“Do you?” I reply. I do know the answers, I decide. But I want to hear what she says.
“It’s the reason I didn’t leave,” she says. “I’ve been hoping, praying, that by staying near Mom, seeing her, being with her, I could convince her to tell me what happened to our family. And I try to help other women in trouble-it’s the only way I can keep myself from feeling horribly guilty. I know she never loved my father, and he did have his problems. They barely spoke. And we…we fought, you know? But like any father and daughter. I think he loved me. I do.”
Gaylen’s petite face turns wistful, and the furrows in her forehead soften. “Mom and I had a secret symbol, when I was growing up.” She holds up two fingers in a V.
I think back to the photo of her I still have stored in my phone. I thought she was giving the peace sign. But apparently it was more than that.
“It meant ‘to us’-the two of us, you know?” she continues. “In it together? Now we’re still that way. In it together. But our lives didn’t turn out the way we’d planned.”
Lights in the restaurant snap off, the farthest in the back, then another, then another. I squint through the approaching darkness. One white-aproned waitress, leaning wearily against the counter, points meaningfully to her watch. I smile when she holds up two fingers, but of course she means they close in two minutes. When I turn back to Gaylen, she’s touching her eyes with a blue-flowered paper napkin.
“Maybe you can help us.” Her voice has dropped to a whisper. “You’re right. And I know it. She’s sacrificing her life for me. I can’t let that happen. I’d rather know the truth than let her suffer one more day.”
“ABSOLUTELY AND COMPLETELY not guilty,” I say to Franklin. The phone is tucked between my shoulder and my cheek as I attempt to sweep up the pellets of cat food Botox has scattered across the kitchen floor. She’s figured out how to shred open the pre-packaged pouches of Tender Vittles, so if I dare to arrive home too late for her tastes, she simply serves herself. She has to maintain her “if you don’t come home I could die” act, so after she opens the pouch, she only eats one or two of the puffy brown morsels and disdains the rest. I’m ravenous, too, having survived today on about six cups of coffee and a gallon of iced tea. Happily, the digital timer on the nuke is ticking down toward “reheated” for my usual low-fat soon-to-be-unfrozen lasagna.
“Gaylen could have taken off, you know? Disappeared?” I continue. “Instead she hides out in a shelter and sneaks in to see her mother. And now she says she wants to find the truth, too.”
I nudge Botox out of my path with the edge of my flip-flop and adjust the phone. I’m still in my work uniform of pearls, slacks and sweater set, but I’m finally out of my heels. And the tick of the microwave is making me feel as if I’m right out of Pavlov’s lab.
“I told her we’d protect her identity, as long as we can at least, so she won’t run. I think she won’t. She’s clearly devoted to her mother. You’ll be shocked, how much they look alike, so no surprise the witnesses got it wrong. Especially if they were only shown one photo. But Franko, here’s-”
“Charlotte,” Franklin interrupts. “Think about that night. The two witnesses-impossible to find. The bartender-missing. Claiborne Gettings-dead. Right now, the only person available who knows what photographs, or photograph, they used that night is Tek Mattheissen. And he’s going to say they all chose Dorinda from a legal, appropriate array. And he’s going to remind everyone she confessed. Gaylen could confess from now until kingdom come that she’s guilty. No one is going to care. Oz and Tek Mattheissen want Dorinda Sweeney in prison. They need her in prison to pave their way to power.”
My microwave beeps, and I almost cry with happiness. “Got to call you back,” I say. “Lasagna time.” My phone makes the call-waiting click. Food, my brain wails. Now. “Other line, Franko,” I say, “I-”
“Charlotte,” Franklin persists. “One more thing.”
“Let me see who’s calling. I’ll be right back.” Without waiting for a response, I click to the other line. “McNally, News-I mean, hello?”
“Charlie, it’s me,” Josh says. “We’re home. I’m sorry to call you this late, but-”
“Hey, sweets, never too late for you. Hang on,” I say. “Got to get rid of Franklin.” Without waiting for a response, I click back. “What?” I say. “I’m so sorry, it’s-”
“Charlotte, just be careful,” Franklin says. “If Gaylen didn’t kill her father, and Dorinda didn’t kill him…”
In the midst of juggling two phone calls, imminent starvation, a beeping microwave, a delicious boyfriend and a neurotically prowling cat, I see where Franklin is going. If Dorie and Gaylen are innocent, that means someone else is guilty. It means Dorinda is sacrificing her life to protect an innocent person. And one more thing.
“It means-”
“Yeah,” Franklin says. “It means there’s someone else. Dorie’s unwittingly protecting the actual murderer. A killer who’s still out there.”
We’re silent for a second, then I realize…Josh. “We need to talk about this,” I say. “But I have to call you back. Josh on the other line.”
I’m impatient to hear Josh’s voice. We’ve only grabbed the briefest of phone connections over the past few days and I’m having serious affection withdrawal. They’re probably going to find me sprawled on the kitchen linoleum in a low-blood-sugar coma, but I can’t ignore him. Passion trumps hunger. I click the button to get him back.
It’s a dial tone.
A droning, taunting, unmistakable indication that Josh has hung up. Either he’s annoyed with me for putting him on hold. Or something is wrong. And if something is wrong, my-boyfriend-called me for help. And I put him on hold. My stomach suddenly hurts so much that any future thought of hunger is impossible. My only concern is Josh. And why he’s not still on the other end of the line.
“Damn,” I mutter, as I punch in the wrong numbers. I’m calling his home, I realize. But he’s in Truro. With Penny. I’m an idiot. Why didn’t I hit star six-nine and just redial?
Another ring. No, wait, he said he was home. Why are they home? They’re supposed to be in Truro. Another ring. No, they’re back this week. Josh has some Bexter Academy faculty seminar. Of course, everything could be fine, and I’m just so tired and hungry that the most normal phone call in the world escalates to soap-opera drama.
“Hello?” It’s Josh.
“It’s me,” I begin. “I’m sorry-”
“Charlie,” he says, interrupting. “Can you…can you come over? It’s Penny, she’s…” He pauses, and in the background, I hear a little girl crying.
JOSH FILLED ME IN on the car phone, as I, mourning my abandoned lasagna, crunched a meal on wheels of about a million salted almonds and one protein bar. As a result, I’m no longer starving and also semi-prepared when I enter Penny’s pale green-and-white-striped bedroom and see the empty fishbowl on her glossy white chest of drawers. Penny is sitting on the floor, leaning back against the side of her bed, but all I can see are her bare feet and a tiny bit of her tanned ankles. She’s pulled the daisy-covered bedspread over her head.
“Pen?” I say, taking a step onto the fluffy green rug. “It’s me. Um-Charlie.” I sit down beside her and pull the daisies over my head, too. The two of us are in a tented world of our own. In the hazy fabric-baffled light, I can see her red nose and tear-matted eyelashes.
“Flo,” she says. “And Eddy.” Her wisp of a voice, morose and melancholy, pronounces their names as if from a roll call of fallen heroes. “Got white.”
I tuck my arm through her elbow and stare with her at the gauzy underside of the bedspread. “Poor fish,” I say. “You loved them, didn’t you? They were good fish. And we will miss them.”