Inescapable, p.20
Inescapable, page 20
“Yes. They were in my purse. But it took me—” Her voice broke and her forehead crumpled. “A couple minutes probably. I don’t know. It felt like forever. Mom was screaming, and I—” The words wouldn’t come. Aimee felt something break deep in her chest, tears tumbling over in panicked gasps. The officer waited out the bout of sobbing, making quiet sounds of solace until Aimee could breathe again.
“Do you need to take a break?” Constable Singh asked.
“No. I’ll be okay in a second,” Aimee wiped her eyes, and took a slow breath.
“Would you like a moment?”
Aimee shook her head. “No. Let’s keep going.”
The officer nodded. “Alright. Let’s go back a bit,” she said. “What happened when you two first arrived at the apartment?”
Aimee chewed her lower lip, forcing herself to put things in order. To make the impossible sound plausible. She couldn’t tell the truth and allow herself to be committed for her own safety. Not when the ghost could simply show up at the hospital and torture her there too!
“We weren’t staying long,” Aimee said. “I just came by to pick up my stuff.”
“What for?”
“I needed a few things to wear.” Her voice broke. “I’m staying with my mother.”
“Why?”
“With the flooding, the whole condo smells,” she said. “I needed to give it a couple days to air out.”
“Did you both go inside at the same time?”
“Yes. We came in together. My mother was helping me clean. While she went to the bedroom to vacuum, I emptied the fridge, and grabbed some clothes.”
“You weren’t together in the same room?”
“Not most the time. Like I said, she was in the bedroom. I was in the kitchen, and then the foyer.”
“Then what happened?”
“There was a message on the machine, and I started listening to it and the vacuum was going, and—” Memories surged, pushing Aimee’s words away. She stared at her hands, willing them to stop shaking. She took a slow breath to speak, but the tears were at the surface. Sobs tore from her, drowning Aimee in grief.
The officer rubbed Aimee’s shoulder until the bout passed. “We can stop anytime, you know, I can come back if—”
“No!” Aimee cried. “I just want to finish this.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, let’s keep going.”
“Alright. Your mother told police you called out to her,” Constable Singh prompted.
“Yes.”
“Why did you scream?”
“I thought that—I thought I saw—” She burrowed her face in her hands. This was the impossible part to explain. “I don’t actually know what I saw.”
“We need a statement, Mrs. Westerberg. You’re going to have to try.”
“It’s Ms. Tessier,” Aimee said in a rough voice. She lifted her face and wiped her wet cheeks. “My husband is dead. I’m a widow.” She needed to say it. To believe it.
“I’m very sorry, Ms. Tessier. I’m just trying to get a clear sense of what happened. Your mother said she was in the other room and she heard you call out for her. She said you sounded scared.”
“I thought I was alone, but I wasn’t.” A frisson of fear rose up Aimee’s spine. Her tears had begun to dry, but a different sort of terror now lodged in her chest.
“There was someone inside the apartment besides your mother and you?”
“Yes.”
“Any idea who it was?”
Aimee took a shaky breath. “I thought it was George,” she answered, her hands twisting together in her lap. If she let go, she’d fly apart into pieces, like the mirror on the floor. He’s real! Her mind screamed. Real! And he attacked Mom.
“George?”
“My husband. My dead husband,” she added, the words breaking into halting sobs. “That’s who it looked like. Except it wasn’t George.” Aimee’s voice was high pitched, terrified. “It couldn’t be him, right? George is dead. He’s gone. That just doesn’t make sense!”
“But this man looked like him. Correct?”
Aimee cringed. This wasn’t really lying, was it? It was sort of true. Or at least as true as she could get to without being committed.
“Yes,” she said carefully. “Only he was younger. Stronger. Like George looked in old photographs.” She buried her face in a wad of tissues, blowing her nose loudly. “It—He surprised me.”
The officer nodded, flicking through her notes. “Now, Ms. Tessier, to be clear on the events: You and your mother came to the apartment. She was doing some cleaning, and you were packing, and when you went back to the foyer, you saw someone in the apartment. That right?”
“Yes,” she replied, not holding the officer’s gaze. “That’s right.”
“And this is the same man who attacked your mother?”
“I don’t know—I mean, I didn’t see—” Tears rolled down her cheeks and Aimee rubbed angrily at them. “Whoever it was, he was angry.” She rubbed her upper arm where the line of bruises encircled it. “And Mom said to run, and when I did, he slammed the door.” Aimee hiccoughed. Would this be the moment they locked her up? Would they commit her for this? Because she was going crazy, no doubt about it!
“Your mother said the lights were off when she came in the room. Someone threw her against the wall. She doesn’t remember anything after that point. That’s why it’s so important we get a clear chain of events. What happened after the door shut?”
Guilt tightened around Aimee’s chest. “I tried to get back in to help her,” she cried. “But I couldn’t! I swear I tried! And by the time her screaming stopped, the neighbors had called the police. I couldn’t find my keys. God! It felt like forever before I got the door open and when I came inside—” Aimee’s words disappeared into heaving sobs as the image of Claudine, crumpled on the floor, appeared in her mind. She pressed the wad of damp tissue to her mouth, fighting the panic that had been rising ever since the door had slammed and she’d been forced to listen to her mother under attack. Aimee knew she’d been the one responsible. She couldn’t protect her mother. Couldn’t protect anyone anymore.
“I couldn’t stop it from happening,” Aimee choked. “I was too late.”
The police officer flipped shut her pad, sighing. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Tessier,” she said. “If you think of anything else, just give me a call.”
“I’m sorry,” Aimee sniffled. “It was me he was after. I’m sorry I couldn’t—”
“Why do you think he was after you?”
“I don’t know! He just was!”
“Please, Ms. Tessier, just stop,” the woman said, her voice gentler than it had been before. She reached out and patted Aimee’s shoulder in an awkward attempt at comfort. “It’s never the victim’s fault. You probably stumbled in on a break-in. You were lucky enough to get away, and lucky that the guy—whoever he was—didn’t do something even worse.” Constable Singh stood from the chair, stretching her back. “Your mother is lucky that you were able to get that door open. We’ll dust for prints. I figure he must’ve left by the same door you came in. And then we’ll find him.”
“But what if you don’t?”
The officer shrugged. “Install an alarm, and don’t worry.” She hooked her fingers in her belt loops. “This sounds like a crime of opportunity, and perps like that rarely go to the same place twice.”
Aimee nodded, fighting the urge to scream.
If she knew anything for certain, it was that George would be back.
—
Bear sat on the centre of the sagging couch, his writing pad open on the table next to him. Pages upon pages were now full of writing, a single name—Brandy Suarez—now matched by a story. Across from him sat the young woman in question, while a little girl of four set up a line of dolls on the cushions at his side.
“Tasha,” her mother sighed. “Mr. Cardinal does not want to play dolls with you anymore.”
The little girl lifted her chin, lower lip jutting forward in defiance. “Does too, Mama.”
Bear grinned, moving his arm as she set another doll at his side. “It’s alright,” he said. “I grew up with a sister and I have a niece a few years older than Tasha.” He winked at the little girl. “She used to put bows in my hair sometimes, so I’ve had lots of practice.” He brushed his hands over the back of his neck where his hair ended. “Not sure it’s long enough anymore though.”
The little girl giggled. “That’s silly.”
“Honey, please,” her mother said. “Mr. Cardinal and I need to talk a little more.”
“I’m pretty much done,” Bear said, turning to Tasha’s mother. “Thank you again for your time.”
“It’s no problem at all. I’m glad you came.”
Brandy Suarez was beautiful and younger than he’d expected her to be—twenty-eight or twenty-nine at most—with a lush mane of black hair, and full lips. Golden hoop earrings hung from multiple-pierced ears, her t-shirt and yoga pants barely containing the lush sexuality of her figure. Bear recognized her shapely form from a series of prints and one large painting he’d seen of George Westerberg’s New York series. They’d been created in the years after his drawing of Aimee. But she wasn’t the ‘untitled’ woman any longer. She and her daughter, Tasha, were the reason Westerberg’s will had been such a complicated mess. The little girl was the recipient of the mysterious trust fund which no one seemed able to explain.
The little girl looked up at Bear. “Do you know how to braid hair?” Tasha asked. “I have a brush.”
“Not well,” Bear said. “But I can try.”
“Tasha,” her mother groaned. “No more dolls.”
“I’ll get some barrettes!” she announced, bounding from the room.
The young woman slid her chair closer. “I hope that nothing I said to you about George messes things up with Tasha’s fund. I’d like her to go to college someday; do something with her life.”
“I’m not a lawyer,” Bear said. “But no. I’m pretty sure that the trust Mr. Westerberg set up for Tasha isn’t going to change because of any of this. You’ll still be cared for.” He glanced around the room. It was decorated with second-half castoffs and mismatched furniture. The sight of it angered him. Tasha Suarez had every bit as much right to George’s estate as his legitimate daughter did.
“Besides,” Bear added. “Mrs. Westerberg-Kinney was the one who gave me your name. She wouldn’t have told me if she didn’t understand.”
“But what about George’s widow?” she asked in a quiet voice. “She never knew. George insisted on that.”
“I don’t think that Ms. Tessier will want to challenge anything to do with the trust.” He shrugged. “I don’t know for sure, of course, but it just doesn’t seem like her.”
Brandy’s expression tightened in concern. “So, you are going to tell her?”
Bear let the thought sit for a moment before answering. There was a choice—there always was—but he hadn’t even considered the alternative. Jacqueline was determined to prove that Aimee wasn’t the love of George’s life, and Aimee was determined to preserve George’s legacy. What did Bear want from the entire process?
The answer came to him in an instant. He wanted what he always did when he wrote: The truth.
“I think she deserves to know,” he said slowly. “Even if it hurts. It’s better in the long run.”
Brandy frowned. “I guess.”
“And as long as you’re okay with it,” Bear said, “I’d like to include your side of the story too.” He tapped the notebook. “It’s another chapter in George Westerberg’s life. No better, no worse than the rest,” he said with a weary laugh. “I just want to tell the truth.”
“Then you should know it wasn’t always like this.” She nodded to the shabby room and peeling wallpaper. “It was better before. George made sure of it.”
“Before?”
She picked at the peeling polish of her fingernails. “Things were easier before George died. He used to send me money. I had a nicer place then. An apartment downtown, with a park next door. Tasha loved it. But after he died, I had to be smart.”
“You moved here instead.”
“Not ’cause I wanted to,” she hastily added. “It’s just the money stopped, and what little I had put away wasn’t gonna go very far. I couldn’t very well ask George’s family to help.” She nodded at the open doorway where her daughter had disappeared a moment before. “Tasha’s what matters. She’s the reason I keep going.” She sighed. “But I still miss George, you know?”
She turned away from Bear, staring out the scoured window to the street. Her hands were clasped tight in her lap, her throat bobbing.
“I never wanted to hurt anybody.” Her words were so quiet Bear almost missed them.
“I didn’t think you did.”
She turned back to him and smiled sadly. “George never said anything bad about Aimee, you know? We were just something on the side.” She tipped her head and her earrings twirled. “A little New York flavour, when George needed—”
Her words came to an abrupt stop as Tasha skipped back into the room. “I found them!” she squealed.
Bear lifted the nearest doll. “Let’s see if I can remember how,” he murmured as he plaited the hair into a quick French braid. “Aha! Done. There you go,” he said, handing it back. “But you have to put in the bow yourself.”
“Thanks, Bear!”
“Mr. Cardinal, Tasha.”
Bear smiled and eased himself up from the low couch. Brandy followed, wringing her hands as he gathered his notepad and slid on his jacket. The cab would be long gone, but he needed some time to think. Decide what he wanted to do next. A walk to the nearest busy street would help with that. Jacqueline wasn’t going to be happy with this story either. She knew about Brandy, but not about the daughter, or the trust fund. He followed Brandy to the door, rolling the various ways it could play out over and over in his mind.
“Can you tell her something for me?”
“Jacqueline?” Bear asked, pulled from his thoughts.
“No. Not her,” she said. “His widow, Aimee.”
Bear didn’t answer right away. “I guess,” he said slowly.
Brandy nodded to her daughter. “Tell her that the first name George suggested when Tasha was born was Amy.” Tears glittered along her lower lids, her voice dropping quietly. “And I loved George. I really did. But I couldn’t let him call her that.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Aimee moved around the hospital room on tiptoes. Visiting hours at the Foothills hospital were long over, but she’d been talking to the officer at seven, and the nurses had given her the go-ahead to stay afterwards. The room purred and hummed like a contented cat. Machines whooshed in time to their own tempo, filling it with a steady pulse. There was no hint of George—he’d always hated hospitals and doctors—and Aimee briefly considered staying all night, but she knew there was no time to waste.
She had a meeting planned with Magda first thing tomorrow.
Aimee slid her jacket on, then placed the handwritten note on her mother’s bedside table. She leaned over the bed and pressed a kiss to Claudine’s wrinkled forehead.
“Night, Mom.”
Claudine’s face was mottled with bruises, her throat hidden beneath a white collar. The sight of it was enough to bring a fresh wave of tears.
“Love you,” Aimee whispered.
Her mother stirred. She opened groggy eyes, fumbling to grasp Aimee’s hand. “Where are you going?” she asked in a hoarse voice.
“I’ve got to put the apartment back together,” she said tiredly. “The super asked me to call him as soon as I got back in.”
“But George!” her mother gasped. “Won’t he find you?”
“George follows me, so it doesn’t really matter where I am.” She blinked back tears. “I can’t go anywhere he won’t be.”
Her mother’s face contracted in pain. “Oh Aimee!”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, though it felt like a lie. “I’m going to Magda’s tomorrow. If George shows up, I’ll deal with it.” She forced a smile. “Don’t worry.”
Two heavy tears rolled down the sides of Claudine’s face. “I’d rather you stay here,” she said slowly. Her pupils were dilated with the effect of the pain meds and Aimee could tell it was an effort for her to stay awake. “You could sleep in the chair.”
“I can’t. I need to get ready.”
“You could,” Claudine said, her lids fluttering closed for a second, then opening again. “Stay, ma petite. For me.”
“I’m sorry, Mom, but I’m going to have to deal with this at some point. Might as well be now. Besides,” Aimee said, “I haven’t felt George around since he attacked you.” She squeezed her mother’s hands. “It’s okay. Promise.”
“Okay.” Her mother nodded, and closed her eyes.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” Aimee said, tiptoeing across the room. “I’ll tell you what Magda says.”
She pushed open the door, almost missing her mother’s parting words. “Just be careful.”
“I will,” Aimee said, then slipped out of the room.
—
Calgary never slept. The ring roads and thoroughfares buzzed with traffic, a chain of fireflies passing in the night, as Aimee took the cab back downtown. She paid for the ride, and stepped out onto the street, looking both directions. There was a handful of rowdy, late-night revellers having a smoke outside a bar a few doors up, and a man digging through a garbage dumpster in the alley. These were the people Aimee usually avoided when she came home late, but tonight they gave her a degree of comfort. She hesitated just outside the doorway to her building, until one of the men at the bar looked up, and caught her eye. He shouted out an obscene invite, and Aimee stepped inside. She didn’t want trouble.
