Winter Break (33 page)

Before Rivers was out the door, Vivian shoved a carton the size of a dishwasher at Harper. ‘I picked this out myself. Open it first.’ She picked up a bottle and refilled her drink.

Harper stared at the box. ‘You really want me to open this?’ It didn’t seem right, after Lou’s death.

Vivian answered by ripping paper off boxes, revealing a multicolored plastic toy chest, a potty seat, a huge stuffed gorilla. And more. A car seat, not the make Harper had chosen. A stroller, not the model Harper wanted. A high chair, not the kind Harper would have bought. Baby clothes – onesies, T-shirts, sweaters, tiny shoes and socks – all yellow. ‘That way, it won’t matter if it’s a boy or a girl,’ Vivian grinned.

There were teething rings. Bibs. A little bathtub with washcloths, towels and a cushion. A portable changing mat. Things Harper hadn’t even thought of yet.

Harper presented her mother with the cozy slippers; Hank got busy assembling the high chair.

‘Ma.’ Harper felt suffocated. ‘This is way too much.’

‘I’m just making sure my grand-baby gets taken care of.’

Harper bristled. Why should Vivian assume only she could take care of the baby? And that she should decide what to buy? What had she left for them to pick out? She’d even selected diapers.

‘You shouldn’t have bought all this.’ Harper’s tone was chilly.

‘No worries.’ Vivian folded onesies. ‘Lou picked up the bill . . .’ She stopped, met Harper’s eyes, as if realizing Lou might have paid with mob money.

‘There.’ Hank presented the assembled high chair, a depressingly dark, ornately carved thing with a tan plastic tray.

Harper frowned at it.

‘You don’t like it.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘I knew you wouldn’t.’

Really? ‘Then why did you get it?’

‘Hoppa—’ Hank tried.

‘I bet you don’t like anything I got, do you?’

‘I didn’t say that—’

‘Well, do you?’ She held up a pair of shoes.

‘Infants don’t need to wear shoes.’

‘Okay. And what about the car seat? Or the stroller?’

‘Ma, you don’t want my opinion. If you did, you’d have asked before you bought everything.’ Stop, she told herself. What was the point of arguing?

‘Sorry, Harper. I only wanted to be helpful.’

‘Ma, did you ever think that maybe Hank and I wanted to pick out some things ourselves . . .?’

‘Oh, forgive me. Forgive me for giving you so many presents.’ Vivian reached for a tissue.

‘Ma, please.’

‘After all I’ve been through, Harper. You have no idea – you just don’t understand me. You never did. No matter how hard my life has been, I’ve always done my best for you—’

‘Really?’ Harper couldn’t stop herself. ‘For me? Are you kidding? Don’t even start—’

‘Enough,’ Hank ordered. ‘Both of you!’

‘That’s what you think?’ Vivian huffed. ‘That I’m all about myself? Well, then it’s a good thing I’m leaving.’

Harper didn’t disagree.

‘I’ll go tomorrow.’

‘If that’s what you want.’

‘Now. Stop.’ Hank faced Harper, his hands firmly on her shoulders. ‘Calm down.’ He turned to Vivian. ‘Not going.’

‘I am—’

‘Not yet. Not like that.’ He glared at one, then the other of them. ‘Wait.’ He reached behind the tree and took out two small boxes. A silver and turquoise bracelet for Vivian. A turquoise pendant for Harper. ‘From. Texas.’

The gifts brought thanks and kisses, apologies for lost tempers. Harper asked her mother to stay; Vivian insisted that she would leave. With Hank home, there was no need for her to remain. And she was eager to move on, had already made plans to go to Mexico. While she talked, Hank cleaned up wrapping paper, ribbons.

It wasn’t until he’d tossed out most of the paper that he noticed the last gift, lost in the mass of gifts surrounding the tree. It was a small box, for Vivian, from Lou. Containing a diamond ring.

Vivian sat, gawking at it. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ she said.

Hank wiped away a tear, grabbed Harper’s hand.

Vivian took it out, slipped it onto the third finger of her left hand. Held it up, showing it off. ‘It looks good, doesn’t it?’ Vivian’s eyes sparkled, delighted with the diamond, as if she hadn’t just cremated the man who’d wanted to marry her.

Hank couldn’t watch, got up and walked away. But Harper stayed, transfixed. More certain than ever that her theory was right, that the ashes on the mantel did not belong to Lou.

Suddenly, Vivian was gone. She left the very next morning. Hank went with her, driving her to the airport in Syracuse. By lunchtime four days after Christmas, ten days after she’d seen Sebastian Levering outside her window, Harper was alone, staring at her computer screen, trying not to be distracted by recent events, by the lingering floral scent of her mother’s embrace or by the cloud of disappointed loneliness that Vivian always left behind.

Not that there had been any drama. Vivian seemed to have forgotten their spat. She’d thanked Harper profusely for her support after Lou’s death, promised to visit after the baby was born, said she’d keep them updated on her itinerary. She’d seemed optimistic, cheery. So cheery, in fact, that Harper had been tempted to ask Vivian if she’d heard from Lou. But she’d held herself back. Vivian might not have heard from him. Even though Lou was probably alive, he might not have been in touch. Might have simply walked away.

Harper stared at the screen and it stared back at her. The Pre-Columbian symbols she was discussing in her dissertation paraded through her head: Jaguars, owls, deer and snakes. Harper yawned, felt the baby swimming around. Thought about the leftover cold cuts. The pastries. Decided to take a break.

Halfway down the stairs, she heard a smashing sound in the kitchen. Probably a melting icicle, crashing onto the deck. She continued down the steps, through the hall. Maybe there was more corned beef. It was salty, but she almost never ate it. Maybe she’d make a special, with cole slaw. On rye.

She headed straight to the refrigerator, had opened it before her mind registered that the deck door was smashed. Harper froze, sensing someone behind her. She wheeled around, holding a bottle of salad dressing like a club, ready to swing. But the bottle was useless.

Sty stood several feet away, holding a gun. Smiling.

Harper gaped, confused. ‘I thought you were dead.’

‘Really? No, I was just home for Christmas.’

‘So, you’re alive.’ She sounded addled.

‘It appears so. But sadly, you’re not going to be for very much longer,’ he said. ‘In fact, not much longer at all.’

Harper tried to grasp it. Sty was there, alive; his body couldn’t have been burned in the Camry. So whose had? She saw Lou, kissing her mother goodbye. Realized that the body was his. That Lou was really, actually dead. A pang of sorrow jolted through her, but Sty stepped closer, his gun aimed at her chest.

‘You got out of the truck.’

He watched her. ‘Did you expect me to stay there? I had to hide in the effing woods all night until the cops left. And by the way, because of you, there’s blood all over my down jacket.’

He’d been in the woods?

‘But I’m not vengeful; really, I harbor no hard feelings.’ Sty came closer. ‘It’s just that you’re the only witness.’

Harper was trapped by the refrigerator door. Her exit was blocked in three directions. ‘The police know everything.’ She eyed the gun. ‘They found Evan and the kids you murdered—’

‘The police won’t be a problem once I explain what happened. You see, I was embarking on a fiction project, but unintentionally became involved with a dangerous psychopath.’

‘They’ve read your journal.’

‘Oh, the journal. That was written as background material for a character in my novel. But Evan took the plot seriously, actually killing people – beating me up, threatening to kill me when I tried to stop him. Terrifying me so completely that I ran home to my parents, staying there until I heard Evan was dead and it was safe to return. I’m deeply traumatized.’ He smiled, stepped closer. ‘Don’t worry about me; I’ll do fine with the authorities. As long as no one contradicts me.’

‘I already have. I told them you and Evan were a team. That you planned your murders together.’ She watched his eyes, gripped the salad dressing.

‘Well, obviously, you misunderstood. After all, you were highly unstable. Hormonally imbalanced.’

Hormonally imbalanced? Again? Why did everybody accuse her of that?

He took another step closer. Stood an arm’s length away. ‘You were so delusional and depressed that, poor thing, you actually took your own life.’ He took a breath. ‘Speaking of which, I suppose you should write a note. Come to the table; I have a pen.’

Harper looked right at him, saw a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. Centered her body and swung.

The bottle came at Sty from the side, smacking his cheekbone, dislodging his nose. He reeled, moaning, and fired the gun, shattering something across the room. Before he could regain his balance, Harper pounced, grabbing the wrist that held the gun, knocking Sty backwards, falling onto him. Feeling a bone snap in his arm. Sty howled, and the gun clattered to the floor. She reached for it, but Sty propelled himself forward, his good arm reaching, fingers clawing.

Sty was bigger, heavier. Harper couldn’t hold him, saw his hand inching toward the gun. She rolled off him, scuttling backwards, covering it with her body while her arms fought to push Sty away. But she couldn’t; he was on his knees leaning over her, his unbroken arm reaching down toward the gun; then he stopped, suddenly withdrawing the arm. And instead of scrapping with her, he raised his torso, made a fist. And aimed it at her belly.

Harper looked at it, at the cold light in his eyes. As Sty lifted his fist to deliver his blow, she lifted her hips to reach under her back. Before he could land his punch, she pulled the gun out and fired.

The police came. The media. The coroner. A cleaning crew. And finally, it was quiet.

Days passed peacefully. Harper’s injuries healed; the ones on her wrists left dark jagged scars. The media stopped talking about the deadly duo of Sty and Evan, the murdered students, even about the one still missing. Ornament by ornament, Harper and Hank dismantled the tree; the living room seemed huge and empty without it.

Even on crutches, Hank managed to return most of Vivian’s gifts. The stroller, car seat, playhouse, toy chest, even the high chair went back so that he and Harper could buy what they wanted.

They celebrated New Year’s Eve with a steak dinner, making lists of baby names, and they fell asleep before the ball dropped on Times Square. They fixed up the nursery. Placed Vivian’s stuffed gorilla in the corner. Put her yellow clothing into a new dresser. Hung a monkey mobile over the crib.

Harper’s belly seemed suddenly enormous and the baby became relentlessly active. Because her contractions held at a steady rate, she had to continue resting and rarely went out. Leslie came to the house for appointments, but mostly, she and Hank were alone, the house silent. Harper consoled herself with the knowledge that winter break was almost over, that Vicki and her other friends would soon be home. Students would return to campus; the fraternity next door would hop to life. Maybe then she’d stop watching its sulking mass out her window. Maybe she’d stop dreaming of burning cars, of bloody knives. Of Sty appearing in the kitchen. With a gun.

Most days, Harper spent a few hours working on her dissertation. Four days into the New Year, she was at her computer, struggling to complete a sentence, when the doorbell rang and she heard Hank invite someone in.

A moment later, she heard Detective Rivers’ voice and stiffened, saving her work. ‘This can’t be good,’ she told the baby. When Rivers came over, it never was.

Rivers nodded at her middle. ‘How you feeling?’

‘Huge.’

They smiled. Exchanged New Year greetings. Sat in the now tidy living room.

‘So, your mom took off? Was she okay?’

‘Fine, amazingly. Eager to see the world.’

Rivers watched her. Hank offered coffee; she thanked him, declined.

‘Once again, I’m here to give you a heads up.’

The back of Harper’s neck tingled.

‘It’ll be on the news. The last missing kid turned up.’

‘Dead?’ The word came out unbidden.

Rivers looked at the floor.

Hank sat beside Harper, took her hand.

‘Was it – did Evan and Sty do it?’

‘Actually, this one looks like it might have been unintentional. The victim was Sebastian Levering’s boyfriend. He was in their new apartment. Furniture wasn’t even moved in yet.’

Why was Rivers telling them this?

‘The kid who rents the adjoining apartment came back from winter break and complained of a smell. The super smelled it and called us, and we found the source.’

‘But. How come telling us?’ Hank put an arm around Harper, protective.

‘Because of this.’ Rivers reached into her parka pocket, pulled out a baggie. In it was the key. Harper’s key. ‘The body was found locked in a closet.’

‘Oh God.’ Harper sat up straight, staring at the baggie.

‘This key opened it.’ She put it back in her pocket. ‘The door was heavy, and the lock was, too. The kid clawed and rammed and kicked himself bloody trying to get out, but the lock held.’ She shook her head. ‘Really tough. Looks like he died of dehydration.’

Dehydration? Lord, that took days. Slow, agonizing days. He must have screamed. Why hadn’t anyone heard?

‘The building was empty for the holidays.’

Oh God.

Rivers sighed. ‘Our theory is that Sebastian locked his boyfriend in. Maybe they had a fight. Or maybe it was a practical joke or who knows what. But for whatever reason, it looks like Sebastian got him into the closet, locked the door and left, taking the key. No doubt he planned to let him out when he came back.’

Harper clenched her jaw, braced for what Rivers would say next.

‘Except, as we know, he never did.’

Hank walked Rivers out to her car, came back with the mail.

‘Your mom. Wrote.’

Harper was making hoagies, popped a piece of salami in her mouth, spun around.

Hank read a postcard. ‘Already. Has new boyfriend.’

No surprise. ‘Where is she?’ She reached for the card.