Indigo Moon (25 page)

“Honey, it’s not the police we’re worried about. If you didn’t kill Barry, then something else did. I’m not sure you’re safe.”

“When you change into a Were, can you remember what you do?” Godfrey asked bluntly.

“I don’t change. That’s just it,” Isabelle said. She sank into a kitchen chair. It was obvious she was still in shock.

Hope was annoyed at Godfrey for his blunt questioning but realized they needed answers, and fast.“You don’t change?”

“What? Never?”

Hope and Godfrey spoke over each other in their surprise.

“I dream of it. All the time. And Ren is always there, running with me. Guiding me through a forest. But I’ve never physically changed.” She looked down and plucked at the sweater hanging from her shoulders. “Maybe I’m too weak? Maybe I’m one of those ferals that won’t survive a change, so my body somehow suppresses it? Can that happen?”

Hope and Godfrey didn’t know, but they doubted it.

“Then what was outside your house last night, if it wasn’t her?” Godfrey said.

Hope looked at him blankly. “I never thought of that. I just assumed it was…” She looked across to Isabelle.

Isabelle looked at them suspiciously. “What?” she asked uneasily. “What about last night?”

“Come with me.” Hope rose and had them follow her to the back deck.

“This.” She pointed to the muddy wolven prints. “Were you here last night?”

“I was. I’m here most nights. But not this close. Never this close. It took all my courage to come this far, and that was only because the dog told me to.”

“Tadpole told you to?” Godfrey’s eyebrows rose.

“Well, sort of. I’m not sure how, but I knew he was making me welcome and wanted me to come closer. And then when I saw the photograph and I was…compelled, I suppose. But I swear I’ve never come around the back of your house.” She looked at the dried-out mud prints. “They’re enormous. Is this your partner?” she asked Hope.

“Hell, no. Though it could easily be Jolie’s feet,” Godfrey blurted. “Shit. We need to think this through.” He turned to Hope.

“I thought I could scent a Were earlier, and just assumed it was your partner. But the inside of the house smells different. Sort of nicer,” Isabelle said. “Much nicer.”

“Can you smell something here?” Hope pointed at the patio.

“Yes. The same scent as at the kitchen door. It’s faint, but I can still pick it out, and it’s not the scent that’s inside your house. I guess that’s your partner’s. This scent is something else.” They looked at the prints circling the deck. “You thought this was me, right?”

Hope nodded. “Seems we have a second visitor. I’m getting really spooked about this.”

This was less simple than before. Before, they had only to rescue Isabelle by handing her over to Claude. Now there was another feral, plus a murdered man in the local park who happened to be Isabelle’s ex-husband. The link was unmistakable, and the police would be involved. How would that affect their original plan? Thankfully, Claude was on his way. He might have some ideas of his own.

“I wish Claude was here.” Hope finally broke the heavy silence. “We need to get you ready to go, and right now would be a good time.”

“I need to go home. I’m going nowhere without my passport and papers,” Isabelle stated emphatically.

“We can’t go back there. The police will be looking for you.” Godfrey was alarmed at this idea.

“I’m not worried about the police. I’ve been estranged from Barry for almost a year. I didn’t do this. In fact, I’m happy to go see the police right now if I have to. But I’m not going anywhere without my passport. I’m a Canadian and I need my passport.”

“What? It’s Canada, for God’s sake. It’s on the goddamn doorstep. You can reapply for a passport. Just report it lost or stolen or something—”

“No. I need my passport. And my papers.
All
my papers.” Isabelle dug her heels in. Her chin trembled into a stubborn set.

“The police could easily delay your getting to Little Dip,” Hope said. “You need to get there soon, Isabelle. It’s obvious something’s happening with you. Your body is in meltdown.” It was a sobering thought and Hope felt a little mean badgering her like this, but they had to get under way. Lord knew how much time they had left.

Isabelle looked troubled, but refused to budge. “I want my passport.”

“Okay, okay. We’ll go get your Canadian passport.” Godfrey held up his hands. “And maybe we can stop for maple syrup and Joni Mitchell records on the way.”

“Stop being facetious,” Hope scolded him. “Let her get her passport. It will only take a minute.”

Hope was worried. Was it illegal to help Isabelle leave the city when her ex was in pieces at Oakes Bottom? If she had her passport she could give them the slip at any time and run off. How much could they afford to trust her? But worse still, what would happen if Isabelle was taken into police custody in the state she was in? Hope felt a headache coming on. The thought was unimaginable. It was all such a mess, and she and Godfrey were up to their necks in it.

“Okay, let’s go and do this. But
I’m
locking up this time.” Hope held out her hand for her house keys, which he surrendered without a word. “Come on, Taddy. More den guarding for you.”

*

Isabelle rented a small apartment in a boring gray brick building on Colt Drive. They parked in a visitor’s space and walked around to the front. Isabelle was twitchy as she led them through the corridors to her door.

“The neighbor always complains when he sees me,” she said, her face burning. “I make too much noise.” She didn’t go into detail.

One step inside and they stood stock-still, viewing the vandalism in shocked silence. The living room had been smashed to a pulp.

“No wonder the neighbor complains.” Godfrey looked around him in disbelief.

“I…I didn’t do this.” Isabelle jerked out of her dismay. “It had to be Barry. He found out recently where I live.” She began to move through the mess stepping over broken furniture. “I didn’t want him to know. He’d become a pest since our house went on the market.”

She stood forlorn in a sea of slashed upholstery and shattered crockery and glass. Her secondhand stereo was upended. CDs lay in snapped bits on the floor. Books were torn apart, the pages scattered like confetti. Everything had been destroyed in a fit of rage. The carpet was wet and sticky with wine and Coke, mixed with bleach from the bathroom. Every liquid available had been poured over the floor and soft furnishings. The smell was overpowering.

“Barry did this?” Godfrey sounded dubious.

“He has issues,” Isabelle muttered. “Had issues,” she said numbly.

“Yeah. With Ikea.” Godfrey moved into the room and tried to straighten a table only to find a leg missing. “This stuff is trashed.”

Hope looked around her, unsure what to do. “You do realize you’re leaving fingerprints everywhere,” she told Godfrey.

“So? We’re hardly going to report a burglary. And we’re her friends. Why shouldn’t we be in her apartment touching her stuff?”

“Oh.” They looked over to see Isabelle rub at her face. She had started to cry.

“What is it?” Hope tried to make an avenue toward her through the mess.

“I’ve only just met you, and you’re both so kind.” She scrubbed at her damp cheeks with her cuff. “I’ve been nothing but trouble, and you’ve done everything to try and help me. I can’t tell you…how much…” Embarrassed, she looked away.

Hope looked at her then, really looked at her. And saw a thin, anxious woman, living on her nerves, standing in a small, bleak apartment, surrounded by crappy secondhand furniture that had been smashed into matchsticks. What little that was actually hers, her personal things, had been particularly vandalized. Isabelle picked up a cover torn off a book. A flash of deep hurt crossed her face. It was an achingly raw emotion and Hope felt she had trespassed in witnessing it. Isabelle’s life was as tattered as the paper in her hands. She had lost so much more than the meager contents of this apartment. Hope couldn’t begin to imagine what that must feel like. To lose everything, even your humanity.

“It’s going to be okay. Let’s pack a few things while we’re here. Where’s the bedroom?” she asked, rubbing Isabelle’s back with a comforting hand.

Godfrey found the phone and plugged it back into the wall. He lifted the handset to his ear.

“Eureka! It works. He must have forgot to kick it to death along with everything else,” he said. “Hey. You got voicemail.”

He pressed the button and a stream of messages poured out into the room.

“Darling, I’ve been trying to reach you for days. I’ve been worried sick. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for everything. It was all my fault. I was such a jerk, but I love you, and I want us to try again. Please, Issy. Please come back. I miss you so much.”

“Please, Issy. It will never happen again. I mean it, I really do. I’ll do anything. I’ve even put myself into therapy. I want to understand all this anger that’s eating me up. It’s not you, Issy, it’s me. We’re exploring my intermittent explosive disorder. I’m stuck, Issy. I’m stuck in an ego-dystonic pattern.”

“My therapist says you’re my target for vengeance. It’s because when things surpass my level of control I strike out at the first—”

“My therapist says—”

“I want you to meet with my therapist so we can talk about my irrational belief system and you can help us with some cognitive exercises. See how hard I’m trying, Issy. Call me back, Issy. Please? At least tell me where you are.”

“Issy? Some more mail came for you. Please don’t just sneak in and collect it behind my back. We need to talk, darling.”

“Issy? Where the fuck are you? It’s been weeks—”

Godfrey slammed the Stop button. “Oh, my God. I’m exhausted just listening to all that ego-dystonia.”

Isabelle gave a sour laugh. “It’s a borrowed phone. I didn’t realize there were messages. No wonder he sounds pissed. I’ve been inadvertently ignoring his calls for weeks.”

“Bet that didn’t help his intermittent explosive disorder.”

“Guys? The man is lying in the city morgue right now,” Hope said. “Probably on several different slabs. Isabelle, do you really think he would do something like this?” Her hand swept the room.

Isabelle sighed and looked around her. “No. To be honest, I don’t. He was angry, but only when the house went on the market and the divorce papers arrived. Before that, he was just…well, whiny and irritating.” She nodded at the phone in Godfrey’s hands.

“He got angry when it started to hit his pocket, you mean.” Hope tried to hide her sarcasm but failed.

Godfrey tsked. “It’s so not right to speak ill of the dead.”

“Oh, shut up, Meyers.” Hope turned to Isabelle. She needed there to be openness between them. It was too dangerous to be otherwise. “What I mean is, he’s talking about therapy for domestic abuse. Was that why your marriage ended, Isabelle?”

“There were several reasons, as in most marriage breakdowns. I found he was cheating on me and was relieved. I realized I was disaffected and wanted out, and he’d given me the ideal opportunity. He wanted reconciliation. We fought over making up more than we’d ever fought about anything else, and one night he lost it and hit me.” She touched the small scar by her mouth. “He fainted at the blood, and when he came around he never stopped crying and apologizing. I knew I had to get out. I started divorce proceedings and went up to Canada to see my aunt and take a break.” She looked around her. “I don’t think he’d be this spiteful. He would have tried to hurt me over money. That’s what mattered to him.”

Her hand drifted back to the scar. Ren had warned her it was not safe to go back home. All along, Isabelle had assumed she was referring to Barry, but as her memories returned it was clear he was no threat. Now, looking at the devastation around her, she wondered who, or what, Ren had really been referring to.

She went to check out the bedroom. It too had been vandalized, but the viciousness here was tenfold. All her clothes lay shredded, but it was the bed that confused and shocked her the most. The bed lay crooked, its lower legs smashed and the mattress gutted. Long slashes tore through it down to the bed frame. A sour odor permeated the room. No longer masked by the smell of bleach, it assaulted her senses as crudely as the destruction of her home assaulted her eyes. Stronger than the residue in Hope’s yard, this scent was purer, its message crystal clear. The heat that rolled off it was amazing, volcanic even. It scorched her to even think, or try and understand it. The anger and rage was palpable. The room sizzled with it. She recoiled back out the door.

“Isabelle?” Hope’s voice came right behind her. “What is it?”

“The scent. It’s the same as your yard. Only…worse. Much worse. It’s so angry, all I can sense is cold, black-hearted…malice.” And it was all directed at her. The scent was suffocating in its viciousness.

Godfrey took command. “Okay, ladies, we’re out of here. Isabelle, grab your passport.”