Oliver had just gotten to sleep when the phone rang. It took him a minute to piece together what Ava was telling him, that he needed to come over, it had to be now. He was really past too drunk to drive, but the kid wouldn’t call him this late unless it was a real emergency. Something with Lane, he wouldn’t let himself think about what. Carefully he maneuvered the car through the streets, windows down, hoping the humid breeze would refresh him. At Lane’s he let himself in. The house was dark. Something was different in the air. Unsettled.
“Lanie,” he called out, softly because it was late, nearly three in the morning. “Ava? Lane?”
No one answered but he heard a noise, a shuffling. He turned on the light. “Lane,” he called, louder. The sound had come from the back, maybe the basement. He walked toward the hall and saw the figure on the floor, a man’s crumpled form, a pool of dark blood.
“Christ,” Oliver said. “Fuck. Ava! Lane!” he was yelling now.
He turned away from the corpse, glanced back at it. Oliver couldn’t see the face, but the man was clearly dead. The sound came again, a whimper. The basement door stood open. Definitely coming from below. Oliver pulled the string for the basement light and descended the steps. Ava and Lane were down here, hiding. There was an intruder and he somehow had been shot, and Ava and Lane were safe.
“Lane,” Oliver said, “what the fuck happened?” He could see them huddled together on the floor at the bottom of the steps, but they didn’t answer him.
“Come on, let’s get y’all upstairs,” Oliver said. He leaned down, put his hand on Ava’s back. She jumped, made a frightened sound, the same cry he’d heard from upstairs.
“Whoa, whoa, it’s just me. It’s Oliver. It’s okay. Come on, get up. You, too, Lanie. It’s safe now. You’re safe.”
The bare bulb over the stairs was insufficient. Oliver moved around the heap of them, crouched down in order to see. Lane was lying on the floor, her head in Ava’s lap, and the girl wouldn’t look up. His vision was adjusting to the dark. He could see Lane better now, her eyes were closed. He touched her arm, and it lay there inert.
“She’s passed out,” he said. “We’ll take her to the ER. We can go around the side, straight out to the car. We don’t have to go upstairs. What happened, Ava?”
She shook her head.
“Okay, I’ll carry her. Are you hurt? Can you walk?”
She turned her face toward him, but it was like she wasn’t seeing him.
“It’s okay,” he said.
He gathered Lane into his own lap. He felt the blood, realized she wasn’t breathing. He checked her pulse, couldn’t find it. She wasn’t unconscious. Lane was dead.
The girl was visibly shaking, now that she was no longer holding her grandmother. A pistol lay in her lap. He placed Lane’s head down gently and reached over to take the gun. Jesus fuck, he said. Fucking Christ. He slipped it in his waistband and got to his feet. He pulled Ava up and gathered her in his arms, found that she was able to stand, that she would let him turn her and walk her to the door. He pushed it open and they stepped into the backyard, its riot of dusty overgrown foliage edged in streetlight. He guided her through the side yard and opened the gate.
“We’ll go in through the front. Can you go up the steps?”
She nodded.
“Say yes,” he said. “Let me hear your voice.”
“Yes.”
“Good, you can talk. That’s good. Come on.”
They entered the house and turned into the front room with the painting. He sat her down on the couch and explained how he was going to leave her alone in there for a minute to get them both something to drink. She didn’t say anything.
“Stay here,” he said. “I’ll be right back. It’s going to be okay.”
Oliver put the gun on the dining table. He went into the hallway, approached the man. His face was visible from this angle. Oliver recognized him. Fucking Art Guidry. What the hell. Oliver backed away from the man, the coagulating pool of blood. He saw Lane’s pipe on the counter when he was locking the French doors and picked it up reflexively to take a hit, but then thought better of it. Got to sober up, he told himself. Get your shit together. Think.
First things first, take care of the girl. Figure out what the fuck happened, then figure out what to do.
He closed the door between the dining room and the back hall, which had always stood open, so the girl would not have to see the corpse. He made himself coffee. He found a package of Oreos and brought them to Ava along with a glass and the bourbon bottle. Sugar would help, they could both use some sugar. She sat as he’d left her, staring at the scuffed floor in front of her. Her whole body was vibrating, a high-frequency hum of panic. He poured her a shot.
“Ava,” he said. “Hey, come on. Drink this, it’ll make you feel better.” He took her hand and put the glass of bourbon in it. “Drink the whole thing. One big sip.”
She did it, coughing a little. He poured her some more. “Now this one. Then eat a cookie.”
She drank the second shot and handed him the glass. He gave her a cookie and watched her chew and swallow. He sat down next to her and put his arm around her shivering shoulders. “These cookies are terrible,” he said. “Who lets Oreos go stale?”
Ava shrugged her shoulders, then shivered and started to cry.
“Okay,” he said. “You’re in there after all.”
He let her cry, relieved that her silence was over. He held her, concentrating on the moment, rubbing his hand over her bony back. His awareness drifted to Lane in the basement, Artie in the hallway, then seized up in grief and shock. He wrenched his thoughts back to the present moment. The girl. Her sobs subsided gradually.
Oliver said, “You think you can tell me what happened?”
She nodded, began, haltingly, to speak. Her voice sounded remote, high and feathery, like she was describing a dream while still half asleep. She was reciting facts but she wasn’t thinking about what she was saying. When she was finished, Oliver made her eat another cookie and go over the details again. He wasn’t thinking, either, not about Lane or Artie or what would happen next. His whole attention opened to Ava’s words, he was memorizing everything she said. He asked questions, to make sure he had it right. What did you hear? he asked her. What time was this? Where was the gun? Where were the bullets? What did you see when you came out of the hall? She answered him, staring at a spot on the floor a few feet in front of her.
Oliver’s drunkenness faded, replaced by a new state of unreality. Like he was back in Katrina time, a numbed-out, slowed-down hellscape where nothing made sense. Now he knew every detail, as though he’d been there himself: the man backlit by the dim sconce at the end of the hall. The way he’d held Lane in front of him as he faced the basement stairs. His single, seamless motion as he shot her, threw her down, and turned when he heard Ava. The weight of the gun in Ava’s hand. Heavy, cold.
“Did he say anything to you?” Oliver asked.
“He said it was an accident.”
“What about to Lane? Did he say anything to her? Did he say what he was doing here?”
“I heard them talking,” she said. “That’s what woke me up. But I couldn’t hear what he said.”
“Have you ever seen him before?”
“It was dark. I couldn’t really see. Why? Who is he?”
“I don’t know,” Oliver said.
He poured her a little more whiskey. It was helping, he could tell. Her hands weren’t shaking as much, and she even turned her head to look at him once or twice. She was really freaking him out when he’d first gotten her upstairs—locked inside herself, barely aware of her surroundings, but he thought she might be okay now. He’d get some real food in her, some coffee, get her out of here.
He hugged the girl close. She really was something. She was strong. She’d make it through this.
“Okay, Ava. Here’s what’s going to happen next. You listening?”
“Yeah,” Ava said.
“First thing is, you need to take a hot shower, wash your hair, put on some clean clothes. Think you can do that?”
Ava nodded yes.
“Good. Then we’ll get your stuff together.”
“Why?”
“It’s time to go back to Iowa,” he said.
She didn’t say anything, just stared at him.
“You still got minutes on your phone?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me see it.”
She retrieved it from the living room and handed it to Oliver, then went to shower. He examined the phone. Christ, she’d hardly used it. The girl really had no friends. Oliver called her a cab. It wasn’t yet five in the morning and he had to try a couple of different companies before he found one that answered. He arranged for a car to come in forty-five minutes to the Children’s Hospital entrance on Henry Clay. He assembled two peanut butter and honey sandwiches and put them in a bag with the rest of the cookies.
Ava came out with wet hair, dressed in clean clothes.
“Good girl,” he said. “Now, pack. Gather up everything you brought here. Get your stuff out of the bathroom. Bring your bags up front.”
“Okay,” Ava said.
“Don’t worry about folding anything. Just stuff it in your bags. Hurry.”
Oliver went through the house, double-checking for Ava’s stray belongings. In the kitchen he saw the envelope, opened it.
“Fuck,” he said.
Fifteen bound stacks of hundreds, he pulled them out and fanned them. No time to think of what it meant, what he’d done. No time to feel. He pulled out two bundles and jammed them in his pocket. He put the rest back in the envelope and sealed it. He retraced his steps, taking the long way around to avoid Guidry lying there.
Ava retrieved her backpack and small suitcase and filled them with clothes, her toothbrush and comb, and the photo album with the pictures of her mother. These activities allowed her to get through the moments. Carrying herself from one moment into the next was essential, the only relevant task. She found herself standing in the living room, gazing at the closed door to the hallway. She’d never even noticed there was a door there—it had not been closed all summer. A four-paneled door, as old as the house. The peeling white paint revealed a pale green patch underneath. She wanted to point it out to Lane, to say, The door was green, when was that, when my mom was little? Even though it was covered up, it was still green underneath. This house kept its past inside it.
Oliver found her standing there, staring. He took her hand, put something in it. A stack of money, she didn’t know how much. The green door stood guard from behind its facade of chipping white. It hid the body of the man she had killed.
“Put this somewhere safe,” he said. “Don’t let anybody steal it.”
He watched Ava divide up the bills and put half in each front pocket of her jeans. He handed her a thick envelope and a marker.
“Write down your address in Iowa,” he said. “Put your name at the top.”
She addressed the envelope.
“Your mom’s friend, what’s her name, Kaitlyn?”
Ava nodded.
“You trust her?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then.”
The sky was getting light. Oliver handed her the envelope and the bag of sandwiches. He turned her around, guided her to the front door.
“You know the Children’s Hospital by the park?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Go to the main entrance on Henry Clay. There will be a cab there for you. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Tell him to take you to the post office first. The main one on Loyola, by the train station. It opens pretty early. Tell the cab to wait for you. Stay there until it opens and mail the package. Overnight it, don’t worry about how much it costs. You’ve got enough there. You with me?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell the cab to take you to the airport. Go up to a ticket counter, try American or Delta or whatever, and tell them you need to buy a ticket to Iowa City.”
“There’s no airport there,” Ava said.
“Okay, then where do people fly to?”
“Cedar Rapids.”
“Buy a ticket to Cedar Rapids. Tell them how old you are, you won’t need to show ID. Once they sell you the ticket, call Kaitlyn and tell her when your flight arrives. She’ll come and pick you up. Got all that?”
“Yes.”
“Repeat it back to me.”
Oliver listened as Ava went through the instructions. “I’ve never been on a plane before,” she said.
“Don’t worry, you’ll love it. You’ll be up in the sky. Above everything. They give you free soft drinks. Ready?”
Ava tilted her blank inscrutable face toward him. “What’s in the envelope?” she said.
“Money. It’s yours. If they ask at the post office, tell them it’s some paperwork.”
“But where did it—”
“Ava, you can never tell anyone what happened tonight. You’ll be safe, but you can’t say a word. Not to anyone. Understand me?”
“Not even Kaitlyn?”
“Not anyone. Not ever.”
Oliver waited until she nodded.
“Come on, it’s time.”
He picked up her suitcase and carried it out and down the steps. She followed, wearing her backpack. The street was threaded through with early morning birdsong and a creeping gray light. He didn’t see any neighbors’ windows lit up. That was a relief. He pulled the handle up on her rolling bag and scooted it toward her. He stepped in and gave her a quick hug.
“Now go,” he said to Ava. “You’ll be fine. You’re tough.”
He pushed her, gently, in the direction she needed to walk and watched until she turned the corner. It was out of his hands now, what happened to her, but he’d done his best. She didn’t belong here. She’d be alright back home. Once this was over he’d ensure Lane’s estate lawyers found her. He could contact them from prison, if that’s how it played out. The house and everything else would be hers.
Oliver turned back to the house and the two dead people inside. His stomach heaved and he vomited in the neighbor’s azaleas. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, gritted his teeth to keep from screaming. He climbed the steps and went inside, shutting the front door behind him. He walked through each room. There was no sign that Ava had ever been there. Her fingerprints would be everywhere, he supposed, but he doubted she’d have prints on file anywhere.
Lane lay where he’d placed her, on the basement floor. His Lane. He touched her arm, pulled his hand back, tried to breathe, but something wouldn’t let him. Oliver thought of his aunt dying in her bed in that Houston apartment with the bad Sheetrock job, the corners misaligned. Not even Houston proper, just a shitty suburb. He finally was able to inhale but the air came out in a sob. He cried for a minute. Pull it together, asshole, he said to himself.
He went back upstairs and stood over the corpse in the hallway. Art fucking Guidry. His head spun. He slumped to the wall. He hadn’t known the guy would do some shit like this. Guidry had killed Lane, but it was Oliver’s fault.
In the costume room he saw Ava had made the bed. Jesus, that kid. He sat on it, then lay down, got under the covers, wrinkled them up. Imagined hearing what she had heard, in the middle of the night. Casting around in the dark for the gun, loading it, tiptoeing out there, terrified. When he’d been her age, he probably would’ve hid under the bed. He felt like doing that now.
Instead he rehearsed his story. He’d had too much to drink and crashed at Lane’s, woke up, heard voices … Once they figured out who was lying in the hall, there would be chaos. He’d tell what he knew about Lane and Artie’s history, but he’d leave Ava and the blackmail out of it. Whatever happened after would depend on the cops and lawyers.
He got out of the bed, leaving the covers a mess, went to the dining room, and wiped down the gun. He held it, heavy and cold, his finger on the trigger, and tossed it back on the table. In the front room he found his phone and placed two calls. The first was to John, who wouldn’t answer because he never turned his ringer on before 8:00 A.M. Oliver left a voicemail: “John, it’s me. Listen. Something bad has happened. To Lane. I’m gonna need a lawyer. Can you arrange it? I’ll call you back when I can.”
He hung up and dialed 911. The operator answered and he said, “Please help me. Someone broke in. My boss is dead. I think I shot someone.”
He stayed on the phone with the operator. He gave out the address, tried to answer her questions. He permitted himself a long sip from the whiskey bottle on the floor, and spoke in drunken, gulping sobs. “I’m sorry,” he said to the operator. “What have I done? I’m sorry.” He held the phone to his ear, listened to her voice, wept. Dawn softened the shadows in the room as he waited for the police to arrive.