The Night Olivia Fell Page 6

  “Do you know who the father is?” Sarah had asked.

  The old mattress sagged under her weight as she sat next to me on the edge of my bed.

  “Yes,” I snapped. Okay, maybe I used to sleep around a bit. I used sex as a way to get guys to like me. I drank and dabbled in drugs and stayed out late smoking and partying. But it wasn’t going to be like that anymore.

  “Have you told him?”

  “Of course!”

  “And?”

  I looked away, and Sarah sighed heavily.

  “He doesn’t want to be in the picture,” she stated.

  I didn’t answer. The worst part was that he’d cemented everything I felt all over again—that everybody eventually left me.

  Sarah slapped her hands on her legs and stood. “I’ll come with you to sort it out.”

  I stared at her, horrified. “Are you telling me to get an abortion?”

  Sarah looked confused. “Of course not. I just—”

  “This is my baby. I won’t abandon it. I’m nothing like . . .”

  I didn’t have to finish the sentence. We both knew the ending. Mom had abandoned me, and I had been powerless to stop her.

  Sarah’s face softened, and she sat back down. “Abs, of course you’re nothing like her. But a baby? You can’t . . .” Her voice trailed away and she searched my face.

  That was exactly what he had said, right before he threatened to hurt my baby and me if anybody found out it was his. So I’d gone to the abortion clinic and was going to do it. But I couldn’t go through with it. Being abandoned was my life’s greatest fear. I couldn’t do it to my own baby.

  I looked around at the tiny storeroom I’d used as a bedroom in Sarah’s apartment since I was ten. A baby wouldn’t fit here. But I had a way to get out now. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken it, but I wanted my baby to have everything I never did, a stable home, a solid middle-class upbringing, good opportunities.

  “I’ve registered at Valley,” I said, referring to the local community college. “I’ll get a certificate in journalism. I like writing and I’m good at it. I can get a job at a newspaper.”

  Sarah looked surprised. I was usually more of a joiner than a planner. She struggled with words for a minute, but I knew she’d give in. She was the only parent figure I’d had for most of my life, and she was nothing if not supportive.

  Finally she said, “You know I’m here for you whatever you decide.”

  “Thanks, Sar.” I leaned into my big sister, and she put her arms around me.

  She brushed my hair off my forehead, and I pulled away, getting up and crossing to look out the window at the Christmas lights stringing the neighborhood. I hated it when she did things my mom used to do.

  I’d looked down at my stomach, the first hint of a bump pushing out from my sweater, and imagined my baby curled under my heart. I would have someone to be with me no matter what. I’d love her more than I’d ever been loved. . . .

  In the bathroom, I stood shakily and splashed cold water on my face to help the memories fade. I grabbed Olivia’s pregnancy test and took it to Detective Samson in the living room. For a second, her professional mask slipped, and I thought I saw compassion flare in her eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. She pulled a plastic bag from her pocket, then zipped the proof of my grandchild away inside.

  “I don’t know if Olivia was with anyone that last night,” I said, sinking back into the recliner. “I didn’t know she was pregnant. She didn’t tell me.” The admission scraped like razor blades across my raw, aching throat.

  Neither detective spoke for a minute, but when I looked up I saw them exchange a look.

  “Well.” McNally stood and moved toward the door. “That’s all we need for now. We’ll be in touch if we have any other questions.”

  “Wait.” I sprang to my feet and put a hand out. “The bruises, her bracelet—are you going to investigate?”

  McNally sighed, and I wanted to scream. “We’re still in the early stages,” he said, but he wasn’t looking at me anymore. “We’ll speak to witnesses, process the scene, analyze the bruises. . . .”

  Both detectives moved toward the door, but at the last second Samson turned and spoke. “We’re very sorry for your loss. We’ll be in touch, keep you up-to-date if we find anything new.” She slid a business card into my palm. “Call me anytime. And, Miss Knight, just ignore the reporters. They’ll go away in a few days.”

  I stood frozen in place, the front door flapping in the increasing wind, and watched as they got in their unmarked police car and drove slowly away. I hunched my shoulders against the cold and shoved my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. My fingers knocked against something hard.

  They hadn’t asked for Olivia’s phone.

  9

  * * *

  ABI

  november

  November arrived abruptly in Portage Point. The sky was gray and wet; the wind tossed leaves across the ground in angry flurries. I scurried across the parking lot toward the hospital. By the time I reached the front, my hair clung to my forehead in damp tendrils.

  Inside I headed for the elevators while dialing the numbers on the business card Samson had left me. It was the third time that day, but still it went to voice mail. I knew there were budget cuts; I knew other cases were important too, that the investigative process took time; but surely, surely Olivia’s case would take priority.

  Even on the rare occasion when a detective answered, they just told me to be patient, they’d let me know if anything new came up. They were always fobbing me off like that. And I didn’t have time for it. Four weeks had passed since Olivia’s fall. Only fourteen weeks until the baby would be born. And that was if we were lucky. I needed answers sooner, not later.

  I took the elevator to the floor Olivia had been moved to last week. Now that she was out of the ICU, the baby had a better chance at surviving; but seeing the ventilator and feeding tube was no less of a shock each time I arrived.

  I steeled myself against the pain and pushed open the door. Sarah was slumped over the edge of Olivia’s bed, her mouth hung open in sleep, a deep crease denting the middle of her forehead.

  “Sarah,” I whispered. My sister jumped when I touched her shoulder. “You should go home. Go see Dylan and Brad.”

  She rubbed her arm over her eyes. “I couldn’t sleep. What time is it?”

  “Six.”

  “They’re sleeping. You should be too.”

  I put my purse down and slipped out of my coat, sitting in the chair next to her as the pale light edged the darkness from the room. I picked up Olivia’s hand and inspected her wrist. The bruises had faded, the broken skin mostly healed; her skin renewed itself, even though her brain never would.

  “I’m thinking of going back to work,” I told Sarah.

  I realized with some surprise that I missed the rhythm of my job. The predictability. At least I knew what I was doing in accounting, what to expect. There was no guesswork, only right or wrong. Right now I was just waiting through my days, but for what? The police rarely responded to my calls. Olivia’s case was still open, but it felt like they weren’t really investigating.

  The last four weeks had passed in a slow, nauseating spin. I slept and ate little, sobbed a lot. I shoved fistfuls of sedatives in my mouth, washing them down with red wine and vodka until I’d drunk everything in my house and had no pills left to take.

  The dull lethargy that had plagued me immediately after Olivia fell was being replaced by a crazed adrenaline and an urge to know the truth. People throughout Portage Point had heard the news. They wanted to ask questions, to know what had happened, but I had no answers and no energy to explain that the police had yet to piece together any intelligible reason for Olivia’s fall.

  At least Samson had been right about the reporters—they’d eventually trickled away, in search of more urgent stories.

  The cost of caring for Olivia was mounting. My insurance was already balking and I knew I�
�d have to find a way to pay for everything for another three months at least. And then there was the baby. . . .

  “I can’t lose my insurance,” I said.

  Sarah nodded. She, of all people, knew that the weight of unexpected responsibility could be as heavy as water.

  I looked at Olivia in the hospital bed, a pale, shriveled version of herself. Eyes closed. Intubated. The incessant mechanized hush of the machines keeping her alive.

  “I don’t understand why the police aren’t working harder on this,” I said, anger and frustration simmering inside me.

  “I’m sure they are,” Sarah reassured me. She stood and rolled her neck in slow circles. “Investigations take time.”

  “They said the bruises were probably from the fall. But you saw them, right? They were fingerprints. Somebody did this to her.”

  Sarah looked away, and I could tell she didn’t really agree.

  I didn’t like everything I said second-guessed, my emotions and my sanity questioned. I knew what I’d seen. I just had no way to prove it meant what I thought it did.

  “They’re still investigating,” she repeated. “We have to let them do their job.”

  I glared at her. “I know you don’t understand, but I need to know what happened.”

  Flames of anger curled in my stomach, and the air between us tightened. After our mother died, it was me who acted out and raged. Sarah had stayed calm and composed. She’d organized the funeral, taken care of the will, boxed up all my things and moved me in with her.

  I was a basket case in comparison. I wailed and wept, wanted to know why Mom was dead, who I could blame. When I didn’t get answers I wallowed, sinking into the grief and letting it hold me like a warm bath. That’s what losing your only parent when you’re ten does—it makes it so you can’t ever let go.

  Sarah didn’t want to talk about Mom at all. She wasn’t interested in remembering and certainly didn’t want me talking about that day. Her emotionless, brisk efficiency made me doubt my feelings. I wondered why I cared so much, but she didn’t.

  Over time I’d learned to hide my emotions. But on the inside I was still just a wreck, barely keeping it together.

  “Of course I understand,” Sarah said, her forehead creasing with hurt. “I get it. I want to help. I know people at the Seattle Police Department through work. I’ll call around. See if anybody there can help.”

  “I don’t need a shrink picking my brain apart.” I gritted my teeth. “I need to know what happened to Olivia. Besides, I can’t pay for it.”

  “I don’t mean a counselor. And I don’t mean in an official capacity, just as a favor. Maybe they can ask around, get some insight into what the Portage Point police are doing, what they’re thinking.”

  My pulse raced through my clenched muscles. I looked away, wanting her to stop talking.

  “The baby’s doing well,” she said, changing the subject.

  She reached over and touched Olivia’s stomach. Somehow, despite so many tests, drugs, and X-rays, the baby was healthy. It was growing at a normal rate, swimming in the space beneath where my daughter’s heart pumped blood around her body.

  I dug my fingernails into the skin of my upper arms until they left pale, moon-shaped dents, then raked them across my upper arms, scratching at the invisible itch. The pain was sharp, intense, but in a way that felt good.

  “Abi, stop!” Sarah exclaimed, her voice sharp as a ragged hangnail.

  “Then stop talking about the baby!”

  “Why?” Her brow puckered.

  “Don’t you get it?” I exploded. The spark of anger lit and consumed my insides, suddenly so bulky that I couldn’t sit still. I launched out of my chair and crossed the room to stare out the window. The maple trees that lined the park across the street were nearly bare, slowly losing the last of their crimson and gold leaves.

  “Get what?”

  I whirled to face her. “When the baby’s born, Olivia will die! So stop harping on about the baby, because that deadline means my daughter fucking dies!”

  I didn’t wait for her reply. I pushed past her and ran out the door, down the stairs, back into the driving rain.

  × × ×

  Back at home, I felt a deep, dark self-loathing stealing over me. I shouldn’t have blown up at Sarah.

  Whatever problems I’d had with my sister, whatever resentment I’d held in my heart, Sarah had always been my rock. Even when my mom was alive, it was Sarah my teachers called if I was sick, Sarah who helped me with my homework. When I was five and got lost when we were picnicking at the beach, it was Sarah I howled for under the hot white sun. I was alone and she ran to me, shouting my name, and I knew I was safe. I never felt that way with my mom.

  A sudden, vivid memory of my mother the day she died flashed through me: the blood, the screaming—was it Sarah or me?—the gun still hanging from her finger. I’d lost my mother and my childhood in one cruel day. I guess being angry and blaming Sarah was easier than moving on.

  Fuck. I scrubbed my hands over my eyes. I was such a mess.

  I crossed the living room to the small oak desk in the corner next to the fireplace and sat down. Once my old laptop had booted up, I opened my e-mail, prepared to send a request for another leave of absence to my boss.

  I had thirty-four new e-mails: a mix of junk mail, persistent interview requests, well-wishers at work, friends and acquaintances in the community who were too scared to talk to me face-to-face. And then my eye fell on something else.

  Your invoice from Apple.—Invoice APPLE ID olivialouiseknight@gmail.com.

  Tears sprang to my eyes. It was yet another reminder that Olivia wasn’t here anymore. I didn’t need to pay this bill anymore, but I didn’t want to stop because that would be an admission that my daughter wasn’t coming back.

  I wanted to drop my head to the desk and let my broken heart overwhelm me. Instead I took a deep breath and typed iCloud.com into the browser. I logged in with her e-mail and password, which I’d insisted she give me when I bought us both the iPhones, and a number of brightly colored icons filled my screen: e-mail, contacts, calendar, photos. The guts of Olivia’s life were here.

  I clicked the Mail icon, but the mailbox was empty except for a welcome e-mail. I shut it and moved on to Contacts. There were hundreds of people listed. Some I knew, but a lot I didn’t. I scrolled slowly down the page, staring hard at each name. Who were they? Had one of these people hurt Olivia? Next I opened Photos.

  At first I didn’t understand what I was seeing. Horror stole over me like a mist, uncurling deep within. And then a fiery knot began to burn in my stomach.

  I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, then opened them again. The pictures were still there. The first one was slightly blurry, as if it had been zoomed in from far away. Olivia was standing outside her school staring at something in the distance. Somebody had drawn devil horns over her head and a red line across her throat with what looked like drops of blood below.

  Die bitch! was written across the bottom.

  In the second one, Olivia’s face was colored over in hard, angry scribbles, a red noose twisted around her throat. But I could tell it was Olivia by the clothes she wore, her favorite swim-team shirt. I leaned closer to read the red text.

  Kill!

  And another: a knife drawn plunged into Olivia’s heart, blood dripping down her chest. The words U die! were scrawled on the picture.

  Shock rippled through me.

  There were a handful more, all variations of the first three: pictures of Olivia with her neck slit, blood dripping down the image, her eyes whited out, bloody intestines vomiting from her mouth. All with die, kill, and fuck you scribbled across them.

  “Oh my God,” I whispered. A rush of adrenaline thumped hot and silent in my blood.

  Someone had been cyberbullying Olivia.

  10

  * * *

  ABI

  november

  I started to shake all over, a shocked and angry vibration that started
at the very core of me and radiated out.

  Why would somebody send these to Olivia? And who?

  I scrolled down through the rest of the photos, but there was nothing else there. Nothing threatening, anyway.

  I rested my head on the desk and thumped it softly against the edge, as if that would knock loose rational thoughts that might solve this puzzle.

  “Think, Abi. Think!”

  Her phone. I bolted upright. Maybe there were more on her actual phone. I racked my mind, trying to think where I’d put it. I barely remembered what had happened since Olivia fell. It felt like I’d been sleepwalking since then.

  I ran to the kitchen and grabbed Olivia’s phone from the counter I’d thrown it on after the detectives left. The fact that the police hadn’t even asked for or looked for Olivia’s cell was further proof they weren’t taking the investigation seriously.

  I plugged the phone in to charge, and after a few seconds it chimed and burst to life.

  There were two unread text messages.

  The most recent was from someone Olivia had saved as K at 10:42 a.m. later the same morning Olivia was found: You ok? I’m so sorry. I seriously didn’t know. Anyway, he’s a dick. If you’re like me you’ll cut him out for good!

  I brushed a hand over my face, more baffled than ever. I scrolled down and read the other text.

  It was from Tyler at 11:20 p.m. the night Olivia fell.

  I scrolled up to read the whole thread.

  Olivia: You’re right. We need to talk. You still at bbq? Meet in 15?

  Tyler: Yep. See you in a few.

  I paused, letting the part of my brain that allowed me to analyze numbers so well take over. I latched on to something as my mind anchored and examined it. The thought crystallized into something cold and hard.

  “Fuck,” I whispered out loud. Tyler had told me Olivia left at 10:45 p.m. and he hadn’t seen her after that. But according to this text, they’d met up at around 11:30 p.m. “Tyler lied to me.”

  I scrolled back through some of Olivia’s old texts. The most recent ones were from K and a string of texts from somebody called only D. As I read, I realized they were sweet, some rather romantic, and I remembered Tyler telling me the baby wasn’t his. Perhaps this D was the baby’s father.