40. Lena

40

LENA

M y cell phone’s ringtone jolts me awake. My stomach dips when I see Mrs. Wilson’s name on the screen. Taking a deep breath, I answer.

“Lena? Oh, thank goodness.” Mrs. Wilson’s voice trembles. “Richard’s missing. He didn’t come home last night. I-I need you to come back. Please.”

My fingers tighten around the phone. Talon shifts beside me, his eyes opening to study my expression.

“He’s just... gone?” I keep my voice steady, channeling the innocent concern I’ve practiced my whole life.

“The police are here. They’re asking questions. I don’t know what to do.” She breaks into sobs. “Jamie’s too far away to get back this weekend. He got a job in Los Angeles. I need you, dear. You’re part of this family.”

Family. The word tastes bitter in my mouth after everything they put me through. But I have to play my part.

“Of course, I’ll come right away.” I glance at Talon, who nods slightly. “Give me a couple hours to drive up.”

After hanging up, I press my forehead against Talon’s chest. “I have to go back.”

“Be careful.” His fingers trace my spine. “Remember what we practiced. You’re worried and confused. You haven’t heard from him.”

“I know.” I pull away and start gathering my things. “But facing Mrs. Wilson... after what we did...”

“You can handle this,” Talon’s voice says with absolute certainty. “You’ve fooled them your whole life. One more performance.”

I pack clothes for two days, my makeup bag, and toiletries. My hands shake slightly as I zip up the overnight bag, but I force them steady. Over the years, I’ve gotten good at controlling my reactions.

“They won’t find anything.” Talon’s voice carries from the doorway, where he leans against the frame, arms crossed. “We were thorough.”

I nod, thinking of the fresh grave next to David’s. Mr. Wilson’s final resting place is marked only by disturbed earth that will soon settle and grow over with grass. No one will think to look there.

“I know.” I check my phone, watching the Uber’s arrival time tick down. “It’s just... seeing Mrs. Wilson again. After everything.”

“Remember who you are now.” Talon crosses the room and cups my face in his hands. “You’re not that scared little girl anymore.”

His touch grounds me and reminds me of my strength and what we’ve accomplished together. I lean into his palm momentarily before pulling away to grab my bag.

My phone buzzes telling me that the Uber has arrived. A black Toyota Camry idles outside our building, ready to make the hour-long drive to Salem—to the house where I endured years of abuse and control. Talon stretches his hand out to me and I pass him my cellphone.

“I’ll be watching,” Talon says as I head for the door. “Always.”

I shoulder my bag and step out into the morning sun. The Uber driver pops the trunk, and I place my bag inside. As I slide into the backseat and give the driver Mrs. Wilson’s address, I glimpse Talon in our apartment window. His presence, even from afar, steels my resolve.

Mr. Wilson won’t be coming home. His body will stay buried deep in that Boston cemetery, his sins covered by six feet of earth. And I’ll play my part as the concerned foster daughter, returning from college to comfort her grieving foster mother.

The Uber crawls to a stop in front of the Wilsons’ house. My stomach churns at the sight of the familiar white colonial with its perfect lawn and manicured hedges. A police car sits in the driveway.

Before I can grab my bag from the trunk, the front door flies open, and Mrs. Wilson rushes out, her silk robe fluttering behind her. Her face is streaked with mascara, and her hair is disheveled—a far cry from her usual polished appearance.

“Oh, Lena!” She throws her arms around me, her designer perfume choking me. “Thank God you’re here!”

Her embrace feels hollow, like every time she’s hugged me over the years. I pat her back awkwardly, noting how her shoulders shake with exaggerated sobs.

“I just don’t understand,” she wails, pulling back to dab at her eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief. “Richard would never just disappear like this. He always tells me where he’s going.”

I force my features into a mask of concern, though my skin crawls at her touch. “When did you last see him?”

“Last night, before I went to my book club. He said he was staying home.” She clutches my arm, her manicured nails digging into my skin. “But when I returned, he was gone, no note, no text. The police say there’s no activity on his credit cards, and his car is still parked in the drive...”

Her voice cracks on the last word, and she collapses against me again. I hold her up, playing the role of the supportive foster daughter while my mind flashes to Talon’s bloody hands, to the fresh dirt of the grave.

“Come inside, dear.” Mrs. Wilson straightens up, suddenly remembering we have an audience. She smooths her robe and attempts a watery smile. “The detective wants to speak with you.”

I follow her up the front steps, my overnight bag heavy in my hand. The house looms over us, holding years of dark secrets behind its pristine facade, just like Mrs. Wilson herself.

Inside, two detectives wait in the living room—a tall woman with cropped gray hair and a younger man taking notes. Mrs. Wilson hovers nearby, wringing her handkerchief.

“Miss Graves?” The female detective extends her hand. “I’m Detective Morris. This is Detective Chen. We’d like to ask you a few questions about Richard Wilson.”

I shake her hand, maintaining the right balance of concern and composure. “Of course. Anything I can do to help.”

“When was the last time you spoke with Mr. Wilson?” Detective Morris’s sharp eyes study my face.

“About two weeks ago.” I twist my hands in my lap. “He called to check how I was settling in at the new apartment. The conversation was brief—five minutes at most.”

Detective Chen’s pen scratches across his notepad. “And what was his demeanor during that call?”

“Normal, I guess.” I furrow my brow as if trying to remember. “He asked about my classes and told me to study hard. Nothing seemed off.”

“When did you last see him in person?”

“Before I left for MIT two months ago,” I say, letting my voice waver slightly. “At the goodbye dinner.”

I pick a loose thread on my sleeve, remembering that last dinner. Mr. Wilson had been drinking heavily, his face flushed as he lectured me about making the family proud at university. The bruises from his last “lesson” were still yellowing on my ribs.

“And how would you describe your relationship with your foster father?” Detective Morris leans forward, her eyes intent.

My fingers are still on the thread. I’ve rehearsed this answer countless times with Talon, crafting the perfect mix of gratitude and distance.

“The Wilsons took me in when I had nowhere else to go,” I begin, meeting Mrs. Wilson’s tearful gaze across the room. “Mr. Wilson was... strict. But he wanted us to succeed. He pushed us to excel in school, to be responsible.”

The words taste like ash in my mouth. I think of the countless nights spent trembling in my room, listening to his heavy footsteps in the hall. He’d grab my arm hard enough to leave marks when I “disappointed” him. And I try not to think of his weight crushing me into the mattress when he raped me that first time.

“Did he ever mention wanting to leave? Any problems at work or at home?” Detective Chen’s pen hovers over his notepad.

I shake my head. “No, nothing like that. He was proud of his position at the bank, always talking about his latest deals.”

Mrs. Wilson dabs at her eyes again. “That’s right. Everything was fine. Perfect, even. I just don’t understand...”

I watch her performance with detached fascination. She’d always been good at playing the devoted wife who turns a blind eye to her husband’s cruelty, but now she plays the grieving spouse just as convincingly.

“Is there anything else you can tell us?” Detective Morris asks. “Any detail, no matter how small, could help.”

“I wish I could be more helpful,” I say softly, letting my shoulders slump. “But I’ve been so focused on starting classes, getting settled in Boston. I haven’t been home much.”

As they leave, the front door shuts behind the detectives, and Mrs. Wilson’s shoulders straighten. Her tear-stained face hardens as she turns to me, all traces of grief vanishing.

“Have you seen Talon lately?” Her voice carries an edge I remember too well.

My heart pounds, but I keep my expression neutral. “Talon? No, not since you kicked him out.”

She studies my face, perfectly manicured nails drumming against her silk robe. “Really? Because Jamie mentioned seeing someone who looked like him near here last month.”

“It couldn’t have been him.” I shrug, forcing myself to meet her gaze steadily. “I haven’t heard from him.”

“Hmm.” She crosses to the drink cart and pours herself a generous measure of gin. “You always were close to him. As we found out, finding him defiling you that night.” She takes a long sip, ice cubes clinking against crystal. “Well, if you hear from him, you’ll let me know immediately. Won’t you, dear?”

The threat in her voice is clear—the same tone she used when covering up her husband’s abuse. I nod, playing the role of the obedient foster daughter one more time.

“Of course, Mrs. Wilson. You’ll be the first to know.”

I follow Mrs. Wilson into the kitchen, my stomach churning as she pulls containers from the fridge. The familiar space feels different now—tainted by what Talon and I did to Mr. Wilson. His favorite chair sits empty at the head of the table.

“I made too much chicken marsala last night,” Mrs. Wilson says, her voice brittle as she transfers food to plates. “I keep forgetting to cook for two.”

The microwave hums as she heats our dinner. I grip the counter’s edge, remembering how Mr. Wilson complained that his food wasn’t at the perfect temperature. How his rage would build over the smallest things.

But killing him... the violence of it floods back. The way Talon’s knife slid into him and mine, the gurgling sounds he made. We should have planned better and been more careful. What if someone saw something? What if they find evidence we missed?

“Sit, dear.” Mrs. Wilson sets the steaming plates on the table. “You must be hungry after the journey.”

I sink into my old spot across from where Mr. Wilson always sat. The chicken marsala smells rich and buttery, but my appetite has vanished. Each bite feels like sawdust in my mouth.

“I just keep thinking he’ll walk through that door,” Mrs. Wilson says, pushing food around her plate. “Demanding his dinner, complaining about work...”

The weight of our actions settles over me like a heavy blanket. We acted on rage and impulse, and now we must live with the consequences.