by Edwin Dasso
“What a lovely home you have,” Noah said and sat.
He tugged on Eden’s hand, but she remained standing.
“I hate to ask, but would it be possible to use your rest room? It’s been a long drive.”
“Why yes, dear. Let me show you where it is.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Roberts, but I can find it.”
“It’s no bother and please, call me Peggy. Mrs. Roberts sounds so formal. The coffee’s on and I was about to start lunch. Nothing fancy, mind you, just some left over chicken soup and sandwiches. You’re welcome to stay.”
“If it’s no bother,” Noah said.
“Oh, none at all. Bill always says I make too much. Right this way dear.” She gestured for Eden to follow her. “Down the hall, first door on the right.”
Bentley followed Eden out of the kitchen. Mrs. Roberts called for the dog to come. Eden ducked inside the bathroom and caught her breath. She turned on the tap and splashed some cool water on her face. The fresh hand towel hanging beside the sink smelled like lavender and she dried herself off. After using the facilities, she washed her hands and ran her palms down the length of the green dress, smoothing out the wrinkles.
The window was located two-thirds of the way up the wall. It was too high and too small to crawl out of. There must be a phone in one of the bedrooms. If she could get to it, she could call 911. Composing herself, Eden opened the door. The bedrooms were farther down the hall to the right, but before she could take a step toward them, she saw Noah waiting for her.
“You were gone a while. I was concerned.”
She saw the warning in Noah’s gaze and knew that he had no intention of letting her out of his sight. Turning her back on him, she returned to the kitchen where Peggy was working.
“You have a lovely home, Mrs. Roberts.”
“Why thank you. Since Bill retired, we’ve done some work. Bill’s not exactly what you’d call handy. Our son drops by from time to time to help out around the place. Now please, I’m fine puttering in here. You two go, keep Bill company.”
Eden and Noah re-entered the living room to find Bill sitting in one of the twin recliners with Bentley at his feet. The sofa faced a large picture window. A peaceful wilderness tableau was framed in the glass. Magazines and books were stacked neatly on the tables, along with a remote control and two pairs of reading glasses. There was an old-fashioned dish filled with butterscotch candies in the center.
Noah sank into the couch and pulled Eden down beside him. The gun ground into her hip, a not-too-subtle reminder of how much was at stake if she signaled for help. He’d shot the neighbor. The slightest misstep on her part could put the Roberts’ lives at risk.
Bill was a quiet man, nowhere near as animated as his wife. His neutral expression made it impossible to tell whether he was happy to see Noah or not.
“You know, Annie, if it weren’t for Mr. Roberts here, I wouldn’t have made it into college.”
“As I recall, your marks were decent enough.”
“Yes, but the short story contest you encouraged me to enter opened so many doors.”
“What was the story about?” Eden asked, hoping that if she spoke, if she drew Mr. Roberts’s attention to her, it would trigger something.
“A cat, wasn’t it? And a hammer. Quite dark as I recall. Stephen King meets Dean Koontz,” Bill said.
Noah remained silent. His free hand grazed a crescent-shaped scar on his forearm that Eden hadn’t noticed before.
“I hope you’re still writing.”
Noah shook his head. “My path took me in a different direction. I’m in law enforcement now.”
“Ah, that’s unfortunate. In a time when the world could use more poets, we seem to prioritize building prisons. I suppose writing doesn’t pay the bills, and at your stage of life, a young person just starting out needs stability.”
Peggy entered the living room carrying a tray of coffee and homemade cookies.
“Lunch will be a few minutes. I’m just waiting for the soup to heat up. We always taught our children that they weren’t allowed to eat dessert before lunch, but the rules are different for company.”
Noah picked up a mug of coffee in one hand and a chocolate chip cookie in the other.
“Would you like one, dear?” Mrs. Roberts gestured toward the plate of cookies, but Eden shook her head. She was too nervous to eat.
“My mother had the same rules. Maybe after lunch.”
“You should have one,” Noah insisted. He picked a cookie up off the plate and handed it to Eden. “She’s hypoglycemic.”
“Oh yes, we know all about that. Bill was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes a few years ago. When his blood sugar’s low, things get exciting.”
Eden nibbled obediently on a cookie and Peggy gave a contented sigh.
“Just look at you two lovebirds. You’re such a lovely couple. Where did you meet?”
“Through work,” Noah said.
“I’ll bet it was love at first sight.”
“For me, anyway,” Noah said, shooting an affectionate gaze Eden’s way.
She forced a smile. “It took me a little longer, but here we are.”
Eden wound her arm obediently through Noah’s. She felt him relax.
“You don’t mind if I take a picture of you? Bill, why don’t you get on the other side of Annie?”
Bill looked as reluctant as Eden felt. He rose from the chair and shuffled across the room to the sofa where he squeezed in beside Eden. Bentley managed to wedge his way into the picture too as Peggy pointed her cell phone camera at the group and snapped off a few shots. Satisfied, she set her cell phone down on the end table between her chair and the couch.
Eden felt the pull of the cell phone sitting so close. Careful to keep her gaze on Peggy, it consumed her thoughts. How could she get hold of it without Noah seeing? Could she distract him with something else and somehow slide it into her palm?
“And what about you, Annie? What do you do?”
Startled from her thoughts, Eden realized that Peggy was talking to her. “I work at a clothing boutique at Washington Square Mall.”
She felt Noah stiffen. The reference hit too close to home, but Peggy didn’t seem to notice the shift in the air.
“What kind of clothes?”
Before Eden could answer, a timer in the kitchen buzzed.
“Oh, my. That’s lunch.”
Noah rose and steered Eden around the other side of the coffee table, keeping her well away from Peggy’s phone.
Lunch was egg salad sandwiches on fresh white bread, and homemade chicken noodle soup. Eden took a small portion while Noah loaded up his plate. Bentley sat at a polite distance, ever watchful in case a morsel of food fell. Though he knew better than to beg, a small whine escaped him.
Bill asked Noah the occasional question, but it was really Peggy who carried the conversation. Bill had retired a few years back. He spent time tying flies for fly fishing. Peggy had no end of activities she was involved with.
“Tuesdays are the library. I read to the children during story time. Wednesday is my food bank day. It’s terrible how many people don’t have enough food, don’t you think? And every second Friday, I sort clothes and other donations for the women’s shelter.”
“Women’s shelter?” Eden asked.
“In Lebanon,” Peggy explained. “It’s a shelter for women and their children who are victims of domestic abuse.”
Noah’s hard stare drilled across the table at Eden. She sat stiffly in her chair and smiled.
“Oh, that’s important work.”
“Yes, it’s terrible how abusive some relationships are. It’s difficult for women with children to find a safe place to go. I used to see it all the time when I was nursing. Mothers and children who would come in with bruises and broken bones.”
Noah dropped his spoon. All conversation stopped as it clattered against the bowl. “Sorry,” he said and cleared his throat. “This soup is amazing. I tried to make dinner
for Annie the other night, and it was a disaster.”
“You’re not the only one. Bill, do you remember the first time you tried to make breakfast? I was just home from the hospital after our oldest was born. The over easy eggs turned out scrambled, and he burnt the sausages and the toast. I was lucky I didn’t end up back in the hospital with food poising.”
Bill’s smile was thin. “That’s why I never taught home economics.”
“I, for one, am glad you taught English,” Noah said.
Once lunch was finished, Peggy rose to clear the table and Eden moved to help her. Noah reached for Eden, but she playfully batted his hand away.
“Silly, let me help,” she teased him.
“But you’re our guest. Please. Sit. Relax.”
“Oh no,” Eden said, quickly sidestepping Noah’s grasp. “I insist. After you went through all this work, it’s the least I can do.”
Eden felt the tension emanating from Noah. Bill’s attempts to engage him were flatly met with one-word answers. She followed Peggy into the kitchen carrying a stack of plates.
“Well my,” Peggy said cheerfully as she turned on the kitchen faucet. “I’m so glad that you and Noah decided to drop by. We don’t get many visitors out this way and although I love it here, it can feel isolating sometimes.”
“I imagine so,” Eden responded.
She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder, knowing there wasn’t much time left. Soon they would be on their way. This could be her last chance. Her only chance. Distracted, she reached for the cupboard, intending to set the dishes down and missed. The stack of plates crashed to the floor. Eden jumped.
“Oh, my god. I’m so sorry.”
“Is everything okay in there?” Noah called.
Eden swallowed hard and bent to clean up the mess. Peggy joined her. She reached for the broken shards. Her hands shook.
“It’s okay,” Peggy assured her. “No need to worry.”
Their heads were less than a foot apart, as Peggy knelt and gathered the broken plates. Eden brushed her fingers across Peggy’s arm, stopping her. She raised her hand in a deliberate gesture. First, she tucked her thumb into her palm. Then she folded her fingers over her thumb in a signal she’d seen on social media. It was part of a campaign started by the Canadian Women’s Foundation. A silent way to signal for help when there was violence in the home. If Peggy worked at a shelter for battered women, maybe she would have seen it.
Immediate recognition crossed Peggy’s face. She gave a slight nod. Eden’s hopes soared as Peggy continued on in a sing-song voice.
“Oh, my, the first time Bill invited me to Christmas dinner with his parents, I was a wreck. I swear I broke every dish I touched. I thought they’d never have me back, but here we are, forty years later, no worse for wear.”
They deposited the broken glass into the garbage bin. Eden rose.
“See, it’s that easy. If you wouldn’t mind starting the dishes, I just need to make a quick call. A friend of mine—"
Peggy gave a yelp of pain. Without making a sound, Noah had crept into the kitchen. His fist was clamped in Peggy’s hair, and he hauled her off the kitchen floor. Knocked off balance, Peggy stumbled toward the counter, hands flailing, trying to steady herself. Noah pulled her against his chest. With one arm wrapped around her shoulders and the other hand on Peggy’s skull, he gave a swift and brutal twist.
The sharp snap of breaking bone stopped Eden’s heart. Peggy’s head lolled to the side as Noah let go.
Part III
21
The acrid smell of cordite and smoke filled the interrogation room. Lacey stood in the doorway shaking, struggling to make sense of the scene. Spencer was sprawled on his back and blood gushed from the wound in his chest. The right side of the suspect’s face was gone. Blood and gore sprayed across the walls. Her stomach heaved at the smell of death, and she forced herself to get a grip.
Focus.
Spencer.
She lurched forward on unsteady legs and fell to her knees beside him. A loud buzzing filled her head as she searched frantically for a pulse.
“Come on. Breathe, Spencer.”
First his wrist. Then his neck. But Lacey could find nothing.
“No. No.”
She folded her palms and started chest compressions, ignoring the blood seeping beneath her hands and pooling around her knees at an unfathomable rate. Too much blood.
Tears mingled with sweat as Lacey worked on Spencer, trying to bring him back to life. She had no sense of how much time had passed before she felt a hand tugging at her shoulder. She looked up into the Chief’s ashen face.
“He’s gone.”
“What?”
“Lacey.”
The chief’s tone was gruff with emotion. He tightened his grip on her shoulders and helped her up. She stood over Spencer’s lifeless body, panting, still trembling with shock, as she tried to reconcile all that had played out over the past two minutes. Their suspect was dead. Spencer was dead and Lacey was covered in his blood.
“I’ll call the medical examiner. Go get cleaned up.”
Lacey left the interrogation room on autopilot, barely taking in the shocked faces of the other staff members hovering outside the door. Tayla sobbed quietly in Rebecca’s arms. She avoided eye contact as she headed for the locker rooms. Stripping down outside the shower, Lacey turned the water on as hot as she could stand and stepped under the spray.
How had this happened? Why?
She tried to break it down. Slow the playback reel inside her head and analyze every action frame by frame, as if by some miracle, she could stop it all from happening. But it was no use. Twenty minutes later, she emerged from the locker room wearing clean clothes. The door to the interrogation room was closed as one by one, the shell-shocked staff went back to work.
The door to the chief’s office was open. He was sitting behind his desk with his face in his hands when Lacey knocked. Looking up, he waved her inside. She sank into a nearby chair. Her hands had stopped shaking. Small crescents of Spencer’s blood were still visible beneath her nails.
The sight of it made her stomach churn. She had to look away. Balling her hands into fists, she forced herself to take a breath and met the chief’s gaze.
“He had a pocketknife. I found it under the desk.”
“Before we entered the station, Spencer patted him down. It must have been in his boot,” Lacey reasoned.
It was the only possible explanation for how Spencer had missed it.
“He slit his wrist,” the chief said.
“Holy shit.”
Lacey struggled to absorb the implications buried beneath the chief’s observation. The suspect used the blood from his slashed wrist as bait to deliberately lure them into the interrogation room. Then he’d gone for Spencer’s gun.
“He was trying to escape, but why—”
The chief trailed off, trying to reconstruct the suspect’s frame of mind when Lacey shook her head.
“By the time he got his hands on the gun, he’d already made his decision.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“He didn’t…” Lacey paused. She closed her eyes, replaying the scene. In her mind’s eye, she pictured the suspect with the gun in his hand. “He didn’t hesitate. He shot Spencer and turned the gun on himself. He could have shot me or tried to take me hostage.”
Their suspect had committed suicide. Not only did this chilling revelation have dire implications for their investigation, but with a dead officer and a dead suspect on their hands, every step, every decision made since the call to Sadie’s store, would be examined through the lens of what had driven their suspect to such desperate ends.
“I don’t get it. Why? What has this guy done that was so bad, he’d rather die than face the consequences of his actions? Grand theft auto, sure. But still, you’re looking at what? Five years. Maybe. If he has priors.”
The chief gave a weary nod and rubbed his forehead.
“I
called Spencer’s parents. And the mayor.”
With a leaden heart, Lacey’s thoughts turned to her own family. If she had been the one to reach the suspect first, it could have been her gun he’d grabbed, and the chief would have had to call Caleb. Her parents. And her kids would be forced to grow up without their mom.
This was Sweet Home. Things like this didn’t happen here. Being a cop was a dangerous job, but never had she imagined something like this. Was her job worth her life? It was the kind of question she had contemplated in theory, but never had it seemed more real.
“I’ve called the State Police. They’ll want to talk to you.”
22
Dr. John Pascal had delivered over half the babies in Sweet Home including Lacey. He also doubled as the town’s medical examiner. He often joked that his mission in life was to preside over all the births and deaths in the town. Despite having passed the daunting threshold of seventy, he ran circles around the other doctors half his age. Lacey had no doubt that given half the chance, he would outlive most of them.
While Dr. Pascal surveyed the scene, Lacey and the chief replayed every second of the video footage documenting the time the suspect had spent alone locked in the interrogation room. Neither spoke as they scrolled to the beginning and watched it again. It struck Lacey as odd, how calm he appeared. He must have been planning it, each step. How to lure them into the interrogation room and then get his hands on Spencer’s gun. And yet, he sat perfectly still, his face blank as he waited for them to return. His expression gave no hint of the battle that must have been raging within him—the fear of having his secrets exposed and the desire to end it all.
Why?
Lacey’s mind traveled down some dark roads as she contemplated the question. There were many reasons why a man might be forced into such a desperate act, but there was little point in speculation. They needed answers. Facts. Evidence.
The door to the interrogation room opened, and a somber Doc Pascal emerged.
“John, do you have the suspect’s prints?”