“Why two bags?” she asked.
“Always bring a backup, just in case,” he said. “Like astronauts in NASA.”
“Let’s go,” she said. “Straight through the light across Coleman Boulevard.”
As he pulled out and they drove into the Old Village, Abby slumped low in her seat.
“Do you have the number of the pay phone?” she asked.
“It’s taped to the baggie,” he said.
She opened the glove compartment and took both bags.
“I don’t know why I can’t park there and wait,” he said.
“Because in this part of town, they call the police when they see a strange car,” she said. “Pull over here.”
A wedding reception was being held at Alhambra Hall, and cars were parked all the way down the street. Abby stuffed both baggies in her pockets and got out of the minivan. Brother Lemon cruised away, brake lights flaring at the corner, and then he was gone.
Abby walked up the line of cars toward Pierates Cruze. Inside Alhambra a band was playing a beach version of “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” and the guy doing the whistling wasn’t bad. Abby let the noise fade behind her in the dark as she walked past the park, beneath the live oaks, and onto the Cruze.
When she got to Gretchen’s house, she noticed Mrs. Lang’s Volvo in the driveway, but not Mr. Lang’s Mercedes. She hoped that meant they’d gone to a friend’s house to watch the Clemson/Carolina game, along with everyone else in the Old Village. Mr. Lang was a Clemson grad, and for a game this big, Abby knew that parents liked to hole up together somewhere; the men would get drunk while the women fluttered around the kitchen.
Abby slipped around the side of the house and snuck into the backyard. The upstairs was lit up, but downstairs was dark. She could see light all through the second story, shining in every window, throwing big bright rectangles across the yard. It made the harbor look blacker in comparison.
Abby watched the windows of the house, trying to see if anyone besides Gretchen was home. A cold wind cut through her jacket, and she started to shiver. Somewhere in the dark, she heard an owl. After a while she crept to the front door, expecting yard lights to pop on at any minute and pin her to the grass.
Nothing happened, and she made it to the door. Slowly, she pressed down the handle and felt the latch turn, then click open. She pushed the door, breaking the seal as quietly as she could, and then slipped inside, closing the door behind her.
It was cold inside, colder than it had been before. Abby didn’t know how anyone could live like this. Almost immediately, she started shivering.
She slipped into the dark living room and advanced toward the kitchen, where she hoped to find a bottle of Diet Coke in the refrigerator. Gretchen was constantly drinking Diet Coke, and Abby planned to empty the contents of one baggie into a two-liter bottle. Then maybe Gretchen would drink enough and pass out. And then maybe Abby could get her out of the house before Gretchen’s parents came home and drank the drugged Diet Coke themselves.
It was a terrible plan, but Abby was all out of clever.
Something barked behind her. Abby jumped and her nerves caught on fire. Silhouetted in the light from the hall was Max, staring into the living room, his eyes fixed on Abby. While she watched, he barked again.
“Max,” she whispered, “it’s me.”
She squatted down and held out one hand, trembling from the cold. Max cocked his head.
“Max,” she whispered. “Good dog. Good dog, Max.”
He barked again, but it was a qualified bark this time. More of a “whuf?”
Upstairs, she heard footsteps. Abby froze.
“Max?” Gretchen called down. “Who’s there?”
“Max,” Abby whispered, “come here, Max. Shhh . . .”
More footsteps as Gretchen walked to the head of the stairs. Abby crept backward, retreating into the darkness of the living room, squeezing between the end of the sofa and the wall, ducking down.
“Who’s here, Max?” Gretchen called. Abby could hear her coming down the stairs. She pressed herself tighter into the corner. Gretchen wouldn’t see her if she stayed out of the living room. Max’s collar jingled as he trotted toward Abby, pressing his muzzle into her face, licking her lips.
“Go away, Max,” she whispered. “Go, go, go.”
The dog stuck his snuffling nose into her chest.
“Please, Max,” Abby whispered. “Go.”
“Who’s down here, Max?” Gretchen said from the bottom of the stairs.
Abby made meaningful eye contact with Max, holding his head, and she stared deep into his eyes and channeled everything she had into conveying to him how very important it was that he go away.
“Go,” she whispered into his ear.
“Come here, Max,” Gretchen called. Max whipped his head around, as if hearing her for the first time, and raced out of the living room. “Good dog, Max. Come with me.”
There was the sound of something clicking, a rattle and a jangle of Max’s dog tags, and then Gretchen and Max were running up the stairs together. Abby sagged, then she heaved herself up out of the crack and raced to the kitchen. The light over the sink was on. She opened the fridge.
Everything was rotten. The food had decayed into mush or dried into brown scraps. The only intact items were six two-liter bottles of Diet Coke, the first one cloudy with greasy handprints. She was reaching for it when she heard Gretchen’s bare feet come
galloping downstairs again. Abby closed the fridge and spun, taking three long steps and slipping into the dark doorway of the TV room, just as Gretchen entered the kitchen through the living room.
Backing up into darkness, Abby bumped into the ottoman where the Langs kept all their magazines and fell backward. Tightening her legs, she managed to fall in slow motion, catching herself and a copy of European Travel & Life before it hit the floor. Frozen, bent over backward, she listened.
In the kitchen, Gretchen opened the fridge door, then a cabinet. The ice maker growled and Abby used its noise for cover, sinking slowly onto the leather ottoman as Gretchen finished plinking ice into her glass. Abby crept to the door.
Gretchen was standing at the counter, her back to Abby, wearing shorts and a tank top. She had a glass out, full of ice, and the bottle of Diet Coke stood next to it. She pulled out a wrinkled dried lemon from a line of rotting fruit on the window ledge, then rattled open a drawer and slid out a broad, gleaming butcher’s knife. Holding the dried lemon steady on the counter, Gretchen started to saw through it, but then her head snapped up and she sniffed the air. Turning, she looked directly at Abby, then she turned the other way and looked into the dark living room.
“Who’s here?” she asked. “I can smell you.”
She padded toward the dark living room, butcher knife gripped in one hand, and disappeared. Quickly, Abby tiptoed to the sink, pulling the baggie of powder out of her waistband. She dumped the entire packet into the glass. It was supposed to have been enough for two liters of Coke, but Abby didn’t care, she just wanted to get it in. She stirred the clumped powder with one finger, and ice tinkled gently against the glass.
“Abby?”
The footsteps were coming back, padding quickly, and Abby started for the TV room.
“Are you here, Abby?” Gretchen called from the TV room.
Abby backtracked so fast her shoes almost slipped out from underneath her. Six quick steps and she was in the dark living room as she heard Gretchen coming through the kitchen, right on her heels. Abby kept going, moving as fast and quiet as she could, slipping into the front hall just as Gretchen snapped on the lights in the living room behind her.
It was close. She might not make it out the front door before Gretchen, but she had to get outside, get out of this freezing house, get away from Gretchen. She turned the handle. The door was locked. The deadbolt needed a key. Abby spun around to search the hall table.