Damaged (16 page)

Mary turned away from the front door, checking the time on her phone. It was just after two o'clock, and she scrolled through her email as she walked down the front walk, spotting the one she'd been waiting for, from the Admissions Director at Fairmount Prep, Kate Sand Ridolfi. Mary had written Kate this morning, inquiring about placing Patrick immediately.

The email read:
Mary, You're in luck! We have an opening for Patrick O'Brien. Please call ASAP and we can talk. Best, Kate.

“Yes!” Mary breathed a happy sigh. Everything was falling into place, and Patrick was one step closer to getting back on track. She wished that Edward was home, so she could tell him the wonderful news.

Cheered, she looked up from her phone and suddenly noticed a brown sedan driving away. It was a Subaru and it was about to turn the corner.

Her heart stopped. The sedan was too far away to tell for sure, but she was pretty sure it was the same car. The sedan must have passed while she was reading her email. She didn't know if it was Robertson, but it couldn't have been a coincidence that she'd seen the same brown Subaru two days in a row.

She ran across the street to her car, chirping it unlocked just as the brown Subaru turned the corner and disappeared from view.

Mary jumped in her car, started the ignition, and zoomed out of the space.

She was going after him.

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Mary raced to the end of the street and turned right, but abruptly slammed on her brakes. A massive garbage truck was reversing onto the street from the side street, beeping in warning. The garbage truck blocked her way. There was no room to go around him. The street was too narrow. Parked cars lined both sides. She honked but the truck ignored her, taking up the entire street.

She thought fast, putting her car in reverse to back out of the street and go down another block before the Subaru got away. But a black SUV pulled up behind her, blocking her from behind as well.

Mary put her car in park, hopped out of the driver's seat with her phone, and tried to catch sight of the brown Subaru or get a picture of its license plate, but the Subaru was nowhere in sight.

Damn!
Mary got back in the car, slammed the door shut, and got another idea. She scrolled through her phone, found the email from Lou Jacobs that had Robertson's home address, and pressed the link. Google Maps popped onto her screen, showing that his house was in the neighborhood, less than ten minutes away.

She pressed the button to get driving directions, and the garbage truck finally moved out of the way, driving forward down the street. She followed the phone's directions, scanning the passing traffic for the brown Subaru, but she didn't see it. The neighborhood changed as she got closer to Robertson's house, and the brick rowhouses turned into larger brick twins, with driveways on either side.

She turned right, then left, forming a plan. She knew not to confront Robertson because he could've been dangerous and she had been warned against that by Cassandra. But if Mary went to his house, she could check out his driveway and see what cars he had. If there was a brown Subaru in addition to the red Passat that Lou had told her about, it would beef up her case against Robertson, as well as protect Edward and Patrick.

Mary felt her heart pound a little quicker the closer she got to Robertson's block. She scanned the parked cars on the way for the brown Subaru, just in case Robertson had seen her and tried to hide the car. There were a lot of older-model cars parked along the streets, but none of them was the Subaru.

After a few blocks, she found herself driving slowly down Robertson's street, Grove Street, toward his house—495. The odd-number houses were on the left side of the street, and she looked ahead to see that 495 was in the middle of the block. She cruised slowly toward it, keeping an eye out for the brown Subaru among the parked cars, but so far hadn't seen it. Robertson's house was a redbrick twin, three stories tall and in decent repair, but its driveway was on the far side of the house. Mary had to get closer to see if it held any cars.

She drove ahead, glancing over as she passed 495, and she spotted the red Passat parked in the driveway, but no Subaru.

Mary felt disappointed but kept driving, circling the block to see if the brown Subaru had been parked elsewhere. She didn't see it, but she couldn't give up so easily. She went to Plan B. She drove back to Grove Street, turned onto Robertson's block, and steered into the first empty parking spot, which was on the right. It gave her an excellent view of Robertson's house and driveway, and if she waited a little, she could see if the brown Subaru appeared.

She cut the ignition and checked the dashboard clock—3:45. She would sit here for an hour or two and see what happened. She kept her window closed and set the air-conditioning so the interior would stay cool for a while. She remembered that she was supposed to meet her mother and mother-in-law tonight, but she could cancel that if she had to. This was more important, and she felt like she was really onto something.

She kept an eye on the house, trying to analyze the situation. There weren't that many old brown Subarus in the world, and it seemed too coincidental to see one, two days in a row, especially if it was the same brown Subaru. It was always possible that the brown Subaru was owned by somebody in Edward's neighborhood, but the Philadelphia Children's Alliance, where she had seen the car yesterday, was a different neighborhood, Hunting Park, and there was nothing else around it except industry.

Mary had a hunch that it was the same brown Subaru, and she wanted to get to the bottom of it. She picked up her phone and took a few pictures of the house, just for reference.

Bam!
Suddenly someone slammed a hand on her car window.

Mary jumped, terrified to see that it was Robertson, his eyes popping with anger. He held his phone in his hand, filming a video of her.

“Why are you spying on me and my family?” he yelled, loud enough to be heard through the glass. “What are you doing parked on my street? You have no business being here! You're watching my house! You're stalking me!”

Mary dropped her phone. Fear bolted through her system. She didn't know what Robertson was capable of. She had never seen such a crazy glint in anyone's eyes, ever before. She had to get away. She twisted on the ignition as Robertson kept filming, inches from her window.

“You're harassing me and my family! You're not going to get away with this!”

Mary slammed her foot on the gas. Her car lurched forward as Robertson stepped back, still filming. She tore out of the space and raced down the street, her heart hammering.

“This is harassment! This is illegal!” Robertson shouted after her car, making such a scene that drivers craned their necks to see what was going on and passersby on the sidewalk turned to watch.

Mary caught a green light, drove forward, and took the first turn she could off Grove Street, trying to recover her composure. She didn't know where Robertson had come from. But he knew who she was, which told her something. She was too panicky to figure out what.

She decreased her rate of speed and looked around, not knowing how to get back to the city. Her phone had fallen to the floor on the passenger side and when she stopped at a red light, she undid her seatbelt, reached over, and picked it up. It started ringing almost immediately, and she didn't have to check the screen to know that it was Machiavelli calling.

Mary answered the call, driving ahead. “Your client the child molester has major anger issues, you know that, don't you?”

Machiavelli chuckled. “Now, is that a nice thing to say about a warm and fuzzy teacher's aide?”

“He's a child molester. He physically and sexually assaulted my client, a ten-year-old boy. That's who you're representing. That's who Robertson is.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Oh please.” Mary could barely keep a civil tongue. “Are you trying to tell me that you believed his story about a scrawny little fifth-grader attacking him with a scissors? A man as big and scary as Robertson? Don't tell me you don't know what happened. Robertson physically and sexually assaulted my client three times, and I can prove it. And I will.”

“That's completely untrue, and I'm surprised that
you
would believe the fabrications of a deeply troubled child. You will recall he draws pictures of himself killing people.”

“I always knew you were low, but I never thought you were that low. You've got clients out the wazoo. You couldn't let a child molester go? You couldn't let somebody else represent the absolute dregs of humanity? Don't you have any heart at all?”

“Look who's talking about low.” Machiavelli snorted. “I would've FaceTimed you, but I happen to know you're driving around, harassing my client. How'd that work out for you? I hear not so good.”

“Robertson has been following my clients, and you'd better make him stop. The fact that he borrowed a car doesn't fool anybody. I've already reported it to PCA, and they're going to report it to the police. If Robertson thinks he can intimidate my clients, he's gonna have to get through me.”

“That's tough talk, Mary. All I know is, my client has a video of you sitting in a car on his street, taking pictures of his house. Would you like to explain to me who was following whom? Or do I have to get a TRO against you?”

“Not before I get one against Robertson,” Mary said, because she was getting the picture. “In addition to assaulting children, Robertson is one of those jerks who pushes people around by suing them. He's suing my clients because he thought that would preempt a criminal prosecution, but it didn't work. He followed us to PCA and figured out that the train left the station, so now he's going to try to sue me.”

“Don't be silly.” Machiavelli's tone turned sarcastic. “Nobody's suing you. Peace is better than war. You really should settle this case, Mary. You're losing your damn mind over it. Stalking plaintiffs is so unlike you. What would the nuns say?”

“We're never settling, ever. Robertson's going to jail.” Mary hung up the phone and tossed it aside, exhaling. It took her the entire drive back to the city for her heartbeat to return to normal.

She just hoped it was normal enough to pass inspection by her mother.

 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Mary hurried up Walnut Street, late to her hair-and-makeup trial. Her mother was waiting for her at the salon and so was her future mother-in-law, Elvira “El Virus” Rotunno. Mary hated leaving her mother alone with El Virus, who was mouthy, brassy, and pushy. El Virus was in her seventies, but acted like she was in her twenties and dressed like she was in the eighties, the Crazy-Mother-In-Law Trifecta.

Mary picked up the pace. Her mother couldn't have been more different from El Virus. Her mother was quiet and stereotypically loving, though she ruled her house with an iron fist and her kitchen with a wooden spoon. Because she was born in Italy, her mother's English wasn't perfect, but her meatballs were. Mary's mother was also ten years senior to El Virus, having become a mother late in life; her doctor had told her that she couldn't have children, then one day she became pregnant with Mary and her twin sister Angie, which she called a special gift from God. Everybody else called it malpractice.

Mary spotted the sign for The Cutting Edge, two doors up. She had never been here before, but Anne had told her it was the best salon in the city.

She ran to the door and hurried inside, looking for her mother. The salon was long and narrow, with black-lacquered styling stations in rows down both sides, and customers filled the black swivel chairs, their heads wet or covered with folded tinfoil while they chatted with their hairstylists over the expensive whoosh of ionic blow-dryers. The walls were a stark black, and piped music filled the air, which smelled like hydrocarbons.

She spotted her mother across the room, sitting in a swivel chair in one of the styling stations. Her mother wasn't wearing her thick trifocals, so she couldn't see anything, and her warm brown eyes, milky gray at the rims, looked vaguely terrified. A black plastic logo smock covered her entire body, but since she was barely five feet tall, the only thing that showed were her swollen feet in her flesh-tone knee stockings and brown orthopedic shoes, dangling above the polished parquet floor.

Mary hurried toward her, confused. Her mother was alone, and El Virus was nowhere in sight. Neither was Courtney, the hairstylist who was supposed to be doing her mother's hair. Mary had anticipated that her mother might be intimidated by the upscale salon, but that didn't explain why she looked so upset.

“Ma, it's me,” Mary said, when she reached her mother, then leaned over and kissed her soft cheek. “I'm sorry I'm late, what's the matter?”

“
Maria?
” Her mother looked up, her sparse gray eyebrows lifting, then she grabbed Mary's hand and squeezed hard. “Is Elvira, she say they fix my hair.”

“Don't worry, Ma. That's why we're here. They're going to fix your hair. Mine too, and Elvira's, for the wedding.” Mary stroked her mother's short gray curls, which look freshly trimmed and smelled like mangoes. “Did they already do you? Did I miss everything? And where's Courtney?”

“No, no, no, you no understand, Courtn', she wash alla, she cut alla, but is Elvira.” Her mother shook her head, agitated.

“What did Elvira do?”

“Elvira—” Her mother started to answer, but clammed up when El Virus came clacking toward them, in a black V-neck showing major cleavage bedazzled with
I STILL GOT IT
, which she had on with her black stirrup pants and black half-boots with stiletto heels. She believed that bedazzling improved everything, including the wedding dress she'd wanted Mary to marry Anthony in, but that was another story. She piled on the makeup and wore her hair in a tight black perm, which was truly permanent.