The room’s dark but for the soft glow of the night-light. The girls are asleep in Zoe’s massive four-poster. It’s got a pink canopy, like Dana’s childhood bed.
I tug up the embroidered quilt and spread on an extra chenille blanket. A storm’s blown in from Alaska. The wind’s bone chilling.
I bend to kiss Ruby. Her plump cheek is velvet, her breaths deep and even. If only I could climb into bed beside her.
I turn away and pinch my forehead. Enough with the if-onlys.
While I don’t like leaving the girls in the twins’ care, at fifteen, they’re old enough. We won’t be gone long.
I pad back downstairs to find Dana crouched near the front door. She looks up from a blank sheet of paper. There’s a Sharpie in her hand. Her eyes look even bigger due to her recent weight loss.
“You ready?” I say. I can’t hide my impatience.
She must notice, because she says, “You don’t have to come. The note said I should go alone.”
I snort. I hate that martyred tone. “The note also said to bring three million dollars.”
Dana frowns haughtily. She bites the end of her pen. “What should I write?”
A blackmailer wants cash, not excuses. We don’t have the money. End of story. “Something vague,” I say. “In case someone else finds it.”
Lips pursed, Dana starts to write, her printing clean and elegant: we need more time.
She taps the pen to her teeth. “Should I say sorry?”
I open the closet. “No.”
I’m sick to death of sorrys. Most people don’t even mean it. Trev was chock full of them: Sorry I went on a bender. Sorry I lost all that money. Sorry about the Rodeo Queen, but I swear nothing happened! That girl’s crazy!
I should have left him years ago. He never deserved me.
I shake my head. “No sorry. It sounds lame.”
She sighs. “Lame’s how I feel.” She folds the note and stands slowly.
I pull my jacket from her closet. My eyes throb. It’s Friday night, the end of a long week. Half the school is off sick. I have a cough and was up most of last night. I struggle into my jacket.
Going to Myers Point is risky. Three days back, I saw the younger hit-and-run cop—Morton—at the grocery store. Was that a coincidence? Maybe. But what if I’m being followed? Those two showing up at Ruby’s school was unnerving.
If the cops see us creeping around Myers Point, what excuse could we give? A missing dog? They could check that. It’s late. A storm’s hit. There’s no good reason to be there in the dark in this weather. We’d definitely raise their suspicions.
I wrap my scarf and tuck it into my coat’s collar. “What if the cops are tailing us?” I ask Dana.
“We’ll keep a lookout,” she says. She unlocks her colossal front door and drags it open. Frigid air rushes in. “But there’s no choice. We need to try.” She sounds testy. “We might see something important.”
I cough. “Fine. You’re right. We should try.”
We take my car. A tired gray Corolla is less conspicuous than a spanking new Range Rover or a glow-in-the-dark white Mercedes.
My car’s heater won’t stop spluttering. It spews burnt stink but no hot air. We don’t talk on the drive. Dana keeps her eyes on the rearview mirror. I make lots of unnecessary turns. No one’s behind us.
The whole way there, I wish I were home in bed. I wish none of this had happened. Dana didn’t deserve my help dumping Stan, not when she didn’t trust me. She lied about the way he died. And her affair with that scumbag Ryan. How expertly she played me, even damaging her own face—her greatest asset—so I’d never guess she was lying. I’m furious I believed her.
Dana interrupts my self-pity: “Jo! Park there.”
I slow. On one side lies the park, on the other a row of dark houses. I pull up behind a rusted Dodge pickup with an empty boat trailer. From here, it’s a short walk to the park’s entrance. I dig gloves from my pocket. My throat feels hot and raw.
As I exit the car, the wind strikes me. My nose starts dripping. This can’t be helping my cold. I feel freshly resentful. Life was hard enough before Dana’s bullshit. If only I’d said no that night and not gone over. Why am I here?
A tall hedge runs beside the sidewalk. We creep in its shadow, out of the streetlamps’ orange glow. A small road leads into the park. To our left lies a parking lot, empty but for two parked cars. Maybe couples making out, although what a night for outdoor romance! It’s started to drizzle. If it gets any colder, it will snow.
At the end of the hedge, we stop. The Octopus is a good spot. There’s little cover, just a few harassed bushes and trees. I check my watch: 11:20 p.m.
“I don’t like this,” says Dana. “We’re too exposed.”
I look over my shoulder and think of Ryan Reeve, out back behind Stanton House. That look in his eyes, like he’d happily throttle me. Could he have followed us from Dana’s? No, I’m being paranoid. My throat’s scratchy. “Now what?” I whisper.
“I’ll leave the note.” She sounds scared but determined. “You stay hidden, okay?”
A snort escapes, feral. “Fuck that!” I say. “I’m not leaving you out here alone!”
A few months back, a woman was raped near here while jogging after sunset. No one’s been arrested. If he did it once, why not again? It’s awful that women aren’t truly safe anywhere. Not even in Glebes Bay.
For a second, Dana looks set to argue, but she relents. We step out from behind the hedge. The full force of the wind hits. We walk angled forward. The field’s soggy.
Besides the giant cement Octopus, there’s a slide, a swing set, and a row of posts for leapfrog. Further back lie the beach and the sea.
We’re about halfway across the field when I look back, just in case. Nothing moves but the grass and the worn-out trees. I scan the houses and the road. I can’t shake the sense that someone’s watching.
My foot sinks into a hole. Mud squelches, cold and thick, through my shoe. “Fuck!” I mutter.
Dana twists, big-eyed. “What?”
“Nothing. I stepped in a puddle.”
We pass the slide and the swings. As far as creepiness goes, it’s hard to top an abandoned playground in the dark. The monstrous Octopus doesn’t help. It’s a safety hazard. The city’s just asking for a lawsuit. I push against the wind.
The Octopus’s black head looms closer. Round eyes are painted on. They don’t look cute but evil. The door’s a jet- black hole.
We stop, and the acrid smell of piss fills my nose.
We left our phones back at Winderlea so they couldn’t be traced. I brought nothing but a small flashlight. I free it from my pocket but hesitate, scared of attracting attention.
“I can’t see anything,” points out Dana.
I click the light on. We step closer to the door.
The room’s small, with concave, pink-painted walls. It reminds me of a heart’s chamber. I shine the light around. It’s empty. There are wood chips and cigarette butts on the floor. A shiny chip bag. A sad, used condom.
Jesus. What’s wrong with people? Imagine doing it here.
Dana brushes past me and enters. She sets the note near the back wall on the floor, pinning it down with wood chips.
When she reemerges, she looks ill. “That smell.”
We turn and walk back the way we came. I scan the road. Dark houses. Parked cars. The occasional porch light. Nothing out of the ordinary. I imagine normal people leading normal lives. Sleeping. Maybe watching TV. What would they think if they knew what we’d done? They’d view us as terrible people. They would not understand.
Behind us, the waves sound threatening. Wind punches our backs. The drizzle’s turned to full-on rain. I clear my throat. It’s increasingly sore: “There’s nowhere to hide.”
“Those bushes?” suggests Dana. A clump of dispirited blackberries grows near the parking lot. We head that way. Rain drips off my hood. My jeans are soaked. The cold’s vicious.
The bush is prickly. We sink down in its shadow to wait. Ten minutes. Twenty. It’s creeping closer to midnight. In my wet sneakers, my feet are numb.
Crouched next to each other, I’m reminded of our errant youth. Getting drunk in parks. Hiding from parents and cops. Back when we were too young to get into clubs and too stupid to worry. Nights full of promise but nothing to do.
The only time I got really scared was the night Dana’s car went off the road.
We were at a party out at Fenton Lake with a bunch of older kids she barely knew. Dana disappeared with some boy. I didn’t know anyone else. I sat self-consciously by the campfire, drinking cherry wine coolers.
When Dana reappeared, she looked flushed and mad. Maybe she’d had a fight with that guy. “Jo! Come on!” she said. “Let’s go!”
I stood up, happy to be off. Away from the fire, it was very dark. We stumbled arm in arm down a trail, back to her little white car.
Normally, Dana didn’t drink and drive. But she was obviously drunk. As was I.
“Maybe we should sleep in the car,” I said.
Dana tossed me the keys. “Fuck that.”
I shook my head. “But . . . I can’t . . .” I’d practiced a few times but didn’t even have my license.
Her hands went to her hips. “Come on, Jo! I’m totally fucked up. That guy gave me this punch. It was like . . . laced with something.” She swayed on her feet as if to prove her point. “You have to drive.”
I did okay on the dirt road but drove us into a ditch on a small country lane about twenty minutes out of town. We didn’t get hurt. The car wasn’t damaged. It was just stuck, half off the road.
After we crawled out, I got sick—heaves of sour fake cherry.
“Shit,” grumbled Dana, as we stood by the roadside. “Now what?”
I was terrified the cops would show up and breathalyze me.
Instead, the first car that came along held a guy from the party. He stopped behind Dana’s car and got out with a smile. I recognized him from around town. Early twenties. He ran with a rough crowd. He had a beard and dressed like a biker.
“Well, well, well,” he said. “Look who needs help.”
Dana gave him her most charming smile. “We’d really appreciate that.”
With guys from school, that would have worked. They’d do anything for Dana. But this guy just laughed. “What’s in it for me, little girl?”
Dana glared at me. “You got us into this mess.”
I shook my head. “I told you I couldn’t—”
She cut me off. “Do it, Jo!”
He towed us out for a blow job. Dana sat in the car while I did it.
Next morning, she gave me her new MP3 player. It was her way of saying sorry. I tried never to think of that night again. And as always, I forgave her.
My knees are stiff from kneeling. My toes feel frozen solid. I check my watch. It’s 12:30 a.m. I stand up.
Dana jerks me down: “Shhhh! Listen!” She practically mouths the words: “Someone’s coming!”
I inch forward and peer around the bush. The wind makes my eyes water.
A figure appears, blacker lines in the dark. They’re headed our way, across the field, come from the beach. Or the playground.
Dana’s hands cup my ear: “Can you see who they are?”
I shake my head. It’s too dark to see clearly. The person’s slim. I’m not sure if it’s a man or a woman. They pass out of sight. I creep forward, staying low. Dana’s behind me.
The figure enters a pool of light cast by a streetlamp in the parking lot. I think it’s a guy. He’s in a dark hat and green jacket—like Ryan’s. This thought elicits a visceral reaction.
He vanishes, blocked by a tree. I crawl further. He steps behind a pale car. Is that an SUV?
A car door slams. The engine starts. Headlights flare. I shrink back, blinded. Can he see us?
The car turns and speeds away.
“Fuck!” I say. “That must have been the blackmailer!” I throw up my hands. “We should have gotten the license plate number!”
“But . . .” says Dana. She looks crestfallen.
I march toward the Octopus. She follows more slowly. By the time she catches up, I’ve looked inside and stormed out. She sees my face and stops. I spit, “The note’s gone.”
“Oh shit.” She sways. “We learned nothing.”
I don’t bother to answer but turn and plod toward the car. The wind’s hard, from the ocean. The rain’s blinding.
Dana doesn’t follow. I turn back. She’s just standing there, head bent, in the deluge. Her hood’s slipped down. I’m scared she’s having a breakdown.
I walk back and take her arm. “Come on. It’s freezing. You’ll catch a cold.”
She blinks. “Jo? I’m going crazy! The cops! And now this blackmail! Who saw us? There’s nothing worse than not knowing!”
I consider this as I steer her back to the car.
Mom told me my dad didn’t want a funeral. She bought an urn for his ashes. It sat on an altar in her bedroom with a scented candle and a vase of fake flowers. I used to go in there and talk to him, tell him I missed him. Light incense. Pray.
At age fourteen, I learned the truth. He didn’t die. He ran off to start a new family in San Diego. I have twin half brothers four years my junior. We’ve never met and never will. It’s not their fault, but I hate them. Just like I resented my mother.
It was my dad who betrayed us, but I blamed her. I felt she’d lied for herself, to save face, because she considered divorce less respectable than being widowed.
Since having Ruby, I doubt that. She did it for me, so I wouldn’t know he chose to leave us. Wouldn’t realize I’d meant so little. Ignorance isn’t bliss, but the truth isn’t either.
I climb into the cold car and shut my door. Dana curls into the passenger seat and closes her eyes. Her wet hair is stringy.
I start the car and flick on the wipers. The left one starts squeaking.
“Shit,” I mutter. “Not again.” I only just had it fixed.