OLIVIA LEANED FORWARD IN THE FRONT PASSENGER SEAT OF the Deringers’ SUV as if willing the large Scandinavian driver to go faster.
Not that he could have. The tires shrieked in protest as they rounded each bend, yellow lights were a signal to accelerate, and she had to grip the “oh shit” handle at every turn. But it wasn’t enough.
She glanced down at her phone and hit Redial for the thirtieth time. Four rings, then the voice mail picked up.
“I’m terribly sorry, I can’t get to the phone,” her mom said in rounded, dulcet tones. “I’m in rehearsal for my new—”
Olivia ended the call and immediately hit Redial.
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Kitty said. “Just asleep or maybe at work?”
“She quit her job,” Olivia said. The voice mail kicked in and she ended yet another call. “Because of this play.”
If Kitty had anything else to add, she kept it to herself. Piled into the back with Logan, John, and Ed the Head, none of them said a word.
How could she have been so stupid? Testing out a one-woman show in San Jose for an Off-Broadway run was ridiculous, let alone her mom’s involvement. Twelfth Night at the Public, 1998. Am I right? Her mom’s ego was so wounded after her visit from Fitzgerald Conroy, she would have fallen hard for a line like that. She wanted so badly to believe that “June Hayes” would once again be up in lights, a name bandied about in Playbill and the New York Times theater review. Her mom had probably already rehearsed her Tony acceptance speech.
Olivia should have realized this was actually the work of a killer hell-bent on revenge.
Olaf hit the brakes and Olivia momentarily went airborne between her seat and the safety belt, before her head smacked back against the headrest. “Here,” Olaf said simply.
She took the stairs to her apartment two at a time, keys gripped tightly in her hand, hardly even aware of the pounding of footsteps behind her.
“Mom!” she cried as she unlocked the door. “Mom?”
There were bottles of red wine everywhere. One on the kitchen table—open, but only half-consumed—one on the counter—also unfinished—then two on the coffee table, both overturned. Next to them, the framed photo of June Hayes as Olivia from the opening of Twelfth Night at the Public Theater in New York. The glass was smashed.
Her mom lay on her side on the sofa, facing the television. Olivia heaved a sigh of relief. It had been an angry, drunken night, but no worse than Olivia had seen before. It would be followed by days of tearful self-pity alternating with marathon sleep sessions, and hopefully sometime next week, her mom would snap out of her funk, ask for her old job back at the Shangri-La, and life would go back to normal.
“Is she okay?” Kitty asked at Olivia’s shoulder.
Olivia winced, suddenly aware that her friends were bearing witness to the bipolar chaos that was Olivia’s home life.
“She’ll be fine,” Olivia said, trying to sound cheerful. She marched into the living room, righting the wine bottles on the table and shifting some broken glass from the photo. “Lick her wounds and move forward. Right, Mom?”
She turned to her mom and all the warmth drained out of her body. Cuddled in her lap were almost a dozen pill bottles. Her mom’s jaw hung limply open and a trickle of vomit snaked out from the corner.
Kitty dashed to her side. “Call 911,” she said to Ed. “Now.”
“What’s wrong?” John asked. “Is she okay?”
Before anyone could answer, Olaf bounded across the room. He scooped up Olivia’s mom, cradling her in his arms, and was halfway to the door before Olivia could respond. “What are you doing?”
“Olaf faster to hospital,” he said, already heading down the stairs. “Bring pill bottles. Hurry.”
Kitty sat next to John in the hospital waiting room and stared at the clock on the wall. In the movies, emergency rooms were always romantic places, where gorgeous, well-dressed actors awaited news of their loved ones.
This ER looked more like a prison visitation room: uncomfortable wooden-armed chairs with stained gray upholstery, pale yellow walls with an informational poster about heart disease, a selection of magazines four months out of date, and a pathetic vending machine that looked as if it hadn’t been restocked since Kitty was still in diapers. Bar None? Did they even make that candy anymore?
Ed and Logan had disappeared soon after arriving at the hospital, but John sat stoically beside her, completely still. He rested his head against the wall, arms folded across his chest, eyes closed. How could he nap? Kitty was crawling out of her skin, wondering if Olivia’s mom would be okay. She’d used what little battery power was left on her phone to call home and check on Lydia and Sophia, who thought it was positively hilarious that their older sister was worrying about them. Still, she made them promise to stay put and keep the doors and windows locked.
Now, with the battery on her phone nearly dead, she couldn’t distract herself with mindless games or Facebook stalking. She would have killed for a good book, or even a crappy one, but had to settle for the small television set in the corner, now showing local news, with no sound. A couple of talking heads gabbed silently on and on, and Kitty’s eyelids began to flutter, a slow blink transforming into prolonged seconds of darkness.
“Look!” John said, nudging Kitty awake. Her eyes flew open. John was pointing at the television set, where a photo of Tammi Barnes filled up the screen.
Kitty rushed across the room and hit the volume button on the set, desperate to hear what the reporters had to say.
“. . . last seen in the eight-hundred block of Willow Road. If you have any information as to the whereabouts of Tamara Barnes, we ask that you call the Menlo Park Police Department immediately at the number on your screen.” Then Tammi’s photo vanished and the talking heads reappeared. “And now for a sports update, we go to Chip Peterson. Chip? What’s going on with those Niners?”
“Anything?” John asked as Kitty slumped back to her seat.
“Just what we already knew. She was last seen leaving the doctor’s office.”
“Damn.”
Kitty gazed up at the water-stained ceiling tiles. “At least the police are looking for her.”
John snorted. “Right, because they’ve done such a great job finding the others.”
She had to admit he had a point.
Ed the Head breezed into the waiting room and took a seat opposite Kitty and John. “What’s shakin’, bacon?”
“Where have you been?” Kitty asked.
Ed laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. “Getting the scoop on Olivia’s mom.”
John cocked his head. “I thought we were banned from updates since we’re not immediate family.”
“Please,” Ed snorted. “When has that ever stopped me?”
Kitty glanced at John. “Never,” they said in unison.
“Prognosis is good,” he said with a smile. “Looks like we got to her just in time. Another hour and she’d have slipped into a coma.”
Kitty grimaced. “How’s Olivia?”
Ed held his hand flat, and wiggled it from side to side. “She’s meh. But she’s a trouper. Won’t leave her mom’s side.”
John pulled out his phone. “I’ll update Bree.”
“Is there anything we can do?” Kitty asked.
“Doubt it. Olivia will be here all night.”
“Can we see her?”
Ed shook his head. “Getting through Checkpoint Charlie to the hospital rooms is easier said than done.”
“Okay,” Kitty said, eyeing the admittance desk. Would it be worth it to try and make a dash for Olivia’s mom’s room? Probably not. The last thing she wanted to do was cause her friend more stress. “I can come back in the morning and bring breakfast or something.”
She should probably get home. Bad enough that Coach Miles was on her case about missing practice; now her parents would be freaking out over her late return. What would she tell them? She was on a date with Donté? The mere thought of her probably-by-now ex-boyfriend made her eyes instantly tear up. She’d been able to push their unresolved confrontation from her mind during the chaos of the day, but now it rushed back to her afresh. Would she be able to get over the fact that he wouldn’t trust her after asking her to do the same?
She wasn’t sure.
“Olaf can take us home,” John said, reading from his screen. “Bree says he’s still outside in the parking lot.”
“Kinda nice to have Thor around,” Ed said. “It’s like we’re the Avengers or something.”
John stood up and stretched his arms over his head. “Yeah,” he said with a laugh. “You can be Ant-Man.”
“I’m totally Hawkeye.”
Kitty cocked her head. “Didn’t Hawkeye spend like half the first movie as a bad guy?”
Ed gave her one of his finger pistols. “Yep. He’s a complicated man. Kinda like—”
But Ed never finished the sentence. Logan came tearing into the lobby, his face lit up like fireworks.
“What is it?” Kitty asked, instantly on alert.
“It’s Margot,” Logan said, trying to catch his breath. “She’s awake.”
