The local news was showing a story. The caption SON WALKS IN DURING MOTHER’S MURDER was splashed across the bottom of the screen in large capital letters.
Allie moved to the television to get a better look. On the screen, neighbors milled about on the sidewalk in front of a ranch-style house. An attractive female reporter stood next to a tall oak tree, her hair blowing in the evening breeze. “As we reported earlier, thirty-one-year-old Lucy DeWalt, local and single mother, was stabbed thirty-two times in her home and found by her twelve-year-old son as she . . .”
Memories of the things Allie had witnessed her mother and brother do flashed in front of her eyes. Her knees went weak. “Where did that happen?” Allie whispered.
Miss Bitty spoke, quietly, without taking her eyes off the television. “Truro.” Truro was three towns from Grand Trespass. It was where Sherwood Foods was located.
“Things like this don’t happen here. Uh-uh. Not in this neighborhood,” a heavyset woman holding a pajama-clad toddler was saying on the television. “It’s really frightening. Not knowing what your neighbors are into. Makes you wonder just who people really are.”
There was a sudden noise—sharp and loud—from the back of the house. Allie jumped and her nostrils filled with gunpowder.
The gunshot . . . Her brother falling to the floor.
That final night with her brother flashed in her head again, as vivid as if it were actually happening. She began to shake.
Heavy footsteps bounded swiftly toward the women. A few seconds later, Big Joe walked in with his jug of green smoothie. Seeing the women, he smiled.
Allie wanted to scream at him for continuing to open the door so loudly. For just barreling in like a bull in a china shop and nearly giving her a heart attack. He’d frightened her over a dozen of times by doing it. But she managed to bite her tongue. She was already on very rocky ground and she knew it.
“Joe, you have to stop doing that,” Bitty snapped. “Rushing through the door like you’re going to tear it down. The girl undoubtedly has post-traumatic stress syndrome, and you scare the bejeezus out of her every time you do that.”
It was the first time Allie had seen the woman angry at someone. The first time she’d ever seen her lose her cool.
Joe’s smile disappeared. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to remember.”
Miss Bitty’s hands went to her hips. “Look, Joe. There are things we try to do and things we just do. Don’t try. Do it.”
“Okay.”
Bitty crossed her arms. When she spoke next, her tone was softer. “I apologize for raising my voice, Joe. Please forgive me.”
“No, you’re fine. I’m really sorry. I’ll take more care when walking into the house.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
Miss Bitty turned to Allie. “You’re still shivering. Go take a warm bath and get some pajamas on. I’ll be in soon.”
A few minutes later, Allie sat in the bath with hot water trickling between her toes. She curled and straightened them under the soothing spray and tried to think of absolutely nothing, like Miss Bitty had shown her the week she’d moved in.
When a memory of the nasty words that had been said at the supermarket tried to needle its way through, she visualized a big red “Stop” sign and the thought melted away. It worked most of the time. The times it didn’t, though, she found herself wanting to just disappear.
She didn’t want a job anymore. Leaving the house was just too hard. Maybe she could stay home and help Miss Bitty. The woman probably could use more help—and Allie was willing to do anything she wanted her to do. Anything not to have to spend much time in public again. To be on display.
She stayed in the bathtub until her fingertips puckered, then climbed out and wrapped her cotton bathrobe around herself. Shuffling out of the bathroom, she found Bitty sitting on her bed, smiling.
The woman patted the down-turned bed. “Get in.”
Allie crawled in and the old woman held out two pills and a glass, then set an unmarked bottle of pills on the nightstand.
“Take two of these twice a day without food and make sure to keep drinking your green drinks every morning.”
“What are they?” Allie asked, taking the pills. She set down the glass of water.
“Aminos. They should help with your anxiety. And if they don’t, just tell me and we’ll try something different.” Miss Bitty grabbed her hands again. “You’re a good girl. You’re nothing like what that nasty man said you are. He doesn’t know you. He just knows the unspeakable things your family did.”
Allie nodded.
“I also want to address something you said in the car,” she continued, concern creasing her old face. “You said some really harsh things about yourself. Like how you think you’re hideous and ugly, and how you just don’t belong anywhere. Were you just upset, or do you really think those things?”
Allie stared at the woman. “Well, don’t you?”
“Think those things?” Miss Bitty frowned. “Of course not.”
“But when I got here, you said . . .”
“I said what?”
“The morning you introduced me to Joe. You said I was ugly.”
The old woman looked perplexed at first, but then realization slowly crept into her eyes. “Oh Allie! That was more of a figure of speech than anything. You were behaving so rudely, so yes, I saw ugliness. I was making a point . . . and a good one.” She paused and squeezed Allie’s hand. “But my God, I used the wrong words and I’m so sorry. I don’t, for an instant, want you to believe such things about yourself, you hear me?”
Allie was confused.
“Honestly, attitude, and behavior aside . . . if we’re just talking about physical features, you’re gorgeous.” She took Allie’s face in her hands. “I mean, look at you. You are one of the most physically attractive young women I’ve ever seen. It’s just when you’re acting ugly, your behavior overwhelms those features. Makes you much less appealing.”
She’s lying to you. You’re hideous and you know it.
“But my mother even told me I was ugly.” Actually, she still does.