thought. She hit me again and again. She kept coming at me. I used the wall for support and kicked her shin, yanked her hair, and pulled her off.

She lunged at me. I grabbed her arms and tried to hold them at her sides—if I let go she'd attack me. I shoved her down and knelt on top of her. She kicked and struggled. I didn't know how to fight. I didn't want to hurt her. I had to make her stop but I wasn't strong enough. She shoved me and I stumbled and fell. I scrambled back, to the wall behind me. The vodka bottle had rolled into the corner and I reached for it. I felt a kick to the side of my head and slumped against the wall. Audrey kicked me again and I curled into a ball over the bottle. I could hear her breathing. She leaned over, panting, her hand on the couch for support.

“You don't love me,” she said.

I stared up at her. I could barely breathe.

“You always leave,” she said. “Everyone leaves.”

She moved towards me, knelt, and then lunged at me, her fingernails pushing at my eyes. I raised my arm, brought the bottle down on her head. The glass didn't break. The thud traveled up my arm, to my stomach, between my legs. I hit her again and the bottle broke into shards that cut my hand. She fell to her knees and collapsed sideways. I heaved, tasted vodka and bile. My body convulsed and a froth filled my head. My vision wobbled. I struggled to focus. I stayed where I was for several minutes, watching Audrey. She lay still, in a heap. I was afraid she was dead at first, but then I saw her breathing. I backed away from her, still holding the jagged broken handle of
the bottle in one hand, in case she attacked me again. I ignored the blood streaming down my arm and found my phone with my other hand. I called Ash, cleaned away the drugs, and sat down on the floor. I watched Audrey's chest rise and fall, shallowly, while I waited for the sound of sirens.

A
sh came, and some squad cars, and a team of EMTs. They put Audrey on a stretcher. Another EMT made me come with him to an ambulance parked outside. I breathed deeply and pain flexed through me. I still had spots in front of my eyes. Ash sat with me. I told him Audrey had killed Danielle. And her stepfather, a long time ago.

The EMT tended the cut on my hand, picking out shards of glass. He checked my blood pressure and my heartbeat and peered into my eyes. I didn't care if he could tell I was on drugs. Lying down was nice. Cops crammed the place, bustled around urgently. Strangely, I felt hungry. Ash got somebody to give me a candy bar, and I grew stronger with the first bite. From the back of the ambulance I watched the people come and go, talking into their phones.

They took me to the hospital and kept me overnight, for observation. My ribs weren't broken, only bruised, but the doctors were worried I had a concussion. I told them I didn't have insurance, and they let me go in the morning. I changed out of the gown they'd given me and back into my dirty clothes, smell
ing like vodka and rust. I took a cab to my car, still parked at Audrey's apartment complex. I got in and drove home. I slept for two days, waking periodically and swallowing the pain pills they'd given me at the hospital before drifting off again.

I woke early in the morning to the noise of the garbage truck muscling down the block. I listened to the neighborhood getting ready for work, to the rattling cart of the homeless guy who stayed in my neighbor's carport. I showered and dressed carefully, mindful of my bruised ribs.

I went out for coffee, bought the
Chronicle,
and spread the paper over the café table. I read each article carefully. Kelsey Langford was her real name. The papers talked about Danielle and Brandon, and also the fire in Nebraska, when Kelsey was fifteen. I sipped coffee and examined the articles. They'd got hold of some old photos from her high school yearbook. Sophomore year, the year of the fire. They printed a school portrait of a pale, dark-haired girl, her bangs nearly covering her eyes. Next to it was a team photo of the cheerleading squad in pyramid formation. She was second from the top. Her face was so small it looked like dots.

In the best image—a candid shot, full color—she wore her cheerleading uniform, a short skirt revealing bony teenage legs. Audrey held a soft drink can. It was fall, late afternoon. Gold light fell her face. Her lashes cast shadows. The camera had captured some element in her face of darkness, of death, of the coming winter. She looked strong and damaged, eerily adultlike.

I recognized myself in some of the articles: “Langford was apprehended after an altercation with a local woman . . .” Those people, Kelsey Langford and a local woman—they sounded like strangers. I folded the paper and left it on a bench.

Later that afternoon Ash came by. He brought flowers, a bouquet of grocery-store carnations wrapped in paper.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“A little better. I'll make it.”

I took the flowers to the kitchen. I didn't own a vase, so I filled a tall glass with water and stuck the bouquet in it.

“Thanks for these,” I said.

Ash shrugged. “I thought I'd tell you in person,” he said. “She confessed to Danielle's murder. The other thing, her stepfather's death, I doubt anyone will prosecute it because she was a juvenile. But she'll plead guilty to Danielle. It's really over now.”

I nodded. “That's good, I guess.”

Ash gave a grim smile. “There's nothing good about the way this turned out,” he said. “Charlotte, I'm sorry. I put you at risk. I overlooked her. We were so focused on Brandon Young. I let you get hurt.”

“I was the one hanging out with her. Like a fucking idiot.”

“No,” he said. “It was my responsibility. This is my job and I fucked it up. I never wanted you in the middle of it.”

“I know you didn't,” I said. “Listen, I'm okay. I handled it on my own. And now your case is solved.”

“That's true.”

“So let it go. Or, you know, say thank you or something.”

“Thank you, Charlotte.”

“You're welcome.”

There was an awkward silence, and I wondered if he was going to bring up our dinner date. I felt tired of his guilt, his advice and protection. My side ached and I wanted to lie down, take another pill. Before he said anything, I stood up.

“I should really get some rest,” I said.

“Of course. I'll go.” He kissed me on the cheek. “Maybe when you're feeling better—”

“I have your number,” I said.

“Right, okay. Take care, Charlotte.”

“I will.”

The sound of his car driving away gave me the sense that it was really, finally over. I wasn't going to call him.

I went into Common Grounds the next day to talk to Andrew about my job. I sat in the office with him for an hour and explained everything that had been going on—the fight with Audrey, her arrest.

“Things can get back to normal now,” I said. “You know me, you know I've been a good employee.”

He said he'd think about it and talk to the other stores, see if they needed anyone to fill in.

“That would be great,” I said. “I have a car, I can go to the Heights or the Galleria. It would be even better, really.”

“Okay,” he said. “I'll let you know what I find out.”

“Thank you,” I said. I nearly hugged him.

It hurt too much to run, but I went for a long walk in the early evening once the temperature eased off. At home I sat on the steps, sweating, melting into the soft air. Sally called. She said she needed to see me.

“Can you stop by tomorrow?” she said. “It's important.”

“Okay,” I said, sighing. I wondered if there would ever be a time when I could say no to her.

I drove to her house the next afternoon. She answered the door wearing jeans and a faded T-shirt, her hair in a ponytail. I tried to remember if I'd ever seen her dressed that way. She looked totally different, softer, middle-aged.

“Come on in,” she said.

We went to Danielle's old room. She'd kept it the same. The
old brass bed and quilt, the framed posters on the walls. Open cardboard boxes were lined up next to the closet.

“I'm cleaning,” Sally said. “Getting rid of this old stuff. I thought Danielle would take it someday, but now there's no reason to keep it.”

“Sally, are you sure? What if you change your mind later?”

“I won't. I'm putting the house on the market,” she said. “It's too big. Too many memories.”

I frowned. It was disconcerting to think Sally wasn't going to live here. This place was one of my landmarks.

“Remember this skirt?” Sally said. “She always wore it, when was that? Tenth grade?”

“Eleventh.”

“It's cute. I bet it would fit you, you're so tiny. Will you take it? Can you use this stuff?”

“I guess,” I said. “If you want.”

“It was hers,” she said. “It should go to you.”

“Okay.”

“There's something else, too. The real reason I wanted you to come.” She picked up a large gray envelope from Danielle's old vanity and handed it to me. “Open it,” she said.

Inside was a sheaf of forms from the Bank of Texas. “What is this?” I said.

“I set up a trust for you. There's half a million dollars in it. The money that would have gone to Danielle. I want you to have it.”

I sat down on the bed, dropped the papers beside me. I felt a sudden vertigo.

Sally was grinning across the room at me. “Well, honey? What do you say?”

“I can't take this,” I said. “It's not right.”

“Sweetie, you can't
not
take it.”

“It's too much,” I said.

She laughed. “When it comes to cash, darlin', there's no such thing. Besides, you deserve it.”

“No, I don't.”

“Sure, you do. Something good for a change.”

I felt claustrophobic. Half a million dollars. Jesus.

“It's not about deserving anything,” I said. “Danielle didn't deserve what happened to her. Not back then, the abuse. How you let it happen. She didn't deserve to be murdered.”

“Charlotte, stop it.”

Her big smile was gone. I'd erased it.

“All you ever did was throw money at her. You didn't protect her. It didn't help when she was little. And then it got her killed.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This is why Audrey killed her,” I said. “This money is why she died. Didn't they tell you what happened?”

“Of course they told me. I'm her goddamn mother, Charlotte. I tried to help her. That woman was crazy. You can't blame me for her actions.”

I stared at the thick gray envelope, felt its gravitational pull. I shuddered.

Sally was still talking, her voice softer now. “They told me how you were in the middle of it, how you figured it out. That you caught her. Charlotte, I can't imagine what it was like. It must have been horrible.”

“I didn't figure anything out,” I said. “Audrey told me, that's all.”

“That's not what the detective said.”

“He wasn't there, he doesn't know anything.”

“Just take it, Charlotte.” She held the envelope out to me again.

“You're only giving it to me because she's dead. It should be hers.”

“You're right, it should. But that's not where we are, is it? Danielle wanted it. You should want it, too. For your future. You can do anything now. College, go to the best school you can find. Travel. You'll never have to worry, do you understand? You'll be secure.”

I couldn't see it, couldn't stand the idea. Travel? Who did she think I was?

“Give it to someone else,” I said. “Give it to charity. Find some organization for rape and incest survivors.”

“Charlotte, stop it. You're acting like a child.”

“I don't want it,” I said.

“Of course you want it. It's already done, anyway. If you don't want to spend it, fine. It can sit there and accrue interest until you change your mind. You don't have a choice. It's my money and I'm giving it to you.”

She picked up a stuffed animal, a unicorn with a puffy silver horn. “This was her favorite,” Sally said, her voice thick with tears.

“I've never seen it before.”

“Maybe you don't know everything,” she said. “Did you ever consider that? I gave this to her when she was seven years old. Long before you met her. She always saved it.”

Sally tossed the unicorn aside. It landed in a box of clothes.

“Charlotte, my daughter died. My
daughter
. I used to hold her in my arms. She used to run to me when I came home from work every afternoon. I've made mistakes, I know that. I've also made a lot of money. Why shouldn't I give it to you? Let this be one good thing that I have done. Please.”

“You can't fix what you did to her. Money can't fix it,” I said.

“Charlotte, that's not what I'm trying to do.”

“Bullshit,” I said. “You're using me again. I don't want to be the stand-in. You can't buy your way out of your guilt. It won't work.”

“I know that,” she said. “I know it's too late.”

I was ready to argue, still furious, but she sounded so broken and sad I couldn't think of anything to say. She was right, I was acting like a child, ungrateful and cruel. She'd lost her daughter. What did I know about how that felt?

“Well, this isn't how I thought this would go,” Sally said, her voice cold, mechanical. “Take this stuff, will you? Get it out of here.” She left the room, shut the door behind her.

I stayed in there a long time, looking through the boxes. Clothes, shoes, old schoolwork, flyers for shows. Ancient history. I opened the window and smoked cigarettes like we used to back in high school. I'd slept in this room hundreds of times, woken up to the view of the oaks out the back window and Danielle in bed beside me, her scratchy legs kicking me as she dreamed. I knew the contours of the furniture in the dark, the texture of the walls. Everything was the same except for the gray envelope on Danielle's old marble-top bureau. She wasn't coming back.

I set the unicorn on the bed and started loading boxes into my car. Once they were all piled in the trunk, I went back to Danielle's room for the gray envelope. I searched the house until I found Sally, in the TV room on the third floor. She was sitting in the middle of the carpet, boxes scattered all around her. She was weeping quietly.

“Sally,” I said, knocking on the open door.

She looked up.

“I don't know if I could ever pay it back,” I said.

“It's a gift. I don't expect you to. I don't want anything in return.”

“Yes, you do,” I said. I just wanted her to know I knew.

“Okay, so I do,” she said. “I want you to do something good with your life. And maybe stay in touch. It's not too much to ask, is it?”

“No, it's not too much to ask.”

“So you'll take it?”

I nodded.

“Good,” she said.

She stood and came to me, put her arms around me. I hugged her back. Her child was dead. She didn't have to do this for me. She didn't have to think about me at all, but she was. Maybe that was a kind of love.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“You're welcome.”

She walked me to the front door and kissed me on the cheek.

Behind the wheel, I eased the car out of River Oaks. It was getting dark. The outside air vibrated around me. Cicadas whined in the trees, and a slow wet breeze signaled summer beginning. The city felt gentle and open. I cruised west on Memorial, taking the curves through the golf course. The reflective stripes of runners' shoes flashed along the trail. At the Loop I entered the on-ramp. I remembered driving this way with Audrey, that night after the funeral. It seemed impossibly long ago, and innocent. We were on our way to buy coke; we were sad and we wanted to feel better.