Only one survives, p.32
Only One Survives, page 32
Douchebag’s home.
My heart’s pounding so hard by the time I make it to the back door, I’m almost certain Rick will hear it when he walks in. I manage to lock up and slip the key into the broken flowerpot as the hallway light flicks on.
“Hey, Barb,” Rick shouts. “What’s for dinner? I’m starving.”
I back away, search my heart for signs of regret for what I’ve done but find nothing. As I hold out my hands, I see they’re steady. I’ve no qualms about what will happen here. Rick has no idea whatever leftovers he’s about to devour will be his last meal.
As I slink away, I decide perhaps I’m a serial killer after all.
50
76 days after the accident
DOUBLE NORTH DEERING DEATHS ACCIDENTAL
by Eleanor Willis of the Maine Daily
Portland police confirmed Barbara Taylor-Cole (43) and Richard Cole (49), the couple found in their home on Alice Street late Tuesday afternoon, are suspected to have died from accidental carbon monoxide poisoning. There is no indication of foul play.
Taylor-Cole was the mother of Vienna Taylor, the known surviving member of the Bittersweet pop-rock band involved in a fatal Catskills car crash last December. In a statement released via her manager, Vienna Taylor said while she and her mother had endured a difficult relationship at times and had mostly been estranged for the past few years, she was “shocked and devastated” to learn of the deaths. She has requested the public to respect her privacy while she mourns another loss.
When asked for a comment, Portland Police Officer Amelia Cortez said, “Unfortunately, we see tragedies such as these far too often, and it’s even more unfortunate because they’re largely preventable.”
She added this is a reminder for everyone about the importance of installing and maintaining carbon monoxide and smoke detectors in their homes, and to check the batteries minimum twice yearly to help prevent such devastating consequences.
Comments (11—showing most recent)
@flip_flop_22 Anyone else think it’s odd how everyone around Vienna keeps dying?
@sandie_j56 Seriously? She lost her mother and stepfather!
@flip_flop_22 She’s a total fake, phony, and DMA
@cherub_smiiile DMA?
@flip_flop_22 Devastated, my ass. Still #TeamMadison
@cherub_smiiile LOL. Agreed!
@sandie_j56 You’re both way out of line
@cherub_smiiile Whatever. Tell someone who cares.
51
76 days after the accident
It’s been two days since my mother’s and Rick’s lifeless bodies were discovered, and I’ve been inundated with interview requests, which I’ve asked Roger to handle. We provided a statement saying I’m too overwhelmed to speak to anyone, and asking people to please respect my privacy, give me time to grieve, because if I weren’t responsible, it’s what I’d do.
What a joke, because of course the online trolls came for me. What did #VileVienna do was the first tweet, and the hashtag spread. On Instagram alone it’s been used thousands of times already and I haven’t checked the other platforms for fear of what I’ll see.
At least my mother won’t be giving my enemies any ammunition to fight their battles with. Neither she nor Rick will have the chance to contradict what I write about them, either, despite all of it being true. I may rework the chapter where I hinted at Rick being involved in Grams’ death, make it clearer how I believe he killed her. Let everyone think he’s not only an asshole, but a murderer, too. Not that he could be. He’d never have the balls to do what I’ve done.
It’s early Thursday morning and I’m on the phone again with Portland Police. Officer Cortez already called late afternoon on Tuesday to inform me about the most recent tragedy in my life.
Apparently, Rick’s twenty-eight-year-old lover made the gruesome discovery when he didn’t answer his phone or go to their secret rendezvous. When she peered through the window, she spotted Mom and Rick in bed, got in through the back door using the spare key, and when she couldn’t rouse them, promptly spewed her guts on the bedroom floor.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Officer Cortez gently says now, and I recall her kindness from the night Grams went missing a few years back.
“Thank you.” I wait for what she’ll say next. I’ve seen the article about no foul play being suspected in Mom’s and Rick’s deaths, but I want to hear her say those words. I know better than anyone how whatever someone writes isn’t necessarily true.
“I wanted to give you this update personally,” Officer Cortez says. “This information was supposed to be kept confidential until I spoke to you this morning, but unfortunately that didn’t happen.”
“I saw the news,” I say. “About the carbon monoxide poisoning.”
“My sincerest apologies for you finding out this way,” she says with a heavy sigh.
“It’s fine,” I mumble, which it really wouldn’t be if I didn’t already know what had happened. “Can you give me more details?”
“We’ve established there was a misaligned gas pipe in the living room fireplace,” Cortez tells me. “It may have been leaking carbon monoxide all day. Unfortunately, there’s no smell, so your mother and stepfather wouldn’t have detected it before they went to bed.”
“A misaligned pipe?” I say, letting the stepfather comment slide as I make myself sound bewildered. “I think it’s the original fireplace, and I don’t remember Rick ever having anyone in to inspect it when I lived at home.”
“That can sometimes be part of the problem, I’m afraid,” Cortez says. “Unfortunately, pipe fittings corrode, and leaks are an all-too-common occurrence.” She pauses. “When there’s no carbon monoxide detector in the house—”
“Are you blaming them?” I lace my tone with indignance but keep it from being over the top.
“No, not at all,” Cortez replies, her voice calm. “This was an accident, and I’m truly very sorry for your loss. We’ll keep you informed if there are any other developments. In the meantime, I wish you all the best, Vienna. You have my deepest sympathies.”
After we hang up, I call a funeral home, make arrangements for Mom’s cremation next week, which I guess I’ll have to attend. I don’t do anything for Rick because I’m not officially his next of kin and have never considered myself as such anyway. Whatever family he has left can sort things out. For all I care they can dump him and my mother in the same urn, let them argue for all eternity about his infidelities.
I stretch out on the hotel bed, a feeling of guarded contentment spreading through me. Maybe I should be scared by how easy it’s been for me to literally get away with murder, but I promised myself I wouldn’t dwell on the past.
Now I’ve got rid of all these distractions, I want to look to the future, figure out my career path and where it’ll take me. Starting now, I’m done with my sordid history. I’m stuffing it into a tiny box and packing it away at the back of my mind, only to be reopened when I’m discussing my memoir.
When I spoke with Roger this morning, he asked what I wanted to do about the lunch with Georgina, the literary agent.
“Let’s meet week after next,” I told him. “I need to handle the funeral first.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to wait a while longer?”
“No,” I said, lowering my voice. “You know how work helps me heal.”
In reality I wish we could meet today and get things moving. The two other agents want to represent me as well, and I’m hoping we’ll receive offers from multiple publishers and generate a bidding war. I’ve decided I’ll expand the book, end on a hopeful note about personal growth and staying resilient in the face of tragedy. People love that feel-good stuff.
I decide to treat myself to lunch downstairs—there’s a restaurant with discreet booths I can hunker down in—but first I have a shower, do my hair and makeup before changing my mind and ordering room service again.
Ten minutes later there’s a knock on the door but when I open up, it’s not a server standing in front of me, but Roger. “Oh, hi,” I say, frowning. “Did we agree to meet today?”
“No, but I thought it best to have this conversation as soon as possible.”
“What conversation?”
“May I come in?”
“Sure,” I say, closing the door behind him as he makes his way to the sitting area. “What’s going on?”
He turns around. “First of all, how are you? I know I’ve already said this, but I’m sorry about your mother and Rick.”
“Thank you,” I say, when what I really want is for him to skip the niceties and tell me what’s happened. He seems subdued, upset, and it’s making me nervous.
Roger sits in one of the armchairs, gestures for me to do the same. His demeanor transforms my nerves to anger, which bubbles up my throat. I swallow it down, still can’t tell what Roger’s about to say except for the fact this visit isn’t good.
“Tell me what’s happened,” I say, perching on the edge of my seat.
“I spoke to Georgina after our call,” he says slowly.
“What did she say? Is everything all right?”
“Not exactly.”
Frustration boils over and I throw my hands in the air. “Come on, Roger. Tell me what’s going on.”
“She’s putting the offer to represent you on hold.”
“What? Why?”
He raises his eyebrows. “Come on. There’s been a lot of negative publicity about you recently. The video in the hardware store, the altercation with Madison’s parents—”
“Those weren’t my fault.”
“Georgina understands that.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Optics.”
“Okay, fine. Let’s go with one of the other two.”
He sighs. “I already tried. They both feel the same way as Georgina. It sucks, and I know how hard you worked on the manuscript. There are other agents we can try.”
“But they were our top choices.”
“Yes, and perhaps in a few weeks or months they’ll feel differently.”
Okay, this isn’t great but it’s not the end of the world. It’ll give me time to work on the manuscript. It’s fine. I sit on my hands, dig my nails into my thighs as I ask, “What else do you have for me? Are there any gigs with other bands on the horizon?”
“Not at the moment.”
“What about Marvin? Has he got back to you about what’s next with Mooseman?”
“He doesn’t want to commit to anything.”
“What does that mean?” I say. “My friends died, Roger. Madison killed them. I’ve lost my mother. Now I’m being punished? Why is there no interest when everyone knows who I am, and with the story I have to tell?”
“Being top of mind isn’t necessarily a good thing,” he says, voice calm. “Sit tight and lie low for a month or three, okay? Work on your music, write some songs. The video of you outside The Chord was really quite damaging.”
“Then do damage control,” I shout, leaping up. “You’re my manager. Do what you’re paid to do and manage this mess. That’s your job. Or do I need to find someone else?”
“I get you’re under a lot of stress,” Roger says evenly. “But don’t threaten me. It’s not something I’ve ever responded well to.”
“Let’s see how you respond to being fired,” I shoot back, temper out of control.
He lets out a laugh. “Come on, Vienna, we both know you don’t mean it and you’re proving my point. Your behavior’s a little on the erratic side.”
“Are you calling me hysterical?”
“I said erratic. There’s a difference.”
“Are you sabotaging my career on purpose?” I ask.
“Excuse me? What the hell would I do that for?”
“Did you release my address?”
“Whoa, where’s all this coming from?” Roger asks, but I don’t think he’s expecting a reply. “Listen, here’s the truth. Your obvious volatility is why nobody wants to work with you.”
“Fuck you, Roger.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. I know your friends and family have died. We all understand how much you’re hurting, but—”
“Understand this,” I say, my voice glacial. “Get me a literary agent, some gigs with other bands, and a new deal with Mooseman or another record label. Otherwise, you’re fi—”
“Enough,” Roger says as he stands. “I’ll see myself out. We’ll talk more when you’re receptive to having a calm conversation and not throwing accusations around.”
I watch him leave, shut my mouth before I fire him properly, which I know I’ll regret. But I’m furious, rage burning bright inside every part of me. Yes, “Sweet Spot” has blown up, but it’s not enough. I didn’t do all this to be a one-hit wonder. I need more. There must be more or Isabel’s accidental death and what happened to Evelina and Madison won’t have been worth it.
Despite every precaution I’ve taken, my carefully constructed plans for a successful post-Bittersweet life are collapsing. I don’t know where to turn or how to stop it all from crumbling. I wish Madison were here so I could talk to her, tell her what’s going on, flop on the sofa, put on our favorite Blondie album and listen to it with my best friend.
Except I barely have any friends. There’s nobody I can trust, nobody except for Libby. She’s called me every day since I texted her about Mom and Rick, offering condolences and her help, asking if there’s anything I need. I grab my phone and when she hears the desperation in my voice, she immediately asks what’s going on, and I tell her about my conversation with Roger, how I can’t afford to alienate him, too.
“What do you want to see happen?” she asks. “Let’s strategize.”
“I want people to listen to my story,” I say. “It’s what the book was for, but without a literary agent, it’s not going to happen.”
“What if it wasn’t a book?” she says.
“I’ve already given interviews.”
“No, that’s not what I mean.” She takes a breath. “Okay, hear me out. From what I gather, publishing a book can take forever.”
“Yes, that’s what I heard, too. Probably a year at least, often longer.”
“Right, well, if you want to get the story out there now, what about making a documentary?”
“With you?”
“With me.”
“But I thought you wanted to stay out of all this? Keep your head down.”
“You’re my friend,” she says, simply, and it fills my heart with unexpected affection. “I want to help you and I’ll be behind the camera. We can do this alone, and once we’ve edited it and you approve, I’ll show it to my boss at City Slicker.”
“You’d do that?”
“It’s a little self-serving, to be honest,” she says with a small laugh. “I could do with some extra points after needing to take leave to get my head around things, which has helped immensely, I must say.”
I think about her suggestion, fall in love with it immediately and wish I’d thought of it. Then again, Libby needed to be ready for this project. There’s nobody else I’d trust with this but her. “Okay...where should we film? Here at the hotel?”
“Hmm...I’d recommend somewhere impactful, somewhere people can’t ignore.”
The answer comes instantly. “The cabin.”
“What? No. No, I can’t possibly—”
“Please, Libby. It’s the best place. What if we get some footage there? Not necessarily the whole thing.”
“I can’t,” she whispers, and I try hard not to get annoyed.
“Please, Libby,” I coax, crossing my fingers. “I know it’s a big ask but I need your help.”
It feels like forever until she speaks again. “I can be there Sunday at noon. I’ll go back to Albany afterward, edit from home and let you know when I have something to show you. Maybe you can come here? A break upstate might do you good and my parents would love to meet you. They’re good people.”
“That works,” I say, adding, “I probably don’t need to tell you this, but let’s not post anything on social media about our plans—you know, in case someone shows up.”
“Of course,” she replies. “I’m not telling anyone anything.”
52
79 days after the accident
By 8:00 a.m. on Sunday morning, I’ve rented a car from the closest place in Brooklyn, and this time I don’t use my fake ID because I’ve nothing to hide. Besides, the older woman behind the counter barely looks at me, and when she sees my driver’s license there isn’t a flicker of recognition in her eyes. She snaps her gum as her ruby-red nails fly across the keyboard.
I’m glad to be out of the hotel. I spent Friday and Saturday in my room save for a quick trip back to the Cobble Hill apartment. Thankfully nobody was hanging around the entrance, but I didn’t linger, only stayed long enough to pick up a few clothes, toiletries, and a belt because since losing weight again, my jeans are falling off.
When I saw my drums, I played a few songs, but as soon as I broke into “Running Up That Hill” I had to stop because it reminded me of when Madison and I found the kit in the pawnshop. Moments later, I put down my drumsticks and left. I felt broken.
“Here you go,” the car rental lady says after doing whatever she needed to do in the system, and once I’ve signed the paperwork and given her my credit card, she hands me a set of keys. “Out the door and turn left. Spot six.”
The basic blue Ford Escape has a gazillion miles on the clock but runs well enough, and it’s only for the day. I didn’t bring much with me. Libby called yesterday to confirm our plans, and said she’d handle the equipment we’d need so there’s little for me to do other than rehearse what I want to say.
