“Was it Cropsey who grabbed you?” he said, his voice filled with enthusiasm. “How’d you get away?”
She stopped and looked back at him, a remark about minding his own business on the tip of her tongue. Instead, she said, “No, it wasn’t Cropsey. They found my sister and let me go.”
“Who’s they? And what sister?”
She let out a heavy sigh. She didn’t have the energy for this. Then she remembered he’d never met Rosemary. He got the job in the building after she’d died. No. After she was locked up. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she said, and started up the stairs.
“You kids and your crazy stories,” he called after her. “Someday they’ll get you in trouble, you’ll see. Isn’t that right, Officer?”
Officer Minor said nothing and followed Sage up the steps. When they reached her apartment, he stood silently behind her while she unlocked the door. Praying again that Alan wasn’t passed out inside, that the deadbolt and chain would be undone, she turned the key. With more than a little relief, she pushed the door open.
“You okay from here?” Officer Minor said.
“I think so,” she said. “Thank you.”
He smiled and gave her a two-fingered salute, then turned and went nimbly down the stairs and out the door. Once she was certain he was gone, she took off the filthy coat and left it on the hallway floor, refusing to wear it inside, then entered the apartment and switched on the foyer light. After closing the door behind her, she locked it and slid the deadbolt and chain into place, then took off the leather shoes, wiped her feet on the worn doormat, and made her way toward the living room, turning on lights as she went.
The thick, familiar odor of stale beer and cigarette smoke filled the air, mixed with something that smelled like old cheese. Alan had always been a slob, but the apartment looked and smelled worse than ever. Beer cans and pizza boxes and take-out containers filled the coffee table. Crumpled pants and shirts lay strewn over the couch and recliner. After pulling the living room curtains closed, she moved farther into the apartment. At the door to the kitchen, a foul smell wafted into the hall. Something must have spoiled while Alan was gone ice fishing and, like everything else, he had just let it go.
Still, even with the mess and the smell, the apartment felt like paradise compared to Willowbrook. She made her way to the bathroom, anxious to take a long, hot shower and wash her hair. Then she reached Alan’s bedroom door and froze. He was lying on his side in the double bed, crumpled into a crescent-shaped mound like a washed-up seal on a beach. Shit. He was home. But why was he in bed? Normally he passed out in the living room and slept on the couch until morning. Maybe he was sick.
Squinting, she peered into the dim room, praying he was asleep. Then her shoulders dropped in relief. What she had thought was Alan was just the dirty sheet and worn comforter, twisted into a gray pile.
Shaking off her nerves, she went into the closet-size bathroom at the end of the hall, turned on the water in the mold-speckled shower, and relieved herself in the toilet. After stripping out of the dress from Willowbrook and dropping it into the wastebasket, she stepped into the shower and let the stream run over her shoulders and back. The water was hot, the kind of hot that made goose bumps rise on her arms, but it felt like silk on her grimy skin. She tipped her head back and nearly gagged when her nostrils filled with the sour stench of Willowbrook seeping out of her hair like a cloying, heavy perfume. She grabbed a half-empty bottle of Prell shampoo, relieved Alan hadn’t used it all up, and squeezed a heaping pile of it into her palm.
Using both hands, she lathered her head, scratching at her scalp to get at the dirt, pressing and rubbing and massaging until gobs of suds slid down her body. Then she rinsed her hair and washed it again, taking deliberate, deep breaths to fill her nose with the floral perfume of the shampoo. While the lather worked on her head, she scrubbed every inch of her body and face with Dial soap and a washcloth until her skin was nearly raw.
She could tell she’d lost weight. Her legs and arms felt hard where they used to be soft; her stomach was shallow and almost sunken. Purple and yellow bruises covered her elbows and knees; scratches and scrapes and scabbed-over cuts marked her skin. She couldn’t remember getting the injuries, but that was no surprise. While imprisoned, her mind had been in overdrive, frantic to survive and escape, while her body had no choice but to endure the everyday grind of rough hands grabbing and pulling and yanking on her arms and torso and head, while her feet and legs took the brunt of stumbling and falling over herself and others as they were herded from the wards to the halls to the dayroom and back again, like animals being led to slaughter.
Closing her eyes, she tipped her head back again, and ran her hands through her hair to get out all the soap, Suddenly an image of Rosemary flashed in her mind: her strawberry-blond hair chopped into ragged chunks, her red-painted lips, the black stripes of blood running down her breasts and belly. She gasped, accidentally inhaling water and shampoo, and was overcome by dizziness. Her knees gave out and she grabbed the shower curtain, slapping a hand on the tile wall to keep herself upright. When she thought she could let go, she straightened, but vertigo hit her again and she bent over and retched into the shower, choking and spitting what little amount of liquefied food was in her stomach into the drain.
Finally, the spinning sensation stopped, but grief and gravity threatened to pull her to the shower floor. With one hand on the wall to keep from falling, she finished rinsing herself off and got out, abandoning her plan to shave her legs. After drying off, she wrapped herself in a towel and used a wide-toothed comb to rake the snarls out of her hair. The comb caught and pulled, caught and pulled, but she kept working at it, exhausted but determined to get it over with.
With every gob of hair that ripped free from her head and fell to the bathroom floor, her anger grew. She was furious with Alan and her mother. And Dr. Baldwin. And Wayne. And everyone who worked at Willowbrook. She was even mad at Noah and Heather and Dawn. Every one of them had changed the course of her and Rosemary’s lives with their decisions. And there was nothing at all she could do about it.
Maybe she should leave—get off this island, as far away from Willowbrook as possible. There was nothing here for her now. And she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder for Wayne. Or Cropsey. Or whoever had killed Rosemary and Evie. Her father was still somewhere in New York State. Maybe she could call information and ask for his phone number, starting with the neighborhoods in New York City. If that didn’t work, she could pawn the gold necklace and diamond earrings Alan had given her mother when they were dating—if they were real, and if Alan hadn’t already sold them—and hire a private investigator to find him. Once she told her father what happened, he wouldn’t turn her away, she was sure of it. Yes, Detective Nolan had warned her not to leave, but she had his phone number. She could check in with him to see if they’d found any clues, or if he wanted to ask her more questions. Not that it mattered. Rosemary was dead. That was all she knew and all she could deal with right now.
In her bedroom, she switched on the ceiling light and looked around, her tangerine and lime-green bedspread so bright it almost hurt her eyes. Everything was exactly as she had left it, from the Rolling Stones and the Doors posters on her walls to the lava lamp on her dresser. Except it all belonged to a different girl: a girl who thought having a shitty stepfather was the worst thing in the world; a girl who had hope for the future; a girl who, despite her experiences, thought most humans were good. That girl was gone now. Who knew what kind of girl was going to replace her?