Faith woke up the next morning with the sun in her eyes. The curtains were open. There was an egret perched on her balcony with a powder-blue sky and wispy white clouds as a backdrop.
She arched her neck to get a look at the clock and fell back into the pillows: it was almost eight o’clock. Downstairs, Jarrod was telling Maggie to hurry up. She smelled brewed coffee wafting up from the kitchen. On her nightstand was a mug, a banana, and a bottle of Tylenol. She touched the mug. It was cold.
For a brief second, everything seemed OK. Then it all came barreling into her mind, sabotaging the deceptively beautiful day outside. She closed her eyes and lay there for a few minutes.
‘Let’s go, Maggie,’ Jarrod was saying. ‘Stop watching TV and help me find your backpack, please.’
‘Where’s Mommy?’
‘Sleeping. We have to go; I have court. And I have a very important phone call I have to take.’
‘I want Mommy to take me.’
‘I don’t think Mommy is feeling well this morning; she was up very late with Aunt Charity.’ He sounded annoyed. ‘We gotta go, sweetheart. Damn it – where are your shoes?’
The house banged and clanked as plates hit the sink and doors opened and closed in the search for Maggie’s shoes and backpack. Maggie whined; Jarrod groused. Finally she heard the chirp of the door alarm sound and the house fell quiet. After a few more minutes Faith sat up, popped two Tylenol and downed them with the cold coffee. God, her head freaking throbbed.
Yesterday she’d dropped off Charity at the new apartment, and that took longer than she’d thought it would. The keys weren’t there and they’d had to wait for the property manager. Then Vivian had come over with Maggie and Lyle to see Charity, and the kids were all playing and everyone was talking. They’d ordered pizza and opened a bottle of wine. That led to another bottle or two. When she’d finally gotten home, it was past nine and she had to put Maggie to bed, then Jarrod had come home and … well, there was no time. She’d run out of time to make the phone call.
She got dressed and texted Vivian that she wouldn’t be in till later on in the morning, maybe after lunch. Then she grabbed a notepad and a pen from the office and a basket of dirty laundry. She’d put in a load, make a fresh pot of coffee, sit down with her pen and paper at the breakfast bar and make that call to the police. She could even drive up to the department if she had to, to make the report, if they wanted her to. She headed downstairs. OK. What department? Where was she yesterday when she saw that poster? Nowhere. Bumfuck, Charity had sarcastically called it. She tried to remember the exit off of the Turnpike. She’d have to Google the Animal nightclub where that girl Angelina worked, was all. Then she’d call the police in that town and ask to speak to missing persons.
She heard the sound of the TV in the family room as she hit the second landing. Jarrod must have forgotten to turn it off.
‘… still developing. Palm Beach detectives aren’t releasing much information, except to say that the body was in fairly advanced state of decomposition. The young mother and aspiring artist had been reported missing two weeks ago by her family …’
Faith stopped suddenly on the stairs, laundry basket in hand. She leaned against the wall. She couldn’t see the TV; she could only hear it. The family room was off the kitchen. Although the volume was low, the horrible words the reporter was saying echoed off the cathedral ceilings as though he were broadcasting with a bullhorn – at least that’s how she heard them. Her heart started to race and she tried to tell herself not to jump to conclusions, not to think the worst, even though she knew that the worst was already happening.
‘… after she failed to come home from work as a dancer at a nightclub in West Palm …’
She put the basket down and tried to cover her ears. Her shaking legs advised her to run. Get out before everything changes! Leave before they say her name! She frantically looked around the living room below for an escape route, as if that were really an option.
But there was to be no escape. Not from any of this. She thought of the creepy encounter with the man in the gas station and his prophetic Doomsday admonition: Everybody pays. Can’t get out of paying when the devil wants his due …
She felt the life drain from her legs and she slumped against the pretty faux-painted wall, trapped right where she was as the reporter prattled on about the horror of it all.