Lisa Gardner - The Survivors Club

When she got home, she had nothing left. She simply saw her mother, so small and frail and easy to damage. She saw Toppi, hired by Jillian so Trish wouldn't feel guilty about going off to college. And the walls came tumbling down, the barriers eroded and Jillian wasn't ready yet for the woman underneath. Eddie Como had changed her. He'd brought fear into her life, and she would've hated him for that alone. Of course, he'd also done so much worse.

“You bitch… I'm gonna get you, even if it takes me the rest of my life. I'm gonna get you, even if it's from beyond the grave.”

Jillian opened the fridge. In spite of spending most of her day in a restaurant, she'd hardly eaten a thing. She eyed shelf after shelf crammed with food, but nothing sparked her appetite. Behind her, Toppi was frowning.

“Are you all right?” Toppi asked abruptly. “Lately… Jillian, are you all right?”

Jillian closed the door. She started to say, “Of course,” but then she saw the look in Toppi's face and the blatant lie died on her lips. She felt her insides go hollow again. The ache, so close to the surface since her discussion with Sergeant Griffin, rose up and pressed back down on her with a heavy, heavy weight. She had lied to the sergeant this afternoon. She had told him she was certain, when in fact she hadn't been certain of anything for a whole year.

“It's been a big day,” she said tersely. “I just needed some time to absorb everything. Some time to just be… alone.”

“With Trish?”

“Something like that.”

“Your mom wanted to go there today. I was worried, though, about the press.”

“I'm sorry about that.”

“It's okay, Jillian,” Toppi said gently. “She doesn't blame you. I don't blame you. You reserve that right for yourself.”

Jillian smiled. She'd heard this lecture before, too. Many times, really. Where was Trish? She leaned against the refrigerator, took a deep breath. “Does it feel different to you, Toppi? Him being dead. Does it feel different?”

Toppi shrugged. “I'm not losing any sleep over it, if that's what you mean. You lead a violent life, you'll come to a violent end.”

“What goes around, comes around.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“I thought it would feel different,” Jillian said quietly. “I thought I'd be… relieved. Vindicated maybe. Triumphant. But I just feel… empty. And I… I didn't know how to come home tonight. How to face Libby. I feel… I feel like I failed her.”

“You failed her?”

“Yes.” Jillian smiled again. “I'm in a weird mood. I've been in it all day. Not myself at all. I should go to bed.”

“Jillian… the police were here. Two plainclothes officers. They wanted to interview Libby until I explained to them that wouldn't be happening. Is there something I should know?”

“No,” Jillian said honestly, then shook her head. “Maybe that's the problem. I didn't kill Eddie. I don't know who killed Eddie. And frankly, that pisses me off. Someone else got to him before I had the chance. Someone else killed him, and in my fantasies I had reserved that honor for myself. Apparently, I'm even more bloodthirsty than I thought.”

“I've dreamed of killing him, too,” Toppi said.

Jillian looked up in surprise.

“Sure,” Toppi said. “Guy like that. After what he did to you, to your mom, to Trish. Death isn't good enough for him. They should've hacked off his penis, then left him to live.”

“Castration doesn't work with sex offenders,” Jillian said immediately. “In fact, studies suggest that surgical or chemical castration leads them to commit even more violent acts, such as homicide. Because it's not about sex, it's about power. Take away a sex offender's penis, and he'll simply substitute a knife.”

Toppi was looking at her strangely. “Jillian, you read too much.”

“I know. I can't seem to stop.”

Toppi was quiet for a moment. “I don't suppose that reading has included information on post-traumatic stress syndrome?”

“It has.”

“Because… because that kind of thing would be expected, you know. After what you've been through.”

Jillian smiled. “I've earned the right to be a little nuts?”

“Jillian, that's not what I meant-”

“I know I'm struggling, Toppi. I know I'm not quite myself. Maybe I didn't forget everything like Meg and maybe I'm not as aggressively hostile as Carol, but I am… wounded. There, that's an accomplishment for me right there. I hate saying that out loud. It sounds so weak. Birds get wounded. Children get wounded. I'm supposed to be above all that. Frankly, I wasn't even raped. What do I have to cry about?”

“Oh, Jillian…”

“I know I'm being unfair to Libby,” Jillian said quietly. “I'd like to tell you I have a good reason, but I don't know what it is. Right now… I just don't feel like coming home these days. Some nights I wish I could go anyplace but here. I'd like to get in my car and just drive. Drive, drive, drive.” She smiled again, but it was sad. “Maybe I can work my way to Mexico.”

“You're running away from us.”

“No. I'm just running. It's the only time I feel safe.”

“He's dead now, Jillian. You are safe.”

Jillian's shoulders came down. She shook her head and said hoarsely, “But there are so many more just like him, Toppi. I've been reading the books. And you have no idea… The world, it is such a bad place.” Her shoulders started to shake. God, she was not herself today. And then she was back in that room, that horribly dark room, with Trish needing her, Trish depending on her, and she had not got it done. Far from saving the day, she had nearly gotten raped herself. And now he was gone, and what would give her life meaning without Trisha to take care of or Eddie Como to hate?

And then she was thinking of Meg, I don't think I was happy, and she was thinking of Carol, Let's have some chocolate cake, and suddenly she knew she had failed both of them. She had turned them into warriors, but long after defeating their enemy, were they really better off? They had nailed Eddie Como, but none of them had managed to heal.

And now Eddie Como was dead and they were unraveling at the seams.

Jillian squeezed her eyes shut, covered her mouth with her hand. Pull it together, pull it together. Her mother was in the next room. And then she was thinking of Sergeant Griffin again, and that confused her even more. Men did not make things better. Just look at Eddie…

Toppi had crossed the kitchen. She touched Jillian's shoulder gently as Jillian drew in a ragged breath.

“I'm not an expert,” Toppi said quietly. “Lord knows I couldn't have gone through everything you've been through. But I do know this. When you're really hurting, when you're really feeling low, nothing is as good as crying on your mother's shoulder. You can do that, Jillian. She would like that. And it would do you both a world of good.”

Jillian drew in another deep breath. “I understand.”

“Do you?”

Toppi's gaze was too penetrating. Jillian looked away. She focused on her breathing, getting to slow, steady breaths. Then she wiped her cheeks with her hands, blinked her eyes clear. She should go to bed soon. Get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow would be another day. She would feel better then. Stronger, in control, ready to take on the press, ready to take on the police because it was only a matter of time…

“Well, let me go see her,” Jillian said briskly.

“All right,” Toppi said. “All right.” But it was obvious from her voice that she wasn't fooled.

Jillian went into the living room, where her mother sat in her favorite chair watching TV. At sixty-five, Olivia Hayes was still a beautiful woman. Tiny as a bird, with thick dark hair and big brown eyes. Her hair was dyed, of course, every eight weeks at her favorite salon, with six shades of brown to match her original color as closely as possible. Libby had always been vain about her hair. When Jillian was a little girl, she used to watch her mother brush out the long, thick locks when she came home at night. One hundred strokes. Then would come the saltwater gargle to preserve her vocal cords, followed by a heavy cream to protect her face.