Lisa Gardner - The Survivors Club

Bad things happened. Women got raped, people got shot, others were blown up by car bombs. Husbands deserted you, wives went crazy, children were never born. Bad things happened. Especially after 10:00 P . M . Especially to her.

Eddie Como had sent her a note. She found it in the day's mail, which Dan had left on the kitchen counter. The pink envelope looked like a Hallmark card and bore Jillian's return address. A nice little note, Dan had probably thought. So had she. Until she'd ripped it open.

I'm going to get you, Eddie had scrawled in red ink across white butcher paper. Even if it's from beyond the grave…

Carol had bolted back upstairs to the bathroom, but not before first making a stop at the home safe.

I'm going to get you…

Not this time, Carol decided. Not anymore, you son of a bitch. Carol reached beneath the towels and, very gently, stroked the gun.

Ten fifty-eight P.M.

Sylvia Blaire was walking home alone from the university library. She had a test tomorrow morning. Final exam for Psych 101. In theory, Sylvia enjoyed Psych 101, but she hadn't kept up on the readings quite the way she should have. Now she was cramming twelve weeks' worth of learning into two nights of studying, a feat she'd mastered in high school, but which was proving far more difficult in college.

Personally, she thought Professor Scalia should cancel the test. As if anyone could study today, with the big explosion just six blocks away, then the sirens wailing all morning long. The air still smelled acrid, a mixture of gasoline, scorched metal and melted plastic. In the student union, all anyone could talk about was the commotion. Frankly, nothing exciting ever happened in Providence. As far as the students were concerned, the school should cancel exam week and let them enjoy the buzz.

No such luck, though. Professors were such pains in the ass. So Sylvia had left the student union in favor of the library, where she'd managed to read six chapters of her textbook before falling asleep and dreaming about chickens scratching out the Pythagorean theorem in return for pellets. Screw it. She was going home to bed.

Sylvia walked down the street to her apartment. Generally there were more people out this time of night, but during finals week most of the students were sequestered away in various study labs suffering massive anxiety attacks. The street was quiet, the old shrouded houses still.

It didn't bother her. The full moon was bright, the lamps cheery. Besides, she knew the drill. Walk with your chin up, your shoulders square and your steps brisk. Perverts sought out meek women who wouldn't fight back, not former track stars like her.

Not that Providence had many perverts anymore. That rapist dude was dead. The women on campus had cheered.

Sylvia finally arrived at the old house that boasted her second-floor studio apartment. She paused on the darkened front steps, then shook her head. Stupid outdoor light had burnt out again. Thing seemed to go every three weeks and the landlord liked to wait another three before replacing it. This one Sylvia had bought with her own money. Like she could see anything tucked inside the covered patio without a light.

She dragged her backpack off her shoulder, and with a long-suffering sigh began digging for her keys. She finally found the heavy metal key chain in the bottom of her bag. The new key ring was a gift from the Rhode Island Blood Center commemorating the donation of her eighth pint of blood just two weeks ago. Way to go, Sylvia, she was now a member of the gallon club.

Sylvia drew out her keys. She flipped through the massive lot that she kept meaning to pare down but never did, until she came to the desired one. She slid her key into the front door lock.

A noise sounded on the right. Sylvia turned her head…

Eleven-twelve P.M.

Jillian is dreaming. In this dream, she knows that she is dreaming, but she doesn't care. This dream is filled with warm, happy colors. This dream lifts the weight off her chest and takes her, for the first time in a long time, to a place she wants to go.

Jillian is sixteen years old. She is in a hotel-most of her childhood has been spent in hotels. It is two A . M . and Libby is gone. Her gig ended hours ago, but time has never meant much to Libby. Nights are for singing, dancing, drinking, having a good time. Libby has probably met another man by now and is once more falling in love. At this stage of the game, Jillian is used to the drill. Libby falls in love and disappears even more nights of the week. Her singing grows more robust, she wears her nicest gowns and brings Jillian lots of frivolous gifts. Then the bloom goes off the rose. She dumps him, he dumps her, or maybe his wife comes home. Who knows?

Libby falls out of love. They get a new hotel and she promises to spend more time with her daughter. Until, of course, the next handsome man enters the room.

The last time was different, however. The last time had consequences. Jillian now has a baby half sister, whom she was allowed to name. Jillian chose Trisha.

Three-month-old Trisha has fat pink cheeks and big blue eyes. Her head is covered with a downy mist of soft brown hair. She likes to grip Jillian's finger in her tiny little fist. She likes to kick her tiny little feet. And she gurgles a lot, and blows bubbles a lot, and loves big wet zerberts right on her tummy. She also breaks into a wide, smacking smile every time Jillian picks her up.

Now Jillian is cradling baby Trish in her arms and watching her baby-blue eyes grow heavy with sleep. She tickles Trish's chubby cheek with her finger. She inhales the sweet scent of baby powder. She feels her chest expand with the force of her love and thinks that if she cared for Trisha any more, her heart would surely explode.

Libby has never been the perfect mother. There have been times, in fact, when Jillian has grown close to hating her and her careless ways. But as of three months ago, Jillian forgave her mother everything in return for this one, precious gift. Trisha Jane Hayes. Finally, Jillian has someone she can love with her whole heart. Finally, Jillian has someone who will never leave.

The quiet, still night. The perfect weight of Trisha in her arms. The pure beauty of her baby sister, smiling back up at her and kicking her tiny, little feet.

In the dream Jillian knows she is dreaming, she would like to hold this moment forever. She understands, in this dream she knows she is dreaming, that darkness lingers just beyond her sight. That if she turns her head, the beautiful hotel room will spin away and she will find herself in a far different, uglier place. That if she looks at baby Trisha too closely, baby Trisha will spin away and she will find herself holding her grown sister's dying form. That if she thinks too hard at all, she will realize that this moment never happened, that her baby sister cried most nights for her mother, and that Jillian was actually little more than an overwhelmed sixteen-year-old substitute. In this dream she knows she is dreaming, it is only her love for her sister that is real.

A sound intrudes. In the dream hotel room, the dream Jillian turns her head. She listens to the loud, squawking sirens racing down the street.

But then the hotel room falls away. Baby Trisha falls away. And dream Jillian and the real Jillian realize at the same time that the noise is not a siren on the street.

It is in the house. It is in Jillian's bedroom.

Someone has pressed the panic alarm.

Sound. Carol heard it again. A thud in the nether regions of her home. It was followed by a thump.