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  "…At least they didn’t suffer, dear," she’d said, explaining through trembling lips that they had both died at the moment of impact.

  Ellen’s initial reaction to the news of her parents’ death had been one of relief—enormous relief. It lasted only an instant, but long enough to flood her with shame and horror, and she prayed that Miss Layton had not caught that unforgivable expression on her face—that she would never know the vile heart of her favorite student.

  Lying there, tears began to stream down Ellen’s face. I really did love them. I did. They were my mother and father, for God’s sake. They weren’t bad people. They could be very dear, both of them, when they weren’t drinking.

  Gail. She had to go be with Gail. Gail needed her. Folding back the covers, which seemed incredible heavy, she slid her feet out onto the floor and sat up. As she did, the room tilted and went into a spin. Ellen lowered her head into her hands until the dizziness passed. At last she opened her eyes, at the same time shivering in the chill air of the room.

  A room bathed in moonlight. Tree-shadows swayed beyond the lacy curtains. Someone had opened one of the windows a crack and the curtain fluttered in the wind. That explained why the room was cold, but not why the air smelled of winter. Or why the windows were situated in the wrong place, and were taller than her own windows. Though the room was vaguely familiar, it was not the one of her childhood. Confused and disoriented, Ellen was struggling to stand when she saw the door slowly opening and Myra standing in the doorway, and it was the sight of her friend that brought the truth crashing in on her with the force of a tidal wave. The nightmare that had perched on the rim of her consciousness now engulfed her, and she sank back down on the bed. She was no longer seventeen years old, and it was not her parents who were the topic of the conversation that was taking place downstairs.

  Oh, Gail. Oh, please, God, no.

  And then she was in Myra’s arms, and Myra was sobbing, saying over and over again, "I’m so sorry, Ellen. I’m so sorry."

  Later, bits and pieces came back to her. Her screams of denial on the drive from the airport. At home, the sharp sting of Doctor Evans’ needle as it pierced her upper arm, bringing a merciful nothingness.

  With the help of the valium Doctor Evans had prescribed for her, Ellen managed for the most part to get through the funeral in a zombie-like state, barely aware of people coming up to her, dabbing their eyes with tissue, offering condolences, well-meaning platitudes. "I’m sorry, dear... so sorry about your sister... a terrible tragedy... doesn’t she look lovely, just like she’s asleep... God sometimes takes the good souls young... ours is not to reason why... God moves in mysterious ways..."

  God didn’t do this, she thought, though she tried to smile her appreciation, to mumble some appropriate response. Some faces were familiar, more not. Not so surprising. Evansdale was a small town, seldom visited by murder. A little excitement was not unwelcome. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

  Until she thought she saw Miss Layton, her old high school teacher, standing in the parlor doorway, wearing her familiar black pillbox, her purse clutched in front of her. Ellen rose unsteadily to her feet to greet her. In that same moment, a small group gathered in front of the doorway, blocking Miss Layton from view. When they moved on, she was no longer there.

  Perhaps I only imagined her, Ellen thought.

  Later, at the gravesite, Ellen looked for her in the crowd, but she was not there.

  "You’re doing just fine," Paul whispered when she stumbled slightly at the sight of the open grave. His hand was at the small of her back, guiding her forward. His expensive lemony cologne wafted to her, mingling with the cloying scent of many flowers and the damp, upturned earth, and she was afraid she was going to be sick.

  Reverend Palmer was standing patiently on the other side of the grave holding the Bible open to the place from which he would read, one hand trying to still the rattling pages. His eyes, gazing into hers, were like the eyes she had seen in a portrait of Jesus. She avoided them. The wind caught and lifted the sparse hairs he’d so carefully combed over his scalp, revealing his baldpate. About his ankles, his robes fluttered like great black wings.

  Above her, the skies were clouding over, threatening more snow.

  All these things Ellen noticed, concentrated on, so as not to look at the coffin with its brass handles, and the single red rose she had placed on top, or think of Gail inside—which, of course, was impossible.

  "You’re so damn brave, Ellen," a teary Myra said, flanking her other side. "I’d be falling apart if it was me."

  I am, Ellen thought, and wondered why her friend couldn’t see that. Yet it was true that she had not broken down since the drive from the airport, or even shed a tear, and that must puzzle Myra. It puzzled her. It was as if something hard encased her heart. The few times she’d been sure the dam was about to burst, only a few pathetic whimpers had escaped her.

  Reverend Palmer closed the Bible, bowed his head in prayer. Ellen followed suit, though she did not pray. A slight shifting in the crowd, stirrings, a few murmured "Amen", and she opened her eyes to see the coffin being slowly lowered into the ground. The onslaught of pain hit her with such savagery it took her breath and turned her legs to liquid. Still, she did not fall, but managed to remain standing until it was over. She was grateful to let herself be supported between Paul and Myra back to the car.

  And then they were part of the caravan, following behind the hearse, making their way down the long, winding path that led out of the cemetery to the highway. It seemed callous to her that they should be driving so much faster now than when they had entered, as if, their duty to the dead accomplished, they were eager to be finished with it.

  Sitting beside Paul, Ellen clutched her hands together, sudden panic rising in her breast as the space between herself and Gail widened. I don’t want to leave her. I have to go back. I don’t want to leave my little sister in that cold, dark ground. A dry sob broke from her. Paul reached over and squeezed her hand.

  "It’ll take time," he said.

  ~ * ~

  Lieutenant Mike Oldfield watched until the last of the train of cars disappeared around the bend, then he stepped out from behind the copse of trees where he’d been videotaping the solemn proceedings below. Not that he’d really expected Gail Morgan’s killer to show up here, considering she’d been murdered in New York City. But you never knew. He wouldn’t be the first killer to show up at his victim’s burial. Must give them an extra power rush, Mike thought, seeing all that pain and knowing they caused it.

  He hadn’t been exactly immune himself, though his own feeling was one of heaviness. He’d had a hard time looking at Ellen Harris through his camera lens. Watching her, he knew it was taking everything she had just to stay on her feet.

  She’d looked so vibrant, so full of life when he first saw her at the airport. Right up until the moment she looked up and saw him coming toward her.

  Sometimes this job sucks, he thought, setting the camera in the trunk of the car and slamming the lid shut.

  In the still quiet of the cemetery the sound echoed then died away into nothingness.

  ~ * ~

  "Eat," Myra urged. "You’ll get sick if you don’t eat." Myra set the bowl of steaming soup in front of her, placed a spoon in her hand as if Ellen were a child learning to feed herself.

  "Maybe later, okay?" Ellen tried to smile, not wanting to seem ungrateful.

  But Myra was not to be dissuaded. "Just a little," she coaxed.

  Having no will to resist, Ellen obeyed mechanically, setting the spoon down when she could no longer swallow.

  She looked out the window. The skies had cleared. It was not going to snow after all. Sunlight lay a buttery path on the light wood table, played over the backs of her hands. It seemed a cruel betrayal that the sun should be shining, that she should be drawing warmth from its rays. Ellen placed her hands in her lap. Despite the sun, they were icy cold.

  Myra came and took the bowl away. "Go
od girl," she said, though Ellen had eaten little. Water ran in the sink. Myra was doing the dishes. With a husband and three kids, God knew she had more than enough to do at home, but Ellen was comforted that she was here.

  A buzz of restrained conversation drifted from the living room. Some of those who had attended the funeral had come back to the house. She wondered if Paul had invited them.

  Gail should be here with me now. We should be enjoying our little time together before she goes on tour. Now Ellen would never see her again. Gail was lost to her—to the world. Her beautiful song had ended.

  Someone—out there—had done that.

  Suddenly, she began to shake—a violent, convulsive shivering that started in her legs, swiftly gripping her entire body. She tried to make it stop, and couldn’t. From somewhere, Paul appeared, stepping in front of an anxious Myra to drape a knit shawl around her shoulders. His kissed the top of her head.

  "Shh," he said. "Breathe deeply. That’s it. That’s the way."

  "She ate a little soup," Myra said in a small voice, sounding as if Ellen’s present condition was somehow her fault. Myra used to apologize for things that weren’t her fault. But she didn’t do that anymore. It was a thing they had worked on.

  "Good," Paul said. To Ellen, he said, smiling, "It’s important that you keep up your strength. Why don’t you come upstairs and lie down for a while?" He placed gentle hands on her shoulders. "You look so tired, dear. You really do need to rest."

  He was right. She was tired. So tired she wondered if she might die from it. Was that possible? The thought was not an unwelcome one. Yet, she didn’t think she really wanted to be alone just now.

  She looked up at Paul, so handsome in a charcoal gray suit, white shirt and maroon tie. She saw him in her mind’s eye, moving about the parlor, extending a warm hand to one after another of those who came to pay their respects, smiling just enough. How smoothly and expertly he had handled everything. Ellen was grateful to him. Even if she’d been up to it, she was not very adept at that sort of thing.

  Paul was helping her to her feet. She felt so cold—as if she might never be warm again. But the shivering had stopped.

  "I’ll go with her, Paul," Myra was saying, laying the dishtowel on the counter and coming forward, wiping her hands on her apron.

  But Paul was already ushering Ellen from the room. "No, it’s okay. You go on with what you were doing. And you might see if anyone would like more tea or coffee, Myra, if you don’t mind."

  As they reached the stairs, Ellen glimpsed a wedge of living room, saw the tree she had so lovingly decorated. People were milling around, eating small sandwiches, holding cups of tea or coffee.

  She wondered idly where all the food had come from, and then she remembered seeing all those saran-wrapped trays and plates lined up on the counter, and Myra saying she couldn’t cram another thing into the fridge. Friends had brought the food, of course. Friends of hers, of Gail’s, co-workers.

  How kind people were. She should thank them. It was her place. This was her home, after all—and Gail her sister. Oh, Gail, please, dear Lord, let me wake up and all this be just some terrible dream. The living room went out of view as Paul, his hand gently at her waist, guided her up the stairs. Ellen clutched the smooth, oak banister for support, every step she took an enormous effort.

  "It was a big funeral," Paul said when they reached the landing. "Fitting for a star. Your sister would have been pleased."

  It was as if he had struck her.

  ~ * ~

  She was lying on the bed with the curtains drawn against the sunlight, when someone rapped lightly on the door. She turned her head, half expecting to see Myra, hoping it was, but it was Reverend Palmer who entered her room when she said, "Come in." Without asking her permission, he sat down on the edge of her bed and began to pray over her.

  "You may not understand it now," he said when he lifted his head, "but some higher purpose has been served by this terrible tragedy." His moon face glowed with pious righteousness, reminding her of some evangelist she’d seen on television. "God never gives us more pain than we can bear, dear."

  "That’s not true."

  The minister only looked pityingly at her. Ellen thought about the way the wind had lifted his hair and laid bare his bald spot. She looked into that virtuous face and thought about that, and liked thinking about it. She was glad when he left.

  Paul had engaged Reverend Palmer’s services. He was not someone she would have chosen. Paul had taken care of all the arrangements. She supposed she had no right to be critical.

  "A funeral fitting for a star. Your sister would have been pleased."

  How could he have said that to her?

  She looked over at the vase of yellow roses on the wicker table. They were curled and brown.

  Dead. Like Gail was dead.

  ~ * ~

  In the days and nights that followed, Ellen floated in and out of a Valium-induced haze, trapped in a well of blackness so deep no light could reach her. With the passing of time, her doorbell rang less and less often, though Ellen took little notice.

  Gradually, she began coming downstairs, sitting in a kitchen chair, or pacing from room to room, or staring out of windows, seeing nothing. When the pain got too bad, she took to her bed.

  Other times, she found she was quite able to sit and talk with Myra, or Paul, or whoever was there, functioning almost normally, just as though she were not an empty shell, with nothing left of her but severed, bleeding nerves. And at odd times a part of her seemed strangely to stand apart from whatever was taking place, to become both spectator and participant.

  Paul tried to reason with her, explaining to her about the stages of grief, quoting the experts, just as if she had never heard all the psycho-babble, had not spoken it herself. She was glad he was away at a conference in California.

  At some point, she noticed the tree was gone from the living room, together with her gifts for Gail. Myra, of course. Dear, thoughtful Myra.

  The parade of visitors bearing food and condolences had long since dropped off. One day Ellen shuffled into the kitchen to find Myra, wearing one of Carl’s shirts over paint-spattered slacks too big for her, (though she’d been slim for years now, when Myra was feeling depressed, she returned to wearing "fat" clothes) standing at the kitchen sink washing dishes, just as she’d been on the day of the funeral—on the day Paul remarked about the star quality of the funeral, saying how pleased Gail would be. He probably meant well enough, she thought now. It was the sort of thing people said.

  A pink, plastic transistor radio sat near Myra on the counter, tuned in to her favorite country music station, but turned low so as not to disturb Ellen.

  She gently took the soapy dish from Myra’s hand and set it on the counter. Managing a smile, she said, "You go on home now. I’ll finish these."

  Myra stood hesitantly, her dark eyes moist with unshed tears. "Are you sure? I really don’t want to leave you alone."

  "I’m sure." She hugged her. "You are such a good friend, Myra. But Carl and the kids need you now. And you need to be with them. I know it’s damn near impossible, but maybe you can try to salvage what’s left of the holidays." Their Christmas, of course, was clouded by Ellen’s loss, spoiled. She felt badly about that, especially for the boys. She imagined they were all feeling pretty neglected by now, and right that they should.

  "There’s a stack of sympathy cards on top of the fridge," Myra said, tugging on her boots, "Just in case you feel like opening them."

  "Thank you."

  "You don’t need to open them. It might just upset you."

  Feeling a rush of affection for her friend, Ellen put her arms around her, perhaps as much for herself as for Myra. So many emotions buffeted her, so many they were impossible to separate in her mind. When she drew away, she looked squarely at Myra. "I have to be alone sometime," she said.

  The tears Myra had been fighting now spilled over. "It’s not fair," she sobbed. "First your parents, then Ed
, and now—"

  "Whoever said life was fair?" Ellen interrupted quietly. "You should know all about that, kid. Hey, wait a second." She went to the closet and returned with two shopping bags bulging with gifts. "Merry Christmas," she smiled. "A little late, but better than never, huh? I got Joey some games to go with his new Nintendo. And by the way, thank you for the robe. You know that’s my favorite shade of blue. I love it."

  Myra was getting teary again.

  "Hey, look, if I need you, I’ll call," Ellen assured her, giving her another quick hug. "You’re just up the road, for heaven’s sake."

  "Promise?" She sniffed a couple of times while reaching guiltily for her coat, her eyes never once leaving Ellen.

  It touched Ellen to see her friend so torn between a sense of duty toward her, and a natural, healthy desire to be with her family—to be where death had not visited. Forcing a smile, and lightness into her movements, Ellen helped her on with her coat. Promising again to call, she ushered her out the door.

  She stood in the doorway watching, as Myra drove off up the road in her little green Honda Civic.

  In every direction she looked, the view was spectacular. It was a day that sparkled. Snow-laden trees beneath enamel blue skies. A virtual winter wonderland.

  Unmoved, Ellen went back inside.

  Alone now, she wandered into the living room. She sagged down in the old sofa chair with its pretty new cover. When the silence grew too loud, she got up and turned on the television. She sat staring at the flickering images.

  He was there. He was already there, in her apartment, hiding, when I was talking to her on the phone. Gail’s words played in her mind. "Hold on a sec, Ellen. I think I heard something... It was just Tiger—crazy cat. I forgot to feed him when I came in and he was letting me know in no uncertain terms."

  No, it wasn’t Tiger she’d heard. Not Tiger at all.