Meg O'Brien - The Final Kill

For the first time, Abby thought she saw a genuine smile pass over Jancy’s face. It didn’t last long, but she was ready to take anything she could get.

“Thank you,” Jancy said softly. “I’m really sorry, Abby.”

“Sorry?” Abby said, surprised. “For what?”

“For all this trouble. For making you do so much stuff, and for being such a brat. You’ve been really nice.”

Abby smiled. “You’re pretty nice to do stuff for, Jancy. Now, sleep tight, and I’ll see you when you get up.”

Closing the door behind her, Abby was still smiling, but her expression quickly turned to a frown. She might not know a lot about teenagers, never having raised one, but one thing she had discovered from friends’ kids was that when they made such a fast turnaround from bratty to sweet, they usually wanted something.

Or they were planning something.

Like running away.

Abby didn’t even try to go back to bed. In her apartment, she changed clothes, then sat for a few minutes in her double-wide armchair before going to the kitchen. Ben and I used to sit in this chair and cuddle, she remembered. Used to. After tonight, will that ever happen again?

She deliberately tried not to think of Allie and where she had gone, why she had left her child here alone even after Abby had told her that was out of the question. It was all too much for one night—Allie and Jancy appearing without warning, then the FBI, Allie under suspicion for murder…

And Ben. His betrayal.

Back to Ben. Always back to Ben.

She squeezed her mind shut against that worry, but other memories crowded in. Her eyes took in this small, compact living room that she’d built for herself, and the few things she’d brought with her from Ocean Drive. She’d sold the multimillion-dollar house “as is” and fully furnished, except for the photos of her and Murphy—

Damn. At times like this, she missed Murphy more than ever. Her adventurous little dog had gotten loose one day and been struck by a car out on Carmel Valley Road. One of the carpenters, who helped build the very room she was sitting in, saw it happen and picked Murphy up off the road and carried him to her. The thing that had gotten to her most was that he looked just as he had when asleep, so she didn’t realize at first that he was gone. Then she saw the blood on the side of his head that was next to the carpenter’s arm. He had thoughtfully hidden it from her until the first shock was over.

Abby chose a spot on the edge of the forest to bury him. There were five other workmen on the property at the time, and they all stood around with the sisters and other women to offer prayers. By the time the little ceremony was over there were heaps of flowers on Murphy’s grave. The workmen brought wildflowers from the surrounding meadows, and it touched her heart to see their big, rough hands carrying those fragile little stems and placing them so carefully over Murphy’s grave. The Prayer House women brought early spring flowers from the gardens, and several of them wept along with her.

It took Abby a while to get past the stage where she was looking for her little companion around every corner and expecting him to be there to greet her when she walked through the door. She would never get over the feeling that it was her fault he ended up in the road in the first place. Murphy had an adventurous soul, and he’d gotten away once when he was younger. She should have been watching him better the day he died, but she’d trusted him not to run like that again.

Trust was a bitch. It could hurt the person who trusted, and the one trusted, as well. She would have to remember that when deciding what to do about Alicia and Jancy.

And Ben.

Impatiently, Abby shook her head as if shaking dust out of a rug, and went to the kitchen. Binny was already cooking hot cereal, and she returned Abby’s “Good morning” as she reached into the fridge for eggs to boil. The room was filled with the scent of oats, blueberry muffins and coffee.

A half-finished platter of sliced fruit was on the worktable, and Abby poured herself a cup of coffee and took up a knife to finish the job.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Binny said in her soft voice.

“I know. I just like to.”

Abby stole a look at Binny as she stood over the stove, her ordinarily pale face pink now from the steamy cereal. She was still in the black cotton robe that she always wore until after she’d cooked breakfast, and a white kerchief held back her wispy gray curls. For the second time this week, Abby thought she looked as if she was losing weight, and Binny of all people didn’t need that. She made a mental note to talk her into getting a checkup.

“You already do too much around here,” Binny said in the voice she saved for a quiet reprimand. “Didn’t I see you mucking out the stalls the other day?”

Abby smiled. “Oh, and what? I’m supposed to be above that?”

“No, you’re supposed to save your energy for your real work,” she said.

“Binny—”

“That’s all I’m sayin’. That and no more.”

Abby rolled her eyes and sighed. No one at the Prayer House was supposed to talk about Paseo unless absolutely necessary—a firm rule that kept everyone from slipping and saying something in front of the wrong people. Binny, though, was past the age where she followed rules.

And speaking of breaking rules, where was Helen?

“Have you seen Sister Helen?” Abby asked, cutting into a juicy ripe strawberry and popping half into her mouth.

“Not since last night when your visitors came,” Binny said.

This wasn’t at all like Helen. Abby was beginning to get worried. She was debating whether to rouse the other women and start a search party when Helen appeared on the back porch, wiping her boots on the bristles of the mud scraper.

“Where have you been?” Abby demanded, her voice rising with anxiety. “I was worried!”

“Oh, you were, were you? I seem to remember saying the same thing to you a few hundred times at St. Joseph’s High. I guess that makes us almost even now.”

Helen sat on the wooden bench next to the kitchen door and tugged off her wellies, the knee-high boots that she always wore for mucking about in the stables. Abby couldn’t fathom why she’d been out there at this early hour. She was about to ask when Helen’s face creased with pain as she tried to get one of the heavy rubber boots off.

“Here, let me do that,” Abby said. Helen flicked her a grateful smile and leaned back, sighing.

“I used to dream of a handsome young man pulling my skates off for me,” she said dreamily as Abby tugged at the first boot. “Down at the pond on my parents’ farm, that was. There would be a fire for us to warm our hands, and he’d be wearing a navy-blue sweater and a bright red scarf. We’d be sipping hot cider, and when he looked at me with those eyes—” She groaned. “Oh, Lordy, those eyes.”

“Helen!” Abby couldn’t help it; she giggled. “I never knew that. Were you in love with this guy?”

“Ha. More like in love with my dream of him. Sometimes our dreams are better than the real thing, you know.”

“You think so?”

“Of course. In our dreams, a man can be anything. In real life, he’s just another human being like the rest of us. Warts and all.”

She gave Abby a pointed look.

“Are we talking about Ben now?” Abby asked, sighing. She knew Helen had reservations about Ben—or rather, Ben and her as a couple. She’d always thought he would let Abby down one day. And of course, he had. Today.

“He just wanted to make sure we were safe,” Abby said, half in an attempt to convince herself.

“I doubt that. Following the rules, he was. Always following the rules.”