Page 31 of Such a Quiet Place
CHAPTER 11
IALWAYS WOKE EARLY AFTERa night of drinking. Jolting awake in a panic while my mind raced to catch up, trying to remember what I might’ve said or done.
I was in my bed, the bedroom door wide open, the sun shining through the gap in the curtains. I couldn’t remember all the steps that had gotten me here. There was Ruby’s dinner, the movie, our conversation—and though I couldn’t pull every specific topic to mind, I remembered mostly laughter. Fits of it, doubled over, clutching our stomachs, the armrests of the couch, each other.
And then: more wine out on the back patio—I couldn’t remember how we’d gotten there—and then Ruby coming in from the dark, the warm gust of air following her as she tripped through the doorway. More laughter. Her saying, as if she’d merely stumbled onto a thought,We should call Mac. He was always good for a party.And me at least having the presence of mind to say,No, no, thank you, it’s my party, anyway.
Playing the game even way past sober. Something that had been deeply ingrained.
And then: Ruby perched on the edge of my dresser, singing a really terrible rendition of “Happy Birthday” while I fell into bed.
In a panic, I lurched from my bed to that dresser and pulled open the top drawer, reaching my hand into the bottom. I let out a breath at the feel of the paper folded up under my pajamas: the image inside, safe and secret and secure.
My head spun from standing upright too quickly, and I gave serious thought to getting back into bed and remaining there indefinitely. But the other part of me needed to see Ruby, to know where she was, and maybe discover where she had been. How quickly I’d fallen back under her spell last night. All for the price of one home-cooked meal and my favorite wine.
I tiptoed out to the loft, approaching her room. The bathroom door was closed, but the door to her bedroom was cracked open. Peering in, I saw her facedown on the turquoise comforter, dressed in yesterday’s clothes, with one arm over the edge. Her face was turned toward the wall, so all I could see was her dark blond hair, the slight but steady rise and fall of her back. The cat glared back at me from the edge of the bed.
I got ready for the day quickly—a fast shower, hair in a wet braid, no breakfast, so as not to wake her—and let myself out the front door, my key ring safely back in my possession. I would probably be back before she woke.
In the car, I adjusted the mirror she’d moved last, a fingerprint smudge on the edge. Then I backed out of the driveway, eyes on the front door of my house as if I expected her to come outside and beckon me back. As if I were her prisoner, oblivious to the boundaries that held me.
But she didn’t emerge, and I drove down the street, passing in front of the pool, where I stopped for a moment.
I wanted to look for clues of where Ruby might’ve been for those thirty hours. Where she’d met the lawyer with the blunt haircut and sharp cheekbones and catchy name; where she’d stayed after, where she had shopped—picking up the new clothes,the fresh groceries—before returning to me. Her words a chill on the back of my neck:Someone’s going to pay.
I checked the odometer, but I couldn’t be sure of what my mileage count had been when she left. Inside the glove box, I looked for anything out of the ordinary, rifling through my own assortment of old receipts stuffed around the car handbook. I dipped my fingers into the cupholders, the pocket on the door, finding nothing but loose change and a hair tie. All that remained was a scent, like an air freshener. Like something else had needed to be covered up.
Maybe Ruby had smoked. Maybe she’d driven with the window down, wind in her hair, arm held out the window with a cigarette between her fingers. Maybe she’d dreamed of driving forever and gotten carried away by the feel and the scent and the freedom.
Maybe it was nothing: hours at a business park, like she said; drinks over dinner; the lawyer pointing out a hotel across the street, a big box store across a highway where she’d picked up a change of clothes and groceries on the way home; the scent of the hotel soap lingering.
All these little mysteries. Did they even really matter? Or was I letting my mind get carried away, like this entire neighborhood had done, working themselves into a frenzy, piecing together their story?
Look where it had gotten us.
We had been raised on true crime and the promise of viral fame. We’d consumed unsolved mysteries and developed our deeply held theories. Believed that neither law experience nor a criminal justice background was necessary to see into people’s true hearts, to root out the truth. That all you needed was a clear perspective and a sharp mind.
Other than Chase, I was the only one here who had any real experience with the law. My brother, Kellen, was first arrested at sixteen; my dad had called it in himself. Thought it would shakehim up, wake him up. But that was before we understood that once you were in the system, it was nearly impossible to get out. That you had to be careful, had to be sure. Neither Kellen nor my mother ever forgave him.
I started driving again and turned on the radio, but the sound made me jump, jab my finger at the power button—the noise was too loud, harsh and instrumental, tuned to a different station from my usual.
Suddenly, I felt that I was the intruder instead.
MY DRIVE TO ANDfrom work was so different from the typical highway work commute. Here, the road meandered around the lake, trees stretching outward in either direction, toward the water or deeper into the woods. The only traffic I ever encountered was in the drive-through of Bakery by the Lake, a small but busy local shop that had carved a spot out of the woods, halfway between my home and the college.
I stopped there now for a bagel and a coffee. Then I sat in the parking lot, eating in my car, head tilted back, windows down, headache slowly dissipating. The irony of finally feeling free while being contained in my own vehicle. When I was done, I continued along the curving, tree-lined road, tracing the border of Lake Hollow.
I wasn’t sure how long Ruby intended to stay and when I’d feel comfortable leaving her for the full day, so I wanted to grab the week’s work, should I need it.
The College of Lake Hollow was located on the opposite side of the lake from our community. Whenever I used to borrow Ruby’s kayak, paddling out to the main channel, I’d just be able to make out the college’s boathouse on the other shore, the students practicing for crew, sleekly moving across the surface of the water. And then the lush green of the trees and the brick buildings and theglass windows reflecting the sun, depending on the angle. Some of the young professors who lived in communities with docks and lake access would take a Jet Ski across in good weather, their materials kept safe in a waterproof backpack.
Of course, the flip side to this idyllic scene were the tragedies. The accidents that we anticipated and accepted over the years, something we chalked up to part of life on the water. The Jet Ski that collided with the kayak a few years ago, killing the kayaker, a man in his sixties who hadn’t worn a life vest; the visitors in the summer who couldn’t swim but thought that a lake meant placid and calm, not that it could have a current, an endless depth—things that could snag you under the water when you jumped from a rented boat, trap you and disorient you. The high school kids who anchored and tied up boats together at night, at the edge of an inlet, not realizing until too late that someone had gone missing.
There were also the stories told on campus—stories that were based loosely on fact. The kids who dared to swim across the lake one night, thinking the shore was far closer than it was—four going out, only two returning. (The other two were found by lake patrol, clinging to a buoy, after their friends had called it in.) The yearly middle-of-the-night plunge taken by the incoming freshmen during orientation in August, in the dark, half-dressed and semi-sober. Supposedly as an offering to the lake so it would not come for you later.
All tradition was steeped in legend. All risk was heightened by stories.
In truth, it was a safe campus, a safe college, a relatively safe location. Up until the crime, the most dangerous aspect of living in Lake Hollow was the deer. The road was sinuous, snaking around the coastline, and if you weren’t careful, you’d turn a corner to see the glow of eyes staring back. If you were unlucky, you wouldn’t have time to see it darting from the woods, straight in front of your car—like Charlotte.
