Lisa Gardner - The Survivors Club

“When will you be done with Dan Rosen?”

“I don't know. Six o'clock?”

“I'll be over.”

“Mike, I don't need-”

“Yeah, you do. See you at six. And don't worry. This time I'll bring a face mask.”

By the time Griffin arrived in the tony Providence neighborhood harboring the Rosen house, his mood had gone south. He was thinking too much. That had always been his problem. He was thinking of Meg's pale features. He was thinking of Carol's brittle smile. He was thinking of Jillian, not even allowed to properly grieve for her sister because some overeager reporter was already pulling into her drive.

And then he was thinking of Tawnya and plump-cheeked Eddie, Jr. He was thinking of lives that had no potential and the kind of people he saw every day, already knowing someplace way down deep that he'd see them again soon enough, in jail, in court, in the back of a squad car. Cycles that went round without end.

And then he was thinking of that goddamn basement, and the lives he could've saved if he hadn't been thinking so much. He thought of Cindy. He thought of David. He thought of the stuff he still hadn't told anyone, not his brothers, not his father, not the nice little therapist assigned to screw his head on straight.

Fuckin' world sometimes. Too much like a boxing ring. You just kept taking the blows, then getting back on your feet. Mike was right. He needed to move. He needed to run. He needed to beat the living shit out of something soon, or the buzzing would return in his ears. His arms and legs would start moving on their own. Instead of eating and drinking like a normal person, he'd turn into a hulking Energizer bunny, churning, churning, churning until five sleepless days passed and his pink fuzzy head blew off.

Some cops got depressed, burnt out. Griffin went to the other extreme. He had hyperanxiety disorder, meaning when he got stressed, he could no longer calm down. The pressure built and built and built until no amount of running, weight lifting, boxing or fucking anything did any good. He could break all the bones in his hand without feeling it. He could go without sleep for three days and still be wired when he finally lay down in bed. His hands shook, his knees trembled and he appeared downright manic. Then six, seven days later, his body would simply give out beneath the strain. He'd come down hard, like someone who'd been mainlining cocaine.

Then he'd enter the true danger zone. Physically and emotionally he had nothing left in reserve, but the pressure was still there. His wife gone, his neighbor a baby-killer, his job intense. His family had helped out the first time. His brothers had taken turns staying at his house so he was never alone. They had got him through the worst. He'd taken over from there.

He was learning now how to manage his stress from the start. Eat well, sleep well and get a good aerobic workout four to five times a week. That way he tapped off steam every day, instead of letting it build. Not always that easy, but not really that difficult. Besides, on the bad days, he simply thought of Cindy. She had fought so damn hard to live. Even after the cancer started shutting down her internal organs, took away her voice and sapped away her flesh. Even at the bitter end, when she could communicate only by blinking her eyes and her hands had not even the strength to hold his. She had fought. How could he do any less?

Breathe deep, he told himself now. Count to twenty. You can't change the world, but you can improve a bit of it a little at a time.

He got out of his car. Shut the door. Breathed in, breathed out. Thought of reopening his door and slamming it, but got hold of the impulse. Just breathe . He boarded the front steps of the Victorian home and knocked on the dark-stained door slightly harder than necessary, but not too bad. No one answered, though he heard voices coming from inside.

He knocked again, counted to ten, then knocked again and made it all the way to thirty before he heard the click of someone drawing back the brass cover from the peephole. A moment later, Carol Rosen stood in front of him. She wore blue-checkered flannel pajamas buttoned up to her neck, even though it had to be nearly sixty outside. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes held a glassy sheen.

Drunk, he thought immediately, though when she swayed forward he couldn't catch the scent of any booze on her breath. Vodka then.

“I don't… talk to you,” she said, gripping the door tight.

“Is your husband home?”

“Nope.”

“His office said he wasn't at work.”

“Well, he's not at home.”

“Mrs. Rosen-”

“Try his girlfriend's.” Her eyes grew brighter. She stabbed a finger at him and for the first time he saw the knuckles on her right hand. They were bleeding. He looked at her sharply, but she didn't seem to notice. “Not here. Not there. Must be at his girlfriend's.”

“Your husband has a girlfriend?”

“That's what I said.”

“What is her name?”

“I don't know. I betcha she was never raped. What do you think?”

Griffin was quiet for a moment. “Would you like me to call someone for you, Mrs. Rosen? Maybe a friend or relative who could come stay with you for a while?”

She waved her finger, falling forward, then getting a better grip on the door. “Not a reporter. I hate them! Phone ringing… all the time. Tell us about Eddie! What about that poor college student? Sylvia Blaire. Pretty Sylvia Blaire. Eddie's dead, and still the women suffer.”

“How about I call Miss Pesaturo or Ms. Hayes?”

“Meg doesn't know shit. She's so young.” Carol sighed. She tilted her head to the side, her long blond hair sweeping down her shoulder. “Young and sweet and innocent. Do you think I was ever that young and sweet and innocent? I don't remember. Even before Eddie… I don't remember.”

“Ms. Hayes?” he asked hopefully. No dice.

“She hates me,” Carol announced. “I'm too broken, you see. Jillian only loves people she can fix. Improve yourself! Get with the program! Take control of your life! Jillian is really Oprah Winfrey. Well, she's not black.”

“Are you going to be all right, Mrs. Rosen?”

“I can't have children,” she said mournfully. “I bet Dan's girlfriend can have children. I bet she can turn off the TV anytime she wants. I bet she's never slept in an empty bathtub or compulsively checked all the bars on the windows. She's probably never shot at Dan either. It's hard to compete with that.”

“Mrs. Rosen…” She was definitely drunk. He took another deep breath, then acknowledged that it didn't matter. He still had a job to do, and frankly, her inebriation made his life easier. He said, “Does Dan ever talk to you about money?”

“No.”

“A home like this must be very expensive.”

She singsonged, “New plumbing isn't exactly cheap, you know.”

“So things have been tight?”

“‘Jesus Christ, Carol, someone has to pay for all this.'”

“Very tight.”

“Meg and Jillian think we should sell this house. I picked out almost everything in it. This door, I selected this door.” She stroked it with her hand. “This molding, I selected this molding.” She touched the doorjamb tenderly. “So much of it was gone before. Rotted out, yanked out. Replaced with cheap pine trim. I read books. Scoured old pictures of Victorian homes, talked to experts in historical restoration. No one could have loved this house more than I did. God, I wish it would just burn to the ground.”

“Mrs. Rosen, we know Dan liquidated his brokerage account. Do you know where that money went?”

She shook her head.

“We're going to have to look into that, Mrs. Rosen.”

She smiled and leaned her head against the door. “You think he hired an assassin? You think he spent that money to kill my rapist?”