“How is she doing?”
I looked at the neighbor calling out to me. “Who?”
“Your mother. Is she still in the hospital?”
“What?” I lowered my key and turned to face her, confused.
“Can you come over? I can’t stand this hollering.”
I walked over our grass and then hers and stood at the bottom of the steps of her porch.
“You were here Friday.” She frowned at me. “You called the ambulance.”
“I’m sorry. What is your name again?”
“Mercedes.” She blinked. “Your new neighbor. We met Friday night.”
“I’m sorry. I am so . . . ” I took a breath. “I . . . I have no memory of Friday night.”
“You don’t remember being here?”
“No.” My shoulders slumped. “Is there any way you can tell me what happened?”
“Well, I don’t know what happened.” Her lips pursed as she scrutinized me, her eyes bouncing between me and the house and back to me. “I heard people screaming, so I looked out the kitchen window to see what all the fuss was about. You were leaving and your mother was screaming at you. She went inside and shut the door and you got in your car.” She shrugged. “I thought that was the end of it and went about my business, but then I heard a gunshot and saw you running toward the house again. By the time I went outside the paramedics were here.”
“Did they say what happened?” I held my breath.
“No, but you did. You said Karen got her gun and fired into the air and collapsed so you called 911.”
“What did I do? Did I leave in my car?”
“You did. The paramedics took your mom.” Mercedes shut her mouth into a thin line. “It looked bad.” She shot me a sympathetic look. “And once you were done talking to the officers, you sped off.”
“I sped off?”
“You sure did. I almost yelled for you to slow down, but you wouldn’t have heard me.”
The cops had been here Friday? I’d argued with Karen, then left, presumably trying to chase the paramedics down, and then . . . what? I had a date Saturday night according to Detective Barry. I felt myself frown as I tried and failed to piece everything together. It was an impossible task, but maybe the police officers had information on where the paramedics had taken Karen. I glanced up at Mercedes again.
“Did any of the police officers leave any information with you by any chance?”
“One of them left a card. Hold on.” She turned around. Her screen door creaked open and shut as she disappeared into the house. I looked at the house next door, at my bedroom window, which faced Mercedes’s kitchen window. I remembered that much at least. The door creaked again, and I looked up as she handed over a white card. I stared at the card, feeling the color drain from my face.
Detective Barry.
“This man was here on Friday night?” I handed her the card again.
“He was here Saturday morning,” she said. “He asked a couple of questions about what happened. I assumed he was trying to make sure you hadn’t tried to kill your mother.” At my wide eyes, she smiled slightly. “Don’t worry. I told him you looked completely distraught.”
“Did I look distraught?” I asked tentatively, figuring I might. Karen and I had our differences, but she did raise me.
“I was a social worker for many years.” Mercedes leaned in closer. “I saw a lot of shit I wish I could forget. Heard a lot of stories.” She looked far off into the distance as she spoke, as if remembering, and then looked back at me again. “You didn’t look distraught. You looked relieved.”
Chapter Thirteen
Calling the hospitals around town proved to be futile. Karen Guerra was in none. I kept thinking about Mercedes’ account of what happened on Friday night. It didn’t add up to what Detective Barry told me in the wee hours of Sunday morning. He said some guy named Chris called him and I went with the story because I couldn’t remember anything else. He didn’t say he’d seen me on Friday night. He didn’t say he came back and questioned my neighbors. The only thing that made sense was Karen and I getting into an argument. My memory may be shit, but I knew an argument between us was a possibility. Our relationship was rocky at best and Karen must have been out of her mind drunk on Friday when she rushed inside to get a gun I didn’t even know she owned.
The driver dropped me off back at my apartment and I decided that I was done pretending. I was going to drive my own car to The Manor and own up to all of it. I would tell Adam and Will who I was and what I was sent there to do. I would tell them what I knew about Stella Thompson, which wasn’t much, and find a way to uncover more. One thing I couldn’t do was continue to lose myself in someone else’s identity. Not when I was on the verge of losing my own.
That was what I thought I was going to do, but then the gates creaked open and I drove in, my tires bumping against the gravel, and I fell back into the trance. Eva Guerra didn’t belong here—at least as far as they knew. If I told them who I was, they’d kick me out. If they kicked me out, I may never find out the truth about Stella or what happened the night she disappeared, though the more I found out about her, the more I wondered if maybe Stella hadn’t gone missing at all. Maybe she just didn’t want to be found. Whatever the case, I needed to find her, not for Dr. Thompson, but for myself. I mulled over what I knew for certain happened these last few days: I’d ended up in The Institute, I’d ended up at the police station, I’d been told to pretend I was Stella, someone called the cops saying they were Stella and they were in trouble. It wasn’t much to go on, but I’d use it.
I drove beneath a sycamore tree and set my car in park, my gaze on the back of the house, on the endless land that led to an endless forest. I thought about the woman who invited me to the chapel out there in the mouth of the woods. Maybe that was where Stella was. Maybe they were holding her captive. Maybe she’d be next in the disgusting display the monks had planned. A shiver rolled through me as I got out of the car and walked toward the front of the manor, the key in my hand to unlock the door. When I reached it, I noticed it was slightly opened. I pushed it open a little more, peeking my head in without committing to walking inside.
The hall was darker today, only the light from the setting sun behind me illuminating the wood-paneled walls and creepy paintings on them. I stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind me. Should I lock it? Should I leave it? It had been open, after all. I left it and kept walking. I was halfway down the hall when I heard the faint music of the piano and decided to head in that direction. When I reached the room, the doors were shut, but the music was vibrant behind it. I turned the knob and entered without knocking. Unlike the other doors I’d encountered in the house, this one didn’t creak when it opened. Behind the piano sat Adam, his back straight and his hands gliding along the keys in a fury.
Pressing my back against the door, I watched him. He seemed like he was in a trance, his expression serious, brows furrowed, jaw clenched. His hands seemed to carry the weight of whatever wrongdoings he was trying to exorcise, like he was at the mercy of the keys beneath his fingers as they jumped to punctuate each note of the hauntingly beautiful song. His hands stopped moving suddenly and he looked up to flip the page of the book in front of him, starting a new song. This one was upbeat and made me feel like I was in the ballet. His hands sped across the keys, his brows furrowing slightly as he continued to play. I was completely riveted by the performance. The piece seemed to go on forever and I found myself not wanting to move out of fear that he might ever stop playing. When it did come to an end, he hit the keys with a bang, bang, like it was a grand finale.