After pulling down the shade on her window and closing the curtains, she switched on her bedside lamp and turned off the ceiling light. At her dresser, she sprayed Wind Song perfume on her legs and stomach and arms and hair, certain that the stench of Willowbrook had seeped into her every crease and pore. Then she put on a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt. She knew it would probably be a good idea to eat something, but she was too tired to even think about food. And judging by all the take-out containers in the living room, Alan hadn’t bought groceries anyway.
After pulling back her bedcovers and lying down, she reached for the bedside lamp to turn it off. But she couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t be able to push the nightmarish images away in the darkness. She left the light on, closed her eyes, and put her head on the pillow, her body sinking into the mattress as if her bones weighed a thousand pounds.
More than anything, she longed to escape into sleep, to turn off her mind and disappear into oblivion. Figuring out what to do next could wait until morning.
But her mind had other ideas.
Her heart floundered at the most innocent noises: the click of the numbers changing on her bedside clock, a neighbor’s door closing out in the hall, the rattle of her window. She sat up, rearranged her pillows, and lay back down. Maybe she should call Heather or Dawn and tell them what had happened. Maybe she should ask if she could stay with one of them for a few days, just until she figured out her next move. Wayne would never look for her there. Then she imagined the looks on their faces when they learned the truth and her anger rose again. They’d done nothing to help her back when she needed it; why would they help her now? Even if Alan had lied to them about her visiting his nonexistent sister, they should have known better. Calling them would be pointless. And they were probably out partying anyway.
After tossing and turning for what felt like hours, exhaustion finally pushed her into a restless, troubled sleep filled with nightmares and disturbing images. Sometime later she sat up in bed midscream, her blankets clutched to her chest, certain Wayne was lurking in a shadowy corner of the room, ready to slide a knife across her throat. When she realized she was alone, she fell back on the pillows, breathing hard, and looked over at her bedside clock. It was one o’clock in the morning.
And she was starving. Her stomach growled and twisted in on itself, a gnawing pain eating through her insides. She got up and tiptoed along the hall to Alan’s bedroom door. His bed was still empty, thank God, which meant he’d likely be gone all night. She went down to the kitchen, where the musty aroma of rotten garbage drifted out of the overstuffed trash can. Now that she’d washed the stench of Willowbrook from her hair and body, the sickening odor she’d noticed earlier seemed stronger than ever. Pushing back the kitchen curtains, she opened the window to let in some fresh air.
Coffee-coated mugs, soup-crusted bowls, and sauce-covered plates filled both sides of the double sink. The milk-sour refrigerator held three six-packs of Budweiser, a half gallon of curdled milk, a moldy hunk of Velveeta, and a jar of pickled eggs. She rummaged through the cupboards and found an open box of stale cereal and half a sleeve of saltines. She opened the crackers and ate one. They were stale too. She needed something substantial, like eggs and bacon and toast.
Back in her room, she counted the money in her extra makeup bag, ones and fives and quarters that she’d pilfered from Alan or found in the washing machine. Nineteen dollars. Enough to buy food and have a little left over. She pulled her hair into a loose ponytail, put on a pair of thick socks, her winter boots, and her warmest jacket, then left her bedroom and went to the apartment door. She opened the door and looked left and right down the hall. No one was there. After slipping out, she relocked the door, put the key in her jacket pocket, and moved quickly down the stairs.
Just before leaving the apartment building, she hesitated. The nearest 24-hour store was four blocks away, and it was dingy and poorly lit. Her feet felt rooted to the floor. Wayne could bump into her on the sidewalk or in the store, stab her in the neck—or whatever spot she would bleed out fastest from—and then disappear like he was never there. No one would know she’d been knifed until she fell.
She swore under her breath. She had to stop thinking like that. Wayne had no idea where she lived. Even if he did want to kill her, he’d have to find her first. That would take time. And by then she’d be gone.
She pulled her jacket hood over her head, opened the door, went down the steps, and turned left on the sidewalk. No moon hung in the black sky, no pinpricks of white starlight. Other than the snow-dusted cars parked along one side of the road, the streets were empty and quiet. She shoved her hands into her coat pockets and walked with her head down.
Behind her, the headlights of a parked car came on, pulled away from the curb on the other side of the street, and began traveling in her direction, the muffled thump of music pounding inside the vehicle. She walked faster. The car reached her and slowed, the music growing louder as if someone were rolling down one of the windows. Then the music turned down and went off. Just what I need, some creep harassing me. Or maybe it was Wayne. She pulled her hands from her pockets and started to jog. Her heart felt like it was going to beat out of her chest.
“Hey,” a male voice called out. “Where you going?”
She glanced at the car—a red Mustang with black hubcaps and red rims; definitely not from her neighborhood. A guy leaned out the driver’s side window, his hand on the outside of the door.
“Hey,” he said again. “Don’t run. It’s just me.”
She slowed and looked again. Then she stopped.
It was Eddie.
“What are you doing here?” she said, trying to catch her breath. She pushed back her hood.
He stopped the car. “I thought you might need a friend,” he said, flashing a quick grin.
“Why didn’t you come up instead of waiting out here?” she said. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry. I didn’t know if your old man was home.”
“So what were you going to do? Sit out here forever?”
He shrugged. “I knew you’d have to come out sooner or later. But it’s the middle of the night. Where are you going?”
“To the store. I’m starving and there’s nothing to eat in the apartment.”
“Hop in, I’ll give you a ride.”
She gathered the collar of her jacket under her chin and tried to decide what to do. As much as she would have appreciated a ride in a warm, safe car, she didn’t want anything more to do with anyone or anything associated with Willowbrook. It was the only way she could put the traumatic ordeal behind her—that, and getting justice for her sister, which would be hard enough. Still, she had to admit that seeing Eddie made her feel a little less lonely and a whole lot safer. “That’s okay. It’s only a few blocks.”
“You got money?”
“Some.”
“Come on. I’ll drive you. Just tell me where to go and what you need.”
Her eyes grew moist. What she needed was her sister. And her father. She needed to go back to the way things used to be when they were young. But that was impossible.
His face fell, as if he’d read her mind. “Dr. Baldwin told me about Rosemary. I’m sorry you had to go through that again.”