Page 125 of Gone Tonight
How will you feel after you stab me, Ava? Will you regret it once you see my blood? Will you try to call an ambulance to save me?James had asked as I’d pointed my knife, preparing to stab him.
He was referring to Coach, of course. James knew I wanted to call 911 that night while Coach was still clinging to life.
No,I answer James in my mind now.I had a chance to save you, but I wanted you to die.
They are both gone now, Coach and James.
It is finally over.
I sleep for what feels like only a few minutes, but when I check the time on my phone I see I’ve been out for a couple of hours. My headache has abated—the Tylenol is doing its job.
I lie in bed for a while as my mind begins to drift, dipping in and out of memories, skimming as lightly over the years as fingers moving up and down the keys of a piano.
I remember James handing me a glass of water with a slice of lemon in it that first night at the restaurant. I see myself holding Timmy on our front steps, promising to take him to Italy and eat gelato every day. I see Coach staring at my body, his eyes roaming over it like he owned me.
Then one memory rises above the rest and takes hold.
I find myself homing in on it as the sights and smells and feelings drift back to me.
My purse is on the floor beside my bed, so all I have to do is turn on my nightstand lamp and lean over to extract my notebook and a pen. Then I begin reliving that long-ago day.
I’d been missing for several months when I took a Greyhound bus to Baltimore.
I crossed back into Maryland for a single morning because I had two letters to mail, and I didn’t want the postmarks to reveal I was living in Pittsburgh.
I felt nervous about traveling so close to my hometown, but I desperately needed to convey those two messages.
Plus, my pregnancy was aiding my disguise. Now that I was entering my second trimester, I’d put on a few pounds and my face looked a little rounder. My shorter hair helped with the illusion that I was older, too, but I suspect the real reason people thought I was an adult was because I was so different on the inside. I felt like I’d aged more in three months than I had in the previous three years.
On that crisp late November day, I splurged on a locker at the bus station to store my duffle bag. I brought nothing with me other than the letters I’d handwritten one night in my Target, using sheets of blank white paper from the office supply section and a blue Bic pen I’d borrowed from a cup by the cash register.
I’d bought two first-class stamps at the post office and sealed each letter in an ordinary white envelope. I used my left hand to print the addresses so the handwriting wouldn’t resemble my own.
I stared out the window as we rolled past the border of Pennsylvania and the sun crept higher in the bluebird sky. My hand rested on my stomach—on you—for most of the ride. Whenever I felt fear or despair, your presence always steadied me.
When I arrived in Baltimore, I stepped off the bus and walked down the sidewalk, aimlessly choosing a direction. I’d only gone a few blocks when I spotted a mailbox.
I slipped the first letter into the wide mouth of the mailbox and watched as it was swallowed up. My father was smart and detail oriented. He would notice the date on the postmark matched my birthday.
My note to my dad contained two words, a kind of code to let him know I was alive: Te Quiero.
My second letter wasn’t to Timmy, or to anyone else I knew well.
I wrote it to Rosie from my Poms squad.
I’d only had one real conversation with Rosie. It occurred on the afternoon I came out of Coach’s office and found her waiting by my car with my backpack and water bottle.
She frowned as she peered at my face and asked if I was okay.
Sure, I replied. I may have even smiled.
But Rosie kept staring at me.
She started to say, It’s just that you look like…
But her words trailed off, and I took my backpack from her and tossed it into my car.
I stretched out my hand for my water bottle, but she didn’t let go of it immediately. We stood there, our hands linked by the plastic bottle, her gaze searching my face.
