Silent Rain

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  To that man who dismissed my chances as a writer and that friend who dismissed him as a chancer. I needed both of you.

  Acknowledgments

  I’m fortunate to have not one, but two wonderful literary agents—Felicity Blunt and Kari Stuart, your continuing support means the world to me. Special thanks to Elizabeth Lacks and all the talented people at Minotaur Books and St. Martin’s Press. I couldn’t do this without you. Thank you, David Breck, Hayden Breck, Chelsea Kaderavek, and all the wonderful people at Bridger Brewing, Montana for feeding me beer, pizza, and inspiration—Bone Dust White Ale is divine! Police Officer Andrew Steinbrecher, our coffee morning was both enlightening and entertaining. I also learned a great deal sitting down with roller derby queen and jewelry designer Rjika Weis. Rebecca Hearst, our evening exploring Bozeman and continuing conversations online have provided valuable insight into day to day life in Montana. Many thanks to all of you for taking the time to speak to little old me! I’m forever grateful to Alison Lee and Lynn Noyce, two friends who are always available to answer questions about fine art and medicine—you continue to amaze me with all your accomplishments. I’m also indebted to the singularly gorgeous (and surprisingly daring) Amber Lindstrom for introducing me to Alex Van Nice, a crack shot who spent the day with Amber, Karen Breck, and me at the Matanuska Valley Sportmen’s Range in Palmer, Alaska. It was a private tutorial I will never forget. And finally, my dear children, Matteo and Daniela—there are simply not enough ways to say how much your love and support means to me.

  “And this is the forbidden truth, the unspeakable taboo—that evil is not always repellent but frequently attractive; that it has the power to make of us not simply victims, as nature and accident do, but active accomplices.”

  —JOYCE CAROL OATES

  1

  Halloween Night—Monday

  The man standing shoulder to shoulder with Grace in the crowded Main Street bar took a sip of whiskey and let out a wistful sigh.

  “If only a woman could make me feel this good inside,” he said.

  Grace studied her own drink. The Long Island Iced Tea that sat before her was so vast and dark it appeared bottomless. She had a taste but did not sigh.

  “You’re expecting a lot from a beverage,” she said.

  The man’s laugh twisted into a rattling cough that cut him someplace deep inside. He was teary-eyed when he spoke again.

  “Actually, I’m expecting a lot from a woman.”

  Their reflections were visible in the mirror above the bar. The man’s long face floated like an apparition among the shelves of bottled spirits while Grace’s distorted image was nestled within the long-stemmed martini glasses. She didn’t recognize herself at first glance, disguised as she was in a Halloween costume. She’d traded her short dark bob for a wig of long wavy blond hair topped with a glittering tiara she’d borrowed from a friend. Normally partial to vintage dresses not seen since the 1950s, she wore a long pink prom dress draped with a red sash. The man caught her eye in the mirror and winked.

  “I bet you’re prettier when you smile,” he said.

  “I’ll take that under advisement,” she deadpanned.

  “You can take it however you like. My advice is free.”

  He whipped a comb out of a pocket of his leather jacket and slicked back his jet-black hair. The long fringes that hung from the sleeves danced in the air between them. A small trophy sat on the perfectly polished bar next to his drink. Grace touched the shiny metal statuette of Elvis with her fingertips. It wasn’t cold like she expected. She tapped it with her fingernail. Definitely plastic.

  Every year the K-Bar on Main Street held a themed costume party on Halloween night. This year you had to dress up like Elvis or Priscilla Presley if you wanted to be considered for the grand prize but they’d added a twist for Elvis impersonators. You not only had to look like the King, you had to dance like him too. The prize money had been set at $500. Grace and her friends had arrived in costume but too late to see the show.

  “Did you win?” she asked.

  “Wasn’t difficult,” he said, shrugging like it was nothing. “The competition here tonight was pretty amateurish.”

  Grace almost laughed but then corrected herself. Laughing would mean smiling and she wasn’t in the mood. Besides, it sounded like he took pride in his achievements and there was nothing wrong with that.

  “I’m curious,” she said, drawing her words out more than she normally would because she was a little drunk. “Are you a professional Elvis impersonator?”

  He placed a business card on the bar between them.

  “Best gig in the world,” he said.

  His voice was honeyed with that unique Elvis baritone. Grace had to admit she found it attractive. She read the card. The man standing next to her wasn’t just Elvis. He was also Conway Twitty, Neil Sedaka, and Neil Diamond. Among other things he was available for corporate events, weddings, birthday parties, and bar mitzvahs. He posted videos of his performances on his Web site.

  “May I take this?” said Grace.

  He nodded. “My number is on it. Call me anytime.”

  Grace slipped the card into a slim gold purse. She wouldn’t be calling this particular Elvis but she might stalk him online for a bit. She had to admit that she was curious. He was an older man. She wondered how he still managed to swivel his hips like Elvis. He certainly had swagger and it was the first time she’d met someone, male or female, who could pull off wearing tight leather trousers.

  “So, what do you say, little lady?” he persisted. “A little smile for the best Elvis impersonator in Bolton?”

  Grace forced her lips into a grin of sorts.

  “I suppose that’s a start,” he said, opening a wallet stuffed with bills. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  Grace held up her twelve-ounce Long Island Iced Tea, her version of a trophy.

  “Thank you, but I’m spoken for.”

  She made a point of glancing over her shoulder as if indicating that someone out there in the crowded barroom was eagerly awaiting her company.

  “No worries,” he said, picking up his drink and trophy and moving on. He tipped an imaginary hat. “Have a good evening.”

  Grace slid her drink a little farther along the bar where she settled onto an empty stool next to two guys dressed as priests. She didn’t like when men told her to smile. Being pretty was all well and good but she wanted to be taken more seriously these days. Besides, she’d been groped far too many times over the course of the evening to be in the mood for smiling. The guys frequenting the bars on Main Street would no doubt hold up their hands and say it was an accident, but Grace and her girlfriends knew better. To be fair, it did always seem worse on Halloween night. People didn’t consider themselves bound by the usual rules of decorum when they were dressed up as someone else. It didn’t help that everyone was drunk, herself included. Lines were being crossed everywhere she looked.

  G
race once again checked her reflection in the mirror above the bar. Her wig and tiara were slightly askew so she straightened them, tucking her black hair in where it was poking through. The tiara was on loan from her girlfriend Lara, and Grace was under strict instructions to look after it. Whether it was an actual prom-queen tiara was a matter of debate. For someone known for oversharing online, Lara was very cagey about her comfortably middle-class roots. Apparently, it was much cooler if a debut novelist’s parents were blue collar or, better yet, unemployed and, above all else, Lara dreamed of becoming a novelist.

  They’d gone shopping together at a secondhand store for the prom dress Grace was wearing. Lara had gone into hysterics every time Grace had emerged from the changing room. When the cashier asked Grace if it was for a special occasion, Grace didn’t have the heart to tell her she was going home to pour fake blood all over it. So far the costume had been an utter failure. Everyone she’d come across had thought she’d dressed up as a murderess version of Priscilla Presley.

  Grace saw someone’s reflection in the mirror and nearly tipped over her drink as she swung around to have a better look. She scanned the crowd near the front doors, slipping down from the barstool when she realized who she’d seen. A man she knew only as Jordan was standing by himself near the entrance. At around five foot nine with light brown hair and a beard, there wasn’t anything remarkable about him. Grace guessed he was at least thirty but may have been older. When he’d first started coming into the coffee shop where she worked she’d thought he was a lonely guy, but her opinion changed when she’d caught him taking her picture. She really should have confronted him or, better yet, called the police. Soon after, he started showing up for all her shifts. A week later she noticed he was tailing her as she drove through town, his dusty green Bronco filling her rearview mirror every time she checked.

  Jordan was no more determined than the others who’d managed to track her down, but this time she’d decided to wait a little longer before calling the police as she was hoping he’d eventually lose interest and leave town if she ignored him. Jordan was her fifth stalker in two years and she was pretty sure the local authorities were tired of hearing from her. The last police officer she’d spoken to had seemed impatient to take down the details and get her out of his office. Afterward, she’d spotted him speaking to a colleague. He’d nodded his head in her direction and laughed.

  Now she was worried she’d left it too late. Jordan didn’t seem as harmless as he was at the beginning, when he’d stammered through his coffee order and then blushed when she’d asked him his name so she could write it down on the takeaway cup. Instead of backing off, he now seemed emboldened. Grace was beginning to think he could be violent but that wasn’t what concerned her most. She was more frightened that he might want to speak to her about the events that took place in Collier, a small town in northern Montana where she’d lived until she was eighteen. The case had been in the news for months and every detail of her life had been exposed, but that didn’t stop people from wanting to know more. Grace had told her side of the story only once and she wouldn’t be making that mistake again.

  She headed into the crowd that had gathered near the doors leading out onto the back patio. She needed to find her friend Lara. One of the many hard-won lessons she’d learned growing up in Collier was that strange men like Jordan were to be avoided at all costs.

  Grace heard Lara before she saw her. Lara was happiest when she had the full attention of the opposite sex, and at present she was smiling broadly as she stood next to a dark-eyed Elvis impersonator dressed in army fatigues. Her eyes were at half-mast and her long white arms waved about like fragile fairy wings. She raised her phone high and shushed the group surrounding her. Years of smoking had made her voice a husky mess.

  “I’m going to get a photo of every Elvis in this shit hole tonight.” Lara swung her camera in a slow arc, losing focus on her task when she caught sight of Grace.

  “That drink better have my name on it,” said Lara. She moved toward Grace, looking determined.

  “It was a gift from a bartender who owes me for a free coffee,” said Grace, a little unsteady on her feet. “I’m only too happy to share the spoils. Truthfully,” she slurred. “I think I’m a little wasted.”

  Lara plucked the glass from Grace’s hand and downed half of it in one go. Keeping to the bar’s Elvis theme, Lara had dressed as Priscilla, the early years. Despite hours in costume she still looked fresh and alive. Grace, on the other hand, was wilting. She wanted to go home and was hoping Lara felt the same way.

  Lara leaned in, eyes wide. She touched the tip of Grace’s nose. “Perk up, babe.”

  Grace started to speak but Lara shushed her.

  “What do you think of Hawaiian Elvis?” said Lara.

  Lara pointed to a gathering of Elvis wannabes perched around some high tables. Grace had to admit that the odds were in Lara’s favor. There wasn’t a single Priscilla in sight.

  Grace let Lara drag her across the room. Most people thought Lara was difficult company, but Grace was too grateful for their improbable friendship to take much notice. Lara had moved into Grace’s spare bedroom eighteen months earlier. Grace hadn’t grown up with girlfriends, shared secrets, and sleepovers, so she didn’t really understand the dynamics as well as she should have at nearly twenty-one years of age. She’d learned to fake her way through most situations, but living in close quarters had proved to be a unique challenge. Thankfully, Lara seemed oblivious to Grace’s missteps. She introduced Grace to all her friends and even arranged a fake driver’s license for Grace so they could go out together. Grace had never before felt so carefree. Grace returned the favor by overlooking Lara’s worse excesses. There’d been a lot of men and a great deal of alcohol consumed since she moved in. There’d also been a lot of tears. When Lara was upset she drank and slept around. When Grace was upset she packed her bags and threatened to run home to Collier, a town where there were precisely zero people waiting for her. It had been Lara who’d convinced Grace to stay in Bolton when everything fell apart.

  “Hawaiian Elvis does have a touch of the exotic about him,” said Grace. She peered a little closer. “But that may be the fake tan talking.”

  The Vegas Elvis wore a white satin body suit, cape, and rhinestones, and the Hawaiian Elvis smelled like bronzer and cheap cologne. All product and no substance, the flower lei draped around his thin neck was looking as if it had gone through several seasons, but then again so did his face. He was a lot older than he’d initially appeared. Makeup powdered the deep lines that creased his eyes. There was something else that was odd about him that Grace couldn’t quite place. He was a little too jumpy and kept making weird comments. Grace was wedged in tight between the two of them. Grace could tell Lara had already gone off Hawaiian Elvis, no doubt her attention already on some new opportunity. She was dithering with her phone’s camera.

  Grace was feeling more and more uncomfortable. Vegas Elvis was big, bordering on fat. He didn’t so much as hold Grace tight but swallow her whole. He whispered in Grace’s ear. He didn’t smell of fake tan, he smelled of nylon and sweat.

  “I think I might head home. Need a ride?”

  Grace focused in on the camera, ignoring Lara’s request that she smile.

  “Lara, take the damn picture.”

  Lara stared at the screen on her phone with a barely-there look on her face.

  “I got it,” she said, waving one of her fairy arms into the air triumphantly. She reached for Grace’s hand. “Come on, Grace, let’s go find the others. Clare is over there somewhere.” She smiled. “Made a little rhyme. Clever me.”

  Grace slid out from Vegas Elvis’s embrace. His thick fingers lingered on her neck. She shuddered. As usual she’d managed to pull a couple of weirdos. Hawaiian Elvis pressed his hand to the small of her back and yanked her roughly to one side. Her heel was caught on the hem of the prom dress she was wearing. She nearly toppled over.

  “Let her go,” said Lara.
“We’re leaving.”

  Hawaiian Elvis didn’t give up easily.

  “What was all that noise you were making a few minutes ago when you were asking us to buy you a drink? Seemed like we were good enough then.”

  “Don’t be an asshole,” said Lara, cutting him off cold. “Grace, babe. We gotta go.”

  “What a couple of bitches,” he said, giving Grace a hard shove.

  Grace lost her balance and went down hard on a floor that was slick with spilled drinks. She tried to get up but her long dress was tangled around her legs. Lara grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to her feet. She had to shout in Grace’s ear to be heard.

  “This is shit,” said Lara. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Grace could barely stand up straight. She didn’t feel right. Everything in her peripheral vision was blurred. Even Lara’s voice was distorted. She felt her head. A bump was forming. Grace winced.

  “I hit my head.”

  “Are you going to hurl?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Time to move,” said Lara. She raised her voice. “Out of my way, bitches. My girl is going to hurl.” She laughed. “Another rhyme.”

  They huddled together on the wooden walkway in front of the bar. It was much cooler outside. Brittle autumn leaves skirted across the pavement and the American flag whipped around on its pole like a dancer. Their friend Clare’s car wasn’t parked across the street anymore.

  “Damn, I’m freezing,” said Lara.

  “Where’s Clare?” asked Grace. “Our coats are in her car.”

  “No idea. She was in a bit of a mood.” Lara waved her cigarette in the air. “It may be something I said.”

  “Nothing new there.”

  “We should go back inside and wait for her.”

  “No, thanks. It’s that time of night when everything gets a little weird.”

  Lara lit a cigarette and drew deeply. “Some guys get so agro when they drink. It’s boring.”