Envy (20 page)

She pulled the old, battered Scrabble game from the shelf and sat on the floor. The embers from the fire glowed eerily, and the warmth felt good. She quietly fished out the letters and arranged them on the carpet.

Taylor clamped down her eyelids to shut out the ideas that she’d had about what words could be formed with the Scrabble tiles and what words she believed Katelyn might have wanted her to grasp. She and her sister didn’t consider that they actually
spoke
to the dead—they merely felt that they could read an imprint of a moment left behind by those who crossed over. Although it was tougher to do, they could sometimes gauge the thoughts and feelings of those who were still among the living. The living were always tougher than the dead. She and her sister didn’t know why for sure, but they agreed that perhaps it was because the breathing still had reason for lies and subterfuge. The dead, well, they just didn’t have anything left to lose.

When Taylor opened her eyes, she found herself drawn to the word
SELF
. It was as if there was a pulsating energy in the word. The others, not so much. Next, she pushed all the words together and ran her hand across their smooth surfaces, mixing them without rolling them over.

“Talk to me, Katie,” she said softly. “Tell me.”

The Word
YOUR
pulsed from the mix. She studied the letter tiles spelling out
YOURSELF

Taylor closed her eyes again, and without any consideration for what she was doing, she smoothed out the tiles.

Her eyes popped open and the word
FAVOR
seemed to leap up at her. She set it next to
YOURSELF

She shut her eyes and tried again, but nothing.
Why is this so hard?
She closed her eyes once more, unaware that her sister had just entered the room.

“Taylor?” Hayley asked.

Taylor looked up, startled. “Geez, Hayley! Thanks for the warning.”

“You should have dragged my butt out of bed.”

“Your butt’s too big to drag,” Taylor said.

Hayley sat on the floor, facing her sister. “That means yours is too. We have the same butt, remember?”

“Don’t remind me,” Taylor said. “I see it every time you walk in front of me.”

Hayley dropped the butt talk. She studied the letter tiles spelling out
YOURSELF
and
FAVOR
. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s why you’re here now. Give it a try.”

Hayley closed her eyes and ran her fingers over the game pieces. When she opened them, she immediately saw the word
WORLD

“I feel something about that too,” Taylor said, moving the tiles next to
FAVOR
and
YOURSELF

In the remaining letters—
L I K L A H T E D O
—Hayley saw the words
HATE
and
KATE
, but, while they seemed to play into the events of what happened to Katelyn, they didn’t seem right.

She reached for the last of the wooden tiles and slowly moved them to spell
KILL.

Without saying another word, Taylor arranged the remaining game pieces to spell out:
DO THE WORLD A FAVOR KILL YOURSELF
.

She looked up at Hayley. Even in the dim light of the living room, it was clear to see that the color had left her face.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Taylor asked, tears coming to her eyes. She hated when she reacted like that, but she couldn’t help it.

“You already know I am thinking it,” Hayley said.

Taylor rubbed her eyes dry with the sleeve of her robe.

“Someone wanted Katelyn to kill herself,” she said.

Hayley started to gather up the pieces of the game, a game that would never, ever seem like fun again.

“Who would want that?” Taylor asked.

The sisters started toward the narrow staircase, lowering their voices to a whisper as they walked.

“Someone with a very black heart, that’s for sure,” Hayley said. Taylor nodded. “Someone we’re going to find.”

“And we will make them pay,” Hayley whispered. “Big time.”

It wasn’t a threat, but more of a promise. All lives have a purpose. Taylor and Hayley Ryan knew whatever gifts they’d been given were powerful and they intended to use them for the right side.

For Katie.

chapter 29

THE NEXT MORNING, HAYLEY FOUND THEIR FATHER in his office writing and drinking coffee, which, judging by the dark ring at the mug’s midpoint, she was sure was left over from the previous day. Kevin Ryan was on a don’t-disturb-I’m-in-the-homestretch-of-something-reallyreally-important work jag. It was Groundhog Day, and all indications were that this exact scene would be repeated until he was done.

“Got a minute?” she asked.

Kevin swiveled his office chair to face her. He hadn’t shaved for two days and he was of the age where stubble wasn’t cool, where it looked more bum than stud.

Not that thinking of her father in that way would ever cross Hayley’s mind.

“What up?” he asked.

Hayley hated when he talked like that, but this wasn’t the time for a coaching session on which colloquial phrases were really in and which were used only on beer commercials written by completely unhip advertising copywriters.

“Dad,” Hayley said, framing a lie, a small but necessary one, “I was reading about a case in Nebraska or Nevada about a woman who committed suicide because her husband said she was fat.”

“I haven’t seen that story,” he said, glancing over at his idled keyboard.

“I saw it online,” she went on. “The husband kept calling her names, leaving her bags of food with nasty notes.”

“He sounds like a pig,” he said.

“You don’t know the half of it. Well, I’ve been wondering about him. I mean, can he be held liable for it?”

“I don’t think so.” Kevin slid his computer glasses down the bridge of his nose. “He mostly has to live with himself for being an ass.”

“Isn’t it like someone yelling fire in a crowded theater? You know, and causing someone to get trampled to death?”

“Not really. I mean, even if she were unstable and fat and he merely taunted her, that wouldn’t mean he was responsible. After all, the woman in Nebraska or Nevada—”

“Maybe New Hampshire,” Hayley said, adding a shrug for good measure.

“Right. Whatever N state she was from, makes no difference. The woman was an adult and responsible for her actions.”

“But her husband urged her to kill herself.”

Kevin, smelling a crime story, seemed more interested just then. “How so?”

“He told her to do it. Bullied her. He left her notes and told her to do the world a favor and kill herself.”

“That’s different,” he said. “If she was vulnerable and he told her to do that … By the way, how
did
she kill herself?”

Hayley hadn’t thought that one through. If she’d really read the story online—if there had been a story online—it would have mentioned the cause of the heavy woman’s demise. For a split second she considered offering up something totally off the wall, like the dead woman ate a hundred waffles and died of a perforated stomach, but she refrained. She knew her dad would Google the case then.

Waffles + suicide. Hit search.

“She jumped off a roof.”

“Wow,” he said. “That’s hard core.”

“Yeah, she hit the pavement and splattered like a melon,” she said, adding a description that she knew he’d like.

“Watermelon?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Casaba.”

“Nice, Hayley.”

She hugged her dad before leaving him to do his work. She’d lied to him, but she’d made him smile too. She could tell that he loved the melon visual. She expected that he’d use that the next time he had the occasion to write about a jumper.

The body hit the asphalt and splattered like a melon … er … like a casaba.

chapter 30

PEOPLE IN PORT GAMBLE KNEW THE DEATH of the Berkleys’ daughter would make it nearly impossible for Harper and Sandra to survive what many already knew firsthand was a marriage on mudflat footing. Kim Lee told her daughter, Beth, that she’d seen Harper eating alone in a restaurant in Kingston. At first, she thought he’d been scoping the competition, though the concept of that endeavor so soon after his family tragedy seemed peculiar. When she saw him a second time sitting on one of the benches overlooking Puget Sound to Edmonds, at the landing of the Kingston ferry crossing, she had a better idea what he was up to.

He was staying away from Sandra.

“You know I’m not one to gossip,” Kim said, as usual when gossiping, “but I have seen Sandra a few times in town and she looks terrible. I hate to say this, but I think she might be drinking heavily.”

Sitting next to her mother on the sofa after dinner, Beth texted the info to Hayley and Taylor while promising complete discretion.

“Yeah, I don’t like to gossip, either, Mom,” she said, her thumbs still jabbing the message:

SANDRA B IS A DRUNK. MR. B HATES HER.

Of course, Sandra Berkley knew what everyone thought of her. Her mother, Nancy, had made it abundantly clear the morning of Katelyn’s funeral service.

“If you’d kept your hands out of the liquor cabinet, our only grandchild might still be alive,” she had said.

Sandra could accept some blame but not all of it. She could also fire it back at her mom, telling her that if she hadn’t squandered her granddaughter’s college fund on a wine fridge, Katelyn might still be alive.

But she didn’t. Sandra didn’t say a word. She just pulled hermit-crab tight into herself. She no longer cared if she lived or died. And yes, she had a drinking problem, but right then drinking actually seemed to be helping. Feeling numb was better than feeling the sharp pain of regret and loss.

She sat on Katelyn’s bed, a drink in her hand and tears streaming from her eyes. All around her were the memories of the daughter whom she’d lost long before Christmas night. How was it that they’d been so close once and then, nothing? Sandra loved her little girl. She had been the Girl Scout Daisy troop leader only because she couldn’t bear another woman taking the job and taking away time that she’d have with her little girl.

She’d taken Katelyn to every class, school function, or retreat that was preceded by a school permission slip. They’d been two peas in a pod.
Inseparable.
As she sat there sobbing, it was hard to pin down just what it was that had caused the tectonic rift between the two of them. It could well have been her drinking. It could have been the fact that she and Harper weren’t getting along. The restaurant was making money, but not enough to fuel the dreams Sandra had for herself.

For herself. For her family.

Sandra sipped her drink—rum, whisky, or vodka, whatever she had in the house. She no longer even bothered with mixers. As she tried to steady herself, her eyes landed on the laptop sitting on Katelyn’s nightstand, a garage-sale discovery transformed with six coats of spray paint into a shabby chic table. She recalled how Hayley and Taylor Ryan had been standing over it the day they came to bring those awful cookies. She set her drink down and pulled the laptop closer. She plunked her shaky fingers against the keys, but when the window opened it revealed the need for a password.

Password? What in the world was Katelyn’s password?

Suddenly, her heart rate accelerated. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, trying feverishly to come up with her dead daughter’s password. She hadn’t a clue.
KATIEBUG
, a nickname Harper had called Katelyn when she was young?
SKATELYN
, another she had in elementary school when she Rollerbladed everywhere in Port Gamble?

Nothing.

They never had any animals, so there was no obvious pet name to try.

Sandra pushed the laptop aside, took a big gulp from her drink, and began to cry.
Hard.
A veritable river of tears. She rested her puffy, red face in her hands and let out a guttural scream. At that moment, she realized that she was, now and forever, alone. She dropped her hands, which were clenched hard against the comforter.

“Katie! Why did you do this? Why?”

Of course there was no answer, and as drunk as she was, Sandra Berkley knew there couldn’t be one. As she picked up her glass for the last swallow, something caught her attention. It was on the floor, next to the bed. For a second, Sandra thought it was the handle of a toothbrush.

No, maybe a digital thermometer.

She dried her eyes on the sleeve of her blouse and extended her arm to reach it.

Her heart started to race faster.

What was that doing in Katelyn’s room?

She held it close to her blurry eyes to make sure she was seeing correctly.

And she was.

It was a pregnancy test wand. Sandra couldn’t believe her eyes. Maybe it wasn’t a freak accident after all? Had Katelyn killed herself because she was pregnant? Sandra was reeling by then. She wondered why her daughter hadn’t come to her, hadn’t asked her for help. She clutched the wand like she could choke it away in her fingers. It was so unreal. So unexpected. So very, very shocking. She didn’t even know Katelyn was having sex.