Was that the reason she had done it in the first place, if she had done it in the first place?
No.
Something told her that if she had cut herself, she had done it because she wanted to, because she liked it.
Liked it in that way.
Horrified, embarrassed, ashamed, Megan looked up from her bare legs and focused her eyes on the bathroom wall. That wasn’t possible, was it? People didn’t really do things like that for those reasons, did they? She didn’t see how, but something about it still rang true, and she was even more afraid of the house than she had been before. She did not want to go back, and wondered whether she could camp out here in her mom’s office, convince her parents to let her have a sleepover here with her friends, and then perhaps stretch that out to a week or so.
She was being ridiculous. Nothing like that would ever happen. She had to face the fact that she had to live in the house.
But maybe …
Reaching over, she started opening the drawers in the sink cabinet. Most of them were empty, but in one she found an old box of Band-Aids, a tube of Neosporin and a small pair of scissors. She took all of them out and placed them on the edge of the sink. The scissors, she saw upon further inspection, might be short and thin, but they were sharp, and the blades came to points. She picked them up, then looked down at her thighs. Her legs were ugly now, but she could make them even uglier, so that nothing would want her to pull her pants down.
She gathered her courage. Grimacing, she pressed the blade against her skin.
Pushed it in.
And, biting on her hand to keep from screaming, quickly pulled it through the flesh toward her hip.
Twenty
The man with the knife was named John Lynch.
And he had been released from jail two days ago.
Julian learned about it only because he called the police station and asked to talk to Officer Rodriguez in order to find out the status of the case. Claire was at work, Megan was with her, and James was at his friend Robbie’s. For the first time in three days, Julian had the house completely to himself, and, taking advantage of this temporary freedom, he decided to check on his would-be attacker and see what was happening. He was shocked to discover that, contrary to what he’d been told, the man was neither in jail nor in a psych ward but had made bail and had been released on his own recognizance.
Rodriguez was on patrol and not available, but the case was no longer his anyway and had been assigned to a Detective Pena, who was the one to take Julian’s call. Pena was understanding and apologetic, but Julian was still angry that Lynch had been released, and he started lecturing the detective, describing in detail how he’d seen the man with the knife staring in at him while he was eating lunch. All of this was no doubt in the report, but Pena listened patiently before explaining that because there had been no specific verbal threats made and no overt attempts to attack, Lynch had been automatically eligible for bail.
“He was holding a knife!”
“I understand that, Mr. Perry. And he will have a trial, and even if there is a plea deal, I can guarantee you that he will serve time. But until then, he is out on bail. If you see him again, however, if he makes any attempt to contact you, let us know immediately. In that case, we may be able to do something.”
“So if he terrorizes my wife or stabs my children, then you’ll be able to put him away. That’s good to know.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Perry—”
Julian hung up on him.
Immediately, he went outside and walked around the house, checking behind bushes, in the garage, even in the alley to make sure that that lunatic wasn’t lurking about. He’d asked the detective whether the police had any idea why Lynch had come to his house with a knife, but Pena said that the man had offered no explanation, had seemed confused, and had claimed that he meant no harm.
The guy was clearly crazy. What if he did return and try to attack Claire? Or Megan? Or James?
Julian should have told Claire everything that day, as soon as she came home. What the hell was wrong with him? Now it was too late to tell her about it. He’d made a huge mistake in not coming clean right away, and there was no way he could possibly explain what had happened and why he’d kept it a secret. Probably the best thing to do at this point was maintain his silence. He seldom went anywhere, was almost always home when Claire and the kids were there. He could keep an open eye out, watch for any sign of Lynch, and if the man showed up, he’d call the police and then tell Claire, maybe even make it seem like it was the first time it had happened.
It was a chickenshit plan, the coward’s way out, but Julian justified it by telling himself that it would be wrong to stress out Claire even more. She was already freaked about the house and practically jumping at her own shadow. She was also troubled by the fact that, despite all of the modern research options at their disposal, neither of them had been able to dig up any significant information about their home or property. Her mental and emotional plates were full to overflowing. He didn’t want to add to her burden.
The garage was clear, as was the yard, and Julian closed all windows, locked the back door and walked out to the sidewalk in front of the house, scanning the neighborhood for a sign of anything unusual.
Nothing.
He went back into the house. He hadn’t found a baseball bat, as he’d originally planned, although he knew there was one somewhere in the basement or garage amid the surplus clutter of their storage items, but he did go to his tool chest and take out a hammer, just in case he needed a weapon. He doubted that he would have to use it, even if Lynch came back, but it couldn’t hurt to be prepared.
Julian still had that deadline and had been planning to spend the morning catching up on all the work he’d let slide lately, but the news about Lynch had thrown him off, and once upstairs in his office, he found himself staring dumbly at the screen, not an idea in his head. He reviewed the last changes he’d made to the page, thinking that a walk-through of recent work might help get his thoughts on track, and it seemed to help. He found a mistake he’d made, corrected it, and was suddenly back in the game. He knew what he needed to do next, and he knew how to get the result he wanted.
Then he heard a voice from the hallway.
A man’s voice.
Julian stood, heart pounding, and grabbed his hammer, clutching the handle tightly. His first thought was that John Lynch had somehow gotten into the house, although he had no idea how that was possible. But as he cautiously approached the doorway, he could hear the voice talking—it had not stopped talking—and though he could not make out individual words, he recognized the tone and cadence.
It was the voice he had heard talking to Megan while she was asleep.
A chill crept up Julian’s back all the way to his neck. He entered the hallway, half expecting the murmuring to be silenced, but instead it grew louder, and once again it was coming from Megan’s room. He looked toward her doorway. It was daytime, but the hall was in shadow, and the hint of cool sunlight that emerged from the open doorway of his daughter’s bedroom made the surrounding corridor seem that much darker.
His hand hurt, but Julian refused to loosen his grip on the hammer. He continued moving forward slowly, not wanting to alert whatever it was to his presence. He could discern every third or fourth word now, but they made no sense.