"Why? I'm just telling you the truth. There's nothing wrong with the truth. My grandmother always said the truth will give you wings."
He let her go.
She watched him as he trudged toward his car, a solitary figure. When he was gone, she closed the door and blew out the candles. Then she went upstairs and sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the darkness.
It wasn't love-it was devotion, she argued with herself. Gavin Hitchcock was devoted to her. He'd been devoted to her ever since that day she'd rescued him from the bullies. She thought about how different things would be right now if they'd never met. If she hadn't taken the long way home on that particular day. Gavin had unwittingly played a pivotal role in their lives. It was strange, how one seemingly innocent connection could do so much damage. How one person, by his very existence, had forged the destinies of so many people.
Gillian had adored her sister. They'd been inseparable until Fiona Portman had come along. Then it was good-bye, Gillian. As the months stretched into a year, then two, Gillian's resentment toward Fiona grew. She hated her. She hated the way she laughed and tossed her hair around. She hated the way Fiona would give Gillian those sly, secretive looks that said she knew she'd come between sisters and was proud of it.
Sometimes Fiona would stay over. Whenever that happened, Gillian knew she was in for a night of torture and misery. Fiona would tell her scary stories, then slip into her room after the lights were out and make scratching noises under the bed, saying she was the hatchet man. As Gillian grew older, she distanced herself more and more from Fiona and Mary. She made her own friends. She had her navel pierced and got a couple of tattoos. She wore a lot of makeup and dressed in black.
During that time, she concentrated on giving Gavin a makeover. She helped him with his clothes and hair. She coached him. Pretty soon he was standing tall, looking people in the eye. At the mall, girls ogled him, giggling and flirting outrageously. For probably the first time in his miserable life, Gavin seemed happy.
Together he and Gillian would crash parties where nobody knew them. Girls tripped over one another trying to get to him first. He was "so cute" and "so cool."
One night they went to a party where kids were drinking and smoking pot. Fiona was there, stoned out of her mind. She spotted Gavin. When she hit on him, Gillian announced it was time to leave.
But Gavin didn't want to go. For the first time since they'd known each other, he refused to do what Gillian said. He stayed with Fiona, and probably made out with her in the upstairs bedroom. Gillian couldn't take it. She caught a bus and went home.
At school two days later, Gavin saw Fiona in the hallway and went up to her, his head high, his stride confident. She was standing with her clique, Mary included in the small, exalted group. Fiona brushed him off. He stood there smiling and talking to her, and the bitch just brushed him off. Acting as if he were invisible, she walked away.
Gavin's shoulders slumped. His head dropped.
Gillian wanted to attack Fiona the way she'd attacked the boys under the bridge, but this was Gavin's battle. She'd warned him about her, and he hadn't listened.
To her credit, Mary didn't follow Fiona. She stayed and apologized to Gavin. She made excuses for her friend. "I don't think she heard you," Mary told Gavin.
"Come on," Gillian said, knowing an argument was pointless. She took Gavin's arm. "Let's go."
Gavin looked at her from under his bowed brow and hanging hair, and his eyes were full of such bleak pain that for the first time in her life Gillian wanted to kill somebody. Fiona Portman.
She shared her desire with Gavin. The bleakness left his eyes, and that afternoon they discussed how it could be done. Together, they fantasized about kidnapping her. They would torture her. They would kill her.
Gillian forgot all about the incident until two months later when Fiona was dead and Gavin was arrested for the crime.
Gillian never knew if Gavin killed her or not, but if he had, Gillian knew she was to blame for planting the idea in his head.
It had been'bullshit, kid stuff, not anything she ever thought would be carried out. But she was young. She hadn't understood about Gavin, about how he sometimes had a problem separating fantasy from reality. As a child, he'd developed the skill to protect himself. That armor lent him the power to be able to move through the world without being crushed by it.
She pressed a fist against her mouth to muffle the sob that threatened to escape. She'd fucked up his life-that's what she'd done. All along, she'd convinced herself that once he got out of prison, everything would be fine. Well, now he was out and he wasn't fine. He was a million miles from fine.
She hadn't only fucked up Gavin's life; she'd also fucked up Mary's. If Fiona had lived, Mary would eventually have seen her for what she was: a spoiled little bitch. Now she'd been relegated to sainthood, and Mary-Mary, who used to be funny, who used to laugh and dance and act as crazy as a person could act-was now on some holy mission to right the wrongs of the world. She'd so immersed herself in darkness that she could no longer see a pinpoint of light. She was no longer Mary Cantrell. She hadn't been Mary Cantrell since the day she'd stumbled over Fiona's dead body.
Chapter 11
"I'm home!"
He hurried down the basement stairs. In one hand was a cup of hot chocolate and a carryout bag of food he'd picked up at an all-night gas station. He'd agonized over what to get her as a reward, and then he'd spotted the hot chocolate. Bingo. She would be hungry. She would be glad to see him.
His heart beat in anticipation. This was the one. He was sure of it.
He unlocked the door to the narrow room and leaned his shoulder into it, shoving it open.
The acrid smell of vomit hit him in the face. He recoiled and then forced himself to step inside. She was lying on the mattress, her hands cuffed behind her. He rolled her toward him; her body was heavy and cold.
"I brought you hot chocolate," he said with hesitation.
Skin the color of paste.
Eyes partially open and dried out.
He ripped the duct tape from her mouth to reveal blue lips and not a stirring of breath.
NO!
Dead! She was dead!
He roared like a bull elephant and threw down the cup. Hot chocolate exploded against his pants.
She'd suffocated.
NO!
Not Charlotte! Not his Charlotte!
He'd covered her mouth so she wouldn't scream while he was gone. How was he to know she would get sick? He didn't have all the answers. He wasn't the Answer Man.
He slammed the door and went upstairs. This can't be happening.
He sat down at the kitchen table and unwrapped the prepackaged sandwich he'd gotten for her. He wouldn't have picked it out for himself. It was something a girl might like, with thin slices of turkey, slimy cheese, and wilted lettuce. Light mayonnaise. He would have preferred regular. He was halfway through the meal when he started sobbing. He almost choked because his mouth was full of food that just wouldn't go down. He gagged and spit it out.
He quit coughing. He quit crying. He sat there trying to figure out what he was going to do.
Daylight will be here in a couple of hours.
"I know. I know," he said to the empty room. "Don't you think I know that? I'm thinking. Just let me think."
Twenty minutes later, he went back downstairs.
She was still there, just the way he'd left her, lying on the mattress he'd put there just for her. He would like to have kept her awhile, but he knew from experience that it didn't take long for a dead body to start smelling, start drawing flies.
It was hard getting her upstairs. He was out of breath, and his back hurt by the time he got her to the bathroom.
Once there, he removed her clothes, then put her in the tub. He arranged her legs so she would be comfortable. He filled the tub with cool water and, with a washcloth, removed all traces of vomit. When he was finished, he crossed her arms over her chest. He caressed her hair, smoothing it on either side of her face.