Chapter 20
There was only one time in which I attempted to find Chloe.
Daddy had made all the arrangements – our stuff had been sent off to Gwyneth's address, the house had already gotten bidders in hope of owning such a magnificent and traditional part of town (Gran's house had been around for centuries), and plans and blueprints had already been sent to Dad regarding our new house – the one we would live in for the rest of our days, and one that wouldn't have rabbit blood stains splattered across the carpet.
Before I could begin to feel relaxed again – before I could sink into the feeling of starting anew, with fresh faces and a different neighbourhood – I had to finish Chloe off. Once and for all.
Only then would the tension leave my shoulders.
Byron's funeral was held, even though there was no body to bury. Almost half of the school attended, myself and Daddy included, and together we mourned the untimely death of a boy who had far too much ahead of him. After saying some prayers that I didn't believe in, and giving condolences to the parents of the boy I despised, we made our way to our car and back home.
I kept a careful eye out for Chloe throughout the funeral. To my utmost frustration, she hadn't attended. Maybe she didn't want to – not after walking in on her boyfriend with another girl.
But after 3 days of no luck, my excuse was beginning to lose its credibility.
"Do you happen to know where Chloe is?" I asked one of my many friends, who also happened to be on the cheer squad with me. She wasn't a flyer – she wasn't light and agile enough – and had been stuck with the job of lifting me up in every routine.
She frowned, shaking her head a little. "No. She's been gone for days."
"I know!" I moaned, pretending to be concerned. "I just hope she's not hiding somewhere, dealing with all that grief by herself."
"Awww." She rubbed my arm, giving me a soft smile. "You're such a good friend. I'm sure she'll come around."
But she didn't.
My desperation took to new heights, and soon I was asking teachers if they had any idea where she was, particularly the ones she was close to. All of them were beyond useless, and it amazes me how any of them were able to get teaching diplomas without any intelligence whatsoever.
"Have you checked the toilet, dear?" the librarian offered kindly, apparently misinterpreting my question. Frustration boiled hot and cold all over my body, but I offered her a sickeningly sweet smile nonetheless. When she was busy reorganising columns, I lifted a nearby cup of coffee and tipped it over generously, spilling its hot contents all over her precious fucking books and paperwork. I sauntered out before she could come back.
***
The rage was bubbling up to the surface, and in those last couple of days, it had taken much more energy to compose myself. Day in and day out, my questioning took on a ruthless form, shocking my friends into spitting out whatever they knew.
"She – well, I only heard about it, I'm not sure if it's true..." Zenna Black finally caved, offering me whatever she could remember in that pitiable mind of hers.
"What?" I hissed, gripping her dark arm so hard my nails were close to piercing her skin. She looked down and made a noise of protest, looking at me as if I had lost my mind. "What did you hear?"
"Jesus, Rhea, why do you wanna know so badly? She's fine, she a big girl – Ow!" With a sharp twist, she broke free of my grip and glared accusingly, rubbing the tender welts.
With control I hadn't even known I possessed, I swallowed down the brimming darkness and hatred I felt, pulling my lips into an apologetic gasp. "Oh Gosh, I'm sorry Zen. It's just... I am so, so worried, you know? I need to know how she's coping. If I were in her shoes, she would do the same for me," I looked down at my toes, finishing my cute little speech.
The hostility in her expression passed. Now she was only grumbling half-heartedly, scowling down at her arm. "Yeah, yeah, I get you. If my baby sister Emily ever had a boyfriend kill himself, I'd be banging down doors too."
I smiled encouragingly, hoping that she would finally be useful. On a regular day, I wouldn't have been so forceful – I would have approached Zenna with charm and ease, just as I did with everyone else. But I was at my wits end now, trying to find the only know person who had witnessed me in my true form and survived.
Chloe had to be eliminated. Immediately.
"Have you checked her house?" Zenna asked, deep in thought.
"Of course I have." Chloe's retired Supreme Court judge father was currently overseas, but I'd seen her mother walking along the street, minding her own business and not looking at all hassled or stressed. I made conversation almost daily, trying to draw out the whereabouts of her daughter. She, as equally politely as me, remained tight-lipped. All I managed to get was a simple, "She's taking time off for herself."
Zenna shrugged. "Beats me. Maybe she's with her grandmamma?"
"Her grandparents are dead," I stated flatly.
She pushed her palms out in defence. "Sorry, just a suggestion. Don't know her as well as you do."
"She's with a relative, then?" I asked so intently I think I may have chilled her to the bone.
"Maybe. I don't know."
"Then what do you know?" I snapped irritably.
She sighed. "You know, Rhea, being all bitchy ain't gonna help you in any way."
I gritted my teeth. "Sorry. But thanks anyway. See you around."
Frankly, I'd had enough of her. Before she could reply, I had already made my way across the room, pushing the double glass doors open with my foot.
I spent the entire night sitting cross-legged in my partially empty childhood bedroom, scrounging the internet frantically for any clues that might lead me to Chloe Newman. She had gone so far as to delete her Facebook page, severing any form of contact she might have had to the life she'd left behind.
This wasn't just a holiday.
My few attempts at calling her were met with disappointment. She had disabled her phone, too. In a fit of rage, I grabbed a nearby box and threw it across the room, feeling satisfied at the loud crash it made.
Now it was time to search for her relatives. Finding her real estate uncle was easy; through the internet I'd managed to find his business number, personal number, a picture of his smiling face, and the address to his house. If there were any place to start, it would be there.
***
I used my remaining weekends to help Daddy pack, and soon we were making good time. By the time it was noon, most of the bathroom, laundry and living room had been cleared out. We stood side by side for a while, staring at the eerily empty space that I had watched TV in countless times.
The nostalgia was lost on me. But it hadn't been lost on Dad.
"I remember when you were little," he murmured, afraid of raising his voice lest the sentimental mood was broken. "You'd play with Sundae on the couch, then start screeching when he took one of your Barbie dolls and ran to bury it in the backyard."
I laughed, remembering it just as clearly. I made sure to punish Sundae severely by hiding away all of his toys, bed and doggy treats. It was my own special way of training him.
I suddenly felt the need to bring up a different topic. "Was Mom happy, Daddy? In this house? Did she ever have any weird habits?"
We rarely talked about my mother, and as I sensed Daddy tense up at the onslaught of emotions raging inside him, I wondered whether I had taken it too far.
After a long, weary sigh, he wrapped an arm around my shoulders. "Your mother hated it here," he admitted gruffly. "I blamed it on the pregnancy – you were a very difficult fetus, you know. Made your mother throw up constantly. Once you started kicking, you'd kick for 24 hours straight and refuse to let her sleep."
I smiled. It was nice to know that even as a half-formed infant, I still felt the need to cause havoc and gain attention. I turned to him, resting my head on his shoulder. "Was else about Mom do you remember?"
He looked away, the pain of my mother's memory being too much. "She had an unstable past, I think. She hardly talked about it. But I want you to know that she was a good person." He gripped me tighter to him. "A wonderful woman."
"What kind of past?" I asked, wanting to know. Needing to know.
He closed his eyes briefly. "She had been bipolar for most of her life. The doctors said it'd been triggered by a horrific childhood. But I loved every bit of her, from the casserole she made to the plates she'd shatter because it was too dry."
"Mom smashed dishes?" I asked, genuinely surprised.
He rolled his eyes. "And mirrors, too. Chairs, tables, cups, laptops – anything she could find during a fit of rage. But when she was calm..." he gazed off into the distance again, shaking his head in wonder. "She was wonderful – funny, sweet, kind, smart, thoughtful. Glorious. And I lived for those moments, Rhea, I really did."
I didn't correct him for calling me Rhea. I decided to say nothing, and held back all of the colourful things that I wanted to say. Like how Mom must have been a crazy bitch. Or how he was weak and easily manipulated for having loved her, when he could have loved somebody who was normal.
But Daddy had me now. And as I stood there, hugging him as tightly as I could to chase away the bad memories, I promised that he would never received such treatment from me. I was far from normal, but there was no way he would find out otherwise.
I waited until just before midnight, when Daddy was fast asleep and the house deadly quiet, to expertly sneak out through the window and down a cluster of trees, my beanie preventing my hair from getting in the way.
Too much time had been wasted already.
Having memorized my plan, I caught a night bus 3 blocks away that would take me into the heart of the city and away from the beach. Several forms of transport later, I ended up at the edge of another suburban neighbourhood. A glance at the street sign told me I was at the right place.
Briarwood Drive.
Tugging the beanie tighter over my head, I shoved my hands into my pocket and walked around leisurely, not wanting to attract any attention lest the neighbours were out at night. Once my eyes settled and I could see perfectly in the dark, I spotted Michael Newman's house and eyed its dry front law and wooden floorboards, trying to picture Chloe hiding inside somewhere, asleep and having no idea that I was a mere 20 yards away from her. Even if she weren't inside the house, I would still carry on with the plan. The bitch needed to be sent a message. And if I couldn't get to her, I'd get to her family.
I decided to lounge inside a 24-hour café nearby, giving me a flawless view of the three-bedroomed home. Cars came to and fro during the hour, and I ordered a little croissant with my coffee, knowing that I would be there for a while.
The well-respected real estate agent didn't know what was coming for him. I watched intently for any signs of movement in the otherwise locked house, and, spotting none, I decided to strike.
It was so dark that I had trouble seeing my feet in front of me. This would make my job relatively easy.
Utterly confident in myself, I exited the café and crossed the street, keeping an eye out for anyone that might have been watching. Once I got to the front of Michael Newman's house, I spotted the terribly hidden key beneath the floor mat. Taking it out, and giving off an air that I could enter this stranger's house as often as I wanted to, I circled around the back of the house and entered swiftly.
Nobody was awake. My disappointment was brief, and I was on mission mode once again. My feet made no noise at all, but I kept crouched anyway, prepared for what would happen if somebody were to come out and spot me.
His kitchen was clean, and judging by the frames of photographs decorating the hallway and kitchen, he didn't live alone. Catching my eye was a picture of a smiling, bubbly Chloe at the age of 10. Resisting the urge to punch through the glass, I turned my back and moved on.
Uncle Mike sure was a family man. Perfect.
Chloe would receive my message flawlessly.
I calculated the time it would take for me to get this done, and still be able to run to the door before I could be spotted. Slowly, carefully, I tested the oven door to see if it made any sound when opened. When it didn't, I left it as wide open as possible, trying not to sweat. Adrenaline was pumping hard and fast, now.
I loved it.
I fiddled with the stove for only a few moments. God knows what would have happened if I had stayed longer. In no less than five minutes, I had the damn thing figured out. Through the cute leather gloves Daddy had bought simply because I wanted them, I managed to turn the gas on the highest temperature it could go. I was careful to not start the ignition - that wasn't part of the plan.
Let's see how long Michael and his partner can hold their breath.
The smell quickly became nauseating, and I managed to leave the oven door ajar – having it fully opened would look too suspicious – before silently closing the door behind me, making sure to lock it. After a quick peek around to see that none of the windows were open, I went around the house, placed the key back in its original position, and headed home with a sense of deep-seeded satisfaction.
The deaths of Michael Newman and his wife Stella only appeared briefly in the daily newspaper. The cause of their deaths were said to be an accidental gas leak that suffocated the both of them. Daddy was saddened by it as he read the paper, patiently waiting for our boxes to be loaded into a hired moving van. Over his shoulder, I caught the eye of a particularly good-looking mover.
We should have packed more boxes.
"Can't believe it," he muttered to himself, clicking his tongue and shaking his head. "The things that happen when people aren't careful..."
Indeed.
I thought that was the end of it. Chloe Newman may not have been in that house, and I may never find her again, but the death of her precious uncle had sent her a clear, point-blank message.
Open your pretty little mouth, and maybe the same thing will happen to you.
She hadn't died at my hands, but the tension in my shoulders loosened considerably. I was extremely confident in my knowledge that she wouldn't speak a word of what she'd seen – if the police found out that I was with Byron on the night he 'committed suicide', it would raise very ugly questions, indeed. I didn't need that.
Not when we were about to board our train to Alistair.
A received several heart-felt messages on my way to the station, and I scrolled through all of them in my phone, chuckling at their blatant insincerity. All of my friends were two-faced backstabbing little bitches. My departure would be celebrated. Absentimindedly, I opened a text from an unknown number.
I gasped.
Michael Newman, while looking handsome on the real estate website I had found his picture in, looked absolutely sickening as a corpse. Despite his peaceful, sleeping face, his skin was tinged a light blue from suffocating the way he had. Anger swooped its way into my stomach, and bubbled up to the rest of my body. But most of all, reading the little message attached to the bottom of the picture had steam coming out of my ears.
I'm guessing this was your doing. Who knew you had it in you. Trying to scare me? Have a nice trip - C
***