Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

By Sunday night, Courtney, Madison, and all their friends were texting, Twittering, and discussing on Facebook what they thought had really happened between Ray Corson and Ian Scholl — and Chris. That sad, private little moment in the varsity locker room was analyzed, joked about, and condemned by teenagers all over the country.

The word spread fast to many of their parents, too.

By eleven o’clock the following Monday morning, Principal Carney had asked Mr. Corson for his resignation, and he left the school.

That had been almost six months ago, and Chris still hadn’t quite forgiven himself — or her. Molly thought about what he’d said outside the funeral home: “I never should have told you what I saw. None of it would have happened if I’d just kept my mouth shut.”

Molly hadn’t noticed Principal Carney or any of Chris’s peers or their parents at the wake. Then again, why would they attend Mr. Corson’s memorial service? They’d all turned their backs on him months before.

Watching the highway ahead, Molly took her exit toward home. She glanced at her cell phone on the passenger seat. She’d taken it out of her purse just in case Chris called. As she turned into the cul-de-sac, Molly noticed the NO OUTLET sign was still standing. She’d been checking it quite often lately.

That little precautionary habit reminded her of when she was a teenager, babysitting at night in someone else’s house. When she got scared, she’d pick up the phone receiver every once in a while, then listen for a dial tone to make sure no one had cut the wires. The weird part about it was hearing a dial tone didn’t really make her feel safe. It merely reminded her how vulnerable she was.

She passed the NO OUTLET sign and headed toward home.

Molly knew she would check it again before the night was over.

“Hello, is this Mrs. Corson?” Chris said into the intercom. Holding the mum plant, he stood by the gated entrance of a new apartment complex — four uniform beige buildings, each housing about twenty apartments. It was one of those charmless places that looked as if it had gone up in a hurry. He imagined residents coming home drunk probably had a tough time figuring out which building and apartment were theirs. It was in a cul-de-sac, between two more apartment complexes just like it.

The taxicab idled in the driveway in front of the closed electric gate. Chris had paid the man and asked him to wait until he got inside the complex.

He heard a voice though the intercom static: “Yes?”

“Um, floral delivery for you, Mrs. Corson,” Chris said, keeping up his lie.

“C’mon in,” she said. “Second building, second floor, unit 2-F.”

The lock to the tall gate made an obnoxious buzzing sound. Chris pushed at the handle and then waved at the cab.

At the second building, he found an alcove and stairway marked UNITS E — H. He went up the stairs to Unit 2-F, and saw her name handwritten and taped above the doorbell: J. Corson. He adjusted the mum plant, took a deep breath, and rang her bell. The door must have been pretty cheap and thin, because he could hear her coming.

The lock clicked and the door swung open. The woman in 2-F stared at him. She looked skinny in her oversized long-sleeved henley T-shirt and sweatpants. She had shoulder-length, frizzy brown hair, a fair complexion, and a birthmark on her cheek. Chris thought she looked a bit older than Mr. Corson. “Are you Mrs. Corson?” he asked.

Nodding, she held out her hands. “I’ll take that, thanks.”

Chris carefully handed the plant to her. She didn’t look as if she’d been crying or anything. He lingered in the doorway. He could see a stack of unpacked boxes in the front hall.

She looked like she was about to shut the door in his face, but then hesitated. “Am I supposed to sign for it or something?”

He shook his head. “Um, no, I. .”

“Were you expecting a tip?” she asked, adjusting the plant in her grasp. She seemed a bit impatient.

“Mrs. Corson, I’m Chris Dennehy,” he said finally. “I–I’m very sorry about Mr. Corson. He was a really good man.”

She stared back at him and blinked.

“I apologize about coming to see you this way — under false pre — pretenses.” He struggled to get the words out, he was so nervous. “You — you know who I am, don’t you?”

She nodded.

He wished she’d say something. “It’s mostly my fault that Mr. Corson had to leave school back in December. It was all just a misunderstanding. Mr. Corson never did anything wrong. You should know that. I’m not sure if he ever mentioned it to you, but I tracked him down a few months ago, and told him how sorry I was. But I–I never got a chance to apologize to you, Mrs. Corson.”

“Is that it? Are you finished?” she asked.

“I guess,” he said. “Only I hope you don’t think anything — inappropriate ever happened with Mr. Corson and me. He was always — very kind to me. He helped me get through a lot of stuff. . ”

She just kept staring at him over the top of the mum plant in her hands.

“I thought you should know,” he went on, a tremor in his voice. “I mean, you didn’t come to his wake, so in case you’re mad at him or anything, I wanted to tell you he never did anything wrong. He was a nice guy. I miss him.”

“Are you done now?” she asked. Her eyes were dry.

Chris swallowed hard. “Yes, I’m sorry, Mrs. Corson.”

She set the plant on the floor, and wiped her hands on the front of her sweat pants. “Listen. . Chris,” she said in a very quiet voice. “Because of you, my husband lost his job. More than that, our lives were destroyed. All of your sniveling apologies aren’t going to change that. So — leave me alone with my grief. I’m moving to the East Coast soon. But while I’m still here, I don’t want to see you ever again. You make me sick. Is that clear? Do you understand?”

She didn’t wait for him to answer. She shut the door in his face.

Stunned, Chris stood there for a moment. Through the thin door, he listened to her walking away. He felt as if someone had just sucker punched him in the stomach. He didn’t know what he’d expected. He only knew what he’d wished for. He’d hoped to feel some connection with her, because they were both so close to Mr. Corson.

But there was nothing — just the feeling he’d intruded on an angry stranger.

She was right. All his stupid apologies weren’t going to change anything.

Wiping his eyes, he retreated down the staircase and headed toward the exit. He slowed down as he approached the high gate. Something was dangling from one of the gate’s crossbars — at chest level.

Chris stepped closer, and a chill raced through him. He recognized the eighty-five-dollar pair of Ray-Bans.

“I didn’t want to be alone in the house tonight,” Kay Garvey admitted, over her third glass of cabernet. “I’ll admit it, these cul-de-sac killings have made me a nervous wreck.”

Molly sat on the other side of the sofa from her. Between them was an open Pagliacci Pizza box — with three pieces remaining. In front of them, the big flat-screen TV had the frozen images of Paul Newman and Eva Marie Saint. Kay had gabbed throughout the first forty-five minutes of Exodus until Molly finally put the movie on pause.

She’d planned to work on a new painting and then treat herself to pizza and a movie to keep her mind off being alone that Saturday night. Jeff had a seminar in Denver, and Chris and Erin were at their mother’s boyfriend’s house in Bellevue for the weekend.

Molly felt even more isolated and anxious, because she’d said good-bye to Hank and Frank that morning. Her only true friends on the cul-de-sac had moved away. Hank had been her designated Neighborhood Watch “Call Me If You Get Scared” buddy. They’d shaken hands on it two weeks before, during the potluck at Lynette Hahn’s place.