Unbroken Page 23

  Her clearest, most reasonable thought was that this was just part of her recovery from surgery. The operation had to have changed her in some fundamental ways, but maybe these changes were more serious than her doctors or she suspected.

  As scary as that thought was, it made sense.

  Even if the tumor they’d removed wasn’t cancerous, it must have been putting pressure on other parts of her brain. Depending on how long it had been there, over the years the undetected growth must have forced her brain to function in certain ways. Now that the pressure was relieved, it was inevitable that she would perceive things differently.

  That made perfect sense, but it wasn’t just worrying about her physical health. There were other things weighing her down that she needed to sort out. For one, she still hadn’t fully dealt with her reaction to Liz’s death.

  Her murder, she reminded herself.

  She’d been so preoccupied with her surgery and recovery she hadn’t had time to grieve. To the best of her knowledge, the police still hadn’t made much—if any—progress finding the killer. She couldn’t talk to Jon about it because, frankly, she was afraid of him. Her impression was that the police were treating this as a simple robbery that had gone wrong. They were doing their best to solve the crime, working with the state investigative unit, but until they actually had her killer behind bars, no one—not she or Jon or anyone else—had any sense of closure.

  Kiera still couldn’t think about Jon without shuddering at the memory of what he had said to her the day of Liz’s funeral. How could he come on to her like that as if he hadn’t just buried his wife? It was beyond insensitive—it was downright creepy. If he thought for one second they could somehow rekindle their relationship, he was seriously deluded. Every hour, awake or asleep, she dreaded hearing the phone ring because it might be him, wanting to talk to her.

  As for Robbie Townsend’s death . . . as guilty as she felt about it, she had to be honest with herself and admit that she was relieved, almost happy when she’d heard the news. Of course, she had to express sympathy and concern for Trista’s loss, but the tension and distance between her and her daughter were getting to be too much to bear. Things were only worse now that she was convinced her daughter was pregnant. When she was honest with herself, Kiera had to admit to herself that she had neither the energy nor the desire even to try to repair the damage to her relationship both with Trista and Nate.

  Following the surgery, she felt in so many ways as if she literally had become a different person. It didn’t help that she was hallucinating and having dreams that were much too vivid to be just dreams. She wanted to believe she had imagined what had happened yesterday, before the cops came, when her image reflected in the window hadn’t moved when she moved and then actually spoke to her. There was no other way to look at it. She had engaged in a two-way conversation . . . with herself. The added pressure of suspecting Nate was fooling around behind her back—maybe even with one of his students!—and the strong indication that Trista was pregnant made her feel like she was about to lose her mind . . . if she hadn’t already.

  Was she schizophrenic or suffering from some kind of psychosis or other mental disease?

  When she got out of bed in the morning, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was lurking nearby, watching her. She was terrified that, any time she turned around and looked anywhere in the house or out a window, she would see something that the rational part of her brain would tell her couldn’t possibly be real.

  No matter what else she thought, she was absolutely convinced that what had happened yesterday had been real. She had no doubt that if she looked in any window or mirror in the house, she would see that part of her she had lost. Someone or something was definitely close by, just out of sight, and it drove her crazy that she couldn’t figure out what it was. All she had to do, she told herself, was adjust her senses a little . . . just shift the way she looked at things, and she would see and hear her other self.

  But if there really was a piece of her that had somehow separated from her, what was she trying to tell herself? And why, after all these years, was she still so obsessed about what had happened to Billy all those years ago?

  She wished she could ignore these thoughts, but she couldn’t push them aside as she went downstairs and busied herself with making breakfast for Nate. He was already in the shower, getting ready to go to school. He had come home at some ungodly hour last night, well past midnight. Kiera had been lying awake in bed for hours, trying to fall asleep when she heard him clumping around downstairs. At one point, she’d heard a glass clink and knew he was pouring a drink. When he had finally come to bed, she had pretended to be asleep, but she had noticed that after he washed up and got into bed with her, he never said a word to her . . . not even a kiss and a whispered, “Good night.” Lying on his side with his back to her, he had fallen asleep long before Kiera had finally drifted off.

  “I’m losing it . . . I’m really losing it,” she whispered. Her vision blurred with tears as she filled the coffee carafe with water and then dropped two slices of bread into the toaster. In spite of the gnawing coldness in her stomach, she didn’t really feel like eating. She couldn’t even muster up enough enthusiasm to make breakfast for Nate before he went off to work. He could make do with a bowl of cold cereal. As for Trista, Kiera wasn’t sure if she had come home or spent the night with a friend. If she was home, Kiera figured she’d spend the day in her bedroom.

  And where does that leave me? she wondered as she mechanically moved around the kitchen, barely paying attention to what she was doing. The toast popped . . . the coffee started to sputter in the carafe . . . the sound of running water from upstairs cut off, and all the while, the apprehension winding up inside her got steadily worse.

  Something was going to happen, and soon.

  Who can I talk to? she wondered.

  There had to be someone she trusted enough to confess to about what she was going through . . . but who? One by one, she went through her family members, friends, doctors, even the minister of the church she had stopped attending many years ago. There wasn’t a single person she felt comfortable about approaching.

  That left her with just one thought.

  Looking up, she stared at her reflection in the kitchen window over the sink. The bright daylight washed out most of the details, making her appear transparent, and that’s exactly how she felt—like a ghost that was fading away. She studied the thin line of her mouth and the narrowed, worried squint of her eyes. She held her breath and stared at herself, waiting for her reflection to move independently of her, but both she and her reflection remained motionless, staring into each other’s eyes until she lost all sense of who or what she was, herself or her reflection.

  “Ummm . . . that smells good.”

  Nate’s voice, speaking suddenly behind her, surprised Kiera, so she let out a tiny squeak of surprise as she spun around to see her husband.

  They locked eyes for a moment, but then Kiera turned away. It unnerved her to realize that she couldn’t stand to look at him right now. What she really wanted to do was ask him where he had been so late last night, but she was afraid if she spoke now, she would scream at him and tell him to get out of the house and leave her alone.

  A surge of irrational anger swept over her like a fast-moving thunderstorm. Her body was trembling as she stepped to one side so Nate could pour himself a cup of coffee.

  “You eat already?” he asked, his voice sounding oh so casual as he spooned sugar into the cup, added milk, and stirred.

  “Not really,” Kiera said hollowly.

  She was staring at the window again, looking past her reflection to the yard beyond.

  Is that what I’ve become in my own home . . . ? A fading ghost . . . ? She struggled to control the emotions welling up inside her. No kiss? . . . Not even a touch or a quick peck on the cheek? . . . I might as well not even be here.

  Nate was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. What would it
matter if she just disappeared? He and Trista and everyone else in her life would get along just fine without her . . . maybe even better.

  “This for me?” Nate asked, indicating the toast when it popped.

  Kiera bit down on her lower lip to keep from saying something she might regret and nodded.

  “Thanks.” He grabbed the two slices and put them on a paper plate. “You having anything?”

  “Not just yet,” Kiera said, amazed that she could speak at all.

  She was still staring out the window, past her ghostly reflection, when a crazy thought entered her mind. She was suddenly convinced that she wasn’t looking at her reflection in the window; she was seeing a version of herself that was standing on the back lawn and gazing back at her in the kitchen. And Kiera thought that this person who looked like her and moved like her really was her. It didn’t make rational sense, but she was sure that the “her” she thought she was, the person standing by the sink in the kitchen, was no longer the real “her.”

  2

  Kiera squealed and jumped when the telephone rang. She hadn’t been able to eat breakfast and was lying on the couch, trying to quiet the thoughts that still raged in her head. She grabbed the phone and looked at the caller ID, surprised to see that no number was displayed.

  Probably a telemarketer, she thought as she considered whether or not she would answer it. The phone rang a second time and, not wanting to disturb Trista, who might be in her room asleep, Kiera pressed the Talk button.

  “Hello?” she said. Her throat was so constricted she thought her voice sounded like someone else’s.

  There was a moment of silence when the caller didn’t say anything. Kiera was about to hang up when she heard . . . something . . . a faint noise like a long, low sigh.

  “Hello,” she said again as a chill rippled up the back of her neck.

  The person on the line sighed again, louder this time. The sound made Kiera’s stomach lurch as icy cold rushed up into her chest.

  “Who is this?” she said, but no answer came.

  She wanted to hang up, but she pressed the phone to her ear, straining to hear. After another few seconds that seemed to stretch into minutes, a voice spoke; but it sounded faraway, and she couldn’t make out what it said.

  “We must have a bad connection,” Kiera said, but even as she said it she knew that wasn’t the case.

  The voice spoke again—or was still speaking—but no matter how hard she strained to catch even a word or two, Kiera couldn’t make out anything. The dense, muffled silence seemed to mock her. Kiera wanted to believe this was a prank call, but she knew better.

  “I’m hanging up now,” she said. “Don’t call again,” but before she took the phone away from her ear, a single word came through to her.

  “Don’t.”

  It was so faint she thought she must have imagined it, but the tension in her stomach intensified.

  “Who is this? What do you want?” she whispered. She was trying to keep her voice down so she wouldn’t disturb Trista, who was still in bed.

  Again, the voice spoke, but Kiera still couldn’t make out anything. She was convinced that, whoever this was, they were trying to tell her something important. She thought she caught the words “meet me” but wasn’t sure.

  “Are you on a cell? Call me back. Maybe you’ll get a better connection.”

  She thought the person said, “not much time,” but again wasn’t sure. She braced herself and said, “Call me back. I want to talk to you,” but she wasn’t sure she really wanted to. The voice conveyed a sense of urgency, of desperation and confusion that matched her own. Her hand was trembling as she pressed the button to disconnect. Her shoulders dropped as she exhaled and slumped back against the couch, staring blankly ahead.

  Will they call back? she wondered as she squeezed the phone in her hand. She was almost convinced she had imagined what had just happened, that she had fallen asleep on the couch and dreamed it. She was waiting for a call that was never going to come.

  The living room glowed with warm, golden sunlight. Kiera could tell it was going to be a beautiful day. Nothing in the room looked out of place, but somehow, everything was . . . wrong, somehow. The living room looked foreign, as if she didn’t belong in it. She was afraid the problem was in her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was close by, wanting to communicate with her. But as nervous and worried as she was, she also was positive at least some of what was wrong wasn’t just in her head.

  It was out there . . . somewhere, and it was trying to find her.

  “What do you want?” she whispered, trembling as she looked at the phone in her hand.

  Just calm down, she told herself, but the feeling of not belonging was getting steadily stronger. The telephone was sweaty in her grip, and as she stared at it, she was filled with a rush of disappointment that the caller hadn’t called back.

  Maybe it had been just a telemarketer who had gone on to the next number on the list. If the call was really important, the person would have called back right away. It could have been anyone—Nate or Jon or maybe Marsha or Joanie, calling to see how she was doing and then deciding not to bother her.

  As much as she wanted to believe that, something deep inside was telling her that something was seriously wrong. The twisting feeling of panic and desperation was so strong inside her she wanted to scream. At the same time, she wished she could curl up somewhere and hide. She jumped when the phone suddenly rang again—once, sharply. The sound drilled her ears.

  “Hello!” she said, practically shouting as she thumbed the Talk button and put the phone to her ear.

  The only sound was the high-pitched buzz of a disconnected call that droned in her ear like an angry wasp. When Kiera swallowed, the sound was distorted over the phone with a curious echo effect, sounding much louder than normal.

  Tears flooded Kiera’s eyes, turning the shadows in the room into gauzy, gray smears that shifted wherever she looked.

  I’m losing my mind, she thought as warm, slick tears streamed down her face. Her hand dropped to her side, and she loosened her grip on the phone. It fell to the floor, hitting the carpet with a hollow thud that sounded faraway.

  Something’s really wrong with my brain.

  As that thought sank in, another thought, even more frightening, rose in her mind, and she was suddenly convinced that the operation hadn’t fixed anything . . . It had only made things worse . . . and now she was going to die.

  3

  Kiera awoke and found that she was lying on the couch in the living room. She blinked her eyes and groaned as she came to. Nate was standing in the doorway. She had no idea what time it was, but the angle of sunlight made her think it was late in the afternoon.

  “What happened?” she asked when she saw his face, pale and blank as he took a step closer to the couch.

  “At school,” Nate said, staring straight ahead as he sat down on the nearest chair. His eyes were bugging from his head, and his lips were thin and compressed against his teeth as he lowered his gaze and shook his head. “We had . . . One of our students . . . a senior . . . died last night.”

  “Oh my God!” Kiera said as she sat up on the couch, forgetting for a moment her own problems. “Who was it? What happened?”

  “Katie Burroughs,” Nate said, barely able to say the name.

  Kiera couldn’t help but notice the way his voice twisted off when he said the name, and the first thought she had was about the highlighted phone number on his computer screen. He covered his face with his hands and shook his head.

  “She—They’re not sure what happened.” His shoulders shivered when he sighed. “Of course, there are rumors she ODed or committed suicide, but the authorities think it might have been a . . . a heart problem. Supposedly, she had a heart murmur when she was a kid, but I . . .” He leaned back in the chair and stared up at the ceiling.

  “That’s so sad,” Kiera said. “I . . . I can’t imagine losing a child like that.”


  Even as she said it, she thought about Trista, who must still be upstairs, wallowing in her own misery. It struck Kiera as sad that she and her daughter hadn’t communicated with any depth since Robbie’s death. In a very real way, she felt as though she, too, had lost her daughter. Maybe the loss wasn’t as final as death, but it was just as real.

  “Her parents . . . They’re divorced, right?”

  Nate visibly tensed as he glanced at her and then nodded. Kiera was positive she saw the guilt written all over him, but she wasn’t about to say anything now.

  Nate took a breath and said, “There’s a memorial service at the high school tonight. We want to help the students—especially the seniors—process this—”

  His voice caught again, and Kiera could see how deeply this was affecting him and couldn’t help but wonder if it was Katie, not Teresa Burroughs, he’d been seeing. She was convinced it was one or the other.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” she asked.

  Nate raised his gaze and looked at her, confusion on his face.

  “What do you mean?”

  “To the memorial. Tonight. If you want me to, I’ll come with you.”

  Nate let out another long sigh as he leaned forward, his hands folded and his elbows on his thighs as he shook his head slowly from side to side, his chest hitching with repressed sobs. If anything, he reminded Kiera of a cornered, frightened animal.

  “I . . . No. You don’t have to. I—we didn’t really know her parents that well. She was living with her mother. But I . . . No. It’s not necessary.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Nate looked up and gave her a long, steady stare. Kiera could see that he wanted to say something, but he remained silent. Once again, she was aware of the impossible distance between them. For so long, she hadn’t even been aware of it; now that she was, she knew it was already too late to do anything about it.