Drowning Instinct

Drowning Instinct Page 43

I paused at the fireplace. Whoever had made the last fire had used newspaper. There was still a section next to the hearth and I bent down to check the date: Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving.

The day Danielle and David disappeared, and the day before I‘d seen the face in the window.

The desk drawer was locked. I debated a half second, then slid the kissing knife out of my jeans pocket where I‘d put it right before I left the car. I wedged the tip into the lock and jiggled it around, not really expecting much, and nothing much happened. Maybe I could pry the desk open. The blade was very thin and slid easily into the narrow crack between the drawer and the desk. I remembered something from a book, about how burglars used credit cards to depress the tongue of a lock. Maybe that would work and—

Snick.

The drawer popped open. The desk did this little jump and Mitch‘s computer monitor winked to life. I hadn‘t noticed that the computer was on. Mitch‘s wallpaper was a seascape: bulbous corals and a rainbow of fish. One program was running: Firefox. I maximized it. The window exploded across the screen and—

―Oh my God,‖ I whispered.

You’re old enough to get an abortion in Illinois. That was what Mitch had said. But not in Wisconsin or Minnesota or Michigan.

And Mitch should know.

The list of the Illinois clinics was right in front of me.

c

Abortion clinics.

Oh my God.

He‘d gotten Danielle pregnant and then . . . what? Had she threatened him? The way Mr. Connolly got in Mitch‘s face . . . God, her dad knew? No, no, wait, that couldn‘t be right. Mr. Connolly was a lawyer. Wouldn‘t he have gone to the police? But why else would Mitch—or Danielle, because I now knew she‘d been here—be looking up abortion clinics?

He told me to mind my own business, Mitch had said. She’s not old enough to know what she wants.

That didn‘t sound like Mitch was the father . . . but, God, I didn‘t know what to believe anymore.

I scanned the other folders on Mitch‘s desktop. There were lecture notes and labs for chemistry, biology. A folder labeled Cross-Country Training Programs; another for track; a third filled with tips on how to prepare for the Ironman.

Then I saw a folder tucked in the lower left-hand corner, labeled only with an initial: J.

No. I stared at that folder a long, long time. No, don’t do it, don’t do it, walk away just walk—

I double-clicked on the icon and the folder opened.

They were Word documents, mostly, but also several jpegs and one PDF. I remembered the digital camera in Mitch‘s desk at school, but I opened the PDF first because of the date.

Discharge Summary: Jenna Meredith Lord.

Rebecca kept it factual and extremely dry. There was my diagnosis— Major Depression, severe, with psychotic features, in remission; PTSD— and a bunch of other diagnoses, none of them flattering, I‘m sure. She detailed my history leading up to my admission, then my course of treatment and my discharge recommendations.

I saw, immediately, what was missing.

Of course, I knew about Matt, Mitch had said. It was in your discharge summary.

No, Mitch.

It wasn‘t.

51: a

Well, Bob, that‘s not quite fair. Rebecca did say unresolved grief over her brother’s death, but that was all. She hadn‘t said anything about Iraq, or Matt‘s being killed in action.

All that Mitch found out from the newspapers.

Using my date of birth so helpfully included on my discharge summary, Mitch worked backward. Matt‘s death had made the local papers for a week or so, and all that eventually led Mitch to the fire at Grandpa‘s because he had all that information, too. My whole life was on Mitch‘s desktop, like once he found out about me, he wanted to know everything. Interest becomes obsession becomes—

―I can explain.‖

I whirled. Mitch was in the doorway. His hair was mussed and he wasn‘t wearing gloves or boots. His sneakers were wet. He must‘ve run all the way from his car. His eyes went to his desk. ―I‘d wondered where that knife had gone.‖

So many things I wanted to say, they all piled up behind my teeth. I finally managed: ―Where‘s Danielle?‖

―At a clinic in Evanston. I drove her there with David myself on Friday morning.‖

He paused. ―I told them they could stay here Wednesday and Thursday. Both of them had been to the house, so they knew the way.‖

That would tally. I‘d come here Thursday afternoon. ―If that‘s true, why haven‘t they called their parents? Why does everyone think they‘re runaways?‖

―Because Danielle‘s afraid her father will stop her. He‘d make her go through with having the baby. No girl should be forced to do that.‖

―Who‘s the father? David?‖

―Don‘t you really want to know if it‘s me?‖ When I didn‘t reply, he said, ―There are three possibilities, and I‘m not one of them.‖

I remembered what the reporter had said about CPS. Three men orbited Danielle: David. Her father. Her brother. Of the three, only the last two made any sense when you factored in Danielle‘s call to CPS. ―Aren‘t you supposed to go to the police even if you only suspect?‖

―She would deny it. I can only do so much, Jenna. She needed help and I gave it.

She and David will contact their families when it‘s done.‖

I thought there was a flaw in his logic, but I couldn‘t put my finger on it. ―And what about their families in the meantime? That doesn‘t make sense, Mitch. You could tell them to call their families at least, or the police.‖ The beginnings of a headache blistered my temples. ―And what about all this . . . this . . . stuff about me? Don‘t try to tell me that you got interested afterward. These downloads are dated a full month before I showed up. Why did you do that? Why lie?‖

His Adam‘s apple bobbed in a hard swallow and, suddenly, his eyes slid from mine.

―I . . . I wanted to find a way to reach you . . . get closer . . . I knew you‘d be lost, lonely. I thought I could help. I swear to God, when it started, I was just trying to find some common ground.‖

―You don‘t believe in God,‖ I said. Danielle had pegged it: he likes the broken ones.

I felt empty and ill, like someone had taken a melon baller and scooped out my guts.

―Was any of it real, Mitch?‖ I felt weak for asking; I hated how I sounded: pleading and small. Only a completely awful person would tell me it was all a lie, and I knew that Mitch wasn‘t awful. Oh, this was completely screwed up; it was horrible, I knew that.

Mitch had stalked me in his own way. But Mitch had also made me feel good about myself.

He‘d given me confidence. Would a . . . a predator do that? No, no.

Interest becomes obsession becomes . . . love?

―Did you ever love me?‖ I said. ―Or were you in love with the idea of being the good guy everybody liked and helping out the poor kid? Only then you got in over your head and couldn‘t figure a way to get yourself out?‖

―God, how can you think that, Jenna? I‘ve risked everything to be with you.‖

Was that true? Yes, it was. We‘d gone places together; all I had to do was run to my parents and he would go to jail. ―Then why were you with your wife?‖

―I met Kathy because I needed to tell her that I‘ve fallen in love with someone else, Jenna,‖ he said. ―To tell her, finally, that I want a divorce.‖

It was the truth.

I knew it was. All I needed was to look into his eyes.

Or it might have been a lie.

Because it was so perfect, just exactly what I wanted and needed to hear. And he had lied to me before.

And that was why, all of a sudden, I wasn‘t sure I could believe him. But, God, I wanted to.

I had to leave. I was drowning in there, with Mitch. I had to get someplace where I could think. I couldn‘t trust myself not to be swayed one more time.

Then I remembered why I‘d broken into his desk to begin with: the hair, an envelope, Danielle—and then I thought: Oh my God.

Because I‘d called you, Bobby-o, and you were on your way.

Something cracked inside my head. I had ruined everything. The police would come and they would wonder why a student knew so much about her teacher and . . .

―Oh Mitch, I‘m so sorry,‖ I said through tears. ―But I called the police.‖

Then I darted around him and out of our cabin and into the snow.

52: a

Where was I going? Even now, I‘m not entirely sure. I think I was running toward something as much as fleeing something else. Not Mitch so much, but I needed to think, and I couldn‘t do that close to him. I certainly wasn‘t flying toward salvation, exactly, or even rescue—although I knew you were on the way, Bobby-o. I would like to say that I rushed out to delay you, to pass the whole thing off as the hysterics of an overwrought teenager. I could pull that off.

Yes. I thought that if I could get to you first, maybe I could still save us, me and Mitch.

Yes. That‘s what I think it was.

So I ran. Mitch was faster than me, but I‘d caught him by surprise. He grabbed for my arm, called my name, but I twisted away, and then I was gone, crashing out of the cabin and flying over the hardpack. In two seconds, he would come after me, and he would catch up, I had no doubt.

And what would he do? Hold me, kill me, hold me, kill me. My heart hammered.

The icy air tore at my throat, but I kept running, punishing the snow, punishing it. Save me, kill me, kill himself, kill us both....

I spotted Mitch‘s house, still so far away, through a stark grill of trees, and that was when I decided staying on the path would take too long. So I swerved, hurtling into the deeper, unbroken snow, making a beeline for the lake. My boots crunched through the hardpack but not as deeply as I thought they might, and I kept pumping, high-stepping, almost hopping, trying to stay as light on my feet as I could. Mitch was heavier; he would sink and have to work harder. That would buy me the time I needed to get across and into my car. I didn‘t know what I would do then. I hadn‘t thought that far ahead. Maybe head you off, Bobby? Yes, maybe I could.

I heard Mitch call and shot a glance over my shoulder. He was wallowing in the snow. I knew I would make it to the house first. I faced back, eyeing the house, thinking: Get there, get there, just get there!