The Good Girl. Christy Barritt

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СКАЧАТЬ At. All. “Call it what you want. I don’t think I can ever trust a man enough to have a relationship again.” Girl, we don’t blame you. We’d be the same way. I loved my mental choir.

      “Well, just in case you change your mind, I’ll call Mark and ask him to keep an eye on you.”

      “Lana...” I threatened.

      She laughed. “What?”

      “Don’t play matchmaker.”

      “Don’t get your knickers in a knot. Sometimes you’ve just got to let your hair down and live a little.”

      I couldn’t even argue with her. My mental chorus of support disappeared. “Maybe you’re right.”

      She gasped. “Are you admitting that I could quite possibly be on to something? This is a first. Listen, sis, I’ve gotta run. Give Gaga a big kiss for me.”

      I set the phone back on its cradle and stared at it. My sister...I shook my head and laughed. Could we be more opposite?

      Don’t let the ghost scare you away...

      My laugh faded. Ghosts? They weren’t real.

      Despite my logic, I really wished Lana hadn’t told me that.

      ~*~

      I yawned and pushed myself back into the couch. I’d wasted three hours flipping through TV stations, staring blankly at inanimate objects and otherwise feeling bored out of my mind. My sister subscribed to three magazines: Vogue, TV Guide, and the National Enquirer. None were really my thing. So, instead, my thoughts had done their daily replay of all of my mistakes, faults, and missteps—a nightly routine, it seemed. Some people counted sheep; I counted my mistakes one by one.

      Finally, I stood. It was time for bed, that dreaded time of night where sleep made you vulnerable to the world around you. Ever since I was young, darkness and nighttime had frightened me. Still, to this day, my fears could get the best of me, especially when I was alone. Fears over creeps and crime and home invasions. The events of today only made my fears more real. Someone had been inside my home. Would they come back?

      I turned off the light in the kitchen, then moved into the great room and tugged both lamps off. It was June, and I was too stubborn to turn the AC on. After all, I’d escaped the stifling heat in Florida, where opening the windows up made the house feel like a sauna. The weather here in Minnesota beckoned me to enjoy it. During the day, the house had felt perfect after I’d cracked the windows and let a gentle breeze roll through. Right now, the house was warm, but I didn’t dare keep any windows up. The thought of someone cutting the screen and sneaking inside as I slept was too vivid in my mind.

      Not that anyone could sneak up on me with these squeaky wooden floors, I comforted myself. The oak-stained planks might be beautiful as they stretched across the entire level, but they were old—original to the house maybe?—and every other step I took was announced with a squeak or a groan.

      The light from my bedroom illuminated my path. I cracked one window by my bed, only because there was a safety latch that allowed it to stay open a mere three inches. No one could fit through that opening. A crisp breeze crept inside.

      I stripped down to my underwear and a tank top, threw back the thick comforter, and crawled between the cool sheets. Once I was settled, I calmed myself by taking inventory of Lana’s bedroom decor. Lana had probably been thinking of a summery white when she decorated the monotone bedroom. It boasted an alabaster comforter on a silvery, metal bed, billowy ivory curtains, paintings of pasty white roses in pale frames, a snowy-colored rug on a light oak floor. The gang at HGTV would be proud of her overall look. To me, it was all...spooky, ghost-like.

      I ignored my shivers and hesitantly reached for the light by the bed. My fingers lingered on the twist. I held my breath, then turned the plastic knob and ducked under the sheet before I had time to stare the blackness in the face. My heart raced, and I listened for any suspicious sounds.

      A car zoomed past on the street outside. A dog barked. The alarm clock hummed on the nightstand. The house creaked. It was just settling, I told myself. Old houses did that.

      I’m still here.

      The words from the note echoed in my mind. What if someone was still here? What if they were hiding in the basement or the attic or the garage? Had the police considered that? Had they checked those places?

      The sheets still covered my head. I should move them down, act like a grown woman. Instead, I breathed in and out. My breath hit the silky fabric around me, warming my nose and cheeks. My hair tickled my face. My heart pounded in my ears.

      I closed my eyes, willing myself to think about something else.

      My hand skimmed across the empty space in the bed beside me, and I thought of Peter. It was a toss up which subject was less appealing—ghost or ex-husband. But my thoughts went where they went.

      Though we’d only been married for two and a half years, I still felt like Peter should be beside me, protecting me from anything the world threw our way. That’s what marriage was about, right? Being there for each other in the good times and bad. In sickness and health. In times of peace and in times of ghostly hauntings.

      Everyone said we were cut from the same cloth, a perfect match. Unfortunately, they were right. We’d both cared too much about what people thought of us. When Peter had the chance to distance himself from the disaster surrounding my life, he’d done just that. I, on the other hand, had been stuck with myself.

      At one time, I’d thought Peter was charismatic, confident, and righteous. Somewhere along the road, those qualities had morphed into being flighty, arrogant, and judgmental. Funny how your perspective changed with experience.

      I had to admit, I hadn’t been the easiest person to live with after I’d been arrested. I’d withdrawn. Bottled up my emotions, trying to hide the fact that I felt sorry for myself. I did feel sorry for myself—I’d just decided not to let anyone else know that.

      Yeah, that’s me. Good Girls Rule #23: Always appear strong even when your muscles are jelly. Kind of similar to wearing a girdle to look skinny and then taking it off and letting your flab flounder.

      I wish now I’d cried more, opened up more, saw the counselor more than once.

      Maybe things would have turned out differently if I hadn’t been in denial about my problems and my marriage.

      Tears wet the pillow in my cocoon, and I knew I should peek my head out of the covers. Thinking about Peter was not a good alternative to thinking about the creepy things that had happened today. But I was frozen.

      The same fear haunted me every night. The fear of someone breaking into my house, watching me while I slept. I couldn’t get the image out of my mind before, and I certainly couldn’t now.

      I forced my breathing to steady. This fear was just my overactive imagination, after all. There was nothing to be scared of. Gaga would protect me.

      The thought made me smile. I tugged the sheets down and let the fresh, cooler air fill my lungs. But I still found myself holding my breath again.

      On the count of three I’d open my eyes.

      One.

      Two.

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