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Authors: Kevin O'Brien

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It was being alone in a deathly quiet house that she hated.
She switched on the TV in the family room—just for company. Some movie with Sarah Jessica Parker came on. Kay wasn’t sure what it was; she’d check it later. Right now, she just needed the noise.
Her wineglass was already down to the last few sips. How did that happen so fast? Kay retreated toward the kitchen for a refill. Weaving slightly, she bumped against the edge of the kitchen’s entryway. She knew she was drunk, but that didn’t stop her from emptying the bottle. There was only a little bit left anyway.
On the TV, Sarah Jessica Parker stopped talking for a moment. Kay heard something upstairs. It sounded like water running in one of the bathrooms. She told herself it was just the toilet tank refilling. She must not have flushed it right earlier. That had to be it. Still, she couldn’t relax until she went upstairs and checked it out.
Setting down her wineglass, Kay grabbed the empty cabernet bottle by the neck and brandished it like a weapon. A few drops spilled out and slithered down her arm. She quickly licked it off, then headed up the stairs.
She’d left the light on in the second-floor hallway. In the bathroom at the top of the stairs, the toilet wasn’t making any noise. It seemed to be coming from the master bathroom. It sounded more like a faucet running than a toilet tank.
Moving down the hallway to her bedroom, Kay tightened her grip on the empty wine bottle. She stepped into the bedroom. She’d left the bedside lamp on, but it was still dim in there.
She didn’t see the man standing in the shadowy corner until it was too late.
“Oh, my God,” Kay gasped. Staggering back, she knocked over the nightstand lamp. A brief flash of light blinded her as the shade flew off. Kay dropped the bottle. The lamp hit the carpeted floor, but the bulb didn’t break. The wine bottle rolled next to it, also unbroken.
“Take it easy,” the man whispered. He wore a black jogging suit with a hood—and surgical gloves. He had a gun pointed at her. “I’m not going to hurt you. You’re a little unsteady there. Have you been drinking?”
Terrified, Kay quickly shook her head. She backed into the edge of the bedroom doorway.
She couldn’t really tell what he looked like. The light on the floor cast strange shadows all over the room—and on his face. He stepped toward her. “You look pretty drunk to me, Kay,” he said. “Were you guzzling that wine? Were you a naughty girl? Did you drink the whole bottle, honey?”
Tears stung her eyes as she stared at him. “Yes, I—I’ve had several glasses of wine,” Kay admitted. “In fact, I probably wouldn’t even be able to describe you to the police later, if they asked. I’m so—I’m really so drunk.”
It wasn’t true anymore. She’d been tipsy a few minutes ago, but he’d scared that right out of her. She couldn’t move. Her back was still pressed against the edge of the doorway. “Listen, you—you can help yourself to anything,” she said, her voice cracking. “There’s a silver service in the dining room downstairs. It’s worth a lot. And—and—and my daughter has a new laptop computer in her bedroom. I have some cash and credit cards in my purse. Take whatever you want, really . . . please. . . .” She started sobbing.
“This works out perfectly,” he said—almost to himself. He pointed the gun at her. “Take off your shoes and unbutton your blouse.”
Kay shook her head. “Please . . .” she repeated.
“I just want you to be comfortable,” he said, with a tiny smirk. “C’mon, Kay . . .”
Her hands trembling, Kay struggled with the buttons of her lavender blouse until it was open. She had a camisole beneath it. Bracing herself against the doorway, she pried off her shoes. All the while, she kept glancing over at the bedroom closet and wondered if they’d find her body in there.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Kay,” he cooed. “But I do need you to sit there on the floor, right by the nightstand. Okay? There’s a good girl. . . .”
Tears streaming down her face, she was obedient. She fell to her knees and then sat down on the floor. He stood over her and began to stroke her hair. “There now, Kay, there now. . . .”
All at once, he grabbed her by the hair and slammed her head against the corner of the nightstand. Stunned, Kay flopped down on the floor. Blood from the gash on her temple began to soak the plush, pale yellow carpet. She started blacking out.
“I’m supposed to make it look like an accident,” she heard him murmur as he stood over her.
It was the last thing Kay Garvey ever heard.
Minutes later, her killer took out a small pair of scissors and carefully cut off a corner from the shirttail of her lavender blouse.
It was such a small cutting, no one would notice.
C
HAPTER
N
INE
“So—in all this time that she’s been married to your dad, Molly hasn’t once talked about her family?” his mother asked.
“Not really,” Chris replied, ensconced in front of her boyfriend Larry’s computer.
His mother didn’t see him roll his eyes. She was arranging the sheets on the foldout sofa bed in Larry’s study, which served as Chris’s bedroom whenever his mother had him and Erin for the weekend.
He tolerated Larry Keegan, a stocky, balding older guy who seemed to think they were really connecting because they could talk about sports. Chris hadn’t told his mother, but Larry’s habit of always calling him
dude
drove him nuts. Larry obviously suffered under the delusion that this made him a very cutting-edge guy. He had a thirteen-year-old daughter, Taylor, who was kind of a pill both times Chris had met her. She was with her mother this weekend, thank God.
Since his mom had moved in with Larry, these alternate weekend visits had become more and more of a drag. Chris didn’t know anyone in Bellevue, so all he could do was bus it to Bellevue Square Mall or hole up in Larry’s study and play computer games. The study was in the basement and had its own bathroom, so at least Chris had his privacy. Larry had gone mallard crazy decorating the place. There were pictures of ducks on the wall, and duck-decoy lamps, and even a duck pattern on the sofa his mother was preparing for him so he could bed down for the night.
It was just past eleven. Erin was already asleep up in Taylor’s room, and Larry had nodded off in his La-Z-Boy recliner in front of one of those
CSI
shows.
Chris’s mom was tucking the bottom of the sheet under the mattress. “The father’s dead, the mother’s in Florida, and her brother killed himself, is that right?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Chris said, staring at the computer monitor. He was playing Cube Runner, and really didn’t feel like answering questions about Molly. Lately, it seemed every time he saw his mom, she wanted a full report on Molly’s every activity. Did his dad seem happy with her? Did Molly get any calls from her family or old friends?
It had been a week since he’d gone against his dad’s orders and attended Mr. Corson’s wake. Molly had been nice enough to drive him to the funeral parlor, and he’d been pretty creepy toward her. As far as Chris knew, she hadn’t said anything to his dad about it. After Molly had covered for him, it just didn’t seem right to spy on her for his mom. Besides, he really didn’t have much to report.
“And you’ve never met her mother—or even talked to her on the phone?” his mom pressed.
“No, I haven’t,” Chris mumbled, his eyes on the computer screen.
“Don’t you find that odd? I mean, after all . . .”
He did think it was pretty strange. The lady was his step-grandmother, and she hadn’t even spoken with him yet. It was like she didn’t exist.
“Do you know
how
her brother killed himself?” his mom asked. She was slipping a flower-patterned case over the pillow. “Did Molly say anything to you about it?”
“Nope,” Chris said.
“What was his name again?”
“Charlie, I think.”
“Do you know if he killed himself in Chicago or in Washington, D.C.?”
He leaned back in the cushioned swivel chair. “I really don’t know, Mom.”
Frowning, she tossed the pillow on the foldout bed. “You probably wouldn’t tell me even if you did know. You’re starting to like her, I can tell.”
“She’s okay, I guess,” he replied. Chris consciously kept his eyes on the monitor. “It’s just kind of weird that you keep asking me about her, Mom—practically every time I’m here. Molly never asks about you at all.”
His mother clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Well, excuse me if I want to know about this woman who’s looking after my children part of the time. She had a brother who committed suicide and a mother who never calls or visits. Who’s to say some kind of mental illness doesn’t run in her family? I’m just concerned, that’s all. I can’t help thinking about that crazy stalker your father was—
seeing
, that Cassandra character. He’s not exactly discriminating. . . .”
“I think Molly’s pretty normal, Mom,” Chris said quietly. He switched off his computer game, and then faked a yawn. He turned the swivel chair to face her. “Boy, I’m beat. I think I’ll hit the sheets. Thanks for making up the bed.”
She stared at him. He could tell she was hurt he didn’t want to talk anymore. She seemed to work up a smile, and then kissed his forehead. “You know, I love these weekends with you and Erin. Larry really enjoys having you, too. Anything special you’d like to do tomorrow?”
He shrugged. “I can’t think of anything.”
She mussed his hair. “Well, sleep on it. G’night, Chris.”
Twenty minutes later, as he tossed and turned on Larry’s lumpy sofa bed, Chris thought about how it drove him nuts whenever his mom started criticizing his dad. Didn’t she realize that kind of talk only made them
both
seem awful? It had been one reason he’d come to depend so much on Mr. Corson last year.
Attending his wake a week ago had been pointless and painful. First, Mr. C’s sister had chewed him out, then his widow had told him what a creepy little shit he was. He had to remind himself that Mr. Corson had forgiven him—and so had the niece, Serena. Chris was still baffled over his encounter with her. He was convinced Serena had been the one who had snuck into the funeral parlor men’s room and said whatever she’d said to screw around with his head. She must have picked up his sunglasses and followed him to her aunt’s apartment complex. Chris couldn’t think of anyone else who might have done that.
He’d had a pretty miserable week. It was hard to kick back and have anything resembling a good time when he knew certain people hated him. And he still wasn’t over Mr. Corson’s murder. But finals kept him busy—as did rehearsals for
Aquanautics
, the show the boys’ and girls’ swim teams put on twice a year to raise money for charity. This time it was for leukemia. There were races, diving competitions, and the girls put on a synchronized swimming routine. Chris was surprised they’d decided to have it again—especially after what had happened at the last show.
He remembered four months ago, throwing himself into rehearsals for the January
Aquanautics
. He still hadn’t had a chance to talk with Mr. Corson, who had left school about three weeks before. Ian Scholl had lasted only a few days once Mr. Corson had gone. It was all over school and the Internet about the two of them in the boys’ locker room. Even people who assumed Mr. C was merely consoling the kid had figured it was because Ian had finally admitted to his counselor—and himself—that he was gay. He’d spent so much time trying not to be identified as homosexual, and now everyone knew—including his crazy, Bible-thumping parents.
When Ian had failed to show up to school the first Thursday in January, rumors flew about what had happened to him. Elvis heard that Ian’s parents had pulled him out of school and stuck him in some clinic in Encino that was supposed to cure his homosexuality. “They may as well try teaching him to breathe underwater,” Elvis commented. “Even if Ian figured out how to pull off something like that, it would still be a constant struggle.”
By the time Chris was practicing for
Aquanautics
in mid-January, people had stopped talking about Mr. Corson and Ian. Chris still felt miserable for his part in what had happened. But he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
So he focused on mastering a reverse one-and-a-half-tuck-position dive for the show—even though he was a swimmer, not a diver. He really punished himself, trying to get the routine right. He went home every night with a headache from all those repeated botched dives from the high board. Coach Chertok kept telling him to lighten up and do a simpler routine. This was for a charity show, not some competition. But Chris was obsessed with getting this particular dive just perfect in time for the show.
All the while, he wondered if Mr. Corson would be in the audience for
Aquanautics.
It was a popular event at the school, and Mr. Corson had originally suggested the charity they ended up choosing: Big Brothers Big Sisters of Puget Sound. So it wasn’t totally implausible that he’d attend. Chris imagined himself perched on the high dive, spotting Mr. Corson in the crowded stands. He would salute him, and announce to everyone there, “I dedicate this dive to my guidance counselor, Mr. Corson,” and then he’d perform a flawless gainer-one-half.
But the day before the show, Chris still hadn’t mastered the dive. He’d only been able to pull it off a few times in about sixty attempts. Coach Chertok said his form was poor most of the time. Either his arms weren’t extended high enough at takeoff, or his feet were apart when he hit the water. Chris didn’t have a lot of confidence he could get it right for the show.
He had this weird notion that if Mr. Corson came to
Aquanautics
, he’d be able to tackle the dive—for him. Chris furtively looked for him in the crowded stands as he filed out of the locker room with the boys’ team. Meanwhile the girls marched out from their locker room on the other side of the pool. Both teams dove into the water in perfect synchronization. All the while, the theme to
Hawaii Five-O
played over the tinny-sounding intercom. Between his swimming routines, Chris scanned the bleachers again, hoping to see Mr. Corson, but he didn’t spot him. Then came the diving portion of the program, and they turned off the music. Coach Chertok provided color commentary, whispering into a mike a little something about each diver—and how amazing they’d been in this meet and that meet. Chris tried to tune him out as he climbed up the ladder to the high board. He had to focus on his dive. Yet he couldn’t help looking around from his lofty vantage point, still hoping to spot Mr. Corson in the audience. Again, there was no sign of him.
“. . . not only that, but Chris is one of the nicest guys you ever could meet,” Coach Chertok finished up.
Chris was really touched by that comment, but he told himself to think about the dive. He paused at the top of the ladder.
Push off with your arms high over your head, and then tuck tight—like a little ball.
He slowly, deliberately started toward the end of the diving board, ready to raise his hands over his head.
That was when he heard the screams.
Chris stopped dead. The board wobbled beneath him. He gaped down toward the source of the noise and saw someone in the bleachers, pushing his way past people in a row of seats. He barreled toward the aisle. A few women cried out, and there was a rumbling. People ducked and recoiled from him, anything to get out of his way. One mother in the next row up tried to shield her two young children as he passed in front of her.
Precariously standing on the end of the high dive, Chris gazed down at the person causing all the commotion and panic. He recognized Ian Scholl and saw the gun in his hand. It was hard to miss. Ian waved it at everyone around him.
More people started screaming as Ian charged down the aisle steps toward the pool area. In their dark blue one-piece swimsuits and matching bathing caps, the girls’ team had lined up along a dividing wall from the bleachers, right beside those steps. Suddenly the girls scattered in many different directions. The pool area was like an echo chamber, and their horrified shrieks were deafening.
Some of them were too scared to move. They stood there with their backs pressed against the wall. Ian grabbed one of them by the arm. It was Margaret Riddle, a petite, pale girl with freckles. She struggled to pull away from him, but he jabbed the gun barrel against the side of her neck. Margaret let out a scream.
“Shut up!” Ian yelled. “Everyone, shut up!” He hoisted his gun in the air for a second and fired. The shot reverberated through the pool area.
There were more shrieks. “Goddamn it, shut up!” he cried. “All of you!” He held Margaret in front of him—almost like a human shield. He pressed the gun under her chin. She shook and wept uncontrollably.
Everyone turned quiet. The crying from people in the stands became muted. It was as if they were suddenly too scared to make a sound. Margaret’s bare feet squeaked against the tiles as he hauled her closer toward the other side of the pool, where Chris stood paralyzed on the high dive.
Ian looked up at him. Slowly, he took the gun away from Margaret’s chin.
Chris started to tremble. The diving board teetered beneath him. He suddenly felt cold and naked in his blue Speedo—so vulnerable. He clutched his arms in front of his chest. Horrorstruck, he watched Ian point the gun up at him. All at once, he couldn’t breathe.
Chris thought for certain he was a dead man.
“I’M NOT QUEER!” Ian yelled.
His mouth open, Chris shook his head at him. He wanted to say,
It doesn’t matter.
But he couldn’t get any words out. He took a step back on the board.
Ian glanced around at the people in the bleachers, randomly waving the gun at them. “Do you hear me?” he shouted over the muffled crying. “I’m not a queer! I’m sick of people saying that! You’re all liars!”
Helpless, Chris gazed down at him. Ian turned, and his back was to him for a moment.

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