Last To Leave, page 5
I needed to do exactly that. I couldn’t simply call this person out. There was no telling how that would end up. Instead, I needed to orchestrate this perfectly. Get them to show up. Get them to admit they were the one sending me these threatening letters. Get them to believe I was helpless to stop them.
And then, from there? Once I had the culprit?
Everything after that would need to look like an accident as well.
Chapter Six
Blaring sirens wake me up. At first, I wonder if I’m still in a dream. I can’t unsee the red and blue lights flashing in front of my house that afternoon as I arrived home from work. Fire trucks. Cop cars. Bright yellow caution tape being strung across the front of my home like someone merely decorating a Christmas tree with strands of garland. Were there sirens then? The flashing lights, I remember. But I don’t remember the sirens. Was Paul’s death loud or quiet?
I sit up fast, finally facing my reality - physically choking on the smoke filling my living room. Why is my fire alarm going off?
Dangit! The cookies!
I must’ve dozed off on the couch. For a woman who hasn’t slept much these last six months, I somehow manage to oversleep twice in the same day. Even if both times they were merely catnaps in the grand scheme of things, compared to a restful eight hours.
I slam the broom handle into the smoke detector, breaking off the cap and finally getting it to stop screaming at me. I shut off the oven and open all the windows in the kitchen, fanning the smoke outside.
I see Judy through the side window, shaking her head at me. Admittedly, this is not the first time I’ve burned something to this degree, and we both know it. We have this exchange a few times a year - me, trying to spare the fire department from showing up, and her, disapproving of any attempt I make at domesticity.
If she can’t bake pre-made break-em cookie dough, how could she ever raise children?
I know that’s what Judy is thinking every time she sees the heavy smoke leaving my kitchen.
Sadly, I agree with her. I didn’t even make the cookies, and yet here I am, ruining them nonetheless. Maybe God knew better than to put a child’s care in my hands. Those dreams of mine were now just like this smoke, pouring out of my house, up into the sky where the smoke would dissolve into nothing. It would disappear completely. Just like the life I had planned.
This feels like a punishment I deserve. Here I am, trying to get ahead of things by baking cookies now so they’ll be ready for the party on Friday. Instead, I have a newfound cough in my lungs, the smell of charred sugar I’ll fail to mask with musky candles, and no ‘homemade’ dessert to pass off as my own for the shindig.
I scratch a reminder onto the notepad stuck on my fridge door. Pick up dessert for Friday.
I laugh at myself. Why do I even care about impressing these people with a homemade dessert? Judgment Judy would complain it’s too dry. Evil Evie is ungrateful of everything I do. I’d wish for Megan the Mistress to choke on it. Loyal Layne would gush it was the best dessert she’s ever had and pretend to eat it out of politeness, but she would curse me for the extra calories.
I cross out the word dessert and insert fruit there instead. The rest of them could die of disappointment. Layne, however, would be thrilled. We disagreed on the appeal of fruit as dessert, but I would let her win this one. She deserved that much. Perhaps I’d pick up a chocolate cake for myself to enjoy after the party was over. Thank goodness I also taught the seven a.m. yoga class on Saturday morning to sweat away my guilt the following day.
I light some candles and scrape the black, crispy cookies into the kitchen trash bin. I tie the bag as tight as I can to help with the smell, but there’s no use. Instead, I take the barely-full bag outside to the trash container and I know Judy is watching this walk of shame with a hearty grin on her face. Thank heavens tomorrow is trash day, seemingly the only thing working in my favor.
I wheel the can down to the end of my driveway, just in case I accidentally oversleep tomorrow morning as well. And yes, I already know I’ll leave it out there three days too long and she’ll yell at me for that too, because that’s just how things seem to be going for me. I can’t do anything right these days.
I head back inside and clean up my baking mess - which takes all of thirty seconds as I’m really just throwing the blackened baking sheet in the dishwasher.
My phone chimes. It’s an unknown number.
I hesitate on answering it. Unknown numbers don’t deserve any respect. Yet thinking ahead to Friday night, knowing I’m either about to earn my fate or my freedom - I answer it. I can no longer be afraid of something as ridiculous as an unknown number.
“Hello?”
“You cool?”
I don’t know what that means. “Am I cool?” I think back to my high school yearbook, wondering how many people, in fact, ‘stayed cool’ like all the autographs suggested. Probably four of them - and definitely not me.
“The alarm.” That’s all the deep voice says on the other line.
I sigh, finally realizing who it is. “Jubo? How did you know about the alarm?” My paranoia meter rises. He really is watching me through these cameras. Do I say something? Is there any way to stop him? What a creep.
“The cameras send out a signal,” he explains, as if it’s obvious. “It’s usually routed to the fire department, but you signed off on all that, remember? You chose the confidentiality clause.”
I don’t really remember much about the paperwork I signed. Only the fact that I handed over a giant stack of cash and signed at least four pages of fine print. Who actually takes the time to read all that?
“So much for confidentiality if you know what happened,” I say quietly, more so thinking it than meaning to say it out loud.
“I had to route the call somewhere,” he continues. “Instead of the fire department, it just sends an alert to me. That’s all. I know nothing else about it.”
“Uh-huh.” I’m onto him. I’ll be damned if he isn’t watching me right now through one of these cameras.
I slowly unbutton my shirt, pulling my arms through the sleeves. I bend forward, knowing my sports bra isn’t as supportive as it should be for a woman my age. I’m facing the fireplace camera as I do it. I make a seductive gesture with my tongue.
“So you’re cool? Just a false alarm?” His tone is even. He’s clearly not watching what I’m doing, otherwise I’m sure he’d have more to say. Unless, of course, my seductive mouth maneuver looks more like I’m choking on my own tongue.
“Uh, yeah, I’m cool. False alarm.”
“Okay. Cool.” And just like that, the line is dead.
I feel like such an idiot. I pull my shirt back on, fastening the buttons as quickly as I can. What was I even thinking? Why would Jubo waste his time watching me anyhow?
Except that I’m fairly certain someone is watching me. Probably not Jubo, but definitely someone else. And I don’t just mean today, given I’ve felt it since Paul’s death. That feeling like I’m never really alone. I keep the blinds closed in every room, but it doesn’t help. If I sit in a quiet corner, perhaps reading a book in my favorite chair, I still feel it. I hear it. The whispered sounds of a twig snapping outside under the weight of someone’s foot. The shift in air as if someone is only a foot or two away from me while I’m sleeping.
A loud arm bangs on my front door. I think I yelp. Why does this keep happening to me? What the hell is going on? Maybe I need a watchdog. A big German shepherd. Except that I can’t even bake pre-made cookies. Keeping a dog alive must be harder than that.
I realize all of the windows are still open in my kitchen. The thought of someone watching me isn’t too far-fetched after all. Anyone who wants to can literally see through half my house right now.
I debate for a minute as to what I should do first. Close the windows? Answer the front door?
The repeated bang on the door echoes throughout my entire house, prompting me to head to the door first. Is Judy coming to scold me for sending smoke toward her windows? Is my grass a centimeter too long and the HOA president is here to berate me?
Heaven forbid it be something good, like a flower delivery. That never happens.
I fling open the door right as a giant, muscular arm is about to come down on my face.
“Geez, watch out!” I flinch. “William? What are you doing here?” The last person I expect to see on my doorstep is Paul’s brother.
“Oh. Hey. I got your invitation.” He looks past me into the main room as if to assess whether or not I’m alone.
“Yeah, well, the party isn’t until Friday. It’s not tonight.”
“What is it for?”
Why didn’t I anticipate this? Any time I got an invite, I didn’t ask questions. I either showed up to the event or didn’t. Was that so unreasonable? I wasn’t expecting questions about food, the guest list, and reasons why I was having the party at all.
“Is it so unbelievable I would want to host a party? Besides, I invited your mother. I haven’t seen her in ages. Might be nice to get together.”
“Paul always told me you hated parties. And I know you’re not fond of my mother.”
“Come on, I don’t dislike Evie. I just find her…unnecessarily critical. But I’m working on getting thicker skin.” I hesitate, trying to choose my words carefully. “And I don’t hate parties. Is that a thing? Do people actually hate parties? That would be like hating Christmas. Or hamburgers. Or sunshine.” I try to deflect, as I’m not sure how else to properly answer his questions.
“Why are you still living in this house?” He brushes past me without an invitation inside. He’s still looking around the room.
“Your brother didn’t exactly leave me with a windfall of money to escape this place.”
“Would you have killed him yourself if he had?”
I gasp. “What kind of a question is that? Would I have killed him for money? What an asinine thing to say! I, of all people, knew he didn’t have any. We didn’t have any. You’re an idiot, William. You think money would’ve changed what happened?”
I see his expression change. “Sorry. I know that finances were always a hot button. You, not wanting to work after starting a family, and him telling you that you had to.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know why I said that. I know he had no money to leave you.”
“Yeah. Clearly. Everyone knew that. It wasn’t a secret. But - he told you I didn’t want to work after having children? That’s not true.” William’s words confuse me. Our conversations were the opposite. Paul wanted me to stay home, even before having kids, though we knew money would be even tighter. Maybe it was a pride thing? He wanted to be the sole provider? I was the one who insisted I keep working, children or no children. I liked the independence. It gave me something to do. It was something we fiercely disagreed on. Maybe William just had it backward?
“Would you move? If you had the money, would you get out of this house?” His stare on me is intense.
I nod. “Yes. I would’ve left immediately if I could have. It’s hard still living here. I feel him here. I would leave in a heartbeat if I could. But…back to the money issue. Or lack thereof, I should say. I’m sure it’ll be a while before I can leave this place. Which is a real shame, you know?”
A slow tear slides down my face. I didn’t mean to get emotional. I can usually control my feelings better. But this house? It digs under my skin the most. I continue talking. “It still feels like Paul. All the memories between these walls? It’s too much. So yes, I would leave in a heartbeat. I would start over somewhere else. Because while I’m still here, it feels like I can’t start over at all. It’s like I’m trapped. In sadness, and grief, and…”
“Sorry,” he says sympathetically, cutting me off. He looks like he wants to reach out and hug me, but he doesn’t. “I don’t know why I said any of that. If I had the money, I’d get you out of this house myself. I get it.”
I focus on his words. I was right. He does want me out of this house. Out of his life, probably.
“That bitch Megan would’ve killed him for money.” He shifts the conversation and it catches me by surprise.
“What?”
He walks through the living room, heading straight toward the kitchen. He used to do that once a week for Monday Night Football. He’d walk right in the house, get a Miller Lite from the fridge, and sit on the couch right next to Paul.
But it wasn’t Monday. There was no football on TV. There was no beer in my fridge.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry, you probably don’t want to even hear her name. It’s just… Tomorrow’s his birthday.” William puts his head in his hands, then reaches out for the fridge handle. “I’m just…my head is all messed up right now.” He opens the door, but closes it quickly once he realizes there’s not much inside.
“I know tomorrow is his birthday,” I say quietly.
“Should we do something? You know, for his birthday? Like, to acknowledge it or celebrate it or whatever? Do people still do that after someone passes? I don’t really know the protocol for that. We barely talked about my father at all after he passed. But he was a real SOB. Not like Paul. This is completely different. I don’t know how this works.” He stares back at me like I have all the answers.
“I don’t know either.” I open up the top cabinet to the right of the fridge, pulling out a bottle of bourbon. Paul was more of a beer drinker, but someone had left this at our place after a card night once. I haven’t touched it yet. I set the bottle on the counter and pull out a glass, extending it out to him.
William takes the glass and wastes no time filling it up.
“The party on Friday isn’t to celebrate his birthday, if that’s what you came here to ask. But, I mean, I didn’t not plan on celebrating it either. I tried making cookies today.”
“Is that why your house smells like shit?” He snickers, and I can’t help but laugh too. “Chocolate chip?”
“I know he liked your mother’s homemade ones more than my store-bought version, but it’s the best I can do. Especially now.”
“How are you holding up?” His tone sounds genuine.
“Nice of you to ask after six months.” I didn’t mean to sound so snide as I said it, but I couldn’t help but feel hurt. Right after Paul’s death, everyone was so supportive. So helpful. They stocked the house with groceries. William and Jim cleaned out the gutters and turned back on the outdoor water. But shortly after, once the dust settled, that was it. Neither came back around. They didn’t mention winterizing the pipes in the coming months. My gutters were probably a mess all over again. No one asked how I was holding up anymore.
“I’m an asshole.” He shrugs, taking another sip of the bourbon.
At least there are things we can agree on.
I choose my words carefully. “It comes in waves, you know? The grief. I’ve been told that’s normal, I don’t know. Some nights I curl up with a good book and a glass of wine and I plan out my yoga classes for the week and I feel like I’m moving forward. Other times I am so acutely aware of how alone I am in this house and I turn into an insomniac who fears things will never get better. It’s supposed to get easier, right? Everyone says time is the ultimate healer. But then time passes and I wonder when things will ever feel right again.”
“You do need to get out of this house.”
“You going to pay off my mortgage?” I offer a half-smile, then reach out to grab a glass for myself out of the cabinet. He pours it half-full of bourbon. The grimace on my face after my first sip gives away that I’m not typically a hard alcohol drinker.
“Are you ever scared here? Staying in this house alone?”
I mull over his question. I never lived alone until Paul’s death. In college I had roommates, then moved back in with my parents while Paul and I were dating. Not long after I moved into Paul’s apartment, and then into this house once we were married.
“I think being alone might be good for me.” I don’t mean to say it so quietly, but something about William’s presence makes me feel vulnerable.
“Because you think you deserve the punishment?” He narrows his eyes at me, like there’s more he wants to say, but he doesn’t.
“I don’t know what I deserve,” I admit.
“Better than this. I know that much.” His answer surprises me. “Do you blame yourself?” His stare is intense. We’ve never had a conversation like this before.
“What?”
“Sorry if that’s an insensitive question. But it’s a valid one, isn’t it? I know I blame myself. Every damn day. If I wasn’t such an asshole the night before, arguing about that stupid watch or all the other ways I’d been passed over by our dad over the years. If I’d come over earlier the next morning to apologize before work, I don’t know. Hell, I wasn’t coming over to apologize at all. I know I pretended like maybe that’s what I was doing here that following day when I found him, but it wasn’t. You’d texted me about the power washer of mine Paul still had. That’s the only reason I came here, truthfully.”
“It was taking up too much space in the garage. I couldn’t fit my car in with all the other crap he had along the wall. I was fixing to throw all of his stuff out of there when I got home from work later that day.”
“I remember, yeah. You were always hot about that.”
“It was my side of the garage! What kind of man needs that many tools he never uses? He never even fixed the mailbox like he promised. To this day, every time I open the door to get my bills, they all slide out onto the ground because the whole thing is still cockeyed.” I snicker at the visual. It was something Paul and I disagreed about often - his promises to fix and build things he never got around to. He’d borrow all these tools and machines from Jim or William, but never use them. They’d clog up our garage until I’d beg his brother or best friend to come take their stuff back.
