Thank you to everyone who's stuck with me this far - there are too many of you to name :) Welcome to the beginning of the end.
Calling Randy's current mood isolative would be akin to calling water only a little bit wet. He didn't talk to Renee, Nell, or Jon unless they intentionally came to his locker room or hotel room to check up on him. He was pleasant enough, but his mind was back at home, believing he'd finally sorted out Meg and what he felt he needed to do. Dave reminded him to eat, shower, sleep, but knew his words were falling on deaf ears. Listening was reserved for someone else entirely – Randy lived for his calls to Meg, worrying his Saint Anthony medallion back and forth on its chain if he felt it was taking her too long to pick up her phone or answer Skype. As they spoke, she'd prod him into ordering room service and stay with him until he ate, then leave the line open while they both showered, with their night ending once they both fell asleep together. It was at those times that they felt peaceful and calm; the rest of their day forgotten, both of them fussing and fretting their worn bands of tape round and round on their fingers.
Which was just as well for Meg; while Randy was glum and lonely, she was wired, buzzing with an agitated energy that refused to leave her alone. She'd tried to maintain the same sense of independence that she'd worked at developing when Randy was with her – she didn't want to backslide too far, worry him too badly, so she at least kept her appointments and tried not to flinch too obviously when the doorbell rang. The rest of the time she stayed close to Sarah, feeling as though something was just not 'right' as of late – it wasn't just the high-wire balancing act Meg was trying to maintain in regards to the bullshit story she planned to tell Randy about her night in the locker room, it was something else entirely. Something darker, heavier, and with a further-reaching evil – the malevolent energy they'd all but forgotten about.
She had no idea how close to the truth she was.
Sarah finally convinced Meg to let her run out to the grocery store so they didn't both starve to death, their stash of groceries long since having dwindled, and Meg asked to take two vicodin and attempt to doze while she was away – both women knew this would be a shopping trip for the ages, not a quick dip in and out. Waiting until she heard Sarah's car start up and then bump down the bottom of the driveway, she tossed the two pills into her mouth and headed toward the couch. Picking up the worn, thin quilt Randy had wrapped around them the night he'd surprised her by coming home, Meg thought better of staying inside and opted to take it with her and try to nap in the backyard. Randy had moved the low chaises and deck chairs around for Meg before he left, and while she hated laying on the slats of the chaises themselves, with a quilt over them, they weren't half-bad. She grabbed a few magazines on the way to the pool deck, and then paused at the kitchen island and looked at the photo of her with Sarah.
They'd both slid the photograph around the island and come to no further conclusion about what should be done with it. It simply shuffled across the various countertops like a trivet in search of a hot pot to support, seemingly waiting for a solution to the problem it didn't realize it was presenting. What possessed Meg to poke at it, she wasn't sure – but there it was, the idea of it coming with her outside, as though bright sunlight or a solid nap might give her a better idea about the whole thing.
Going out to the backyard was the best choice she could have made, given the situation that was about to unfold inside the house; neither she nor Sarah knew how close they both were to disaster. Popping in her earbuds, Meg stretched and lay back, half-shaded by the willows and oaks draping the fence line, waiting for the medication to take over. Mania was close, Dave hadn't yet made good on his promise of working on Talent Relations and bringing her out to see Randy – though she also hadn't given Dave any indication of when she wanted to talk to Randy in person, and she hadn't yet settled on flight plans, though she brought her phone with her in the hopes an idea would strike. 'I can't blame Dave for not knowing what to do when I haven't told anyone what I want to do. The clock's probably ticking on that one. Think, Meg. How do you not tell the truth when you have to tell the truth?' The tightrope she was walking was beginning to dance in the wind.
Sarah stopped at the gatehouse on her way out to check in with the guard, who asked if she was expecting anyone that day. Pausing to think, she remembered the cleaning and lawn services were due that afternoon, and so she told the guard to admit whomever came after her, as she expected at least two commercial companies later in the day. The guard nodded, and Sarah drove off, oblivious to what she'd just set in motion and hoping that 'later in the day' meant she'd be back from grocery shopping in time for her to handle the appointments rather than put Meg in the position of turning the companies away at the door, never seeing the pick-up parked near the entrance to the gated community. Back at the house, Meg slipped from a nap into solid slumber, the sun warming her through and lifting some of the ache from her leg.
Crouched on the sidewalk, stretching, 'warming up,' tying and untying his shoes for what felt like hours – and likely had been, as he was playing at being the world's most uncoordinated jogger – was the one person neither Meg nor Sarah wanted to see or even knew existed, but Joe's wife most certainly wanted to meet up with, and sooner rather than later. And his position, cramped though it was, was directly within earshot of the guard's booth and Sarah's broadcast announcement that at least two companies were to be at Meg's residence.
'Finally. Time to play, sweetheart.' He trotted off toward his aged pick-up, glad to be out of his balled-up position and ready to slip into what he hoped would pass for a lawn-care uniform. Joe's wife had hired a man with near-infinite patience, and he'd spent weeks memorizing Meg's – and by proxy, Sarah's – routines. He'd jogged past the gatehouse dozens of times, he'd walked past, he'd driven past in order to follow one or both of the girls as they left, but not until that very moment did he get so lucky as to have not just motive, but means and opportunity.
"Name and company?"
'You're making this so easy. This is going to be fun.' "Steve. Steve Feday, I'm with the lawnca-"
"Oh, right." The guard half-yawned, taking in the battered pick-up and the lawnmower and assorted supplies in its bed. "Yeah, head on back. Sarah said you'd be here."
Smiling, Steve tipped his hat and drove toward the back of the subdivision, marveling at the houses as he went, each one more impressive than the last as he moved deeper and deeper into the neighborhood. Joe's wife had given him the address, all he had to do was follow the numbers and pray that he'd have a way inside once he arrived. He backed into the driveway, not wanting to advertise his license plate any more than was necessary. Pacing the front of the property and testing the front door, Steve wasn't surprised to find it locked – but was surprised to find Meg laying out on the pool deck alone when he jumped up to peer over the back fence.
'Jesus Christ. I'm supposed to – WAS supposed to – beat the shit out of that? The fuck is wrong with this lady? There ain't even anything there to fuck. Scrawny bitch, no tits, and she looks tore up besides. Nuh-uh. I'm gonna get the picture and get the fuck out. Somethin' ain't right about this, money or no money. I can always tell the crazy bitch I did the scrawny one before I got the goods, avoid that she-hulk that's here all the time, and still collect on the cash.' Dropping down from the top of the fence, and hoping he hadn't lingered long enough to attract any attention from the neighbors, Steve crouched down and attempted to look busy with the gravel in the garden beds. 'Okay. Okay, think. How do I find the picture? I just gotta find the picture. Lemme wake her up and see if she'll let me in the house. It's gotta be in the house. Come to think of it, why does that crazy bitch want this fuckin' picture so bad? I thought it was him that wanted the picture?'
Calling over the back fence and hoping he was loud enough to be heard over Meg's music, Steve tried to get her attention. He was successful; so successful, in fact, that he startled her into flailing an arm out into her stack of magazines and knocking them to the ground, sending her drink to the ground along with them. The glass it was in shattered, and Meg sighed heavily.
"Shit! Sorry! Here, hang on." Meg tried to disentangle herself from the quilt enough for mobility while still staying covered, positive she looked ridiculous wrapped in it given the extremely warm weather. She found it harder and harder to stop from catching a chill as of late. 'I know I miss him, I know I need him, I know it's the lie that's doing this to me. Stop lying, Meg. Or tell him just enough of the truth.' Gingerly, Meg stepped around the glass, bending to collect the larger pieces. "Here, c'mon around to the front. You're from the lawn company, right? I think Randy left a list somewhere of what he wanted done. Just gimme a sec to throw this out and get the door open."
'Too easy. Would she even fight me? I doubt it. She looks sick. Somethin's really fuckin' wrong here.' Steve crunched out of the garden bed he'd been standing in, shuffling the dust off of his feet and making his way around to what Meg called the front porch, but was actually an expansive, wrap-around veranda. 'She's...not used to this. Don'even know what to call it. Fuck me if this is a porch. A porch is a concrete square. How'd she get wrapped up in all this?' After a minute of clattering around the interior, Meg emerged, buried in one of what Steve assumed was one of Randy's shirts, a pair of howlingly orange shorts poking out from underneath – lifeguard style, if he had to guess – and now holding a piece of paper. He had to force his eyes up from the lengthy scar on her leg. The situation grew more and more confusing and he felt the start of a craving crawl up his spine, as it so often did when his brain couldn't put together the pieces of a puzzle that made an ugly picture. 'Focus. Picture. Your kit's in the pick-up, you can smoke or shoot when you're done. Fuckin' focus.'
"Here, I think this is the list. Or at least, it's this version of the list, he wrote the thing out ten times. If it's crazy-long, just tell me what's important and I'll tell him I canceled the rest. It's too hot to have you out here alone doing a bunch of ridiculous stuff. You probably figured on an easy job for a hot day, right? Come in for a minute, lemme get you a couple bottles of water." 'Meg, you are going to act normal. Normal! You already jumped like a goddamned fool when the guy said hello. Try to act like you've got your head screwed on straight, he's the fucking lawn-care tech. It's just another appointment. The gatehouse knows he's here. Relax.' Meg smiled and waved Steve into the house. The air conditioning was delicious, and Meg forced herself to be cordial.
'Look for the photo. Just get the fucking photo. You can do some yardwork and come in to say you forgot something. Or ask to wash your hands. Or have her sign the receipt. But hurry the fuck up and find it quick. This isn't what you thought it was gonna be. And you're getting' the shakes.' "Uh...well, lemme see what I can get through. How about that? I don't wanna disappoint a client. And you have a real nice place, miss. You want I should take my shoes off? I don't wanna fu- I mean, 'scuse me, I don't wanna mess up the carpet."
"Don't worry about the carpet. Here, sit down and show me what needs doing and what can wait." Meg kicked two bar stools back from the kitchen island, searching out a pen, brushing back junk mail, pens, and the picture of her with Sarah – though Steve wasn't lucky or fast enough to catch a glimpse of it on its first pass by him. "Sorry about the mess, I really need to sort that stuff out. Just move it out of your way." Meg gave Steve a shaky smile, and tried to keep a neutral distance between them – neither distant nor encouraging.
'I need a plan. Think...think...I need to buy time to look around.' "Well...actually, miss...if you want to wait until I get the rest of the crew here, we can get all of this done today. I can get started on the smaller projects now, if'n you want. If I have the right supplies to get things going." 'If I can find the photo. Think like you. Where would you put that shit?'
"Whatever works for you. I'll leave the front unlocked, just leave the bill or receipt or whatever on the counter if you finish up before I'm back in the house." Meg smiled – a bit forced, for reasons she couldn't place – and then turned to go back to the pool deck, grabbing a broom and dustpan on the way. "Help yourself to the water and whatnot in the fridge, okay?" With that, she slipped through the sliding glass door and back out onto the pool deck, her limp obvious while she moved around to sweep the broken glass, and her slow descent into the deck chair nearly painful to watch.
'Yeah, fuck that. Er, not fuck that.' Steve bounced his feet up and down on the rung of his bar stool, trying to scan the surface of the kitchen island and praying the picture wouldn't be framed and mounted in a bedroom further back in the house. 'I don't wanna go diggin' through the house. If I hafta go diggin' through the house, then I actually hafta deal with her. I don't wanna deal with her. Somethin's not right about all this. Maybe when I was doin' this shit for him it was okay, but somethin's fucked up with her askin' me to do this. The first time I had to hit the bitch; she was huge. If I hit this bitch, I'm gonna go upstate for murder.' He continued to look around the room, checking each of the walls, before deciding the photo wasn't displayed in the kitchen or anywhere he could see from his current position. Sighing, resigning himself to the fact he was going to have to get Meg back in the house and likely lay hands on her to get the picture, he piled the junkmail back where Meg had originally had it – and saw the edge of what looked like worn, crinkled photo paper jutting out from between credit-card applications and grocery store circulars.
Carefully, knowing he had to get back out the door before Meg wondered why he was sitting around her kitchen instead of doing any actual work, he lifted the edges of the mail, trying to subtly page down toward what he prayed – and he wasn't a praying man by any stretch – would be the photograph.
Thank fuck! There's the picture. Okay..okay, now, slow the fuck down and think, whadda I gotta do to make this work? Uh...uh...go do yardwork. Make it look real. Then, get your clipboard, come in, and grab the picture. Shit, even just fake a phone call, tell her I got the wrong supplies, and take off before the real lawn company gets here, as long as I come in with the board, so I got somewhere to hide the photo. If I'm lucky, she won't think to call the gatehouse before I make it up there when I leave, if she even bothers thinkin' somethin's off.. And even if she does, it's the gatehouse guy's problem. He let me back there, so he's not gonna call the cops and admit he fucked up on security.' Steve quickly slid away from the counter and hustled back out to his truck, knowing he didn't know how much time he had before Meg's friend came back, or the real lawn company showed up. 'Lemme just get the front...uh...weeded? Mowed? Somethin'. Think of somethin'. Then I can come back in.'
Meg drowsed in and out, but couldn't bring herself back to a full sleep. Something about the lawn tech unsettled her. He was polite, helpful, accommodating, and just a little bit off. 'Maybe it's because I haven't seen him before.' She gave up on napping on the pool deck and moved quietly back into the house, just in time to see Steve creep in the front door, clipboard in hand. 'That's weird. I didn't hear him mow anything. Or use any tools. What's wrong with this? Wait, Meg. Stop. Maybe he had to do an assessment. He's one guy, and you have a fucking huge yard. And he knows you were sleeping out back; he's probably just trying to be quiet. Jesus, could you be more paranoid?' Nevertheless, Meg ducked fully into the kitchen, past the island, and out the other side, closer to the den. 'He's probably going to stop at the island. Right. I asked him to leave a receipt. Just be quiet, wait for him to put it down, and then wait for him to go back out. He's prolly gonna think you just went upstairs, if he doesn't see you by the pool. Fucking hell, Meg, why didn't you just tell him to leave in the first place and wait for Sarah to get back?'
Steve breezed past the kitchen island, crept up to the sliding glass door leading to the pool deck, and peered outside, seeming to look for Meg. For her part, she froze where she was, not daring to breathe, now absolutely sure that something was wrong and she hadn't let a lawn tech into her house. When he didn't see her, he looked left and right, taking one step toward the kitchen as though he meant to check the area for her, and then reconsidered. Quickly, Steve lunged at the kitchen island, digging through the junk mail on the counter, knocking flyers and applications to the floor, flipping past unopened envelopes, talking as he went. "Where the fuck is it? I just saw it! That bitch said it would be here!" Finally, he snatched up the picture of Meg and Sarah, smiling broadly before stuffing it under the paperwork on his clipboard. With one last quick look around, he banged past the barstools surrounding the island and out the front door, still talking to himself as he went.
"Thank fuck. I didn't have to touch the scrawny fuckin' bitch."
Tires squealing, Steve blasted out of the driveway, zipping past Sarah's car on the way out, barely remembering to pause at the gatehouse in order to have the access gate lifted.
"Sir? I just admitted another lawn care company to that address. Is there something I need to know?" The guard fixed Steve to his seat with an icy glare, and he felt the hairs along the back of his neck prickle.
'Think! One last lie, just think. And then go fuckin' get high and settle your shit down before you call that bitch, and then be fuckin' done with these people 'cause this is way, way over the goddamned line, even for you.' "Right, sir. I did an assessment, and I'm not enough manpower to complete the job on my own. I called the rest of the crew for assistance, and I'm going to get a different blend of fertilizer. 10-20-10 isn't going to help Kentucky Blue at all, this time of year." 'And thank God I've pulled apart enough fertilizer to make meth that I can actually talk about the shit the right way.'
"My apologies, Sir. It's just that the address has had some significant problems with the lawn company, so..."
"Nah, I understand. With a neighborhood like this," Steve swept his hands around, "You want everything to go off just like you planned."
Meg felt stuck to the wall, a fly with pins through her wings. 'It wasn't Joe. It was someone Joe sent? No. He said bitch. Bitch. Joe's wife. Randy said it had to be them, somehow. But who was that?'
Hearing Sarah come through the door brought Meg to screaming and running blindly, headed down the hall, toward the bedroom she had first come to Randy, but after the disorienting medication and pills, plus the shock and fear of her near-miss with the faux lawn care tech, she was no match for Sarah's speed. For her part, Sarah simply dropped all of the bags in the doorway and took off after Meg, one of her strides equal to two of Meg's, grabbing her around the waist at the doorway of the first-floor bedroom and forcing her into the doorframe.
"Meg? What happened? Tell me it's not Jackso-"
"The lawn guy wasn't a lawn guy and he took the photo but you can't tell Dave or Randy it's going to ruin everything he's going to kill Joe and I just need this to stop, Sarah, make this bullshit fucking stop!" Nothing coming out of Meg's mouth made sense, it was too fractured and high-speed, and Sarah forced her down to the floor as though holding her down might also slow her down.
"Stop, Meg! Stop. What the fuck just happened? Do I need to call the police?"
"No! No. Don't call anyone. Please, Sarah, just let it be fucking over with. I don't want anyone else...I just want it to stop. I don't care who has the photo, or who wanted the photo, or what the fuck, I just want-"
"Stop it, Meg. Start over. What the fuck just happened?"
Meg couldn't get the words out, could barely slow her breathing down, and had to hang on Sarah's arms to prevent her from actually calling the police, Dave, Randy – anyone – but eventually Sarah did settle into a stunned pile on the couch, most of the groceries forgotten until an actual lawn technician, concerned by the pile of bags, knocked on the front door and offered to bring them into the house from both the doorway and Sarah's car.
"Okay. Okay, so someone came here and said he was a lawn guy, and all he wanted was the picture? And he kept saying some bitch sent him?"
"Right. Right, yeah. He said something like, "That bitch said it would be in here," or something. Someone else knew I had the photo. Someone knew I got that mess of papers in Randy's locker room, and knew I kept them, and knew the photo was in there. Maybe the same person who went after you, or someone who was related to what happened to you." Meg's voice was still shaky, but now that they'd moved from the floor to the couch and brought out their problem-solving-solvents of choice – tequila and whiskey – she'd calmed somewhat.
"Meg, no. We – I – we – we have to call them. I'm sorry. We have to. Randy can't...he can't not know someone was in his house."
"The only reason that guy was in here was because I let him in. The photo is gone now. It's all done, Sarah. There's nothing left to take. Whoever it was, they didn't want the reports. The reports are all public knowledge, anyway. If you wanted copies, you can request them. If some random asshole in Alaska wanted copies, he can get them. The picture was important, for whatever reason, and now it's gone. Just let it go."
"I'm not fucking letting it go when someone was fucking in this house! I live in this house! You live in this house! Randy lives in this house! You think I want to take a chance on dying in this house?" Sarah flew into a rage, vaulting from her relatively calm slump on the couch to a raging tower, waving her bottle of Jack around menacingly. "If you want to take a chance on that, you can be here by yourself. You can manage your bullshit by yourself. Good fucking luck, because I am done. I am out."
"Sarah, I get it. If you need to go, I understand. But I need Randy to not fly off the handle about this, too, so I need him not to know. I know it won't happen again. The guy said it was only about the photo, and he only got in because I let him in. I could have waited for you, but I didn't. Now the photo's gone. I know – I just know – nothing will happen again."
"What do you mean, nothing?"
"It's all done, Sarah. I promised Randy I wouldn't do this anymore. You told me I shouldn't do anything to hurt him, and I promised him – and myself – that I would stop doing this shit. Acting this way. Even when I talked to Dave, I told him...it sounds dumb...but the more functional Randy and I get, the less functional Jackson is. The less he 'works' in my head. This was the last piece. Or part of the last piece, I dunno. But I know it means it's over with. It's not gonna happen anymore, it doesn't matter what Joe does, what his wife does, nothing."
Sarah looked at Meg, looked into her bottle of Jack, and shook her head.