Things You Won't Say Page 2

  That was true: Mike was hardly the type to engage in long, emotional talks. Sometimes Lou felt like she had more in common with her sister’s husband than with her sister. Then again, she’d always felt more comfortable around guys. Maybe her father was the source of that. He’d insisted he didn’t miss having a son, but he’d nicknamed his daughters Jamie and Lou. Who did he think he was kidding?

  “So what’s up with you?” Jamie asked.

  “Donny has a new girlfriend,” Lou said.

  “Hmm,” Jamie said. “What’s she like?”

  “Okay, I guess,” Lou said. “I haven’t talked to her much. But she seems nice.”

  “Does it feel weird?” Jamie asked. “I mean, you guys haven’t been broken up that long.”

  “Long enough,” Lou said. “I think they’re getting serious. They’ve been together almost every night this week.”

  “Do you think he’s going to ask her to move in?” Jamie asked.

  Lou considered the possibility. She didn’t love Donny any longer—in retrospect, she wasn’t sure if she ever had or if she’d been swept up in his desire for a relationship, like a swimmer in a fast-moving current—but she sure loved renting the extra bedroom in his apartment. It was close enough to the zoo that she could walk here in the mornings. If the new girlfriend moved in, would that mean Lou would need to move out?

  “Let me know if you want to find a new place,” Jamie was saying. “I could help you look— Oh, honey, let me pour the syrup. No! Okay, fine, you can help. We’ll pour it together. Shi— shoot. Can you grab a paper towel? No, not the whole roll, just one.”

  “Sure,” Lou said. “In all your spare time.” She didn’t think she’d had a conversation with Jamie in the past six years that hadn’t been interrupted by a child. She’d wanted to ask for advice on how to act around the new girlfriend—sometimes it was a little hard for Lou to read the social cues that other people instinctively grasped—but it was clear this wasn’t the time. “Is Sam around? Can I talk to him?”

  “Sure, hang on.”

  Lou heard heavy breathing a second later. Sam still hadn’t mastered the art of salutations.

  “Do you know elephants are the only mammals that can’t jump?” Lou asked.

  “What do you call an elephant that never takes a bath?” he responded.

  “You got me,” Lou said.

  “A smellephant.”

  Lou laughed. “Have a good day at school,” she said. “Actually, forget I said that. That was just a stupid adult thing to say.”

  “You want me to have a bad day at school?” Sam asked.

  Lou adored this kid. “I’ll bring you to the zoo in a few weeks to see the cheetah babies,” she said. “They’re so fuzzy and cute.”

  “Really?” Sam asked.

  “Pinkie swear,” Lou said. She wished her conversations with Jamie could be like this—light and easy and fun. But Jamie was always fixing things—meals, messes, boo-boos—and sometimes Lou felt as if Jamie was eyeing her as another project. Little sister Lou, unmarried at thirty-one, with a bad haircut (even Lou had to admit it looked deliberately unflattering, but what could she expect when she’d paid $12.99 for it?) and an extra twenty pounds and a fondness for fart jokes. Maybe she should’ve been born a boy—guys could get away with all that stuff a lot more easily.

  Lou supposed it wasn’t Jamie’s fault, though. Their mother had died of a staph infection when Jamie was fifteen and Lou was twelve, and Jamie had stepped into the role of maternal figure, cooking meals and explaining what it would be like when Lou got her period and teaching Lou how to shave her legs (a practice Lou stopped a few years later. Why bother?).

  It was strange, Lou thought as she began rinsing off the shovel she’d used to clean Tabby’s enclosure. She had lots of memories of being with Jamie while growing up but virtually none of her mother. Once, when Lou had been leaving work, she’d passed a group of tourists who were viewing the small mammal exhibit. Without realizing it, Lou had stopped and edged closer to one of the women. That perfume, she’d thought. The floral scent had tugged at the edges of Lou’s consciousness, making her feel as if there was something she vitally needed, something just beyond her reach. Had her mother worn the same fragrance? She’d wanted to ask the woman the name of the brand so she could buy a bottle and uncork it and try to coax out the memories that had to be lingering in the recesses of her brain, but she hadn’t known how to explain her request. While she was still fumbling for the right words, the woman had taken her two young daughters by their hands and headed off. Lou had stared after her, an ache forming in the center of her chest.

  Now Lou began to make notes on the elephants’ charts, then set the paperwork back down. Jamie’s question hung in the air. Of course Lou couldn’t stay with Donny and his new girlfriend. Come to think of it, he’d mentioned the other day that there was a woman in his office who was looking for a roommate. Now she realized he hadn’t been making idle conversation. She wondered why he hadn’t simply asked her to move out. Had he and his girlfriend been talking about it, hoping she’d take the hint? It was a little embarrassing.

  This was why Lou loved kids and animals best. They told you what they thought, in the most direct terms possible. If kids were mad at you, they yelled. If elephants were mad at you, they charged and stomped you to death. Simple and straightforward.

  Maybe she should see if another keeper needed a roommate—after all, they couldn’t complain about the smell of her boots.

  Lou walked over to the barrier that separated keepers from the elephants and pulled a red apple out of her pocket.

  “Come, Tabitha,” she called, and the elephant lifted her massive head and ambled over. Lou tossed her the apple and watched it disappear. The elephant caught her eye, and Lou held her gaze for a long moment.

  Sometimes she wished that she could just live here, where life was less complicated.

  •••

  Christie Simmons twirled the straw in her strawberry margarita, knowing without raising her eyes that the balding guy across the bar was staring at her. She fought the urge to check the time on her cell phone. Simon was late. Again.

  “Excuse me.”

  Baldie had made his move and now leaned against the bar beside her. He’d been there for only two seconds, and already he was crowding her.

  Christie glanced up, putting a question in her eyes.

  “Buy you a drink?” he offered.

  She deliberately looked back down at her full glass.

  “After that one, I mean,” he said.

  He wore a nice suit—nothing custom-made, but a good-quality pinstripe—and his fingernails were clean. Those things were important to Christie. He took out his wallet and removed a gold AmEx card and waved it at the bartender. “I’ll start a tab,” he said.

  Seven years ago—maybe five, on a good day—Christie would’ve drawn the eyes of the rowdy, younger guys playing pool in the corner. They would’ve put down their cue sticks and wandered over, loud and sloppy, flirting artlessly while she threw back her head and laughed, keeping her back perfectly straight so they could admire her curves.

  But now she was thirty-seven, technically old enough to be their mother. So instead of being surrounded by muscles and hair flopping into eyes and offers of a slippery nipple shooter, she was left with this: a poseur trying to impress her with the color of his credit card. Which matched the color of his wedding ring.

  “I’m meeting someone,” Christie said.

  Mr. Married leaned in closer. His breath smelled sour, as if he’d been drinking whiskey all day. Maybe he had.

  “Well, it doesn’t look like he’s meeting you,” Mr. Married said. His smile didn’t reach his small, flinty eyes. “You’ve been sitting here for half an hour.”

  She hoped the stab of hurt she felt didn’t reveal itself. She didn’t want to give him that triumph.
She knew this guy’s type: She’d flirted with him, dated him, hell, she’d even married him once in a spectacularly bad decision that she’d reversed six months later. He’d never made it to the top tier of his profession, and it rankled him. Maybe he had a decent house, and a 401(k), but every day, he had to answer to someone who held the job he coveted, the lifestyle he’d been denied. His anger and frustration mounted, and he released it in passive-aggressive ways: Pretending he had to work late while his wife waited at home. Loudly joking with the barista who made his four-dollar latte to prove he was a good guy, then deliberately cutting off other drivers in traffic. Oh, yes, Christie knew his type intimately before he’d even spoken a word. In bed he’d be a little rough and a lot selfish.

  Christie’s cell phone rang, but she made herself wait a few beats before picking it up. She angled herself so Baldie couldn’t see her face. If he shifted another step or two forward, they’d be spooning, she thought as she suppressed a shudder.

  “Hey, gorgeous.” With those words, she knew Simon wasn’t going to show up. She’d gotten her hair highlighted—she’d been a little worried it was getting too blond, but her hairdresser had insisted no one could ever be too rich or too blond—and she’d splurged on a bikini wax. She’d applied her makeup carefully, using tricks she’d added to her arsenal over the past few years: a line of white on the inside of each eyelid, to make her eyes appear bigger and brighter, concealer that promised to hide fine lines as well as dark circles, a lip-­plumping gloss that stung with the intensity of hot peppers but did seem to make her lips appear fuller. She’d even remade her bed with fresh linens.

  “Hi there,” she said. She could hear Mr. Married breathing behind her, so she blocked the pique from her voice.

  “Something exploded at work,” Simon said. “Rain check?”

  She wondered if Mr. Married had given his wife the same excuse. But Christie wasn’t even a wife. She was a girlfriend, and not a demanding, jealous one, either.

  “Sure,” she said.

  “Love you,” Simon told her. It rankled her that he never added the I, but she let it go, like she always did.

  She waited until she heard him hang up, then she added, “Oh! I thought you said the bar at the Ritz! Okay, I’ll meet you in a few.”

  She put her phone in her purse and stood up. She didn’t meet Mr. Married’s eyes; she suspected he’d seen through her charade. She left the bar and entered the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror, blinking hard as she assessed herself: long hair styled in beachy waves, tanned skin, false eyelashes applied individually so they looked really natural, and a body that tilted toward lush in all the right places, effectively highlighted in her short black skirt and black tank top. True, her nose was a sharp triangle and her chin was a little weak, but she was still the prettiest woman in the bar, she thought.

  She exited the bathroom and stood in the hallway, wondering what to do next. Maybe she’d get a salad in the dining room, even though a woman eating alone seemed pathetic.

  “Excuse me.”

  She whirled around, expecting to see Mr. Married. But it was a different man, one who looked a little older and rougher around the edges. He wore a white button-down shirt and soft-looking tan blazer, cowboy boots, and one of those leather bolo ties with a big sterling silver and turquoise pendant. The outfit didn’t quite work here in D.C., unless he’d tied up his horse in the parking lot.

  “I was hoping to talk to you about a business proposition,” the guy said.

  “Are you kidding me?” She felt her heartbeat quicken in fury. “You think I’m a hooker?”

  “No, no, not at all,” the guy said quickly. His brown eyes were a little watery-looking behind his glasses, and he had the beginnings of a gut. “I think you’re a businesswoman. I wanted to talk to you about a job—a real one.”

  The guy held up a briefcase. Like him, it had seen better days. There were scuffs around the edges and the metal lock had dulled. “I can explain. I’ve got all the paperwork here. I’d offer to buy you a drink but I saw how you responded when the last guy did that.”

  “A job,” Christie repeated. “Are you for real?”

  The guy nodded vigorously. “It pays well and it isn’t illegal or unethical. And you’d be doing a service for womankind.”

  He seemed sincere. Christie could usually sniff out a creep a mile away, but this guy didn’t exude weird vibes.

  She couldn’t help blurting: “Why me?”

  Later, when she found out what he wanted her to do, she’d think about his answer and wonder if it was the nicest compliment she’d ever received or a degrading insult.

  “Because you’re absolutely perfect for it,” he said.

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  JAMIE AWOKE SUDDENLY, FEELING as if the house had tilted off-balance.

  She sat up, listening with a mother’s ears. She hadn’t slept deeply through the night since her children were born. She always awoke at the first cry—sometimes she even felt as if she’d been jerked out of sleep right before the cry, alerted by a subtle gathering change in the atmosphere signaling a sick or scared child.

  She quickly realized what was amiss: Mike’s side of the bed held only the rumpled comforter. He’d probably gone downstairs to click on ESPN, as he had so many nights recently, Jamie thought. Strange, though. She couldn’t hear the sound of the television through their house’s thin walls.

  Suddenly, she was wide awake. She almost called out her husband’s name, then stopped before the single syllable escaped her lips. Something told her not to speak. She slipped out of bed, still craning to hear whatever it was that had awoken her, an electric tension snapping through her body.

  She walked along the hallway and crept down the stairs, moving quietly in the shadowy space. She almost tripped on a toy car one of the kids had left on the second-to-last step, but she caught herself on the banister.

  There weren’t any lights on in the main level of the house, either. Could Mike have taken his police cruiser and gone somewhere?

  She crept toward the kitchen, her heart thudding so powerfully it almost hurt. When Mike stepped out of a corner and grabbed her arm, she nearly screamed, but instead released a tiny squeak.

  Mike was naked except for his boxers, and he was holding his police-issue SIG Sauer. He raised a finger to his lips and pointed toward the sliding glass doors that led to their small wooden deck and, one flight below it, the backyard. There was a gap of a foot or so between the two doors. Jamie could feel the gentle breeze against her cold skin.

  Mike put his lips close to her ears. “I heard someone,” he whispered.

  The kids. Jamie’s eyes darted toward the stairs, but Mike shook his head. “I think he’s in the living room,” he whispered. “Stay back.”

  He started moving slowly, his gleaming black gun leading the way. Jamie began to tremble. Why was Mike going after the intruder? They needed to barricade themselves upstairs! For one wild moment she wondered if the shooter from the police station had tracked Mike down, but that was ­impossible—the man had been killed instantly. But he could have a father or brother who was seeking revenge.

  Mike took another slow step toward the living room. He was too far away for her to reach him now. She was torn between going after her husband, to try to protect him, and getting to the kids.

  She chose her children.

  She hurried back upstairs, stopping to grab the cordless phone and dial 911. “Intruder,” she gasped, giving their address as she checked each of the bedrooms and strained to hear what was unfolding one floor below. Sam was sleeping soundly, his ragged stuffed bunny against his cheek, as were Eloise and Emily, who shared a room. Henry was sprawled on the top bunk bed in the tiny far bedroom, snoring softly. The moment she realized they were all safe, Jamie began shaking so profusely the phone banged against her cheek.

 
“How many are there?” the emergency operator was asking.

  “I don’t know,” Jamie whispered. She was standing guard in the hallway, which gave her the best vantage point of all the bedrooms. “But my husband is a police officer. He has a gun. He’s the one wearing boxers. Oh my God, please tell them not to shoot him.”

  “Officers are on their way,” the operator said.

  “Jamie?”

  Mike’s voice floated up the stairs, sounding normal now. She pressed the button to hang up the phone as she rushed to his side, no longer worried about making noise.

  He was standing in the living room, the overhead lights blazing, holding a fuzzy red Elmo doll that gave a bleat as it feebly lifted an arm above its head. “The batteries are dying in this,” he said.

  “Was that the noise?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. He tossed the Elmo doll back into a toy bin. “The door was open when I came down here. I checked the rest of the house. It’s clear now.”

  “Did they take anything?” Jamie asked. She saw her iPad still sitting in plain view on the kitchen counter and the laptop Henry used for homework on the couch. “Mike? Can you put away your gun?”

  The sight of it made her feel a little ill.

  Mike stared down at it as if he hadn’t realized it was in his hand. “Yeah,” he said, and he started to go upstairs. Since having children, he always unloaded it and kept it in a small safe in their closet.

  “Maybe you should put on some pants. I called nine-one-one,” Jamie said, just as the flashing lights of an approaching cruiser spun swaths of blue and red through the house, illuminating Mike’s face.

  “You did what?” he asked. Something shifted in his expression. Was he angry with her?

  “I thought someone broke in! We’ve got kids in the house, Mike!”

  He hurried upstairs without a word, and Jamie went to open the front door for the responding officers. She could see the neighbor across the street come to stand on her front steps, and Jamie waved at her, wishing she’d had time to put on a bathrobe over her long T-shirt.