Page 37 of The Chain House

Markie said, “Like we said. Steven got picked on. He often had to go into that house and when he came back, he was always sad. Sometimes it would take us hours to calm him down. Raven knew it. So did Yellow. They did the best they could to protect him. But there was a special connection between Steven and Raven. Every night at bedtime, they’d sneak in and tuck us all in. Steven’s bed … it’s your bed now. Right by the window. Every night after Raven and Yellow would go, Raven would stop by that window, on the outside looking in. Steven would kneel on the bed and reach over the headboard and put his hand up to the glass, and Raven would do the same on the other side. It was like a special connection.” He nodded toward the Kitchen House window. “Raven was extra sad when he heard Steven went into the woods. So was Yellow. They cried for days, but in secret. And then they got mad. And that’s when they really started teaming up. Talking to each other in whispers. In the shadows of the trees.”

Iris said, “They’re planning something.”

Markie nodded in agreement but kept his eyes out the window, maybe looking at the upstairs window of the main house, just as Jennifer had done earlier, and then he said, “I’m with Jennifer. I think she saw Steven. I think he’s still alive.”

“What do we do?” Peter asked.

Markie said, “I don’t know … wait and see.”

“But until then,” Jennifer said, “can you all keep a secret?”

They nodded in unison.

“I’ve got something to show you, under my bed.”

CHAPTER16

TREVOR HARPER WAS on his third cup of coffee when Lizzie’s text came through.

Hey I’m assuming you saw that interview???

I did, he typed, sitting at his kitchen table with REM playing softly in the background, his hangover headache and all-around funk finally beginning to wane enough for him to realize the level of attention his son had garnered from that bizarre interview.

Crazy, right?

Yes, he sent. It was crazy. I’m still not sure what to think. He’d yet to reach out to Sam to congratulate him. He’d call him instead of sending a text, but wanted to give him time to get back home and decompress.

Another text came through from Lizzie, and Trevor couldn’t contain his schoolboy smile. At least we know who Mallard Malone is!!!! Ha! I mean no way right? I’m sure he’s lying …

“He isn’t,” Trevor said to himself, thinking of the stack of books in the other room. “It’s him.”

But he sent: Thanks for taking care of me last night. Hopefully I didn’t embarrass myself too much?

He waited, and then her next text came through: Not at all. Everybody has something, right? But I was thinking the same thing. I really poured it out to you. I’m sorry. But I’m gonna do it. I’m really gonna do it this time.

He didn’t know what she was talking about; he barely remembered last night. He was still terrified he’d revealed too much to her about his own life—but did she mean leaving Jake? Had he encouraged her to do it?

At the sound of car tires and a loud engine outside, he looked up toward the window above the kitchen sink, and through it saw the forest-green hood of Jake’s truck.

The truck door opened and closed.

Maybe Lizzie heard it, too, because she sent another text: Gotta go

And Trevor instantly sensed fear. For Lizzie next door, and for himself. He stood from the table, paced the kitchen, tossed the rest of his coffee in the sink. He’d been imagining different scenarios all morning, and most of them ended with Jake rearranging his face after learning his wife had practically spent the night there last night.

Anytime the fear reflex was stoked, PTSD swarmed like a cluster of angry hornets and had him now on high alert. It didn’t matter that he was a successful fifty-year-old college professor with tenure; when he began to sense fear, especially in the form of violence and pain, he instantly became a kid again. He was that tiny boy on the schoolyard who hid in the shadows during recess. The little pipsqueak they’d line up against the brick wall and hurl kick balls at his head. He was the boy who, after his cheek was rubbed raw that day they’d made him lick a line of marching ants from the asphalt, who then lied to the principal, as they’d bandaged him up, that he’d just fallen on the playground. He was the boy who got good at lying to protect himself. The boy who was an afterthought to every one of his mother’s male dalliances, and a punching bag to most of them, and a cigarette ashtray to one—he still had the circular scars on the underside of his left bicep to prove it.

Sam’s parting words from last night came back with a vengeance now, with screaming purpose, like a steam kettle about to blow.

At least I’m not all talk, Dad.

Those words hurt more than Sam would ever know. Those words translated to coward, except now, after witnessing his son’s bravery on TV moments ago, the words struck like a lash from a whip dripping with so much truth his knees nearly buckled and he had to brace himself on a kitchen chair—the reality that Sam’s bravery had not come from him. And that their entire lives were a lie. The same boy Trevor had bathed in bubble baths and read books to and carried on his shoulders. Trevor had never felt so tall as when Sam would view the world from up there, thinking his daddy was tall because he was taller than him, thinking his daddy was a hero because he took him places and provided and kissed his forehead at night and played him music and worked tirelessly every day to fill the hole Annie’s death had left, gaping and raw, right in the middle of their lives. That same boy now thought him a coward, and Trevor couldn’t help but wonder how long his son had thought it before he’d said it.

Hands trembling, Trevor looked at his phone, saw the last text from Lizzie again.

Gotta go

And thought: If that son of a bitch touches her again …