Page 240 of This Woman Forever

There’s a beat too long of silence. “My loss?”

I falter, his genuine confused reaction to my statement confusing me. “Lauren.”

“Yes, I’m sorry too,” he says, his words a tired exhale. “I’m sorry I ever thought I could fix her.”

I wince. The site of my scar twinges. Could I have fixed her by loving her? “Can I ask...” I stall. Fuck. “Can I ask how?” Why do I want to know? It’s warped and, actually, will do me no favors in my own recovery process. Could bring on more guilt, more stress.

“How what?” Alan asks, the confusion back.

And now I’m with him. “How she died?”

“Lauren’s not dead, Jesse,” he says, so clinically. Detached.

The fuck? An underlying panic rises. “You told?—”

“I told people I’d lost my daughter, because I did.”

Every scrap of air leaves my lungs. “What?”

“She’s not dead, Jesse. She was in a psychiatric hospital for years. They released her. They shouldn’t have. Her mother and I had to step away before she killed us, whether that be in a fit of rage or because she made us ill.”

Ice creeps into my bloodstream.

“I’m just sorry...” He’s clearly struggling. I’m with him. But for me, it’s my breathing. It’s diminished. “I’m very sorry about what she did to you, son.”

I stare at the road disappearing under the wheels of the car.

Paralyzed.

45

I texted John to tell him in as few words as possible about Alan’s call, to sweep the penthouse, and call me the minute he’s out of Ava’s earshot. By the time I’m at Lansdowne Crescent, he’s still not called, so I call him, stressed, panicked, out of my fucking mind.

“Yes,” he snaps in answer, sounding really fucking grumpy.

“Are you home?”

“We’re here now. Cathy’s already left, but I’ll stay until you arrive.”

“I’m at Lansdowne Crescent.” But I can’t remember exactly which house Ava went in. “Can you recall a door number?”

“It’s a blue door. Needs painting.”

I spot a blue door, and my eyes remain on it, lasers. “Lansdowne Crescent,” I muse, turning off my engine.

“Yes, Lansdowne Crescent.” John says, pensive.

“And you think it was Lauren?”

“I can’t be sure. I only got a glimpse, but if it’s not her, it’s her doppelganger.”

I’m praying it’s the latter. “We could be overreacting, right?” I ask, not wanting to insinuate that John might have been seeing things. “Making something out of nothing?” I’m clutching at straws, I know I am. This is not fucking good.

“I really fucking hope so,” John whispers.

I get out and walk up the path to the house, going to the window and cupping the glass, looking inside. “I don’t think anyone’s home,” I say, the glass steaming under my breath. I just need to see who lives here. See if we’re off the mark.

“There’s no one there?”

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