Eerie (5 page)

He returned to the stove with the mayo and Kraft Singles, trying but failing to remember the last time he’d made a grilled cheese sandwich, even for himself. Wondered if that had been a subconscious thing. This had once been their meal of choice, if not necessity. Just the smell of browning butter conjured up that year they’d fled foster care and lived on their own in a drafty single-wide on the outskirts of Tacoma. Grant fifteen, Paige thirteen. They’d lasted nine months before Social Services caught up with them.

Cold, broke, always hungry, yet it surpassed, in every way, living with strangers.

Grant eased the sandwiches onto the skillet and left them to sizzle.

Sat across from Paige at the island.

Under the brighter recessed lighting in the kitchen, she looked even worse. What he’d mistaken for her good complexion was foundation. Her skin was sallow, eyes bloodshot and underscored with black bags that the concealer couldn’t quite conceal. The way she sat on her hands made him wonder if it was to hide their trembling.

“I’m sorry I just showed up,” Grant said.

“You mean that?”

“Yeah.”

She reached across the table and touched his hand.

“I just didn’t know if you’d see me again,” Grant said. “Considering how we left it last time.”

He pulled away and slid off the stool, headed back to the stove.

“I could never make them taste the way yours did,” Paige said as he moved the sandwiches onto plates.

“You probably missed the most important step.”

“Which one’s that?”

“You have to add a new pat of butter to the skillet when you’re halfway done. So each side gets the love.”

“Equal opportunity buttering—I like it.”

Grant watched the new square melt. He lifted the skillet, let the butter skate across the surface for a few seconds before flipping the cold sides of the sandwiches onto the heat.

“So what do you think, big bro? Your sister, the whore. That’s a new one, right?”

Grant stared down into the skillet.

She’d always liked to fuck with him, but this wasn’t even fair.

“You’re talking about someone I love,” he said, pressing the spatula into the sandwiches.

They sizzled.

Grant finally lifted the sandwiches onto the plates and carried them over to the island.

“Bon appétit.”

He was hungrier than he’d realized, and drunker too. In between bites, he caught bursts of electric clarity—he was actually sitting in Paige’s kitchen, sharing a meal with her.

As she lifted the sandwich to her mouth, the sleeves tugged back from her wrists. He glimpsed the scars from a past suicide attempt, but thankfully, no needle sores.

“How’s the sandwich?”

Through a mouthful: “Unbelievable.”

A full minute passed.

Neither of them spoke but it wasn’t as uncomfortable as before.

Jazz slunk in from the living room.

Grant watched as Paige took tiny bites. Just the effort of eating seemed to pain her.

She said, “I just assumed you were still with the PD, but are you?”

“I am.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Fine.”

“Yeah? Some interesting cases?”

“Always.”

“So you like what you do.”

“I love it. Do you?”

“Do I love what you do?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m making fat bank, Grant.”

“So I hear.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I had to threaten Eric to get a referral.”

“Not cool.”

“He made it sound like you didn’t see guys like me.”

“Like you?”

“Low net-worth individuals.”

“Wait. You’re upset I won’t just fuck anyone who slides me a couple of hundreds?”

She had a point there.

“How about a tour of the place?” Grant asked. “Love to see what you’ve done with the upstairs.”

Her eyes went wide; her breathing accelerated.

“No.”

“Why?”

“No.” She practically yelled it the second time, leaning toward him across the island, her eyes narrowing, teeth grinding together, the ugly monstrous addict rearing its head.

“Fine. Sorry I asked.”

Grant got up and walked over to the Bose—Miles Davis noodling away on the trumpet.

“Bitches Brew? Not his most popular but as good as anything he ever did. I love this part.” He turned the volume up a few decibels. “Where’s your bathroom?”

Paige pointed to the door at the end of the kitchen.

Chapter 8

Grant sat down on the edge of the bathtub.

Fished the phone out of his pocket and scrolled through the contact list.

Don McFee.

One of the first friends Grant had made after leaving the academy. One of the few who’d stuck around during those dark days after Paige disappeared in Phoenix and he’d been hell-bent on death by escorts and scotch.

Don answered on the fifth ring, a sleep-drawl in his voice.

“I wake you?” Grant asked, speaking low into the phone.

“It’s all right.”

“I’m going to owe you huge for this one.”

“Then I guess I’ll keep the tab running.”

“I’m at my sister’s place in Queen Anne. Twenty-two Crockett Street. It’s not far from your house.”

“You’re with Paige?”

“Long story. She’s not looking so hot right now. I’ve never seen her so thin. She’s wasting away.”

“Grant, we’ve been through this. You can’t fix her.”

“This isn’t like the other times. She looks like a chemo patient.”

“Let me come pick you up. We’ll get some coffee and talk about it.”

“I’m not leaving my little sister like this.”

“You want me to show up uninvited at ten o’clock so I can tell her she’s an addict? I love you, man, but that road leads nowhere. You want to do another intervention, fine, but let’s do it the right way.”

“I’m not asking you as a counselor.”

“Is her life in imminent danger?”

“No.”

“Then as your friend, I’m telling you this isn’t what she needs. An ambush will only work against you.”

“Did I mention she’s a prostitute? I haven’t seen her in five years, and now she’s fucking guys for cash.”

“Christ. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t make me do this on my own, Don.”

There was a long pause.

A blizzard of trumpet notes escalated into a wail that sustained itself for so long Grant suddenly felt the need for a deep breath.

“Have you been drinking tonight, Grant?”

“Little bit.”

“Let me come get you.”

“Don’t worry about it. Sorry to wake you.”

Grant ended the call.

He needed a new plan.

The light above the sink flickered several times.

Went out.

Miles Davis gone silent.

Grant struggled onto his feet.

“Paige?”

The shower cut on, the cramped little bathroom filling with the noise of moving water as the pitch-black disorientation set in.

Where was the door again?

He stumbled forward into a towel rack as the toilet flushed of its own volition.

In a span of seconds, he lost all perception of space.

Need to get out of here.

He moved in another direction and ran into the sink.

The faucet turned on.

It felt like the room was closing in on him, the walls contracting, the ceiling pressing down, a completely illogical panic building, accompanied by a shortness of breath.

And then the lights kicked on.

He was staring at himself in the mirror and his chest was heaving and all that running water had silenced itself so quickly he wondered if he’d imagined the noise.

Chapter 9

Paige was at the sink when Grant emerged.

He walked over and grabbed a towel off the door to the Sub-Zero fridge.

“You lose power out here too?” Grant asked.

“Yeah. Happens occasionally. Old house, comes with the territory I guess.”

“You should get that checked. You’d be surprised how many old houses in the city burn down every month because the wiring is for shit.”

The left sink brimmed with dishes that had just begun to smell.

They fell into a familiar pattern—Paige washing, Grant drying.

Steam peeled off the surface of the murky dishwater and fogged the window behind the sink.

It felt good to have his hands doing something, and the strangeness he’d encountered in the bathroom was fading away like the memory of a dream.

As his sister handed him a plate, he said, “Can I be honest with you?”

“I hope so.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“You should have that put on a T-shirt.”

“You don’t look well, Paige.”

“Ouch.” She handed him the cast iron skillet. “Oil this for me.”

Grant grabbed a bottle of olive oil from the windowsill and sprinkled a few drops across the surface. Then he tore off a paper towel and began to massage it into the iron.

“I swear I didn’t come over to fix things, but I can’t ignore it either.”

Paige let a plate slide into the dishwater and turned to him.

“And here I was just beginning to think that maybe this was the start of something different. Good job. You really took my guard down.”

“You look terrible, Paige. You’re pale, thin, weak. You can barely walk.”

“I’m tired.”

“Are you eating?”

“Did you just
see
me eat?”

“Then what’s going on?”

Paige braced herself against the counter and stared at the wall. Grant recognized that stony expression. Total system failure. Whenever Paige felt cornered, she went on lockdown, and there was no getting back in.

The chime of the doorbell cut through the jazz, snapping Paige back into the moment.

She went over to the Bose, muted the speakers, and headed up the hallway into the foyer.

Grant hung back.

A client dropping by?

Paige said, “Can I help you?”

A man’s voice crackled over the intercom. “I’m looking for Grant Moreton.”

“Just a minute.”

Paige turned and stared down the corridor. Even in the lowlight, he could see the rage in her eyes.

“Someone’s here for you,” she said.

He started down the hall.

“How would anyone know you’re here?”

Grant passed the staircase and moved into the foyer.

“No idea.”

Keep digging that grave.

“Is this another cop?” she asked.

“Of course not.”

Grant slid the chains out of their guards and unlocked the multiple deadbolts.

“Don’t just open it for him,” Paige said, but he was already turning the doorknob.

Don McFee stood on the front porch, rain pouring behind him, pooling in the street, in the small square of grass that constituted the front yard.

The man’s face was half-shadowed under the hood of his Barbour coat, the jacket’s oiled surface beaded with rainwater.

“This is a terrible idea,” Don muttered under his breath as Grant let him in.

Paige said, “Who’s this?”

“Don McFee,” Don said, extending his hand. “You must be Paige.”

“What’s going on, Grant?”

Grant closed the door after them.

“Don is a friend of mine.”

Paige glared at Don.

His coat dripped on the hardwood floor.

“You better be here to take Grant home.”

Don looked at Grant and then at Paige. His head was shaved. Kind but intense eyes peered out from behind a pair of frameless lenses. He wore a calming presence that Grant could never reduce to its components or attribute to any particular quality. The guy just oozed Zen.

Don said, “I wonder if I might be of some help to you first?”

“Excuse me?”

Don looked her up and down. “I’ve been a substance abuse counselor for sixteen years.”

“Oh my God.”

“Please just hear me—”

“And what? Grant called you and told you I was using?” She looked at Grant. “Is that what you did? While you were in the bathroom?”

“Are you using, Paige?” Don asked.

“Get the fuck out of my house both of you.”

Grant said, “Paige, just talk to—”

She lunged forward, and with both hands, shoved Grant back against the door.

“I can’t believe I trusted you.”

“He can help. He’s helped me.”

“Did you hear me ask for help?”

“Paige—”

“Did you?”

“Your brother’s concerned,” Don said. “And I have to agree with him. You don’t look well.”

“Get out of my house.”

“Nobody’s leaving,” Grant said.

Paige turned away from them and moved quickly into the living room, stopping at an end table that rested against the couch.

She lifted a cordless phone off its base.

“Really want to give the cops your address?” Grant said.

Paige held the phone against her chest and shut her eyes.

When she opened them again, her body language had relaxed, as if some of the fight was flooding out of her.

She looked at Grant. “I appreciate your concern, okay? But there is nothing wrong with me, and I am asking both of you to please leave.”

Don stepped in. “Paige, I don’t think I need to tell you that you’re underweight, your complexion is unhealthy, and your hair is thin. My job isn’t to scare you, but your body can’t handle much more than it’s already been put through.”

“I’ve been clean for three years.”

Don moved slowly into the living room. “All the more reason to find out what’s going on. Wouldn’t you at least agree that your physical appearance is a cause for alarm?”

Paige stared at the floor, and for the first time since walking into this house, Grant sensed a change in her. It didn’t hold the power of an outright admission, but at least she wasn’t swinging back, trying to tear his throat out.

“How do you feel right in this moment, Paige?” Don asked.

She collapsed onto the couch. Let out a long sigh.

“Honestly? I’m tired,” she said. “I’m weak all the time.” Grant thought he registered emotion—coiled and charged—bleeding into her voice. “Even when I was strung out it never felt this bad.”

Grant hung back while Don continued toward her with the greatest care—as if approaching a wounded animal. Don unzipped his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. He settled down on the couch beside Paige.