The pressure against her breasts reminded Lane of opening her blouse for Riley yesterday. She felt the heat of a blush spreading over her skin. She hadn’t been embarrassed at all when she did it, but now she could hardly believe she’d shown herself to him. Right by the street in broad daylight. It seemed as if someone else had done that. A different Lane.
The same, different Lane who’d walked up to Kramer’s door with a gun shoved into her skirt.
I must’ve been crazy.
What if Kramer’d been home? What if we’d actually murdered him?
Didn’t happen, she told herself.
Her breasts were starting to ache now, so she rolled onto her side, pushed away the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. She’d worn a jersey nightshirt instead of a nightgown, just in case Mom or Dad should see her without a robe. The gowns were either low-cut or diaphanous, or both, and no good for concealing her injuries. The crew-neck jersey hid everything. Though not at the moment. Her rump was bare from scooting across the mattress, and the nightshirt was rumpled on her lap.
Lane glanced at the closed door, then peered down at herself. Her thighs were bruised, but some of the areas that had looked chafed and red now seemed okay. She pressed the gathered fabric to her belly and leaned forward. The edges of her vulva no longer looked raw. She lifted the nightshirt above her breasts. They were looking better, too. The bruises weren’t so dark. They’d changed from deep purple to a greenish-yellow color.
A few more days, Lane thought, I’ll be good as new.
On the outside.
Next time, maybe he won’t hurt me.
She let the nightshirt drift down to her waist, raised herself off the bed for a moment while she pulled it beneath her, then sat again and spread the fabric snug against her thighs.
There has to be a way out of this, she told herself.
Yeah, kill him.
Yesterday she could’ve done it. Or helped, at least.
But now the idea of murdering Kramer seemed so much bigger. Enormous. She felt as if it would cast a black cloud over her life that might never go away.
I can’t kill him. I can’t tell on him. I can’t let him get me again.
I could kill
The idea shocked Lane, sent a sickening flood of heat rushing through her body.
If I kill myself, he won’t have any reason to go after Mom and Dad. But it’d
She stood up quickly, walked to the closet and put on her robe.
There
Yeah, stay the hell home from school. That’s a way out, at least for today. Worry about tomorrow tomorrow.
Maybe Riley’ll take care of him without me. If I just stay out of it long enough. If Kramer doesn’t come after me in the meantime.
Lane stepped into her slippers. She left her bedroom, made a quick trip to the toilet and relieved herself, then headed for the kitchen. Mom, unloading the dishwasher, looked around at her. “You’re not dressed.”
“I’m really feeling rotten today,” she said, giving her voice a low, groany tone.
“What is it?”
“You name it. Cramps, a headache, the trots. I’ve got it all.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, honey.”
She shrugged and frowned. “I’ll live, I guess. But I don’t think I’m up for school.”
“What about Henry and Betty?”
Lane grimaced. She’d forgotten about them. About George, too. She’d phoned George yesterday after coming back from the mall, and he’d sounded eager to ride with them. “I guess I could go ahead and take them, and then just come home.”
“No, if you’re not feeling good enough to go to school... I suppose I can pick them up. Just this once. Since they’re expecting you.”
“That’d be great.”
“They have other ways of getting home, don’t they?”
“Oh, yeah. They can always work something out. There’s a guy named George, too. We got to know each other at the play. I was going to give him a ride today.”
Mom nodded. “All right. Well, get me their addresses and I’ll take care of it.”
“That’s wonderful. Thanks a lot, Mom.”
“Would you like me to make you something before I go?“
“I don’t feel much like eating. I’ll come out when I get hungry, okay?”
“Well, suit yourself. You’ll feel better, though, once you have some food inside you.”
Lane poured herself a mug of coffee, then went into the living room. Dad was in his usual chair, dressed in the sweat clothes he usually wore after getting up, a mug in one hand, a paperback in the other.
“Morning, sweetheart,” he said. “How’s it going?”
“Not so hot. I’m staying home sick. Mom said it’s okay.”
“A touch of the flu?” he asked.
“Something like that, I guess. Anyway, I feel rotten. I’m going back to bed pretty soon.” She took a sip of coffee. “Are you all excited about tonight?”
He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t know whether I’m excited or just scared.”
“If it bothers you, why not skip it?”
“Not that simple,” he said. “What would I do about the ending of my book?”
“That can be the ending. You make an ethical choice, or whatever, not to meddle with the thing. Let sleeping dogs lie. That could be the theme of the book.”
Nodding, he laughed softly. “Not a bad idea. Do
“Hell, I wouldn’t have brought any corpse home in the first place.”
“I
“I don’t know, Dad. You’ve always warned me not to mess with weird stuff like Ouija boards and fortune telling...”
“Yeah.”
“Remember when I bought that voodoo doll in New Orleans?”
“It still holds,” he said.
“ ‘You don’t want to monkey with the supernatural.’ That’s what you always told me. And now you’re planning to pull a stake out of a dead person to see if she’s a vampire?”
“No good can come of it,” he said, sounding like the voice of caution from an old mad-scientist movie.
“So why do it?” Lane asked.
His smile came back. “Because it’s there?”
“Try again, Pops.”
“You don’t sound so sick to me.”
“Maybe you
“Will it make you feel better?”
“Maybe. I don’t really care. I can always stay in my room when you do it, but you’ll have to be out there.
