The One Safe Place. Kathleen O'Brien
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I’m going to help—I thought maybe I should know a little more.”
She gripped the railing and stared back out at the trees. “No, that’s okay,” she said. “You’re right. It’s just that sometimes it’s hard to—”
“I know,” he said, wishing he could unspeak the words. What a clumsy approach this had been. He really was rusty at dealing with women, wasn’t he? “It can wait.”
“No. Now is better. I just—I don’t really know why Spencer doesn’t talk.” It was as if she had to hurry up and get started, for fear she might lose her courage. “Not exactly. The psychiatrists seem to think it’s the stress of losing his mother. They use some pretty impressive phrases when they talk about it. They say his ‘stressor reactions of fear exceeded the normal adaptive responses.’”
She shrugged, then winced. The movement must have pulled her stitches. “Whatever that means.”
“I guess it means his system maxed out.”
“Right. They called it his ‘breaking point threshold.’”
Yeah, Reed thought. He’d heard those terms himself, back when he was in his heavy denial and heavy drinking phase. The breaking point threshold. Everyone had one. You didn’t necessarily see it coming, but you sure as hell knew when you crossed it.
“Anyhow,” she went on, “they seem to think it’s selective, that he can talk if he wants to—as opposed to a true loss of neurological function. Apparently that’s a positive sign.” Her eyes grew dark. “I hope they’re right.”
“I think they probably do know what they’re talking about,” he said. “Even if they like to say it in some pretty pompous ways.”
She rewarded him for that supportive joke with a brief smile. “Anyhow, I guess I ought to tell you about Doug, too. He’s the man…the man who—”
“They told me,” he said quickly. “He’s the man you believe killed your sister.”
“I know he did,” she said with a sudden vehemence. “I don’t understand why no one can just believe me!”
“I believe you,” he said. And he did. He had seen how her face blanched, and her lips had seemed to grow stiff when she tried to say his name. She knew Doug Lambert was a killer. She knew it in her veins, which in his book was far more reliable than knowing it in your head.
She looked at him hard, as if she wondered whether he might be merely humoring her. But she must have seen his sincerity, because she took a deep breath and went on.
“I have an interior design business. Doug was one of my clients. He had a lot of money, and he wanted his entire house done over. I worked with him for a couple of months, but eventually his interest grew…personal.” She swallowed. “Personal and very disturbing.”
“He wanted a relationship?”
She nodded, shivering slightly. “He was obsessed with it. It was pretty frightening, actually. He was a big man. Not as tall as you are, but bulky. Sometimes, when I wouldn’t let him—” She paused, getting control of her voice. “You could almost feel the violence running through him.”
Reed waited, still careful not to push. It was a little like trying to coax a hurt kitten out of the safety of its cage. He had learned through the years that you succeeded far faster if you did absolutely nothing, just provided a safe place to enter.
“I handed his work off to my partner, but he wouldn’t take the hint. Eventually we had to turn the whole job over to another firm. And still he wouldn’t stop. He kept calling, coming over unannounced, sending roses. Thousands of red roses.” She glanced at Reed. “I used to like roses. You can’t imagine how I hate them now.”
He didn’t deny it. He couldn’t know, not really. Probably no man could—especially not a healthy, physically capable man. Men generally met other men on a level playing field. But take this fragile, slender woman next to him—probably no more than five-five and just over a hundred pounds. All the self-defense classes in the world wouldn’t change the fact that a six-foot man would always have the advantage.
“I had invited Grace over that day,” she said. “Douglas was supposed to be out of town, and I was feeling great. It was lovely to know he wouldn’t show up and make a scene. Grace was happy, too. Spencer’s father died three years ago, but Grace had found a new boyfriend, and she was so happy—”
He touched her shoulder, careful to avoid the stitches. “It’s all right,” he said. “You don’t have to tell me this part if you don’t want to.”
“I do want to.” She was standing very, very straight and her gaze was looking at something he couldn’t see. “I had gone out for supplies for lunch, and when I got back, I saw Spencer sneaking out of the building. He had Tigger with him. I’m sure Grace had told him not to leave the apartment, but my apartment building was next to a park, and it probably was just too enticing.”
She smiled a little. “You likely can’t believe it, but before his mother died Spencer was a very mischievous little boy. Very active. Talked a mile a minute. She used to say she couldn’t keep him still long enough to tie his shoes.”
Reed smiled, too. It was a cute picture. He wanted to see the little boy like that again.
“He was sneaking out to play with Tigger at the park. He was so ashamed when he saw me coming after him. He’s not naughty, just mischievous. He came with me right away. And that’s when I saw Doug Lambert. Coming out of my apartment building.”
She put her hand over her eyes. “He saw me, too. I’ll never forget the look on his face. It was as if he’d seen a ghost.”
“Oh, my God.” Reed hadn’t heard this part. He hadn’t realized that Doug Lambert had killed the wrong sister. Suddenly he could feel the pit of guilt that must yawn before Faith Constable, and he marveled at her ability to keep her balance, to keep from falling into it and never coming out at all.
“That’s right. He thought he had just killed me. I honestly believe it wasn’t until he saw me on the street with Spencer that he had any idea he had killed Grace instead.”
It was too horrible. “You and your sister—were you twins?”
“No, but she was only a year older than I was, and we looked so much alike. She wore her hair the same way. We even shared clothes. I think he was just so angry, when he came in and heard her talking to Kenny on the telephone, when he heard what she was saying. Kenny told the police that they had been so playful, kissing each other through the phone, and talking about—”
He heard the moment her voice broke. She made a choking sound, struggling to hold back. And then, defeated, she ducked her head, trying to hide the tears. “I hate him,” she said. “I hate him so much.”
He didn’t think. He just reached out and pulled her up against him.
“It’s all right,” he said. “Go ahead. It’s all right to cry.”
She didn’t try to free herself. But she didn’t surrender to the emotion either.
“No, it isn’t,” she said tightly. Her voice was muffled against his shirt, but he could still hear that it was thick with tears that needed desperately to fall. “I can’t let Spencer see me crying.”
“Spencer is asleep,” he said. Her hair was as soft as the black satin sky, and he ran his hand down it over and over, as if he could stroke the tears out of her with the rhythmic touch. After a few minutes, he imagined that her muscles were relaxing, just a little
“Go ahead,” he said. “Let it go. It isn’t good to keep it all inside.”
He knew that all too well. He hadn’t cried, either, after Melissa died. He had taken refuge in liquor the way Faith was taking refuge in her anger. Either way, the unshed tears would poison you, until you hardly knew who you were.
She