JENNY STAYED PERFECTLY STILL, listening to Mr. Renkin spin Ms. Willoughby’s anger into forgiveness, convincing her how irrational she was being.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said, completing his work and making Jenny want to run down the stairs screaming for Ms. Willoughby to leave this monster, but she didn’t move. She was too afraid.
“It’s OK, baby,” Mr. Renkin offered, so generous.
“Can I stay?” she asked.
“Why don’t you come back tomorrow? I’ll make dinner.”
She didn’t respond right away, and Jenny wished so badly that she could see them. Were they touching? Was Ms. Willoughby looking at him or down at the floor?
“Hey, hey, hey . . .” Mr. Renkin said. “Get out of your head. I can see you spiraling. Don’t overthink it, OK?”
Jenny heard a kiss, not sure if it was on the lips, the cheek, the forehead.
“I’m just tired and I want to get up early,” he explained.
Bull. Shit, Jenny thought.
“OK,” Ms. Willoughby said with the minimum volume possible for the word to still reach Jenny.
There were steps toward the door. It opened. Another kiss; then it closed again. Ms. Willoughby was gone and Jenny was alone.
She turned her head from the dim light reaching the hallway and tried to make sense of her surroundings. There was a window. A thick curtain was shielding most of the moonlight, but a thin strip of light at the bottom was enough to interrupt the pitch black. If she climbed out, how far was the drop? Was that even necessary? Mr. Renkin had been letting her go the first time. What’s to say this time would be any different?
Jenny tiptoed across the room. She didn’t need to hide anymore, but she hoped maybe he had forgotten about her and she wasn’t eager to make any noises that would remind him. She pulled back the thick curtain just in time to watch the headlights from Ms. Willoughby’s car reverse down the driveway, abandoning Jenny there.
The drop from the window to the ground was severe. Trying to escape that way would surely result in at least a broken ankle, maybe as much as a shattered skull.
She could hear Mr. Renkin moving about downstairs. She didn’t want him to come for her, but every step he took increased the suspense and made her thoughts more frantic. Would he hurt her? What if he tried to rape her? Was he capable of that? He could have done something to her that day she was unconscious. Or did he? Did he do something and she just couldn’t remember? Maybe he wasn’t interested in her at all. Maybe she just had too many perverts in her life and now she couldn’t see anything else. Was there permanent damage to her brain?
Jenny turned from the window—the curtain pulled to the side, bunched in her hand, a triangle of exposed glass welcoming a bit of moonlight into the room. It was Mr. Renkin’s bedroom. She could make out the foot of the bed—a comforter half tucked in, half tugged up somewhere out of the light, a dresser with two drawers partially open, a pile of dirty clothes next to it.
Mr. Renkin moved again downstairs, reminding her he was still there, and she looked back to the window, as if a ladder could have appeared, or maybe the house had shrunk, neither a reality. She turned back to the door. Should she run? Her head ping-ponged back and forth, a breakdown building, her heart beating so fast she could see the fabric of her nightgown twitching along with it.
Mr. Renkin went silent downstairs. Jenny’s heartbeat was an unrelenting repetitive thud, starting in her chest and splitting at the back of her head to pound through each ear canal equally. It was getting louder and faster. It was building to a crescendo. Just as she thought her head was about to explode, spitting brain matter from any available orifice, something moved in the bed.
It was human movement, hidden in the darkness, in a silent house where she thought there was only one person to fear. With the curtain still bunched in her fist, Jenny lifted her arm, slowly increasing the visibility of her surroundings.
First she could see the untucked portion of the comforter snaked around a set of bare legs, one on top of the other. Then there was a hand, indistinguishable, no rings, no nail polish, attached to an unremarkable arm that led to an exposed collarbone above the edge of the blanket. And then . . . flat, messy, bright magenta hair.
Jenny took in one unforgettable memory of Christine Castleton’s sleeping face, passed out drunk in Mr. Renkin’s bed, before she released the curtain and bolted for the door. She took the stairs so fast that she had to grip the railing and catch herself every time she slipped and took a few faster than expected. She hit the living room floor and sprinted for the door. Nothing would stop her. As she flung it open, she caught a glimpse of Mr. Renkin at the kitchen island. His only movement was to bring his beer to his lips while he watched her. It was eerie, but Jenny couldn’t care less once she felt the fresh air on her face and slammed the door behind her.
JENNY SPRINTED DOWN the driveway. She was going to Virginia’s. Even if it took an hour, two hours, even if she had to crawl, her decision was made. If Virginia wasn’t there, she would sit outside her door and wait. She wasn’t going home to her insane mother, and she wasn’t going back to help JP bury a body.
Before she reached the end of the driveway, music started blaring from inside Mr. Renkin’s house. It made her stop and turn around. She couldn’t see him in any of the well-lit windows. Her legs started moving again as she looked over her shoulder and watched the distance from his house grow. Jenny was done getting in other people’s business. She was done knowing other people’s secrets. She was done having her own secrets.
SHE DIDN’T NOTICE the car until she ran smack into the bumper. A sharp pain pulsed from her left shin, and she threw her weight to her other leg. Applying pressure to the soon-to-be bruise, Jenny looked up at the car. It was dark, silent, and appeared abandoned, but there it sat, not parked, just stopped dead in the center at the end of Mr. Renkin’s driveway.
The overhead light came on inside illuminating a long arm as it lowered from the roof. Jenny’s eyes met the driver’s. They held eye contact, neither blinking, neither moving.