Page 7 of The Last Housewife

I bit my tongue and nodded.

“I begged him to get off. But he just kept shushing me.” There was that sound again, like a sob she’d tried and failed to stop. “When he finished, he sat there and drank a beer.”

I closed my eyes.

“I was too scared to say anything. I was afraid he’d do it again, and I still felt so dizzy. My legs were too heavy to move.”

Now I recognized her tone. She was justifying. Explaining why she hadn’t run or yelled, how the fear and alcohol had combined to make her paralyzed and docile. She was already anticipating the arguments against her. I wanted to turn around and tell her she didn’t have to do that, that I understood.

“I felt like my heart was going to pound out of my chest,” she said.

“Then what happened?”

“He left, and at some point, I think I passed out again.”

This time, I turned around. “Did you just wake up?”

The girl nodded, rubbing her eyes. Now that she was dressed, I saw that her top and skirt matched perfectly, pretty sky blue, like a little set you would sew for a doll. “I can’t make myself go upstairs.” A desperate note sank her voice. “I’d rather die than see him again.”

I thought of the things I’d wanted someone to say to me. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. But I do want to get you out of here.” A beat. “What’s your name?”

She crossed her arms over her chest like she was cold, despite the humid basement, and whispered, “Laurel.”

“Laurel, I’m Shay. Trust me, I understand what you’re feeling. Will you tell me the guy’s name?”

“Andrew,” she said quietly. “I don’t know his last name. I’m sorry. But he lives here.”

I nodded. “Good. What do you think about talking to the police? I can come with you.” I gestured to the stairs. “I was just upstairs, and it’s empty. If you say yes, I’ll go first, and we can slip out the front door and go straight to the station.”

She looked at me with hope and fear. “Okay,” she whispered.

I blinked in surprise, then held out my hand. Laurel stepped forward and took it. Her skin was paper thin. I would always remember that about her, how the skin of her hands was so fragile, you couldn’t help rubbing it with your thumb.

I tugged her up the stairs, moving slowly, listening. But there was nothing, so we proceeded out of the darkness, creeping across the house, closing in on the front door.

Then the thunderous sound of footsteps down the staircase made us jerk to a halt. I threw myself in front of Laurel, who shrank behind me.

But it was just another girl. Short and stocky, with close-cropped pink hair and a silver nose ring. “Hey,” she boomed. “Fellow walk-of-shamers. Excellent.” She waved at the door. “Going back to Whitney, right?”

I could feel Laurel shaking by the brush of her hair against my shoulders.

“Yes… I mean, no,” I stammered. “We’re not going there.”

The girl frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing.” I tugged Laurel out the door. The early September sun was still high and hot, so I squinted, shielding my eyes.

To my surprise, the pink-haired girl raced after us. “Wait,” she called, but Laurel and I kept going. I could feel Laurel’s nerves wrapping around me like a staticky blanket.

“Did something happen?”

I stilled, then turned. “Do you know something?”

She shook her head, but the way she looked at Laurel… It was recognition. “I’ve seen that look before. Did someone hurt you?”

My hackles rose. I expected Laurel to deny it, shut down this invasive stranger and run away, but instead she exhaled and said, “Andrew. He…wouldn’t stop.”

The girl’s reaction was instantaneous: her cheeks flamed, and her eyes flew wide. “That fucker… Iknowhim.” She turned for the house. “I’llkillhim.”