“Can I have some?” Holly croaks. “I’m thirsty.”
They look around. They salute her with those tall glasses and drink. There are lemon wedges stuck in the rims of the glasses, which are beaded with condensation. Holly thinks of how much she would like to stick out her tongue to lick those little drops of condensate from the sides of their glasses. She’d lick them all the way to the top, suck the lemon wedges, then drain them both.
“You couldn’t handle that much money,” Uncle Henry says, and sips. “We did it for your own good.”
“You’re fragile,” Charlotte says, and takes her own sip. So delicate! How can she not just guzzle? Holly would guzzle both glasses, if only they would give them to her.
Charlotte holds hers out to Holly. “You can have it.”
Uncle Henry holds his out. “You can have this one, too.”
And together, chanting like children: “As soon as you agree to stop all this dangerous foolishness and come home.”
Holly claws her way out of this dream. Reality is the cage in the Harris basement. Her ribs still hurt and the wound in her arm feels like somebody drenched it with lighter fluid and set it on fire, but those pains are subservient to her thirst, which is unrelenting. At least the gash from the bullet seems to have stopped bleeding; what’s on her makeshift bandage is brown instead of red. She thinks pulling the shirt off the wound is going to hurt a great deal, but that’s nothing she has to worry about now.
She gets to her feet and goes to the bars. The body of Rodney Harris lies near the stairs. Emily has fallen out of her final slumped-over crouch and lies on her side. She must have left the door to the kitchen open because flies have gathered, sampling Roddy’s spilled blood. There’s plenty to sample.
Holly thinks, I would sell my soul for a glass of beer… and I don’t even like beer.
She thinks of how her dream ended, that childlike chant: As soon as you agree to stop all this dangerous foolishness and come home.
She assures herself that someone will come. Someone has to come. The question is what kind of shape she’ll be in when that happens. Or if she’ll be alive at all. Yet even now, hurting all over, with two bodies outside the cage in which she is locked, raging with thirst…
“I regret nothing,” she croaks. “Nothing.”
Well, one thing. Hiding behind the chainsaws was a big mistake.
Holly thinks, I need to learn to trust myself more. Will have to work on that.
Barbara is also dreaming. She bursts into the living room of Olivia Kingsbury’s house on Ridge Road to find Olivia in her accustomed chair, reading a book—it’s Adrienne Rich’s Diving into the Wreck—and eating a small sandwich. There’s a cup of steaming tea on the table beside her.
“I thought you were dead!” Barbara cries. “They told me you were dead!”
“Nonsense,” Olivia says, putting her book down. “I fully intend to celebrate my hundredth. Did I tell you about the time Jorge Castro spoke up at the meeting to decide the fate of the Poetry Workshop? Emily never lost that smile of hers, but her eyes—”
Barbara’s cell phone trills and the dream falls apart. It was wonderful while it lasted because in it Olivia was alive, but a dream was all it was. She grabs her phone and sees her mother’s smiling photo on the screen. She also sees the time: 4:03 PM. Jerome must be in Pennsylvania by now.
“Hey…” She has to clear her throat. “Hey, Mom.”
“Were you napping?”
“I just meant to lie down, but I guess I fell asleep. I dreamed Olivia was still alive.”
“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. I had dreams like that after your Gramma Annie died. I was always sorry to wake up.”
“Yeah. Like that.” Barbara scruffs a hand through her hair and thinks about what dream-Olivia was saying when the phone woke her. Like her passing thought about the van in the security footage, it seems it might be important. Dutch would know, she thinks. Dutch would have this shit all figured out.
“—Holly?”
“What?”
“I asked if you’ve located Holly yet. Or if she’s been back in touch.”
“No, huh-uh, not yet.” She still has no intention of telling Tanya about her fears. Maybe after J gets back, but not until.
“She’s probably upstate, taking care of her mother’s affairs.” Tanya lowers her voice. “I’d never say it to Holly, but Charlotte Gibney didn’t die of Covid, she died of stupidity.”
Barbara has to smile at that. “I think Holly knows, Mom.”
“I called to tell you I’m meeting your dad for dinner. At a fancy-schmancy restaurant.”
“Nice!” Barbara says. “Which one?”
Tanya tells her, but Barbara hardly hears. She feels like a stroke of lightning has gone off in her head.
Which one?
“—the actual date.”
“Okay, right.”
Tanya laughs. “Did you even hear me? I said it’s an early anniversary dinner because he has to be away on the actual date. There’s money for takeout if you want it, just check the kitchen draw—”
“Have a good time, Mom. I have to go. Love you.”
“Love you, t—”
But Barbara ends the call and scrolls back through her texts to and from Holly. Here it is: Which one?
Barbara asked that because she knew two of the men in the picture Holly sent her. One was Cary Dressler, the dishy young guy all the girls in her PE class were crushing on. The other was Professor Harris. She saw him washing his car when she went to Emily Harris, hoping for an introduction to Olivia Kingsbury. On that warm winter day both of the Harris garage bays were open, and in the other one there had been a van. Had he seen her looking at it, and made haste to close the garage door? To hide it?
Bullshit. You’re making that up.
Maybe, but now she knows what Olivia was about to say when her mother’s call woke her up. She knows because Olivia actually said it: Emily never lost that smile of hers, but her eyes… her eyes looked like she wanted to kill him.
Jorge Castro, the first of the disappearances.
“You’re crazy,” Barbara whispers to herself. “Just because he knew Cary Dressler… and she knew Castro… and didn’t like him…”
Did I tell you I saw him shortly before he disappeared?
“You’re crazy,” Barbara repeats. “They’re old.”
But… Bonnie Dahl. The last of the disappearances. Could it be…?
She hurries into Jerome’s office, powers up his computer, and googles what she wants. Then she calls Marie Duchamp.
“Do you remember the time Olivia told us about the Harrises’ Christmas party? How they sent Santas around to hand out snacks and beer?”
“Oh yes,” Marie says, and laughs. “Only they were supposed to be Santa’s elves. Olivia thought it was a perfect example of Emily Harris—she meant to keep her Christmas party streak alive, come hell, high water, or Covid. We ate the snacks, drank the beer—Livvie had two cans, against my strong advice—but skipped the Zoom.”
“She said a blond girl delivered to your place. A pretty blond Santa.”
“Right…” Marie sounds disappointingly vague.
“Would you recognize her if I sent you a picture?”
“They were Santa outfits, Barb, complete with snowy white fake beards.”
“Oh.” Barbara deflates. “Fuck. Well, thanks anyw—”