What You Don't Know, page 16
Behind her, his footsteps slapped against the grass, his breathing heavy. He was gaining on her.
Farrah opened her mouth to scream.
Just not fast enough.
Before she could force the sound out, the shout for help, his body collided with hers and he tackled her to the ground, stuffing his fist into her mouth.
She writhed beneath him, uselessly shrieking into his dirty, balled-up paw, saliva vibrating in her throat, her vocal chords scraped raw. Her arms and legs thrashed as she tried to brace her body to stay on the ground. Her eyes darted around her, searching the grass in vain, grasping for hope there was a stick or rock she could use as a weapon. The other wish was someone would have heard or seen something, which she knew was impossible. The price you paid for a tranquil little life in the suburbs was no prying eyes around when you actually wanted them.
Dio yanked Farrah up like a weed, dragging her back toward the house, her limbs flailing helplessly against him, one hand clamped across her mouth. She could see Cookie and Tree through the kitchen window, scurrying around for something to shatter the glass, unable to open the electronic lock on the door.
He pressed Farrah against the doorjamb and pointed to the handle.
“Open it,” he said.
Farrah hesitated, her mind racing to come up with another escape plan.
He cocked his gun and pointed it at her cheek. “Open it!” he screamed.
With trembling fingers, Farrah quickly punched in the code and pushed against the upright metal lever. Immediately, Tree jerked her from Dio’s grasp.
“What the fuck you think you, doin’, huh?” he shouted, his eyes red with rage, spit flying from his mouth.
From downstairs, the screen still pounded with movie explosions, the bass thumping beneath her feet. Someone—Cookie probably—smacked the side of her head, causing her neck to snap sideways.
“Take your hands off me.” Farrah squirmed, tears flooding her eyes. She continued to wriggle and flail, pushing her hands against the concrete of Tree’s forearm around her waist.
“You trying to run away? Huh? You think you can get away from me?” he asked, grabbing her face. His finger slipped into her mouth and she bit down as hard as she could, certain her teeth would snap off.
He howled. She bit harder, ferocity surging through her until her mouth filled with the salty, unmistakable spice of blood.
“Got-dang!” He dropped her as he pulled his hand back, waving it around in the air before examining the wound. Cookie flew to his side, cooing over his injury.
Farrah whipped around to find Dio, on top of her as always. She faked right, then left and ran for the front door. Once again, he was too fast for her, clinching her around the waist. This time, he didn’t bother trying to muffle her screams as he dragged her back to the kitchen.
Tree yanked her hair, pulling her head back. She trembled as his hot, wet breath misted against her cheek.
“You gonna pay for that, little girl,” he said. “You gonna pay.”
Before she knew it, she spit at him. The frothy white blob landed just to the left of his nose, most of the mass sliding down to his chin.
“Beat her ass, Tree. Beat her ’til she can’t see straight,” Cookie said.
After he wiped the spit with the back of his hand, Tree slapped her. Hard. For a moment everything went black before stars danced across the backs of her eyelids. The blows came over and over again. Farrah screamed, Tree cursed, and Cookie cheered. She didn’t know what Dio was doing.
“Stop, please,” Farrah panted, her arms useless against the rain of slaps against her face. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I tried to run.” She sobbed. Every part of her face stung with pain.
“Yeah, you about to be sorry. I’m about to show Mommy and Daddy what I do to bad little girls,” Tree hissed, finally stopping his assault. He grabbed her arm and lugged her downstairs. Her face continued to burn and all she could do was whimper and continue to try and put the brakes on his forward momentum.
Her mother and father, their eyes wide, terrified, their restrained limbs kicking and writhing as they no doubt imagined the worst. Tree flung Farrah around to face her parents, their distressed, muffled grunts crowding against her ears. It was hard to discern tears from sweat on their faces.
“Take a real good look at your baby girl, Malcolm … Blair. A real good look,” he said. His fingers dug into her arm, breaking the skin. He withdrew his gun and pressed it to her temple, causing her to inhale sharply. Her parents shrieked, each attempting to wriggle closer to her.
“Please, please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Farrah gasped, sniveling now. “Please don’t kill me.”
He jostled her, and they swayed back and forth, the gun’s cold metal barrel moving up and down and side to side against the throbbing vein of her head. She closed her eyes, tears and snot streaming down her face as she shrieked and begged for mercy. His staccato intake of breath matched her own.
This was the end.
“You know what?” Tree asked, seemingly more to himself than anyone else. Farrah’s tears stopped, the breath she’d been holding released, only a little. “I bet I can come up with a real good way to teach this little girl a lesson. What you think, boo?”
“Yo, I bet you could put this bitch in her place quick. For real, though,” Cookie snarled at Farrah.
“Mmm-mmm.” He leaned closer, his face inches from hers. “It’s like I keep telling your daddy. It’s about respect. You disrespected me. Lied to me. Told me you needed to go to the little girls’ room. Then you try and sneak outta here. Run away. Then you bite me. Naw. Naw. We can’t go out like that. You gonna have to learn a lesson.”
“Okay, Tree, I was wrong and I’m sorry—”
“Shut up!”
Farrah obeyed and fell silent, her chest heaving, silent tears continuing to fall. Her parents own ragged breaths raged behind her.
“Yo, Dio,” Tree said. “Bring me that bowl.”
“This one?” Dio asked, gesturing to the heavy glass bowl which had housed buttery microwave popcorn just a few hours earlier. All that remained now were shiny kernel husks and bottom-of-the-bag bits of popcorn.
“Yeah. That one.”
Her eyes grew wide as she shook her head, attempting to run, knowing it was useless.
Dio dutifully brought the bowl over to his leader, who promptly turned it over, littering the floor with popcorn remnants. He pressed his palm against the inside bottom, gently bopping it up and down, as though he were testing its heft, getting a feel for it in his hand. He gripped Farrah’s arm and twirled the bowl around the tips of his splayed fingers, like he was spinning a basketball.
Farrah heard her parents muffled screams behind her. Her own screams stopped dead in her throat.
In the second before it happened, she understood what Tree was about to do to her.
Big Break
Lieutenant Dimitri Cora: Three, maybe four days later, we’re still processing the scene and a woman walks into the station saying she has information vital to the case.
* * *
Lieutenant Sharon Donahue: Blair Gilbert was not known for being flashy, or over-the-top. Very low-key in her normal, everyday appearance. She wore hardly any makeup and very minimal jewelry.
* * *
Lani Jacobs: Well, she looked like a hobo most of the time (Laughs). I mean she had the labels and the jewelry and all of that, but she pretty much ran around in yoga pants and flip-flops. I mean, to look at her, you’d never know she had money.
* * *
Lieutenant Sharon Donahue: Except for this one piece.
* * *
Bridget Johnson: At some point, I’m not sure when, Malcolm designed this necklace for her. Absolutely stunning. My sister cherished this necklace. It was definitely the kind of thing that made you say, “I wish I had a necklace like that.”
* * *
Lani Jacobs: Oh, it was a beautiful piece. Spectacular. When I think of Blair, I think of that necklace. She wore it all the time, never took it off.
* * *
Isabelle Ryan: It was a series of three infinity diamond circles, interconnected and stacked on top of each other. Each circle was engraved with their names, Farrah’s date of birth, and Malcolm and Blair’s wedding anniversary.
* * *
Lieutenant Sharon Donahue: This was a very distinctive piece, very one of a kind, very original. There was no way you could mistake it for something else or belonging to someone else. Everyone who knew Blair said this necklace was her signature piece of jewelry.
* * *
Lieutenant Dimitri Cora: This woman, she has the necklace.
* * *
Lieutenant Sharon Donahue: And then we had a name.
7:59 p.m.
Before she met Malcolm, Blair had never seen a football game. Not in person, not on TV. Monday Night Football did not dominate the grainy little black and white in their family of three girls. There’d been Friday night games during junior high and high school that she could have attended but never did. Hanging around football players was more Bridget’s thing than hers. The first time Malcolm brought her to a game, she was straight up shocked. She had no idea of the brutality involved. Every time Malcolm was tackled by the opposing team, whenever he was wrestled to the ground, flung to the gridiron, pummeled like one of those tackling dummies, something broke inside of her, like the snap of raw spaghetti.
She took every hit with him.
As Tree slammed the heavy glass bowl into Farrah’s face, watching her fall back without benefit of thrashing limbs, bent knees, without a scream or a noise, just straight down like one of those weighted clowns people used for punching—except she didn’t pop back up, ready for more—something cracked inside of Blair.
Blair took the hit with her daughter.
The room erupted. Farrah lay on the ground, clutching her mouth with both hands, hysteria streaming from her lips, her face swathed in blood. She and Malcolm screamed as much as their gags allowed, knocking against the floor, desperately inching closer to their sobbing, writhing daughter. Cookie let out a stunned, “damn,” before exploding into loud, wild laughter, hooting, hollering, jumping up and down, and pointing. Dio dropped to the ground, his face a mask of dumbfounded disbelief and shock, rocking back and forth, grasping his elbows with the opposite hand.
Tree just stood there, clutching the bowl, staring. The bowl slipped from his grip, thudding to the carpet. He shook his hand around, as though he were the one in agony. Blair’s body vibrated with fury as she listened to him howl about his hand. She clenched her fists, twisting her wrists around, hoping to weaken and break the tape so she could claw his eyes out.
“Baby, I can’t believe you did that,” Cookie crowed. “Boom! Cold-cocked that bitch!”
“Damn!” Tree squeezed his hand several times and shook his head. “That hurt like a motherfucker.”
“You okay, baby?” Cookie asked him.
Tree didn’t answer her, but instead came over to stand in front of Blair. Farrah continued to lie on the floor, curled into a fetal ball, her shoulders shaking with silent tears. Malcolm knocked back against the wall, shaking his head and moaning. Blair looked up at this monster, hoping he could see the rage etched into her face.
“I’m gonna need you to fix me up, Wifey.”
She shook her head, frantically pointing it toward Farrah.
He cupped Blair’s face with his good hand and slammed her head against the wall behind her. She screeched as pain exploded across her head, the duct tape wet with tears and sweat. Stars danced across her eyes. She blinked several times to try to get her bearings.
“You wanna be next?” he asked. She could only cry. He snorted. “I thought so. You need to fix up my hand. It feels all messed up now.”
She whimpered again, tapping her foot against the floor in Farrah’s direction. Exasperated, he ripped the tape from her mouth. She grasped at the air, taking huge swallows. She bent over coughing and heaving.
“Fix up my hand, Wifey,” he repeated.
“My daughter first,” she said, wheezing.
“I said—”
“I heard you! I heard you the first five fucking times! Now, either I help my daughter or nobody gets help. Got it?”
He gripped her arm. “What did you say to me, Wifey? Huh? You talking back to me? Is that what you doing?” He pulled out his gun and pointed it at her nose. “Say it again, Blair. Say it one more time.”
She felt herself blanch, her breath now coming in smaller gasps. She looked at Malcolm from the corner of her eye. He shook his head slightly. She took a shaky inhale.
“I will fix your hand, but you have to let me take care of my daughter first.” A fresh wave of tears burned behind her eyes. She willed them to stay put. “Please.”
The claws of his fingers relaxed a little and he put his gun back in his waistband. “Well, since you asked so nice, Wifey, you can take Ol’ Girl upstairs and fix her up. Fix her up, then you fix me up. Real nice.”
“My husband, too.”
Tree blinked. “What about him?”
“His hand. From earlier.”
“Don’t push your luck, Wifey. You lucky I’m letting you fix up Ol’ Girl.”
Outrage bubbled to the surface, clawing and scratching to get out and fight. She glanced at Farrah. Malcolm was tough. Farrah wasn’t.
Numb, she stuck out her bound hands toward Tree. His eyes never leaving hers, he tugged at the corners of her restraints and the sound of ripping tape filled the room. Her heart galloped as her hands sprang free and she groaned as she rubbed at the gooey grooves of her wrists. She crawled over to Farrah and gently lifted her weeping baby into her arms. She rocked her for a moment, murmuring sweet nothing’s into the girl’s ear, her body shuddering with the uncontrollable sobs of pain and despair.
“Come on, baby, let me look at you. Let me see,” Blair said, cupping Farrah’s face in her hands. She winced at the shiny red streaks. The jagged, broken edge of one tooth. The black, pulpy gap where the other tooth should have been. A bulbous purple lip split in two, blood trickling from the crack. Blair swallowed hard and kissed her daughter’s cheek.
“I’m going to take you upstairs, baby, okay? We’re going upstairs and I’ll take care of you. Just like I always have. Right?” A spurt of tears escaped her eyes. “Like when you had chicken pox. When you had bronchitis. When—remember, that time you fell off your bike and you scraped so much skin off your knees, you thought you would need new knees? Remember that?”
Blair’s reminisces elicited a short, somber chuckle followed by a grimace.
“I remember,” Farrah whispered, already lisping from the missing tooth.
“Mommy took care of you then, and she’s going to take care of you now.”
Without a word, Blair lifted Farrah up to stand and snaked her arms around the girl, who slumped against her. She ignored Tree, walking past him toward the staircase. She could hear him commanding Dio to help him hoist up Malcolm, as he wanted to keep an eye on him. Cookie sniffed repeatedly behind her and she wondered if the girl would try to shove or trip them as they all made their way upstairs.
The girl did neither, shuffling behind them as Blair practically carried Farrah first up to the ground level then to her bedroom. Tree and Dio sat Malcolm down on the same chair Blair had been in earlier, while Cookie gripped her arm, stopping her from advancing toward the bathroom. Tree leapt on top of the bed, bouncing up and down a few times, before sweeping the mass of decorative white, gray, and sea glass green pillows populating the top half of the bed to the floor, and reclined against the white padded leather headboard. He lay spread-eagle against the California King and did snow angels, laughing the entire time, the pain of his hand seemingly forgotten.
“You ever seen a bed this big, baby?” he asked Cookie.
“Naw, baby,” she said. “I ain’t never seen a bed this big.”
He propped himself up on his elbows as he looked around the two-room suite. “Maybe I’ll buy us a big bed like this when we get our money. Huh? What you think about that?”
“That sounds good, baby.”
Cookie pushed Blair and Farrah into the bathroom. She heard Tree ask where the remote for the TV was and seconds later, sound packed the room.
Blair sat Farrah down on the toilet, then with quivering fingers tilted her daughter’s wobbly face up to get a closer look at the damage. Mostly swelling. Blood everywhere. She had no way of knowing if her nose was broken, though given the balloon of it, it was a safe guess. A thin crimson trickle ran down her thigh courtesy of a deep scratch. The most severe visible injury was to the teeth. Save the crooked one, now gone forever, Farrah had been blessed with beautiful teeth. Ivory white, no cavities, or pesky wisdom teeth. She’d call Dr. Sueler on Monday to make an appointment for an emergency temporary until—
Monday. That was so far away. A good thirty or so hours from now.
Cookie perched herself on the far end of the counter as Blair pulled the giant brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide and the first aid kit down from the medicine cabinet. She grabbed a handful of cotton balls from her clear Plexiglas canister on the counter and opened the kit, moving the fat rolls of gauze to the side in search of the instant ice pack.
Her hands brushed across the scissors at the bottom.
Scissors.
She’d forgotten there were scissors in the first aid kit.
Blair glanced over at Cookie, who was picking at her nails, not paying attention. Blair pressed her lips into a thin line as she eased her hand into the kit, letting her fingers close around the hard plastic of the scissors.
