Beautiful Lies (41 page)

All I can do is stare into her painted eyes as she gazes back at me. I can’t move; he won’t let me. He wants me to listen.

“It was so long ago, I’d almost completely forgotten about her. There have been a few, you know. A guy gets bored over the years. Everyone needs a hobby. I was
so
careful, Alice. Everything would have been fine. But then you came along. Painting her. Drawing her. I’ve seen her in your sketchbooks. Why would you do that to me? How did you even know who she was?”

As I finally force myself to speak, my voice is hoarse, like I’ve been screaming. “What did you do to her?”

He seems surprised by the question, as though the answer should be obvious. “I killed her, stupid.”

We hear the kitchen door open. “Good girl, Sheba,” Charlie says, his heavy footsteps echoing through the downstairs. “You’re a good girl.” I imagine him looking around the kitchen for us. “Hello?” he calls. “Mr. Morelli? Rachel? Where’d you go?”

Finally, I summon the will to scream. “Charlie, run! Run away and call the police, Charlie!”

“Shut up,” Sean hisses, his bright teeth gritted, yanking me closer to him. His breath is foul and rancid. “Shut your mouth, Alice.”

I struggle to get away from him, kicking my legs, trying to wriggle free. It doesn’t work.

Charlie’s huge frame appears in the hallway. He’s confused and frightened by the sight of us, I can tell. He takes a tentative step backward. Sean pastes on a wry smile, slides a hand over my mouth, and says, “Hey, buddy. Your cousin and I are having a little talk. Everything’s okay. She was only kidding. Weren’t you, dear?”

With his palm against my face, he forces me to nod yes. Blood drips from my nose onto his hand.

Charlie’s smile loses its gleam. “Rachel?” he asks doubtfully.

I give him a pleading look. I need him to run away. I cannot let him get hurt.

“Here’s what I want you to do, buddy,” Sean explains, keeping his voice slow and calm. “I want you to go ahead and walk home by yourself. Go inside and turn off the alarm. Can you do that? Do you know the code?”

My cousin hesitates for a second. He glances back and forth between me and Sean. “No,” he admits, “I don’t remember.” His whole face trembles. “I’m sorry.”

Sean nudges me hard. “Tell him the code. Now.”

I stare at my cousin, pleading at him with my eyes, knowing he won’t comprehend what I’m about to do. It’s the only chance we have at getting away.

“Charlie,” I say slowly, keeping my voice steady, my words deliberate, “you must remember the code. It’s easy. 4-6-0-6. You just punch in 4-6-0-6, and then you press the button that says
stop
.”

He’s confused. “But 4606 is our address.”

“Right,” I say quickly. “That’s why your parents picked it. So it would be easy to remember.”

His gaze searches mine. I can tell that things aren’t adding up in his mind. If that really were the code, he knows he wouldn’t have forgotten it. I recognize the doubt in his eyes.

“Charlie,” I say, “that’s the code. Do it.”

He wipes the sweat from his forehead. His breathing is shallow and quick.

“Charlie, buddy, listen to your cousin,” Sean says. “Go.”

But he doesn’t move, at least not yet. “Rachel?” he asks me. “Is it true? Is everything okay? Your nose is still bleeding.”

Sean grows a twinge impatient. “I already told you it’s fine, buddy. Come on, now. Don’t let me down. Do what I’m telling you.”

Charlie takes another step backward, and for a second I think he might turn and run out the front door, just like I screamed at him to do. But then he stops. He closes one eye a little bit, like he’s zooming in on the two of us, thinking hard, trying to determine what he should do.

“I want Rachel to tell me everything’s okay,” he says. “I’m not leaving until she tells me.”

Sean’s breathing is shallow and rapid, his chest rising and falling against my back. He’s trying so hard to stay calm, I can tell. Any second now he could lose it.

“All right,” he says. He takes his hand away from my mouth. He loosens his grip on my body—not completely, but enough that I can breathe freely again. “Go ahead, Rachel. Tell him yourself.”

I force myself to smile, pressing my sleeve to my face again, trying to act like it’s no big deal that my nose is gushing like a faucet. “Charlie,” I say, keeping my voice low and even, “everything is okay. I want you to go home now. I want you to wait for us. Don’t be afraid. Everything will be fine.” I pause, trying to think, desperate for him to comprehend my meaning. “After you turn off the alarm, find a spot to wait for us. You can wait anywhere you want in the whole house.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

“Anywhere,” I repeat. “You won’t get in trouble. I promise.”

“That’s enough,” Sean interrupts.

The three of us stand in near silence. All I can hear is the sound of our breathing.

Sean nods in the direction of the door. “Go ahead, buddy. Go now.”

Taking careful, wide steps, Charlie backs down the hallway. Once he’s in the doorway to the living room, he turns and walks quickly. I hear the front door open and shut. Then it’s just the two of us, alone in the house with pretty Jamie Slater, whose face appeared in my mind years ago and demanded to be drawn.

Seconds after Charlie leaves, Sean hooks his arm around my neck, covering my mouth with his hand again. He wraps his other arm around my body and begins to drag me toward the back of the house.

“I could have sworn it was you,” he murmurs, his mouth pressed close against my ear. “She could have told me I had the wrong goddamn sister. She could have told me a hundred times, but she never said a word.”

He opens the door to his bedroom, shoves me onto the floor, and drags me in by my hair. When I scream, he kicks me hard in the stomach. “Shut up,” he says, kicking me again. The act seems to give him intense satisfaction; his eyes are glazed with pleasure as he steps away from me, shaking his arms as he hops from one foot to the other like he’s loosening
up, getting ready for a good fight. He goes to his nightstand and switches on his clock radio, which is tuned to a classical station. “How about some music?” he asks, stretching out his arms, weaving his fingers together to crack his knuckles as he approaches me again. “I’ve always”—
kick
—“loved”—
kick
—“Vivaldi.”
Kick, kick, kick, kick.

He pauses for a second, reaches into his dresser drawer, and removes a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. As he lights up, blowing a few large, wispy rings into the air, I’m certain that he’s the reason I felt so uncomfortable on the trail with my sister last Saturday night. He was there, watching us, waiting for his opportunity.

After a few more drags of his cigarette, he tosses it onto the floor, grinding it out with the heel of his boot, before he resumes my beating. The next blow, delivered right to my gut, knocks the wind out of me. I clutch my hands to my stomach, trying to block him; it only makes him pummel me harder, his boot crushing my fingers as he shifts his weight onto me, leaning over to stare into my eyes as my body buckles beneath him. Then he straightens up, cracks his knuckles, and begins to kick me in the head.

The pain is explosive; it’s like fireworks are going off inside my skull. I try to scream again, but the sound comes out in a pathetic gurgle, and I taste blood in my mouth. If he doesn’t stop, I’ll be unconscious soon.

His doorbell rings. Sean freezes, but only for a second. He crouches beside me, smoothing my hair, which is wet
with fresh blood. He’s sweating so much that beads of perspiration drip from his forehead onto my face. When I try to turn my head away, he grabs me by the chin, forcing me to look at him.

“Don’t get too excited,” he purrs as the doorbell rings again. “It’s just gonna be the two of us here. I’m not in the mood for any more company tonight.”

But whoever’s outside isn’t giving up yet. A few seconds go by, and then they start knocking—pounding, really—pumping insistently at the door.
Please don’t let it be Charlie,
I think, struggling to breathe, unable to swallow the blood and spit that has pooled in my mouth.
Let it be anybody but Charlie.

Sean grabs me by the hair and begins to drag me into the hallway. My eyes are so swollen from his beating that I can barely see. My jaw is throbbing so badly that I can’t even force my mouth open wide enough to attempt a scream. I’m limp, helpless, on the verge of passing out, either from the pain or all the blood I’m losing.

He kicks the basement door open, grips me beneath my arms, and pulls me down the stairs. Every step creates an explosion of agony as my body bumps along, the two of us descending deeper into the darkness. The only light in the basement comes from a bare bulb screwed into the ceiling near the foot of the stairs. After what feels like an eternity, we finally reach the bottom. Sean drags my body to the center of the room and leans over me, catching his breath as the pounding continues on the front door.

“Excuse me for a moment,” he says, planting his boot against my chest, pressing so hard that I can feel my ribs splintering beneath his weight. “I’m going to see who’s at the door. Can you behave yourself while I’m gone?” He pauses. “I hope so, Alice. Otherwise this will be very unpleasant for you.”

I don’t respond. I just lay there, feeling more afraid than I ever have in my life, certain that I’m going to die tonight. My immobility seems to give Sean immense satisfaction. He grins at me as he smooths his hair with the palm of his hand, then wipes the sweat from his forehead. He delivers another hard kick to the side of my head. My blood is all over his boots.

Sean coughs, rearranging the contents of his chest cavity, then he spits onto the dirt floor, his saliva landing just a few hairs from my face. I can see it; I can smell it, too. I give a pathetic, barely audible choke of disgust as I gag.

“Don’t go anywhere, beautiful,” he says with a laugh. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

As he moves toward the stairs, there is a giddy skip to his step. Once he reaches the top, he doesn’t even bother to close the basement door.

I can hear everything going on upstairs, right down to the sounds of Vivaldi lilting down the hallway. When Sean answers the door, I recognize his visitor’s voice immediately.
It feels like a miracle. As Sheba barks loudly, Ryan—Officer Martin—says, “It’s okay. She must smell my dog.”

“What can I do for you?” Sean’s voice is smooth and cool. “Is anything wrong?”

“No, not really. I don’t want to interrupt your evening, but I’m looking for one of your neighbors. Her name is Rachel Foster.”

He’s been following me, I know. Maybe he saw me come in a few minutes ago. Maybe he’s talked to Charlie. If Sean lies, tells him I’m not here, he’ll know something’s wrong. He’ll find me.

“Sure, I know Rachel. She isn’t here, though. I haven’t seen her all day.”

My eyes have adjusted to the dimness of the basement, but they’re too puffy for me to make out much of anything in the room, and I’m in too much pain to turn my head and look around. Instead, I have no choice but to stare at the dirt floor.

“You haven’t?” There’s a definite hint of doubt in Ryan’s voice.

I notice something odd in my line of vision. There are several grainy, rust-colored circular spots on the floor. Struggling to focus, I realize the color is familiar; it’s blood. And even though I’m bleeding profusely, I know the stains I’m looking at didn’t come from my body. They’re older; I can tell because the color is dried into the floor.

“Uh … I don’t think so, Officer. I’ve been home all night.”

As my vision sharpens, I make out three, four, five spots—maybe more. They create a trail that winds down the center of the room, a droplet distributed every few inches, one right after another to create a crooked line, almost like a path. I’ve seen something like this before.

“Do you have any idea where I might find Rachel?” Ryan asks. “Nobody’s answering the door at her house. I have a few questions for her.”

I stare at the blood, trying to comprehend why it’s so familiar. It’s like a game of connect the dots.

“No, I don’t,” Sean says. “I’m sorry I can’t help you more. I’ll certainly keep an eye out for her.”

Like a trail of bread crumbs.

“Actually, I’ve been meaning to speak with you, too. Mr. Morelli, would you mind stepping outside for a minute?”

There is a long pause. Finally, Sean says, “Okay. I only have a few minutes, though. I’m in the middle of a little project.”

My gaze follows the trail all the way to the opposite wall of the basement, to a low, narrow doorway. I know immediately that it leads to a sub-basement, just like the one in the house on Pennsylvania Avenue.

As soon as Sean is out the door—I hear him pull it shut behind him—I struggle to crawl across the room. My chest throbs in pain; each inhalation feels like a series of explosions going off inside my lungs. I hurt too much to stand up, but I don’t let that stop me; I summon every bit of my
remaining strength to drag myself along on my forearms until I reach the doorway, and somehow I manage to reach up and turn the knob.

I don’t stop to think about my options; I know I have to get down the steps somehow. Any minute now, Sean is going to come back downstairs; if he finds me like this, I know he’ll kill me. The pain is almost too much to bear as I turn myself around so I can slide down the stairs feet first, my ribs bumping against each step, my bones screaming in protest as I force myself farther and farther until I land in a heap on the floor. My body curls in surrender, as though it’s trying to recede into itself, to escape the pain that radiates from every pore.