Lisa Gardner - The Survivors Club

“I was worried,” Mr. Pesaturo said abruptly, maybe even a little apologetically. “When I heard the news on TV, when I couldn't find Meg. I went a little nuts.”

“I understand.”

“You got kids?”

Jillian thought of Trish and her bright, bright eyes. She thought of her mother, wheelchair-bound since her stroke. “No.”

“It's not easy. You wanna keep 'em safe, you know. I mean, you want 'em to go out in the world. Be strong. Make you proud. But mostly, mostly you want 'em to be safe. Happy. Okay.”

“She's okay,” Mrs. Pesaturo murmured. “They're both okay.”

“If I coulda been there, that night… That's what kills me, you know. This Como guy,” Mr. Pesaturo spat. “He's not even that big. If I'd been there that night, I would've kicked his sorry spic ass.”

Jillian thought of Trisha's dark apartment. Her sister's unmoving form on the bed. Those strong, strong hands grabbing her from behind. She said, “I wish you would've been there, too.”

“Yeah, well, I guess there's not much I can do about it now. At least the guy's dead. I feel better about that. Hey”-his head jerked up-“think Meg'll be all right now?”

Jillian was puzzled. “I think Meg is already all right.”

“No, no. Start remembering. Get her life back. You know.”

“I'm… I'm not sure. I really don't know that much about amnesia.”

“She don't talk about it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Her amnesia. What that asshole did to her. Don't you girls talk about this stuff over coffee or something like that?”

“Mr. Pesaturo…” Jillian began, but Laurie Pesaturo beat her to the punch.

“Tom, shut up.”

Mr. Pesaturo blinked at his wife. “What?”

“Jillian is not going to tell you about our daughter's state of mind. If you want to know what Meg is thinking, ask her yourself.”

“I was just asking,” Tom said defensively, but he hung his big head, suitably chastised. Jillian took some pity on him.

“For the record,” she told him. “I think Meg is doing remarkably well. She's a strong young lady, Mr. Pesaturo. You should be proud of her.”

“I am proud of her!”

“Are you? Or are you mostly afraid for her?”

“Hey now!” Mr. Pesaturo didn't like that much at all. But when he found Jillian staring at him steadily, and his own wife regarding him steadily, his shoulders hunkered again. “I'm a father,” he muttered. “Fathers protect their daughters. Nothing wrong with that.”

“She's twenty years old,” Laurie said.

“Still young.”

“Tom, it's been years…” Laurie said. Which Jillian didn't get. Didn't she mean one year?

Mr. Pesaturo said, “Yeah, and we've been lucky to get her this far.”

“That's not fair.”

“You're telling me.”

Jillian was very confused now, which must have shown on her face, because suddenly both Mr. and Mrs. Pesaturo drew up short. They looked at their guest, they looked at each other, and that was the end of that conversation.

“I should get going,” Jillian said at last, when the silence had gone on too long. Meg's parents didn't waste any time getting up off the couch.

“Thank you for bringing Meg home,” Mrs. Pesaturo said. “We'll make arrangements to retrieve her car.”

“The champagne… Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Mrs. Pesaturo smiled kindly at her. “It's been a long, strange day, hasn't it?”

“Yes,” Jillian said, and she didn't know why, but at that moment she wanted to cry. She pulled herself back together. Her nerves were rattled, had been all day, and her private conversation with Sergeant Griffin had only made things worse. But her weariness didn't matter. There were probably still cameras outside. You had to wear your game face. Besides, she would need her strength for when she returned home, to where her aphasia-stricken mother had probably already heard the news and was now sifting through her picture book, trying to find an image that could communicate My daughter's murderer died today and I feel…

Meg was back. “Come on,” she told Jillian. “I'll walk you to the door.”

Jillian followed her down the narrow hallway. Meg's little sister, Molly, peered out at them from around the corner, a mass of dark corkscrew curls and big doe-brown eyes. Trish, Jillian thought. She had to get out of this house.

When Meg opened the door, Jillian was startled to see that it was already dark outside. The night wind felt cool on her face. The street was long and empty. Not a reporter in sight, which made her both grateful and more unsettled. Where were all the flashing lights and rapid-fire questions? Where had the day gone? It was already a blur.

Meg was swaying slightly in the breeze. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“For what?” Jillian was still staring into the night. On her right, something moved in the bushes.

“I'm starting to feel better already, you know. The shock's wearing off, I guess. I didn't think it would be this fast, but now… I feel like for the first time in twelve months, I can finally breathe.”

Jillian just stared at Meg. And then she got it. Meg was talking about Eddie Como's demise. She was thanking Jillian for Eddie Como's murder.

“But you're right,” Meg continued expansively. “We shouldn't talk about it. The police will probably still be coming around, at least for a few days. Then the worst will be past. The dust will settle. And we'll be… we'll be free.”

“Meg…”

“Isn't it a beautiful night?”

“Oh God, Meg…”

“Such a lovely, lovely night.”

“You've had more to drink! Why do you keep drinking?”

“I don't know. The doctors said not to push. The mind will heal itself. But it hasn't, and really, as of today, I thought it should. So I added some bourbon. But you know, it didn't work.”

“Meg, you just need rest.”

“No, I don't think I do. I think it's all much weirder than that. I've had rest, I've had peace and now I've had closure. But I can still feel the eyes following me. What does that mean?”

“It means you've had too much to drink.”

“I want to be happy. I don't think I was. Because if I had been happy, shouldn't I be able to remember it? Shouldn't it come back to me?”

“Meg, listen to me-”

“Shhhh, the bushes.”

Jillian stopped, drew up short. She looked at the bushes, still twitching on the right. She looked at Meg. This close, she could see the glassy sheen to the girl's dark eyes, the red flush of bourbon warming her cheeks.

“Whoever is hiding in the bushes, you'd better come out,” Jillian called.

“Beautiful, beautiful night,” Meg singsonged. “Oh, what a lovely night, just like the last night, that night.”

“I'm warning you!” Jillian's voice started to rise in spite of herself as another leaf quivered and Meg rocked back and forth like a giant pendulum.

“A beautiful, beautiful night. A lovely, lovely night…”

“Goddammit!” Jillian strode over to the bush. She thrust in her hand as if she would drag out the interloper by his ear. She'd yank him out. And then she'd… she'd…

The gray tiger-striped cat sprang out of the bush with a hostile MEOW and Jillian staggered back, her heart hammering hard in her chest. She had to take a deep breath, then another. Her heart was still racing. The hairs had prickled up on the back on her neck. Oh God, she suddenly wanted away from this house and out of this too-empty street. She couldn't stop shivering.

On the porch, Meg had a beatific smile plastered on her face. “Gone now. He's all gone now.”

“Please go inside, Meg,” Jillian said tiredly.

“It won't make a difference. He's here, he's here, he's here.”