Comes the Night

  Chapter 23

  The Morning After

  Maryanne

  “Are you going to tell Betts?”

  “Are you kidding?” Maryanne glanced at Brooke, who was examining her reflection in the mirror. With the cooling weather, Brooke had traded in her signature black leather bomber for a gray wool wrap coat that looked like it cost more than the semester’s tuition, and she was busy adjusting the belt just so. “She’d be all over me.”

  And for good reason. Maryanne was planning to skip school again today. A girl could feign a cold, menstrual cramps, and a suddenly sprained ankle only so many times. After missing nine days since the beginning of the school year, Maryanne had pretty much exhausted plausible excuses, not to mention Mrs. Betts’ patience. She figured she’d have to test positive for the bubonic plague at this point for the old girl to let her stay home.

  “You’re going to get caught,” Alex said flatly. Her back was to Maryanne as she bent over her bed, packing her book bag.

  “Not a chance. I’m going back to sleep.” Maryanne sat cross-legged on the bed and punched her comfy pillow for emphasis. “John Smith did the upstairs carpets and bathrooms yesterday. Today he’ll do the main floor below. Predictable as clockwork. I’ll be quiet as a church mouse—no one will know I’m here.”

  “Don’t flush the toilet,” Brooke added, not unhelpfully. “They’ll hear the water running downstairs.”

  “Oh right,” Maryanne said. “Thanks on that.”

  “And I’ll bring home the extra math Your Biggest Fan assigns.” Brooke smirked.

  “Yeah, right.” McKenzie would no doubt send home the usual extra pages via Brooke, and Maryanne would do them. Sorta.

  Alex zipped up her bag and turned to face her. “You’re missing a lot of school.”

  Maryanne met Alex’s eyes, intending to shrug off the comment. But once their gazes met, she couldn’t pull away. Alex’s eyes were like little red beacons, so tired looking. So strained from the lack of sleep they all felt. But there was another reason for the redness.

  When they’d crept back to their beds last night, Maryanne had positively crashed the moment her head hit the pillow. She’d heard nothing beyond the chatter of her dreams—which, not surprisingly, featured Connie—but she would bet any money that Alex had been crying beneath her covers again.

  What’s haunting her? It wasn’t the first time Maryanne had wondered.

  Brooke yawned widely, drawing Maryanne’s attention. She still looked like her standard million bucks, with the perfect hair and perfect clothes and perfectly made up face, but even she couldn’t hide the dragginess under her $50 foundation.

  Right on cue, Brooke leaned toward the mirror for a close-up, then stepped back again in disgust. “Oh man,” she said. “It’s going to be a long day.”

  “So skip it.” Maryanne almost couldn’t believe how easily that suggestion rolled from her. Where was the grade junkie of yesteryear? The last two years in high school, any mark below a 95 was enough to cause a minor panic attack. But now...

  “Nah. I’m good,” Brooke said, dismissing the idea immediately.

  And Maryanne knew why. Brooke hoped to see Seth today.

  Though the Walker boys and Melissa Kosnick went to the public school, kids from both schools frequently gathered at the downtown’s only mall over the lunch hour. For the kids who didn’t want to stomach the cafeteria at their respective schools, or who just wanted to see and be seen, the small food court became the hub between 11:45 a.m. and 1:15 p.m. Maryanne didn’t often go there. Nor did Alex or Brooke. But Maryanne knew they’d both be heading that way today.

  They were both anxious to see Seth, Bryce and Melissa. But especially Seth.

  They’d talked it over this morning. Early this morning. Alex had sat up before the clock radio alarm even went off, blurting out, “Holy-shit! What if Seth saw us shrieking? All of us, even Connie. The grey lines. Our... our faces.”

  “They were... distorted.” Maryanne had tried to keep the worry out of her voice, but knew she hadn’t been entirely successful. “And maybe it’s only something we casters see... in each other. Besides, even if regular people can see the lines, we don’t really look much like ourselves. I mean, if you hadn’t known it was me... you wouldn’t have recognized me. Right?” She’d been trying to convince all of them. Mostly herself. “It’s like the whole Clark Kent as Superman. No one expects to see Clark Kent as a superhero—”

  “Of course!” Brooke broke in. “Context! No one will expect to see us as the Mansbridge Hellers.”

  They’d left it at that, and Maryanne prayed they were right. Hopefully, Brooke and Alex would get a read on that when they saw the Walker boys today.

  Still, she’d been anxious enough, she’d almost gotten ready to go to school.

  Almost.

  God, what was wrong with her? Maryanne had missed more time this term than she had in her whole high school career back in Burlington. And her midterm grades had been lower than she’d expected; there’d even been one D in there, a grade she’d never seen before. Low enough for her parents to phone her outside the usual Sunday night call to ask if everything was all right. Did she want to come home?

  How could she go home? After everything.

  She shook her head to dislodge the thoughts. She wouldn’t go there now. To those thoughts of Jason. She’d stay rolled up in the reprieve of last night’s casting as long as she could. And she’d stay rolled up in the blankets too.

  “We’ll lock the door as we leave,” Alex said.

  “Why?”

  Brooke slung her book bag on her shoulder. “Yeah. Why?”

  Alex’s face reddened. “Because... because someone might accidentally barge in. And then Maryanne would be caught. Questions would be asked. You know?”

  On that lame excuse, Alex opened the door and walked into the hallway. With a little shake of her head after Alex and a wave to Maryanne, Brooke followed. And she locked the door behind her.

  Maryanne lay back on the bed, smiled up at the ceiling. She stretched her arms out then folded her hands under her head. But no sooner had she closed her eyes, when they shot open again.

  Thumps on the stairs. The doorknob was turning. A key in the lock? Aw, frig! Mrs. Betts? She had keys to all the rooms. Had she been caught after all? Crap. Oh crap oh—

  Brooke opened the door and crossed the room to Maryanne’s bed with a bottle of orange juice swinging in her right hand. In her left, she carried a frosted sticky bun wrapped in a cloth napkin. “I snuck these from the breakfast room for you.”

  “Betts didn’t catch you? Wonder why you were bringing food upstairs?” Food in the bedrooms was a definite no-no in Harvell House.

  “Nah, Betts is in one of her moods again. All mopey and stuff.”

  Maryanne cracked open the orange juice. “This is nice of you, Brooke.”

  Brooke smiled, momentarily. But then the smile disappeared suddenly, almost as though she’d just realized it was there. Or more to the point, unguardedly there.

  “Well, whatever.” She walked out of the room again, closed the door behind her.

  Whatever, indeed.

  Maryanne only slept till nine. Until exactly nine before she opened her eyes to stare at the mocking bedside clock. That was annoying. Sitting up in bed, she polished off the sticky bun and drank the rest of the juice before she tiptoed down the hallway to the bathroom, quietly took care of things there and then went back to the room. She dressed in comfy faded jeans and one of her favorite sweatshirts. The house was creepy quiet, as if it were itself in slumber. Outside, she could hear the November wind gently soughing around the old house’s corners.

  Now what?

  Sneak down the stairs and out the front door to explore Mansbridge some more?

  Or sneak up the stairs?

  As soon as the idea hit her, Maryanne was grinning with it. She’d sneak up to the attic. Explore a bit in the daylight hours. Alex had obviously poked around up there on her own.
Brooke too. Why not her?

  Maryanne carefully opened the bedroom door. Standing there, she could hear someone—John Smith? Patricia Betts?—walking on the hardwood floor down below. Taking a breath, she glided down the hallway and closed the door to the attic behind her. She turned the handle fully so it would latch silently into place, then climbed the stairs.

  The Madonna was in full brightness such as Maryanne had never seen her before. The greens were all the brighter, the white cloth the baby was swaddled in, absolutely brilliant. The roses at the lady’s feet were a radiant, almost liquid-looking red. For a moment, Maryanne regretted she wasn’t out there in the sunshine. It was obviously a beautiful day outside, particularly considering how late it was in the season. There wouldn’t be too many more days as nice as this.

  She stood there a moment, trying to persuade herself that she should go outside instead of hanging around the stuffy attic. To no avail. The pull to secretly explore this space was stronger.

  Hands on her hips, she looked around. Dust danced in the beams of light that shone through the lone window. Everything else looked gray to graying. Silent and still. But somehow infused with life. She still ‘felt’ places. And this place—this one particular room—felt... Connie-full.

  “Yes. That’s it,” she said out loud. “This room feels like Connie.”

  It was true.

  The more Maryanne knew of Connie Harvell, and now that she’d met Connie, the more this room truly felt like her. Felt like hers. Holding Connie’s secrets. There was an old wardrobe in the far corner by the stairs, and as Maryanne turned around, it caught her attention anew. She’d seen it before, of course, a dozen times. One side of it was blocked open by cardboard boxes marked ‘Books’. But the other side was firmly closed and she’d never maneuvered around the old furniture and boxes to see what, if anything, was inside it. Something of Connie’s, maybe?

  “No time like the present.”

  Maryanne realized she was talking to herself again, and laughed. Quiet would do that to a person. Well to her, anyway.

  She almost tripped over a half-crushed wicker basket as she made her way to the wardrobe, but caught her balance. Whew! They’d have heard that downstairs if she’d hit the floor. She resumed picking her path, mentally figuring the best way to move the big boxes without creating a lot of noise. But when she got to the wardrobe, she saw she wouldn’t have to move them after all. There was plenty of clearance to get the door open. Almost as though they’d been pushed aside already. All she had to do was pull the door open and find... Nothing.

  Not so much as a worn shoe on the floor of it, or wire coat hanger dangling down from the rod above. Maryanne snorted a laugh at herself. All that mental buildup just to find—

  The door to the attic creaked open on the floor below.

  Maryanne’s heart thundered. Someone was coming up the stairs! Oh crap, someones! There were at least two sets of footfalls clomping on the stair treads.

  Were they looking for her? Had the school called the house?

  She told herself there were worst things than being caught jigging school. To which she replied, Yeah, like being caught up here in the off-limits attic while jigging school!

  Crap! She had to hide, and time was running out.

  The wardrobe! It was plenty big enough—and looked solid enough—to hold her. With the footsteps growing louder, Maryanne ducked inside.

  Of course, she immediately had visions of spiders. God, she could almost feel them brushing her face as she reached out to pull the door closed.

  Well, almost closed. She left the door cracked open just enough to peek through.

  Patricia Betts came into her narrow view first, standing on the attic floor. Someone was with her, and it didn’t take many mumbling words for Maryanne to know it was the caretaker, John Smith.

  Maryanne held her breath as Mrs. Betts looked around, her eyes quickly raking past the wardrobe. And she stopped breathing entirely as she eavesdropped on the conversation.

  Mrs. Betts’ hand flew to her forehead, then quickly down again. “I’m telling you, John... I don’t like it. Why was this door unlocked? He must have... he must have been up here. Why?”

  “Patricia, you’ve got yourself worked up over nothing again. It’s his house.”

  C. W. Stanley? Was that who they were talking about? Had to be. He was the guy who owned Harvell House.

  “What business would he have up here?” Her voice was more exhausted than shrill, but there was conviction in it. “None! Kassidy said she saw him—this time she was sure it was C. W.—looking in the parlor window last night. Staring right at her. And I... I saw him on the second floor myself just last week, banging on some floor boards.”

  “Were the girls around?”

  She shook her head. “No. It was during school hours. And for once, everyone had gone to school.” She huffed a sarcastic laugh. “I don’t know what’s going on this year. We always have our girls, but this year even the good ones are cutting class.”

  Guilt clawed Maryanne as she watched Betts shake her head.

  “Well, if the girls weren’t around, what’s the problem?” John said. “It’s C. W.’s house. He may have leased it to the school for a dollar for use as a residence, but he still holds the deed. He’s probably just checking on the old place.”

  “Or checking on me.”

  And there it was. That frazzled, downcast and worried look on Betts’s face. The one she wore too often.

  “I’ve no family, John. No place to go. No savings to speak of. If C. W. wants me gone, I’ll be out on the streets.”

  “Then say nothing about his... visits.”

  Mrs. Betts slashed at the tears on her cheeks. “But what if... what if I’m right? What if he is... lurking around the girls, leering at them? How do I say nothing? You see the predicament I’m in. If I say anything and I’m wrong, I’m damned. If I say nothing and he... ” She let her voice trail off.

  John sighed. “Kassidy tells stories. Everyone knows it. C. W. just likes to talk to the girls. Feel young. Feel useful. He sees himself as some kind of surrogate grandfather.”

  Mrs. Betts sighed. “Maybe.”

  “Have you ever really seen him do anything wrong?”

  Maryanne herself couldn’t imagine it. Betts shook her head. She drew a shaky breath as she looked around the attic.

  “You’ll... you’ll watch out for things around here?”

  “Always have. Always will.”

  “I’m probably worrying over nothing.”

  “I know it.”

  “And get a new lock for that door!” Mrs. Betts was on the stairs, but calling over her shoulder. “The last thing we need is the girls snooping around up here!”

  “I’ll do it this very morning,” John said.

  Oh, damn! A lock on the attic door.

  And Maryanne’s heart beat harder still.