“Hey!” I yell. “Susan!”
Susan steps out from behind the trunk, her cheeks twitching nervously. “Allie. What are you doing here?” She holds a bag of groceries in front of her as if for protection.
“I know,” I say.
“You know what, dear?” Her eyes dart around, unable to focus.
“Cut the bullshit, Susan.”
She seems frozen in place, not a muscle moving. “I see,” she says in a soft voice. “Can we please discuss this inside? The neighbors are watching.”
“I don’t care. I want answers.” I pull out my cell phone. “Before I call the police.”
My skin tingles. Behind me, someone is approaching. I know it is Susan’s neighbor even before I turn to see her pinched face.
“What’s going on?” she asks, her brow furrowed. “Susan, is everything all right?”
“If you don’t mind,” I say, “we’re in the middle of something.”
“Susan?” The neighbor cranes her neck to look past me.
“She’s fine! Mind your own fucking business.” I turn back to Susan. “Well? Anything you want to tell me before I call the cops?”
“Don’t call the police, please.” Susan grabs at my phone, and I pull it away. She loses balance and tips toward me, flailing her arms before falling to the asphalt.
“Oh my god!” the neighbor exclaims and drops to her knees next to Susan. Out of the corner of my eye, I see two more people rushing toward us.
Susan lies crumpled on the ground. “I’m sorry, Allie.” She peers up at me. “I can explain everything.”
“You just assaulted her,” the neighbor says. “I saw it with my own eyes. I should call the police.”
“No!” Susan shouts and struggles to her feet, using the trunk of the car to help her up. “Please don’t call the police, Nancy. I’m fine. Please.”
“You’re bleeding,” Nancy says. “Hold on. I have a first aid kit in my car.”
Susan touches her chin and looks at the blood on her hand in wonder. She turns her gaze on me. “Can we go inside, Allie?” she pleads. “I’ll tell you everything, I swear.”
The events of the last two weeks swirl in my head. “You’re going to tell me now.”
“In front of all these people?”
“Yes.”
The neighbor has returned, clutching a small red nylon bag with a large white cross on it.
“Show some mercy, Allie,” Susan says.
“You want mercy? Where was my mercy, Susan? Why have you been doing this to me? Are you related to Paul Adamson?”
“Paul Adamson? Who’s Paul Adamson?”
“You almost ruined my life!” Behind me, a small crowd has gathered. Let them stare, I think. For once, I have nothing to be ashamed of. “I might lose my son because of you.”
Susan’s eyes fill with tears. “I just wanted the job. I knew you wouldn’t hire me if you knew the truth. It was wrong to lie. I know that.” She lets out a sob that seems to reduce her to even smaller stature. “I just wanted to start over.”
My adrenaline drops down to zero, replaced by a sickening hunch. Something is wrong here. This isn’t adding up. I search Susan’s red, tear-streaked face for answers.
“I couldn’t give you a reference,” she says in such a small voice that I have to step closer to hear her. “I haven’t held a job in years. Nothing at all. After Samuel died…” Her voice trails off.
Susan and I are having two different conversations.
I take a step back, and she takes one toward me as if we are dancing. “I’m good with kids,” she continues. “I worked at the Montessori in Bannockburn for almost twenty years, until the drinking got to be too much. But I swear, Allie, I haven’t had a drink in eighteen months. I just wanted a second chance. That’s why I lied about the Zoni children.”
“You lied about your references to get hired?”
“I tried telling people the truth.” She hiccups. “But no one would hire a sixty-year-old woman with no references. I adore Cole. I really do. Please don’t fire me.”
Trembling hands outstretched, Susan wobbles toward me.
“Forgive me for lying, Allie.” Snot runs down her nose. She’s been transformed into a character from a children’s tale, haggard, sniveling, and I’m the one who has reduced her to this. I open my mouth to speak, but no words fall from my lips. The onlookers surge past me, comforting and embracing Susan. I step back, pushed out of the circle of warmth and comfort.
Nancy with the first aid kit whips her head around.
“Aren’t you that woman? The one from the internet?” she asks. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“I didn’t…” I start to say. “I thought…”
I hurry to my car, fighting back tears. I drive away, feeling as if I have left some part of my humanity behind. At the end of the block, I look in the rearview mirror through blurry eyes. The street has emptied. All the neighbors have gone inside.
Ashamed of yourself.
It hurts because it’s true. I don’t recognize who I’ve become.
Then it hits me. Dustin.
He sent me here.
But why?
51
I grip the steering wheel tightly as I drive home, wondering how I could have gotten it all so wrong.
Was Dustin toying with me? Playing a game?
Maybe Krystle was right: he was just out to make money, and I was an easy mark. Or maybe he was simply a spiteful little shit. Either way, I fell for it like an idiot.
Even after Daisy warned me.
I pull up in front of my house and stare at Leah’s front door, wondering if Dustin is home. I dial his number, but he doesn’t answer.
“What the hell was that?” I practically yell into the phone. “I want some answers, Dustin. You need to call me as soon as you get this message.”
I text him: WTF? Call me.
Inside my kitchen, I pace around.
The Bridgeways brochure stares up at me from the counter. Suddenly, a week at a fancy rehab doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.
