Authors: Elizabeth Woods
Choker (23 page)
Cara stared into the dark cave of her arms. She could hear one of them scribbling on a pad.
Dad cleared his throat. “It, ah, really became clear to us that something needed to be done when a neighbor saw Cara poisoning a dog that lived on our block when Cara was in the fifth grade. The dog had bitten her earlier in the week.” His mouth was a grim line. “Whenever Cara would have a hard time, she’d start talking about Zoe again. Finally, after the dog incident, we thought she might do better with a change of environment. That’s when we moved here.”
Cara raised her head. Her face was stiff with dried tears. “It was Zoe’s idea!” she cried. “She was the one who stole the poison.”
“Cara, Cara.” Mom patted her on the shoulder. She turned to Stanton, who wore a neutral expression. “I don’t want you to think we’re negligent, officer. Cara actually did quite well after we moved. We had her see an excellent psychiatrist, Dr. Robert Samuels, and she was given some new medication that seemed to clear up the delusions. But . . . I think things have been hard for Cara at school this year, and she must have stopped taking her medication.”
Stanton stopped writing and looked up. “And how do you know that, Mrs. Lange?”
Her mother hesitated and glanced at her father, who nodded. She pulled a little silk pouch out of her purse.
“Give me that!” Cara grabbed at it. Fitzgerald stepped forward half a foot. Cara subsided back into her chair. Her mother continued.
“I found about three weeks’ worth of pills in Cara’s jewelry box when we arrived home.” She emptied the pouch onto the table. Little blue pills ran bouncing off the edges and rolled into the grimy corners of the room.
“It was all Zoe’s fault! She did everything. She begged me to hide her!” Cara shouted. She swiped her hand across the table, scattering the few pills that remained. One rolled into Stanton’s lap. Stanton stared at it dispassionately for a moment before plucking it out of her lap between thumb and forefinger and depositing it on the table.
“Honey, Zoe isn’t real. She’s in your head.” Her mother placed a hand on top of hers and squeezed.
Cara jerked her hand away. Her mother’s touch was irritatingly soft. “How can you say she’s not real, Mom, when she’s been living in my room for the last few weeks?” She stared defiantly at her parents, waiting for their look of surprise, then anger. But instead, all she saw was sadness on their faces. Her father glanced significantly at the officers. Stanton laid down her pen.
Just then, the radio sitting on the table crackled. Fitzgerald brought it up to his ear and listened attentively. Cara strained to make out the voice on the other end, but she couldn’t. “Got it,” Fitzgerald said. He slid the radio onto his belt. “They ran the name,” he said to Stanton. “There’s no Zoe Davis in the system. Only one set of prints in the barn. All matching those of Cara Lange. And the pearl found in Cara’s pocket matches too. Alexis Henning’s necklace.”
Stanton nodded and pushed her metal chair back with a screech. She stood up. “Mr. Lange, Mrs. Lange, we need to inform you also that the finger marks found on Alexis Henning’s neck correspond to similar marks on Sydney Powers,” she said. “We didn’t have conclusive evidence before, just suspicions. In such cases, we prefer not to share those details with the public. But with this new evidence, Sydney’s cause of death is being changed from accidental drowning to suspected homicide.”
Cara’s parents gasped. Mom pressed her hand to her mouth. Cara stood up, knocking her chair over. Stanton and Fitzgerald snapped to attention, their hands going to their belts.
“You’ve always hated Zoe!” Cara shouted. Her voice sounded muffled in the tiny room. “You thought her family wasn’t good enough. But just because you hate her doesn’t mean you can pretend she doesn’t exist. I have proof! I have this picture right here.” From her pocket, she pulled the wrinkled photo of Zoe and her and thrust it into their faces.
But no one moved. The cops glanced at each other. Stanton raised her eyebrows at Fitzgerald. Mom and Dad sat silently, their heads bowed. Cara dropped her arms. The picture fluttered from her slack grasp and fell to the dirty linoleum. Alone on the bicycle, the little girl in the photo grinned out at them all.
Epilogue
O
PRAH WAS INTERVIEWING A CHEF. HE WAS EXPLAINING
why he loved scallions so much. Cara sighed and shifted on the rough, nubbly couch cushion. The couch in the common room gave her a rash on her legs. “Oprah, let me tell you how important it is to get your scallions fresh,” the chef said on the screen. Cara bared her teeth at him and leaned over to grab the economy-size Vaseline from the coffee table in front of her. Lifting each leg, she methodically smeared the grease all up and down the red, abraded streaks on the undersides of her legs.
Besides the faded brown couch she was sitting on, the only other furniture in the common room was a sagging orange love seat and a few spindly folding chairs, all facing the ancient TV. Cara was the only one here. Everyone else was at Physical Activity, but Cara was exempt because she ran on a treadmill each morning. They said the structure was good for her.
Next door, she could hear Wanda wailing. They must be trying to get her dressed again. She’d been wandering down the halls lately with only her pajama top on, insisting she was late for an appointment with Jesus.
“Back after this.” Oprah’s face faded, replaced by the hard-faced weather woman.
“It’s going to be a nasty day out there,” she chirped. “Sleet expected through tomorrow, so remember your mittens!”
Cara’s gaze wandered to the single window. The glass was green-tinted and double thick, reinforced with wire mesh. She certainly wouldn’t be out in the sleet today.
Oprah was introducing a makeup artist when Phyllis bustled in through the open door. “Meds!” the nurse caroled. Today her scrubs had little teddy bears scattered all over them. Cara clicked off Oprah.
“How are you today, Miss Cara?” Phyllis asked. She drew back the curtains a little more, allowing in a feeble trickle of light. “Feeling a little more cheerful?”
Cara mustered up the obligatory smile. “Oh sure,” she said. She held out her hand, and Phyllis deposited three pills onto her palm. Blue, white, and pink. Cara put them on her tongue. Phyllis put a paper cup of water in her hand, and Cara took it. She propped her feet on the coffee table and stared at the black TV screen while the nurse, sensing her mood, turned toward the door. “Art therapy at one,” she said over her shoulder. With a huge effort, Cara turned her head and nodded. She smiled again, and Phyllis, apparently satisfied, smiled back and retreated.
Cara picked up the remote again when Phyllis’s rubber-soled footsteps squeaked back down the hall toward the common room. She popped her head in the door. “Aren’t you going to eat something?”
Cara looked at the wall clock. Noon. She ate lunch at this time every day, even though she was never hungry. Sometimes she talked to the other patients, but on days when everyone was at Physical Activity, she ate alone, which she preferred anyway. She heaved herself up from the couch. “Okay.”
Phyllis led Cara down the hall to the small linoleum-floored room that served as the cafeteria. She left Cara at the door and went into the nurses’ station next door, to mark charts at the desk. Cara, her gaze downcast, chose a chair and sat. She stared down at the sad plate of peas and chicken Phyllis had set out for her.
“Careful not to choke,” a familiar, gravelly voice said.
Cara’s breath stopped. She looked up to see violet eyes and a swath of shiny jet-black hair.
“Listen, I’m really sorry about the way everything turned out,” Zoe went on, taking the seat across from Cara in the empty room. “But look on the bright side.” A smile curled across her perfect pink lips. “Now we have plenty of time to catch up.”
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