Tell Me You're Sorry (4 page)

“No, I don't think I will,” Stephanie murmured. It wouldn't have given her much satisfaction. And it wouldn't have brought her sister back.

“I don't know why I was so hell-bent to marry Halle so quickly,” he said. Stephanie thought she heard ice rattling in a glass—and then him slurping. “Guess I just wanted to feel normal again—and I didn't want to lose her. She was the first decent thing to happen to me since Rebecca. But like I say, I'm just not over her. As much as I've tried, I can't wrap my head around what she did. It still gnaws away at me.”

Stephanie found herself nodding over the phone. “Not a day goes by that I don't ask myself why . . .”

“Did she ever say anything to you about a Father's Day card?” he asked.

Stephanie frowned. “What Father's Day card?”

“Nothing, it's just Father's Day was that same weekend, and I—well, never mind. If she got some upsetting news that day, she would have called you, right? I mean, you two talked about everything. You two didn't have any secrets from each other.”

“Well, that's what I used to think,” Stephanie said. She and Scott had been through all this before. It was actually a relief to know she wasn't the only one still haunted by what her sister had done.

“What did you start to say about Father's Day?” she asked, her grip tightening on the cell phone. “If you know or suspect something, tell me. I don't care how far-fetched it seems, any theory you have—any possible explanation—”

“Rebecca scribbled something on the bathroom mirror in lipstick,” he said, cutting her off. “I—I wiped it clean before the cops or anyone else could see.”

“What?” she whispered. She couldn't believe he hadn't said anything about this before. “Becky wrote something on the mirror—you mean, like a suicide note? You're just telling me this now?”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“What did she write?”

More silence.

“Scott, for God's sake, what did it say? Why did you erase it?”

“All it said was, ‘Hate you,' ” he muttered. “I'm assuming it was meant for me, but I'm not sure why—or what it means. I couldn't face anyone asking me about it, especially when I had no idea what the answer was. Whatever, it made me ashamed. So—I—I erased the damn thing.”

Stephanie numbly stared at the storm outside. She wondered what Scott had done to push Rebecca toward suicide. What was he hiding? Or did he truly not have a clue?

“Steffi, are you there?”

“Yes,” she said, straightening in the chair.

“There was never any problem between Rebecca and me that we couldn't work out,” he said, his words slurred. “I just don't get it . . .”

A beep sounded on the line. Stephanie squinted at the screen on her cell:

It was the airline dispatcher. She realized she was late checking in for her next flight. They were probably wondering where she was. It went to her voice mail.

“Scott, I've got to go,” she said, gathering up her meager dinner.

“You're mad, you're upset.”

“The airline's trying to get ahold of me. And yes, I'm upset, but more confused than anything else. I'll call you tomorrow morning, okay?”

“All right, but listen, I want you to think about something—”

“Scott, I really have to go.”

“I get it. But I'm just saying I want you to come stay with us at Christmas—if you can get the time off. Will you think about it? I want you to meet Halle. And besides, if today proved anything, it's that we need you here to help us through the next major holiday.”

Stephanie smiled. “I'll think about it. Talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Steffi.”

She stuffed the remnants of her dinner into a trash can. “Happy Thanksgiving, Scott.”

Stephanie heard him hang up on the other end of the line as she hurried toward her departing gate. She would have to wait until later to think about Rebecca's cryptic message on the mirror.

Right now, she had to navigate through a storm.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

 

T
he screen panel in front of Stephanie showed her heart rate was 109. In the last three minutes she'd been going nowhere for 0.22 miles at 66 RPM. After spending most of her day in a cockpit staring at a panel of lights, numbers, and buttons, she unwound on an elliptical machine, staring at a panel of lights, numbers, and buttons. It was one of two elliptical machines in the Holiday Inn's mini-gym.

Stephanie was the only one in the place at 9:20 on that Thanksgiving night.

As one of three female pilots with the airline, Stephanie was sort of a loner. She always felt like she had to set an example. She didn't want to be seen in the hotel bar, not even with a Coke in her hand, because someone might think there was rum in it. The flight attendants didn't associate with her, because she wasn't quite one of them. Whenever they had a layover, and the flight attendants partied in one of the hotel rooms, Stephanie wasn't invited. So she always took to the hotel gym. It beat sitting alone in her room in front of the Food Network.

She hadn't quite worked up a sweat yet. Her brown hair was swept back in a ponytail, and she wore black sweatpants and a Pacific Cascade Skyways T-shirt. With her iPhone headset, she listened to her “workout” compilation of 1980s hits. The same lineup of familiar favorite songs was a comfort while on the road in various hotels. Right now, Corey Hart was singing “Sunglasses at Night.” He drowned out the low-volume chatter from the TV on the wall. The E! Channel was having some “Celebrity Train Wreck” countdown, with comments from a bunch of comedians she'd never heard of.

Outside the window to her left, a light snow gently fell. Two big windows in front of her looked at the indoor pool and Jacuzzi—both deserted. The lights were dimmed in there, and the rippling shadows from the illuminated pool made the place look eerie.

As she toiled away on the apparatus, Stephanie tried to focus on the numbers flashing across the panel in front of her. But she couldn't stop thinking about Scott's revelation earlier today. Before slashing her own throat, Rebecca had left a note telling Scott that she hated him. Why? What had he done to her?

Scott had been right: at the first sign of a crisis, Rebecca and she were on the phone with each other. Why hadn't her sister called her that day? Had suicide been Rebecca's only option?

Stephanie wished she could discuss it with someone. But the only person she could talk to wouldn't appreciate her calling right now.

He was having Thanksgiving with his family.

It was an hour earlier in Portland. Still, they should have wrapped things up by now. Certainly he realized her first Thanksgiving since her sister's death would be rough on her. He should have snuck away and called her on his cell. He'd done that last year—or had it been on Christmas?

She'd been seeing Oregon Congressman Jim Dunning for over two years now. But practically no one knew about it.

Rebecca used to say that on some subconscious level, Stephanie had paired up with a man who wasn't really available to her. Maybe after the sudden deaths of their mom and dad, she'd been afraid to depend on anyone again. So it was safer to go after someone who would never fully belong to her.

Perhaps her sister was right. At one time, she'd come to depend on Rebecca and Scott, too. But while she'd been attending college in Eugene, they'd up and moved from Portland to the other side of the country. If she was truly wary of becoming too reliant on someone, her sister and brother-in-law had sure contributed to that hang-up. But she'd never told Rebecca that.

She'd met Jim Dunning during a rare “whitemare” snowstorm that had closed the Portland airport one night two Decembers ago. The airline had sent her home, but she'd missed the last shuttle downtown. Stephanie was shivering and wet from the thick snow that practically came down sideways. Towing her small suitcase on wheels, she'd been trying in vain to hail a taxi when a limousine pulled up to the Arrivals curb. The back window descended with a hum, and the passenger inside smiled out at her. He reminded her of Tom Hanks. When he asked if she needed a ride, he seemed more friendly than flirty. She liked how he got out and helped her with her suitcase—instead of letting his chauffeur take care of it.

The drive to her house over icy roads was intense and scary. They passed several cars that had spun off the road, their hazard lights flashing in the snowy night. Once she'd told him she was a pilot, Stephanie had to act like the winter storm was no big deal. But after a while, she didn't have to fake it. Something about Jim Dunning made her feel safe.

He was honest with her from the start. On their first date, he told her that his wife had died eight months before, succumbing to a long battle with cancer. He had a ten-year-old daughter, Maura, who still struggled with the loss. He'd just been reelected to his congressional seat, thanks mostly to campaign funds from his deceased wife's rich, influential parents. He had absolutely no business dating anyone at that point in time. Even if he and she ended up hitting it off, they'd have to keep their relationship hush-hush for a while. Stephanie remembered him saying he wouldn't blame her if she refused to go out with him again.

Two years later, she lamented over the phone to her sister that she had only herself to blame. She'd known the score when she'd started seeing Jim. He hadn't deceived her at all.

“Yeah, well, he's deceiving his constituents and his in-laws and his daughter,” Rebecca had pointed out. “As far as they're concerned, you don't exist. I don't condone it, but I can understand why he kept you a secret for a few months after the election. His ‘handsome widower' image won him the lonely housewife vote. All right, yeah, I get it. But it's been going on way too long, Steffi. You need to tell him, ‘Either we go public or I go.' ”

Stephanie simply couldn't issue that ultimatum to him. What if he told her to go?

Jim had tried a few times to tell his daughter and in-laws that he wanted to start dating again. But apparently whenever the subject came up, his daughter would get teary and his in-laws turned cold with disapproval. At least, that was what he claimed. So Stephanie never had any dates out with him in public, except at a handful of little restaurants that had become their regular secret spots.

His in-laws were a constant presence and kept him on a tight leash. Jim was always terrified they—or perhaps his political enemies—were having him watched. Whenever Stephanie sensed that paranoia in him, it made everything seem so ugly and sordid. What drove her crazy was that absolutely no one was getting hurt by their relationship—no one except her.

“You're there for him,” Rebecca had said. “But he's never really there for you.”

In the wake of her suicide, Rebecca's prophecy was fulfilled. Stephanie realized Jim had a tough time fitting her sister's death into his busy schedule. To his credit, he'd managed to drive by Stephanie's house to console her for forty-five minutes before she'd taken off to New York for her sister's funeral. He'd given her a blooming plant with a sympathy card, and arranged for a limo to take her to the airport. During the cross-country flight, she kept thinking,
If only he'd driven me to the airport himself, it might have made a difference.
Instead, he'd just stuck her in the limo and waved a somber good-bye.

Of course, she never voiced her disappointment to him. She didn't make any demands or issue any ultimatums. With Rebecca gone, she couldn't risk losing anyone else who was important to her.

Stephanie remembered the argument she'd had with Scott on the phone after finding out about his hasty marriage to Halle. “Know what I think?” he'd retorted at one point. “I think you're jealous. Makes sense you'd jump all over my ass for not taking a long enough ‘grieving period.' Tell me, how long has your congressman-boyfriend been
grieving
for his dead wife? Almost three years, right? Is that how long I'm supposed to wait, Steffi? Am I supposed to string Halle along for another two years—the way Jim's been stringing
you
along? I don't think Halle would stand for it. I'm sorry, but not everyone is as big a chump as you are, Steffi.”

As she watched her heart rate go up to 120 on the elliptical machine, Stephanie told herself not to expect a call from Jim tonight. He was with his family. “As far as they're concerned, you don't exist.” Here she had this revelation about her sister's suicide, and she couldn't tell the one person closest to her—not until he called her.

Scott was right, damn him. She was a chump.

Looking up, she glimpsed the silhouette of a tall man at the double doors leading to the pool area. He stood in the doorway for a moment.

Stephanie realized she was staring. She glanced up and feigned interest in the E! Channel. Then out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the doors closing. One of them kept swinging back and forth on its own. She didn't see the man. Had he gone? Or had he ducked into the pool area?

Stephanie's heart rate reading on the machine shot up to 141. She stopped walking in place and tried to catch her breath.

The pool area still looked deserted.

She took off her headset. She didn't hear anything past the E! Channel's announcer. She told herself the man had retreated down the hotel corridor. Besides, even if he was somewhere in the shadows where she couldn't see him, he was probably a paying guest of the hotel. He had every right to be there. What was wrong with her tonight? Why was she so on edge?

Stepping off the apparatus, Stephanie moved over to the window to the pool area. She could see her slightly frightened reflection in the darkened glass. No one was in the swimming area. She was alone.

With a sigh, she looked at her iPhone and switched over to call mode. Sometimes, when she was on the road, Jim would leave her a message at home—knowing she wasn't there and wouldn't get it until later. “Hi, honey, I'm scab-calling you,” he'd say. He'd scab-call when he didn't have time to talk, but wanted her to know he was thinking of her. Stephanie wondered if he'd scab-called tonight.

She dialed her home phone number and punched in the code for the answering machine. “You have three messages,” announced the mechanical voice. She'd checked her landline messages earlier tonight—after touching down in Pocatello. The first two she'd already heard: one from her friends, Ben and Erica Weaver, who had invited her to spend Thanksgiving with them at their cabin in Spokane. She skipped over it. The second message she'd already listened to as well. It was Scott and the kids, wishing her a Happy Thanksgiving. “Halle sends her best,” Scott had chimed in. Stephanie had figured she'd been too busy with the Turducken to come to the phone.

She skipped to the third message—the one she hadn't heard yet. “Thursday, eight-ten, p-m,” announced the mechanical voice.

The phone to her ear, Stephanie stared out at the pool area and waited for Jim's voice.

“Aunt Steffi?” It was CC, whispering so quietly Stephanie could barely hear her. She sounded terrified. “Oh, God, this can't be happening. Halle, she's . . . Aunt Steffi, she—”

Suddenly, CC let out a startled cry. There was a strange, garbled noise, and then the line went dead.

Stephanie's grip tightened on the phone.

“End of messages,” the machine announced.

All at once, she couldn't breathe. Her heart was racing again. She told herself not to panic. Her niece was playing a prank on her. That was what teenage girls did at eleven o'clock at night when they were bored. If it was a real emergency, why call her? She was on the other side of the country, unable to do anything.

Speed-dialing her sister's house, Stephanie glanced up at the clock on the mini-gym's wall. CC had left the message about a half hour ago. Stephanie figured with the time difference, everyone else in the house was probably asleep by now—if they were all okay. She counted the ringtones, hoping to hear CC answer on the other end. Eight rings and nothing. Even the answering machine wasn't picking up.

Stephanie scrolled down the list of numbers on her phone, and tried CC's cell. After two rings, Stephanie heard a click. “CC?” she asked anxiously.

“The cellular customer you're trying to reach is not available at this time,” announced a computerized voice. “Please leave a message after the tone or hang up and try your call again later.”

Stephanie waited for the beep. “CC, honey, what's going on?” she asked. “I got your message on my home line. What's happening there? You have me really scared, honey. Call me on my cell as soon as you can, okay? I'll try to get ahold of your dad. I don't want to contact the police unless . . .” She sighed. “Well, just call me, all right?”

She tried Scott's cell. After two rings, it went to voice mail—not his personal greeting, but the same automated response she'd gotten when she'd phoned CC.

“Scott, what's going on there?” Stephanie asked after the prompt. “CC left a message. It sounded like someone was attacking her. And now none of you are picking up. I don't know what to do here. Call me—on my cell.”

It still didn't make sense that CC would call her home phone. Her niece knew she was on the road. The only explanation was—maybe in her panic CC had dialed the first number that came to mind. It was on the top of a list of numbers by the phone in Rebecca's kitchen.

With a shaky hand, Stephanie dialed directory assistance for area code 914 and asked for Croton-on-Hudson, New York. She was torn between asking for the local police or for the number of Rebecca's friend and next-door neighbor, Kit Boling. She was a divorcee with two daughters. Their house could be seen through the trees from Scott and Rebecca's living room window. It was Kit who had put up Scott's mother for the funeral. Kit also had an extra set of keys to Rebecca's house in case of an emergency—or at least, she used to. Maybe things were different now with Halle in the picture.