Deja New Read online

  always

  alonealonealone

  (should have stuck to the rules)

  FOUR

  It could be worse, Angela reassured herself. It could be a lot worse. The boys are behaving. Mom is being . . . Mom, but I never expected anything else. Archer seems fine, he’s even teasing me a little. Ms. Nazir seems . . . er . . . hard to tell, actually . . .

  And that’s when Leah Nazir’s big brown eyes rolled back and she pitched toward the floor. She would have face-planted if Archer hadn’t been so quick.

  Her mother blinked, her way of showing extreme alarm. “Oh. Huh. I think she needs to rest. I’ll go check the . . .” And she drifted away, probably to check the guest room, which Angela already knew was perfectly appointed.

  Coward. The thought rose in her brain like a bad-tasting bubble and, for once, Angela didn’t try to squash it. Her mother had been through a lot. Her sister-in-law succumbed to cancer a year before the murder, leaving her to raise all those kids on her own . . . (she’d taken the cousins, too, as they were virtual orphans). It had been tough, no question. But it hadn’t exactly been a laugh-fest for the rest of them, either, and Angela became a de facto parent at age thirteen, the minute the hearse pulled into Graceland Cemetery.

  Still a coward, though. And Dad would have hated what she turned into. He wouldn’t appreciate her abandoning his brother, either.

  Angela shoved all that away. “You got her? C’mon, let’s stretch her out on the couch. Should we take her to the ER? I can call 911.”

  “I’ll do it!” From Paul.

  “Bullshit!” From Mitchell, predictably, since he lived to keep track of everyone’s turn. “You got to call 911 when Jack fell out of the tree house. It’s my turn.”

  “No, the last time we called 911 was when the neighbors called the cops on us—”

  “Why are we always surrounded by tight-ass neighbors?”

  “I’m already dialing, it’s done, I’m doing it,” Paul announced. “See? Niiiiiiine . . .”

  “Hang that up unless you want to be on the stretcher next to me,” Leah managed from Archer’s arms.

  “Okay,” Jordan said. “That’s pretty cool. I’ll hold Paul down for you, Leah, and you can work the body. I suggest starting with the lower ribs. Or his upper lip.”

  “I’m fine,” she continued, waving away Jordan’s offer to help her assault his brother. “Temporary setback. I’ll be okay once I get off my feet.”

  “You are off your feet,” Angela pointed out. She followed them, fretting the length of the hallway to the guest room. “Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Do you often faint?”

  “I did not faint. Silly ingénues in bad movies faint.”

  “Silly what now?”

  “I temporarily blacked out. Very temporarily. For barely a second. Half a second. Thank you,” she said as Archer deposited her on the bed with a flourish. “I was already a little under the weather, but I don’t need 911 or a doctor or an exorcism or anything of the sort and also, stop fussing.”

  “Okaaaaaaay.”

  “I’m pregnant,” Leah added, and grimaced.

  “You’re—really?” Angela felt a huge grin break over her face. Why the grimace? Is she not happy? No, stop reading into it—she fainted in front of the in-laws. She’s a little embarrassed—because she doesn’t know how many people have swooned in our family room over the years.

  “Yes, really,” Archer replied, smiling and puffing out his chest a bit, probably because he got to have sex.

  “Well, that’s great! You’re gonna be a dad!” Angela was impressed, and not for the first time. Archer had been the first to

  (flee)

  leave home, hold down a number of odd jobs,

  (Jordan kept a chart of them, and the thing was eye-popping)

  fall in love, foil a murder, get engaged, and now to have a baby on the way. (In that exact order, too, she realized.) He, unlike the rest of them, had moved on. And not just on . . . forward. He was a grown-up, and not just chronologically. “That’s really great.”

  “No, it’s not,” Leah said dully.

  (??????????)

  Angela managed to tactfully say nothing, or even raise an eyebrow, and when Archer didn’t scowl, or burst into tears, she realized that whatever was upsetting Leah about being pregnant, he knew all about it. Which in its own way was kind of cool.

  Leah broke the short silence. “I’ll explain.”

  “You don’t have to,” Angela replied at once, not meaning a word of it. Please, please explain! Explain until you’re blue in the face! But not really!

  “I know I don’t have to,” Leah snapped. Her lips thinned and she added, “I’m sorry. I’m in a foul mood. It’s like this: I had a terrible mom.”

  “Okay.” Angela knew Leah’s mom; everyone did. A B-list actress from the nineties, a gorgeous redhead in the style of fifties pinup queens, never as famous as her daughter, and went to her grave trying to change that.

  “So I don’t know how to do it. I’ll be bad at it.” She met Angela’s gaze dead on. “I’m afraid. That’s what this is. That’s all this is: pure fear.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  “It’s absolutely true: I am scared shitless.”

  “No, no, I meant about your mom.”

  “It’s definitely true,” Archer cut in. “Leah’s mom was the worst.”

  “Not that, either! I meant that Leah won’t be a bad mom just because she had one. It doesn’t . . .” Her gaze went from Archer to Leah and back to her cousin. “It doesn’t always follow. There’s not an Insighter in the world who won’t tell you that. We see a lot,” she said, turning to Archer. “But it’s not all bad. That’s one of the myths. We see plenty of the good in people’s pasts.”

  A weak snort from the bed. “Stop generalizing. And ‘bad mom’ doesn’t do it justice.”

  “Okay, but it’s not like you cornered the market in crap parents.” Although it sure sounded like Leah’s B-lister mama had been a worse-than-usual momager . . . at least, according to the tell-all book by the actress who only played her daughter.* “I mean—jeez. You know about my dad. And what we’ve got to try to do for my uncle. It’s the whole reason you came to town. And my mom freaked you out so hard you hit the floor.”

  Angela’s Insighting ability was nothing compared to Leah’s. If Angela’s ability could be likened to being the best actor in drama club, Leah’s made her Sir Anthony Hopkins (who, rumor had it, had been the Sun King in an earlier life); but it was strong enough that Angela didn’t go out of her way to touch strangers. She’d been amazed when Leah had stuck out her hand, and even more amazed when her mother had shaken it. “You hit the floor.”

  Leah was already shaking her head. “That was—that was more morning sickness than anything else.”

  “Sure it was.” I’ll bet you don’t go out of your way to touch strangers. Quite the opposite, I think. So why’d you want to touch my mom? I think I know.

  The color was coming back into Leah’s face and for the first time, Angela knew how to talk to her. She’s really invested in the bad-mom thing. Okay. She feels better if she fights back a little. Okay. “It can’t have been that bad.”

  “Mine was the stage mom from Hades, and that was on her good days.”

  “Mine’s a ghost,” Angela said.

  “Mine exploited me for money.”

  “Mine is so out of it people think she’s on tranquilizers. PS: She’s not on tranquilizers.”

  “Mine slept with the judge assigned to my emancipation trial, which is why I remained un-emancipated for so long.”

  “Mine slept through all my birthdays, both my graduations, and Archer’s crime prevention award from the city of Minneapolis.”

  “Mine— But you’ve neve
r lived in Minneapolis.”

  Archer shrugged. “Long story.”

  Leah stared at the father of her child, and Angela had the impression she was holding back giggles. “Okay, we’re definitely discussing that later—”

  “Oh, God.” He groaned.

  “But getting back to the more interesting and depressing conversation, my mother slipped Valium in my tea, then brought me to a plastic surgeon’s office. The only reason I didn’t get non-con breast implants at age thirteen was because I woke up too soon. And also, the surgeon wasn’t a sociopath.”

  “Mine left all of us alone for two days because she forgot she had children. You know, the way some people forget their keys.”

  “I swore off tea forever. And I loved tea! In fact, I refused to eat or drink anything she touched until I was emancipated. I spent years terrified I’d be roofied by my own mother.”

  “Mine forgot she had children.”

  “Mine’s dead.”

  “Mine might as well be.”

  “This,” Archer announced, “is a terrible game. And I think I’m calling a halt to it. Yeah, I’m definitely calling a halt. If you two will let me. And how the hell do you even know who wins?”

  Leah grinned and sat up. “We both did. Or we both lost. Either way: I have to say I’m feeling better.”

  “Good enough to go back out and face the throng?”

  “Christ, no,” Leah said, flopping back down.

  FIVE

  He’s dead.

  (thud)

  Murdered.

  (thud-thud)

  Your father’s dead.

  (thud-thud)

  Your uncle murdered your—

  • • •

  ANGELA OPENED HER eyes. The words that changed everything, the words that decimated her childhood. But the—

  Wait.

  Where am I again?

  Then she remembered: This was no ordinary car-ride snooze. She’d actually dozed off in Archer’s car while he drove her and Leah to a state prison to visit her incarcerated uncle and put phase two of her long-game plan into action. In a downpour, no less, and his wipers needed changing. Thud-thud.

  How the hell did I sleep?

  “She’s back!” Archer cried, catching her gaze in the rearview as she sat up, rubbed her lower back, smacked her lips. Bleh, nap-breath. She’d throttle someone for a Tic Tac. “Let me guess: You stayed up all night freaking out about our visit, and when you finally calmed down, you conked.”

  “No,” she denied automatically. The “Shut up!” that followed was also automatic. She could feel her face get warm as she flushed. Jesus, how old are you? “Sorry. Force of habit.”

  “Ah, that takes me back,” Archer said, adjusting the mirror so he could keep torturing her with sporadic eye contact. “Back to hell, in fact, which in this case means Iowa.”

  “We only made the one trip to Iowa.”

  “Yes, because the state trooper who put out the fire politely asked us to never, ever return.”

  “He was really nice,” she said, remembering. “He could have arrested some of us. Or all of us.” It was one of the reasons she’d wanted to get her Insighting license—to work with the police.

  One of the reasons.

  “Angela has a soft spot for cops,” Archer told Leah, which was embarrassing beyond belief.

  “I do not! Well, good ones I do,” she admitted. “They make things better. And easier.”

  “The good ones usually do,” Leah agreed. “In our work, we— No?”

  “I wasn’t talking about work. This isn’t— I mean, I didn’t just suddenly become interested in my father’s murder case again. I’ve never stopped working it.”

  “Since the day after my dad took a plea bargain for killing your dad.” He paused a beat, and then he and Angela added, “Allegedly!” in unison.

  “Ha! Jinx,” her cousin chortled.

  “Ugh, you’re endlessly annoying.”

  At that, Leah burst into giggles, and Angela was able to see her as a real person instead of the glorified Insighter ideal for the first time. It was as sobering

  (heroes are just ordinary people having a series of bad days)

  as it was exhilarating.

  (oh, my God she’s so cute when she laughs!)

  “Do you still dream about it? The night you found out your dad was dead?”

  “Actually I’ve been thinking about Mom’s one-eighty on the whole accident-versus-surprise thing.” Hopefully Archer wouldn’t notice she hadn’t answered the question.

  “‘Accident-versus-surprise’?” Leah asked.

  “Yeah.” Angela leaned forward so her head was between both of their head rests. “The first time I did the math, I saw I was older than my parents’ marriage and asked about it. Turns out they had to get married; Mom got pregnant and Dad wanted to do the right thing. My dad always said I was a surprise. When I asked the difference, he said: With an accident, if you could do it differently, you’d go back in time and undo it. But with a surprise, you’d never go back and undo it.”

  “And what did your mother say?”

  “Oh, the reverse.” Angela laughed, but there wasn’t a lot of humor in it. “One the reasons I was so surprised by the depth of her grief was because mostly I remember them fighting all the time. It wasn’t some great love match. So when I found out they had had to get married, it made sense. And, Archer, you’re not saying anything, so I’m betting you knew what was going on.”

  Archer didn’t reply. Just kept driving. Leah’s gaze met Angela’s in the rearview mirror. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “I wasn’t an accident. Mom got pregnant on purpose. She’d wanted to get married for ages but Dad had, y’know, zero interest. Here’s the irony—Dad wanted Dennis’s life. And Dennis wanted Dad’s.”

  “So you were . . .” Leah paused.

  Archer filled in the blanks: “Bait in a trap. Personally, I liked Uncle Donald’s version of the story.”

  “Well, yeah, I did, too. When I was six.”

  “And I think your mom was a real jerk for telling you the truth.”

  Angela shrugged. “I’m glad she was honest. And I give Dad props for sticking around.” Was that why her mother had made grieving her full-time job? She had gone to such lengths to haul Douglas to the altar, losing him was too much? Something to think about. “Also, I’m not sure I was bait. I think I was more like the canary in the coal shaft.”

  “Angela, that’s awful!” Leah cried, but then couldn’t stop giggling. “You guys have the oddest way of looking at the world.”

  “Look who’s talking,” Archer said fondly.

  Angela had to admit it: She hadn’t thought they’d all be laughing as they drove through the gates of Illinois Correctional Campus. What did that say about her? And them?

  That things will be different this time. Because I’m different, and Archer’s definitely different, and we have Leah Nazir, and a new detective, and we’re finally going to get it done.

  Please God.

  SIX

  1640

  OXFORD, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND

  Paucis notus, paucioribus ignotus, hic jacet Democritus Junior, cui vitam dedit et mortem Melancholia.*

  So it was coming for him again, the serious ailment, the settled humor. The timing was dark and sweet because with the beauty and simplicity of knowing when you are predicted to succumb, if one so chooses, you can make the astrologer a seer or a liar.

  “So, a seer,” he said aloud. Friends would have been surprised to hear how low and hoarse he sounded. When it was on him, he went days without speaking. Or bathing, he remembered, glancing at his reflection in the mirror. Or shaving. Or eating. He couldn’t even muster the will to gasp in horror at his reflection. What little energy he had he needed for breathing. There was room for nothing
else.

  Ah, but euphoria might be on the way! He knew that as a dying brain fought and clawed for oxygen, chemicals flooded the system with joy and jubilation in a burst of biochemistry. That would be delightful, but it wasn’t a requirement. All he required was nothing. Forever.

  He changed into a (reasonably) clean suit even as part of him knew it was idiotic: He’d shuffle off the mortal coil, but not before pissing and shitting himself. But the idea of ending it all in the same pajama pants he’d lived in for the last month was unpleasant.

  He found the rope, ran it through his fingers for the tenth, sixtieth, hundredth time. Sturdy, strong. The knot would hold, and the beam, and the chair (until he had no use for the latter—or, he supposed, the ladder he needed to reach the noose).

  No note, at least not in the traditional sense. Friends would say he had been writing his suicide note for the last three decades: The Anatomy of Melancholy.* Five printings in seventeen years, and every page dedicated to recognizing, treating, and enduring that wretched and serious ailment.

  His friends would also point out his inconsistency on suicide. He had expressed conflicting points of view about the last act, stating at times that taking one’s own life was a natural consequence of the fiend Melancholia, as a tumor was of cancer, and other times seeing it as a moral choice. Readers had chided him for the disparate views, as they did not understand a fundamental truth of his condition: Sometimes he wished to be dead. And sometimes he did not.

  It would never be done. The Anatomy of Melancholy could never be done, which was the work’s most dreadful and wonderful characteristic. And he was tired.

  So then, what next? He positioned the chair, tossed the rope, tightened the knot, and wondered about what he would face as he left. Nothing? Or choirs of angels? Or another life?

  What if I come back? What if Melancholia finds me again?

  Don’t think of it. Don’t. He stepped off the chair and simultaneously gave it a savage kick, so there was no way to get his feet back under him, so his traitorous brain couldn’t rebel and force his legs to find purchase.