Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

After that, it was easy to ignore the people in the hallways talking behind her back. She no longer felt like a freak. Chris made her feel important again. He’d had the same effect on her last year after she’d been dumped by Shane White. Chris was so good for her ego.

She decided to kill the next two hours at Northgate Mall. According to her mom, they’d have to start pinching pennies, because her father would certainly lose his job. So — this might be her last chance to go on a shopping bender.

In her car, when she hit the first traffic light, Courtney came to a stop and fished her iPhone out of her purse. She switched the phone back to the ring setting. Then the light changed. She noticed a cop car parked on the other side of the street — near the intersection. She put the iPhone down on the passenger seat. She didn’t want to get a fine for using her cell phone while driving.

For the time being, Courtney focused her attention on the road ahead. She was still in a residential area near the school — with tree-lined parkways on either side of the road. She had about five more stoplights to go until the on-ramp to Interstate 5. She picked up a little speed — and sailed through one of those lights.

Her cell phone rang.

Blindly, she reached over and grabbed it. Glancing in her rearview mirror, she didn’t see any police cars. She checked the caller ID. That stupid blocked number again. “Goddamn it, leave me alone, asshole,” she muttered over the ringing.

Courtney decided she’d tell them just that.

The speedometer on her dashboard read 37 MPH.

She brought the cell up toward her face and pressed the Talk button.

All at once, the phone exploded in her hand. All at once, her face was on fire.

Courtney shrieked. But she couldn’t even hear her own screams. The deafening blast incinerated her right ear. In the ear that remained, she heard only a high-pitched ringing — almost like the phone.

She choked on the smoke — and the smell of her own burning flesh. Blinded, Courtney couldn’t see that she was careening toward a large maple tree. The pain was so excruciating, she just wanted to die.

When the Neon slammed into the tree, Courtney didn’t hear the glass shattering and metal twisting. She didn’t hear the car horn blare from the impact. All she heard was that constant ringing.

The air bag deployed and hit her in the face — like a hard punch with a big pillow.

It was the last thing she felt before she lost consciousness.

In her last thought, Courtney hoped to God she would never wake up.

Her cell phone rang.

Molly put down her artist’s brush and reached for her phone. Another blocked number, and another hang-up without a message. It was the fourth time in an hour. That was how long she’d been up in her attic studio working on her painting with all the partygoing cola drinkers through the ages. Her man from the fifties had an intentional resemblance to James Dean; but the woman from the twenties — in the foreground of the ensemble — looked way too much like Jean Harlow. Molly didn’t want the piece to look like one of those paintings from Spencer’s with Elvis, Bogart, Marilyn, and James Dean all hanging out at the drive-in. The painting was so complex, it drove her crazy. And the phone interrupting every few minutes certainly didn’t help.

She kept thinking it was probably that creepy woman calling again.

Ask him where he really was.

Everything Jeff had said this morning made sense, and yet Molly still felt he was hiding something from her. Maybe all this doubt and suspicion was hormonal or something.

She went back to the painting and picked up her paintbrush once more.

The phone rang again.

“Shit,” Molly muttered. She swiped up the phone and switched it on. “Yes, hello?” she said impatiently.

She heard that asthmatic breathing again.

“Listen, stop calling me,” Molly growled.

“Do you know where Jeff was that night, Mrs. Dennehy?” That raspy, singsong voice sent a chill through her.

“Yes,” she shot back. “He was at the Hilton in Washington, D.C. What the hell business is it of yours?”

“He wasn’t in Washington, D.C., Mrs. Dennehy,” the woman replied. “Check the hotel.”

“I did check the hotel, and they confirmed it,” Molly lied.

She heard the woman laughing quietly. Then there was a click on the other end.

Molly switched off the phone. “Goddamn it,” she muttered.

The woman seemed to know she was lying. She felt so pathetic and stupid. She’d even admitted to the insane bitch that she’d doubted her husband enough to phone the hotel where he’d claimed to have stayed.

All right, she got to you, she’s happy , Molly told herself. Chances were she wouldn’t call again for a while.

Molly forced herself to look at the painting again, but she just shook her head. She couldn’t concentrate. She quickly rinsed out her paintbrushes and retreated downstairs with her cell phone in hand. She was about to pull her sweatshirt over her head when she heard a noise in the foyer.

For a second, she froze. But then she saw the mail on the floor — below the slot. She hated that slot in the door. Whenever she was home alone, and the mail came, it always caught her off guard and gave her a start. On top of that, she sometimes thought how easy it would be for some stranger to squat down by the door, lift up that little brass lid and peek inside the house. She imagined someone doing it at night, while they were all asleep upstairs.

She went down to the foyer to check the mail — nothing but bills: Seattle City Light, Premera Blue Cross, Visa. .

Molly let the other bills drop to the floor. The Visa bill was addressed to Jeff. She tore open the envelope. Unfolding the bill, she scanned the most recent purchases for a Hilton in Washington, D.C., or any purchases at all in D.C. There were none.

The bill didn’t show any activity on his card from the period he was supposed to be at the Hilton on Dupont Circle to when he came home. The gap went from Monday, November 1 through Wednesday, November 3. There was a Shell station gas purchase in Fife, Washington, on the fourth, from when he’d taken the kids down to their Aunt Trish’s house in Tacoma. And he must have bought some flowers for Trish, because a $35.10 charge that same day came from Blooms by Beth in Tacoma, Washington.

Molly checked, and she found hotel, restaurant, limo, and rental car charges in Boston and Philadelphia for his other recent business trips. So Jeff did indeed use this credit card for business. Why was there a gap for his trip to Washington, D.C.? Did he pay for everything in cash? What was he hiding?

He had an American Express card, too. Rummaging through the desk in his study, Molly found his last American Express bill. The billing period stopped in mid-October. So she phoned customer service, and after punching several numbers, she finally got a real person. Molly asked for a list of charges made between November 1 and 3, the day after Angela had been murdered.

There was nothing.

Ask him where he really was.

Frustrated, Molly started to cry. She dug a Kleenex from the pocket of her jeans and blew her nose. Maybe she just had to get out of the house for a while and leave her cell phone behind. Even if it was just for a walk around the neighborhood, she needed to go stretch her legs. It didn’t matter she was wearing her sloppy painting clothes. She went to the closet and pulled out her Windbreaker.

“Get while the getting’s good,” she muttered to herself. “I’d just as soon be gone when that crazy bitch calls again. . ”

She hesitated at the door. Where had she heard that before? She remembered six months ago, that night Kay had come over. She could still see Kay, sitting on her sofa with a glass of wine in her hand: “Thanks for having me over tonight. I’d just as soon not be home in case that creepy bitch calls again. . ”