When I'm Gone: A Novel (22 page)

CHAPTER 22

Driving through the darkness, Luke had to fight back memories of the night his sister was born. Something about the way the headlights cut through the mist and the bite of the evening air blowing against his face as he drove with the windows down reminded him of that summer night.

One hour after begging her teenage son not to call for help, Abigail Richardson gave birth to a tiny baby girl. The baby was stillborn, blue, and so small she could fit easily in the dish towel Luke retrieved from the kitchen. Even as tiny and discolored as she was, Luke thought she looked like a miniature doll.

His mother asked Luke to hold the baby as she cleaned up the mess in the hallway, refusing his help. With the still baby in his arms, Luke imagined her alive, with chubby cheeks and all the smiles he’d never see. Then he closed his eyes and prayed. Prayed harder than he’d ever prayed.

“Please, God, let this be a bad dream; please let Violet live,” he begged. He squeezed his eyes shut and continued to pray that God could turn back the past four hours and he could do something to stop his father from hurting them, for good.

But Luke’s mother changed out of her blood-drenched clothes and crawled into bed, cradling baby Violet beside her. Luke begged her to go to the hospital. They’d had enough of these conversations for him to know she’d never give in.

He didn’t think to ask what was going to happen when the sun came up, how his mom was going to explain that she suddenly wasn’t pregnant anymore. In fact, he couldn’t think at all anymore. As soon as he turned off the light and closed the door to his mother’s room, Luke sprinted out the back door, his bare feet slapping on the cold concrete of the porch.

Twisted weeds filled his unkempt yard and poked at the soles of his feet, but he didn’t stop. He wanted to be away from the house and the horrors he’d witnessed. His baby sister was dead, and it was his fault. He couldn’t stop his father or convince his mother to let him get help. He was useless.

Luke reached the gate to Natalie’s backyard in three seconds flat. Squirming his finger through the crack between the gate and the fence post, he lifted the latch on the other side, impatient to be away from anything his father had ever touched. The only place he felt safe anymore was Natalie’s shed, old and metal, with a hole in the roof. Natalie’s dad had built a new shed when they moved in, but never took the time to pull apart the old one. When the kids took it over, Mr. Egart nailed a board on the roof and kept pretending he didn’t have time to get rid of the shed.

Painted white aluminum sheeting acted as a door and was kept shut by a piece of wire hooked over an old nail. It was hard to maneuver it in the dark and with his hands shaking so violently. Once the door opened, a gust of stale warm air hit him in the face, taking the chill out of the night breeze. It was the smell of safety, a place he’d go often to get away from the screaming in his house and his inability to do anything about it.

Natalie wasn’t there. He knew she wouldn’t be. She was asleep inside her house like any other sane person. Part of him had hoped she’d somehow be there. They could have some Twizzlers; she’d curl up against him and pat his chest, kiss the underside of his jaw, her breath smelling slightly of strawberry, and everything else would melt away.

After breaking the speed limit the whole way home, Luke pulled into Annie’s driveway, flicked off his headlights, and checked his phone for the umpteenth time. Annie hadn’t answered any of his phone calls or texts or sent a new one in forty minutes. There were two from Felicity: one thanking him for the night, and a second checking in to make sure everyone was okay. He’d have to answer those later. He couldn’t think beyond the dark windows of Annie’s house.

Should he be scared or angry? Both emotions were coursing through his veins, and which one would win out was still to be determined. To be safe he carefully typed 9-1-1 into his phone and slipped it back into his pocket. This time no one was going to die because he was afraid to call for help.

Turning the corner, he could tell the front door wasn’t closed all the way. The same way Mr. Egart found the Richardsons’ front door the morning after Violet’s birth, or at least that’s what Natalie told him.

Luke knocked lightly on the door, hoping Annie would pop out of the darkness and explain this was all a misunderstanding. He listened for footsteps or voices or anything. There was nothing but silence.

“Annie,” Luke whispered as he pushed open the door with an index finger. Crossing the threshold, something glittery crunched under his dress shoes. Squinting down, he tried to make out what was sparkling up at him. Glass. Long silver fragments littered the floor, like someone dropped a mirror from the second-floor hall. “Annie?” he called again. She’d never leave the house like this, sharp glass on the floor, front door open. Not voluntarily.

Luke took out his phone, cleared the 9-1-1 message, typed in Annie’s cell number, and then put the phone up to his ear. It trilled once, and then in the darkness, a mellow blue light flicked on behind the railing at the top of the stairs. Luke let the hand holding the phone drop to his side and followed the light. The shattered glass crunched under his rubber soles, but once he reached the carpeted stairs, each step became a whisper.

The phone continued to ring against his thigh. When Annie’s happy voice-mail greeting picked up, the glowing light ahead of him clicked off. He pressed redial. The light flicked on again, and as he stepped on the landing, he saw the phone. It sat on the floor next to a slumped figure. Annie.

Luke landed on his knees in front of her, close enough to hear her breathing. She was alive, but her eyes were closed. She didn’t seem to be aware of his presence. Reaching out slowly, he touched her shoulder.

“Annie. It’s me. Are you okay?” He shook her lightly, and Annie’s blonde eyelashes, tinted blue by the light of her still ringing phone, fluttered open.

“Luke. You came.” She started to smile but faltered halfway through.

“Of course I came. I told you I would come when you needed me.” She nodded. Her voice mail picked up again, but he pressed her phone against his leg to interrupt it. “What happened here?” Luke tried to check her for any visible injuries but didn’t find any in the darkness. “Where is Brian? His car’s outside.”

Annie shifted her weight and cleared her throat. “He’s in there.” She pointed at a closed bedroom door at the end of a short hall.

Luke had to ask the question that might make her hate him. “Did he hurt you, Annie?” He held her by the shoulder.

“I didn’t call you for me, Luke.” Her voice was gravelly, and even in the black hallway he could tell her eyes were bloodshot. “I called you for Brian.”

“What?” Luke released Annie and fell back. He didn’t leave a date, rush across town, and break into Annie’s house to help Brian.

“There’s something wrong with him. He’s been drinking a lot lately. Then tonight, he was waiting at the garage door when I got home from the store, ranting like a lunatic, completely delusional, screaming that I need to clean the house better because we have bedbugs.” Annie cringed as she repeated the accusations. So far Luke couldn’t see any reason why he should give a damn about Brian, even if he was supposed to be his friend.

Annie pressed the back of her hand to her cheek, breathing heavily. “He yelled at me, and I knew what was coming so I ran away, but he started throwing things. The mirror missed me by a few inches. So I locked myself in the bathroom,” she said quickly, as if illustrating her escape. “He pounded so hard, he ripped a hole in the door.” She shuddered. What would’ve happened if Brian had gotten that door open?

Annie ran her wrist under her nose and sniffed. “Then it was all quiet. I came back out, and the house was trashed, front door open. I thought he’d left to cool down. So I came up to shower and grab some things so I wouldn’t have to disturb him when he got home, but the door was locked. I used a hanger and picked it, but our dresser is in front of the door. I can only get it open a crack. He’s passed out on the bed, and I can’t tell if he’s alive or dead.”

“We should call 9-1-1.”

“No!” She scrambled upright, pushing down the hand holding his phone. “We can’t call anyone. He’s a cop. They know him. He’ll get fired.”

“But he could be dead! Which is more important?” Luke pushed the home button on the front of his phone and started to type in his password. He should’ve called 9-1-1 as soon as he crossed the threshold and noticed the glass.

Annie wrapped both of her hands around the phone, her fingernails digging into the back of his hand.

“If you call the police, he will kill me.” Tears poured down her cheeks in thick streams. With her face so close, he could see delicate crimson scratches across her face where the glass had flown past her. Her lips trembled as she spoke, spittle gathering at the corners of her mouth. “He will do it; I know he will.”

Every instinct told him to get help, reminded him of what happened the last time he didn’t. But the fear from years of abuse was more obvious than any scars, and he wanted to make her feel safe.

“Fine.” He released the phone and wiggled his hands out of her iron grasp. “I’ll check on him, but I want you to stay here.” He tilted his head to the side so he could look her in the eyes. “If there’s any trouble, you have to make that call.”

She held the phone in her clasped hands like she was praying. “I will. I promise.”

He checked her over one more time. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes,” she said, raising her eyebrows impatiently. “Go.”

Luke stood quickly, gravity pulling blood from his brain, making him stumble. Annie was in her own world: arms wrapped around her legs and head down on her knees. She didn’t seem to notice his stumble or really much of anything. He’d have to make sure she was really unharmed once he could turn on some lights.

To think he started this night worried about avoiding a good-night kiss. Now he was heading into a barricaded room to face a man with a history of violence who carried a gun for a living. Luke stepped boldly toward the master bedroom door. A bent hanger hung out of the bronzed doorknob. He yanked it out, the metal scratching loud enough to make Luke cringe.

Quickly this time, he rammed the door. It opened a crack, immediately slamming into something hard.
There goes the element of surprise.
Might as well get it over with. Luke peeled off his jacket and tossed it on the floor behind him. With his right shoulder, he slammed against the door. It gave a little. Luke took a breath and tried again. One, two, three more times until there was a large enough opening to squeeze through. Sucking in his stomach, he squeezed himself through the opening. His buttons scratched against the doorjamb, one catching for a moment on the latch.

He scanned the scene in front of him. He’d never been in Brian and Annie’s room, but he was certain this wasn’t what it normally looked like. The lamp by the bed had lost its lampshade, casting a harsh glow against the back wall. To the left was the bathroom, door gaping open, with a trail of clothes and towels pouring out of it like it was vomiting laundry. On the right was a walk-in closet, or at least Luke thought it was. He couldn’t tell because everything once on the shelves or hangers was now piled in the doorway, with a wall of fabric and shoes. It looked like robbers had tossed the room. What could’ve enticed Brian to do this? It wasn’t time to figure out that mystery. First, he had to check on Brian.

He was alive, that was clear enough. As he lay on the bed in only a pair of black boxer-briefs, Luke could make out the rise and fall of his back. After two more steps, Luke was close enough to hear Brian snoring softly, a dark pool of drool slowly soaking into the pillow his face was smashed against. Sprawled out across the king-size mattress, Brian was definitely asleep, not dead. But the closer Luke got to the unconscious man, the more he realized that this wasn’t a nap.

On the bedside table the naked lightbulb cast a crescent glow against the wall. Beneath it was a collection of several other small objects. At first, Luke couldn’t make out what cluttered the painted black surface of the side table. There was a small empty prescription bottle with no pharmacy label. Squinting in the strange light, he leaned forward. A few stray, multicolored pills were scattered across the nightstand and at least half a dozen empty beer bottles.