by R. J. Jacobs
13
The Petersons’ neighborhood feels quieter than it did a week ago even though it looks the same—like a fog of no-talking and no-music has settled over everything. Tree branches droop sadly, and no wind plays through their branches.
I pass the streets in the same order as when I’d come for the party: Aspen, Dogwood, Live Oak. The names impressed me before, but now they make me think of fake advertising, of lies, of chaos below a perfect surface. I can’t help but think: a person who lives among these idyllic names could be very, very dangerous. A chill runs through me. Ken told us about Brian Peterson’s business tactics. I don’t know why I didn’t listen more closely. No, I know why I didn’t listen. I wanted to believe in the Petersons’ perfect family. Just like I wanted to believe the James family was perfect. That wanting made me ignore the obvious. I feel a weird resentment for the person I was nine days earlier, for being so naïve. Now, I play a different part—same place, new goal. I know I can find evidence that will show Brian went into the woods last night.
If Brian was seeing Shelly, what would have pushed him to kill her? Did he go into the woods intending to? Or had she told him something that sent him into a rage? Had she planned to come out with their affair? If so, why would she be going to such lengths to keep their meeting a secret? I wonder if her judgment was clouded by pills. I wonder if he knew about her taking them, as Owen clearly did. One thing was for sure—if Brian was in the woods with Shelly when she died, he knew more details about what happened than I did.
I walk to the end of the Petersons’ street and wait until I see their black SUV pass, presumably heading for the memorial. I count three shapes inside, and my heart pounds the way it used to before a James show. I remind myself that what I’m about to do is for the right reasons—I don’t like turning dim to go where I shouldn’t, but now I have to. I grind my teeth. My back is hot with sweat.
I want to listen to an Owen and Shelly James song, but I can’t. I am alone now.
I circle around back, into the driveway of a house directly behind the Petersons’ that is under construction. A dumpster heaped with scrap metal and plywood sits in the side yard. All the windows are dark. The Petersons’ roof is just over the fence, steep and gray against the almost-black sky. I cut through their neighbors’ backyard, then slip under a fence, the wood is wet and soft against my fingers. A guard wearing a black uniform is sitting on the Petersons’ back step biting his thumbnail. Extra security, just like Marion said.
I cross the back lawn to the side porch, staying in the shadows. A dog barks in the distance. Another answers. I freeze and wait for them to stop. Not being seen requires moving very slowly and being exquisitely patient. I let out my breath and stay still until the dogs are quiet, then wait—maybe two minutes—until the guard looks the other way. I slip up the driveway along the side of the house, lift the planter, and find the key just where I know it will be from my last time here. I wipe my hands on the sides of my jeans, unlock the back door, and step inside.
Inside the house, I face a soundless world. Only a week has passed since the Petersons’ party, but it feels like much longer. The air smells rich, like faint cologne. Clean as heaven on the pages of a magazine. I’ve never belonged in a place like this, but alone now I feel especially alien. I slip my shoes off and set them beside the door, then leave the key inside the left one so I’ll remember to put it back when I leave.
I cradle my collection materials against my stomach, the plastic warm against my palm. Through the back window, I can see the side of the guard’s head, his hair clipped scalp-short, his expression so blank he can only be daydreaming.
I unbox the tweezers. I’ll go from room to room and pick up what is needed. I’ll label each sample, one by one. Maybe I’ll get lucky, I think, and find the other phone. No matter where that was found, it could surely be traced to Brian. And surely, if an anonymous call can influence an entire investigation, evidence can be dropped off anonymously too. Maybe Marion can do that, I think. I’ll have to leave that part up to him. Maybe I can find enough to make them question Brian.
I know my plan is not a particularly good one, but neither is walking away, or going to jail. I have to try something.
I look again at the framed family photographs I was so impressed by a week ago. The perfect family. There they are skiing. There are their heads tossed back in laughter. There they are visiting the campus of Sean’s expensive soon-to-be college. The photos look different the second time, knowing what I think I do about Brian. When I look closer, they look like framed lies.
I decide to document the tire tread first. If I get caught in the garage, I reason, I can at least find more than one way out. I move through the kitchen silently—rolling my feet heel to toe, heel to toe, resting my weight on the outside of each foot.
I think of Lane Peterson’s voice as she sent me down to fetch water for Shelly. “Ms. James might like something else to drink besides wine.” If Brian and Shelly were involved, did Lane know? And if so, when had she found out? Maybe that night. I remember the murmurs about Shelly’s behavior I’d heard. I wasn’t the only one who sensed that something was off.
I leave the door to the garage slightly open for when I come back up, the metal strike plates millimeters apart. Inside it is what most people would call pitch-dark, but around the doors are seams of faint light—enough to see by once my eyes adjust.
I heard once that jazz musicians leave out some notes on purpose so a listener’s mind has to fill them in to hear the full song. Seeing in the dark is like that. I see just enough to know where things are—parts, shapes—and my mind fills in the rest. I’ve been here before, so I know which car is parked where. When the Petersons left, I saw them go by in their SUV, so I figure the P-O-R-S-C-H-E will still be closest to the kitchen door. My fingertips trace along the back bumper until I find the letters’ familiar ridges.
The cement floor is hard against my knee when I go to the rear tire, kneel, and take my phone from my pocket. The screen is shattered but lights up, the battery still with some charge. The tiny ridges in the cracked screen brush against my thumb as I breathe in the smell of dry grass and dust. I find the camera setting, touch the lightning-bolt icon for the flash, point it at the tire, and close my eyes tight. I know the photo takes because my eyelids light up red. I do this three more times, each photo at a slightly different angle so there is no mistaking the tire. Then I stand and take photos of the back of the car for context. When I send these to Marion, I want there to be no mistake about whose tire I’ve photographed.
I go back up the steps and close the door, holding the knob as it turns back into place so there will be no loud click, no sound at all.
I remind myself not to hurry. Hurrying makes noise.
Next, upstairs. There is only one way up and thus one way out short of breaking a window, which I know I won’t have time to do should a security guard rush me. The thought of being trapped there makes my stomach tighten as I lean against a door frame in the kitchen and look for the guard. He is still on the patio, sitting in the same position, his face now lit by his phone. Past him, a firefly lights up in fluorescent yellow—just a quick wink as it hovers over the backyard. Then another, like they’re talking to each other. But the guard seems not to notice. His head stays still, aimed at his phone, the ripple of his double chin lit from below.
I get close enough as I move through the kitchen that I could make him turn with a whisper, but I stay silent, a shadow within a shadow. I pass the hallway where I overheard Owen and Shelly’s conversation, then pivot on the first stair on the ball of my foot, using the heavy banister to start up toward the bedrooms.
Finding my way through this part of the house requires more guesswork. The hallway at the top of the stairs leads to three doors on each side. In the first room on my left I see a stack of boxes beside the door, clothes draped over the bed. This is Sean’s room, I realize. He’s obviously packing for his move to college in a few days.
The bedroom on the o
pposite side of the hallway has a four-poster bed. The furniture looks antique—more for appearance than for daily use—and the bedspread is tucked in so tidily, I figure the room must be for guests. Even the air there seems still.
I continue moving forward, rolling my feet heel-to-toe along the runner. The hardwood floor is old enough that any pressure creates noise no matter how careful I am, and I wince each time I hear myself. One creak is loud enough that I stop and I hold my breath. I look behind me, hoping not to see the security guard’s shape coming up the stairs. Good thing he is on his phone, I think, hoping I can count on him being distracted a little longer. After maybe a minute, my foot finds a different board, and I start forward again.
The next door on the left is closed. I turn the knob slowly until it gives way, then push the door open an inch at a time. It is the Petersons’ bedroom—everything in its place, like a set from a movie. I haven’t felt guilty about being inside their house, but seeing the bedroom seems … The word for when something is yours alone … Being among their things seems so personal. Stepping through the door feels like breaking into church. I have to remind myself of what is at stake.
I find the closet and pop open the sample bags. I scrape the bottoms of three of Brian’s athletic shoes—sort of like the way I’ve seen on TV shows, and sort of the way I saw police taking evidence from my place—then seal the bags back up and put them in my pocket.
I exhale.
Now is when I have to be most careful, because what I want more than anything is to run. But I have to leave silently—out the back, remembering to put the key back in its place before I make my way through the backyard. In the hallway, I hear only the steady sound of my own breathing.
But then I hear another sound.
A downstairs door is closing.
I hold still, my whole body trying to unhear the noise, my heart crashing like waves. Its whoosh fills my ears. A light flicks on somewhere below, and the stairwell becomes slightly brighter. The banister now casts a steep diagonal shadow onto the wall. I hear the jangle of keys dropping onto a hard surface, then footsteps.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
I duck into Sean’s room, where I steady myself against a stack of boxes, my heart hammering so hard that my hands vibrate with each beat.
What time is it? Why are they home so soon?
Fragments of speech echo up the stairwell. I recognize each voice immediately.
Brian Peterson says, “… Absolutely let’s go out.” His normally deep, authoritative voice sounds drained of energy.
Then Lane replies, “… don’t feel like cooking some big thing.”
They have only stopped off home, I understand, just as I hear the pounding of footsteps on the stairs. I look around. My feet feel planted, or like they’re glued to the floor. If it’s Brian and Lane talking downstairs, I know exactly whose steps I’m hearing. In a few seconds, his door will swing open and he and I will be face to face.
There’s no way out—it’s just like I was afraid it might happen. My eyes search the stacks of boxes, the loose tissue paper on top wafting in the breeze of a slowly turning fan. The window would take too long to open, and the fall from the second story would be at least twenty feet. I’d risk breaking my legs.
A thump vibrates through the hallway—a footfall at the top of the stairs heavy enough that the framed photo on the wall rattles slightly.
There’s only one place to go.
I slip into Sean’s closet, then pull the door toward me without closing it all the way. Every muscle in my body tenses.
I am a ghost, haunting the house.
The door to Sean’s room bursts open, and I hear a rumble and then the springy bounce of a body dropping onto a bed.
Slowly, I tell myself. Breathe slowly.
When Ms. Parsons taught me coping skills, I’m sure she never imagined I would use them like this.
Through the door slats, I watch Sean kick off a shoe with the toe of his other foot.
His mother’s voice comes from downstairs, “Sean, we’re leaving in a few minutes, okay?”
He shouts back, “Okay, Mom.” His voice is so loud it seems impossible—some kind of punishment for me having kept so quiet a minute before. My heart races as I watch Sean being so casual in the very place I’d just been. Soft cotton sleeves brush against my cheeks and arms, the smell of his clothes is all around me. They smell like a guy wears them, and like detergent, and a little like plastic because they are all pretty new. I keep breathing as slowly as I can, with no idea what I will do if he opens the door. I hear the rip of tape unsticking, then the scratch of cardboard on cardboard.
My head spins as I realize what is about to happen: I’m having a panic attack. The confinement is too much. His being in the room, his physical closeness, traps me inside, and I feel my head grow light as breath leaves my body. As if on cue, sweat forms on my forehead. My hands begin to go numb, so I tense and release them to encourage blood flow there.
I can’t gasp or make a sound, because if I do it will finish me. I’ll surely go back to jail and whoever killed Shelly will be free. And yet every part of my body wants to quickly draw in air—to hyperventilate—to get oxygen back into my blood.
Oh, Ms. Parsons, when you taught me how to handle panic attacks, you never imagined a situation like this.
Outside the closet door, I hear Sean opening drawers and slamming them shut. He mutters something to himself, distractedly.
I hear Ms. Parsons’s voice telling me, “Breathe,” and I force myself to do it the way she showed me—in, very slowly to a count of four, until my lungs are uncomfortably full, then holding that breath for two seconds before letting it out again to another count of four.
Repeat.
Remember—this will pass. I tell myself that panic is just a temporary feeling, not a permanent state. It rolls in like a wave and will roll away again. I go through the breathing sequence again, as silently as I can. I pray that Sean won’t hear me. And that he won’t open the door. If he does, I’m caught. I’ve never been more vulnerable.
Stop. Redirect your thoughts.
I tell myself I could fight my way out of this house if it came down to it. I know how to hit. I could get out, away.
I draw another breath. I count as I let it in, hold it, and let it out. I ground myself by focusing on the texture of fabric—one of his shirt sleeves.
The spinning is less. My muscles grow less rigid.
And eventually, my heart rate begins to slow. Gradually my lungs feel fuller.
It’s only then I can listen.
Sean mutters the word “T-shirt.” Then a second later, I hear him say, “Fuck.”
“Hey,” he whispers, “I told you don’t text that shit.”
I realize he is speaking into his phone.
“Don’t be sorry, just don’t fucking do it, okay?” he says before his voice softens. “We did go, not like it was my idea or anything. I think my mom had some kind of FOMO. But it was so crowded, it was nuts. We bounced after like fifteen minutes.”
His mattress springs whine as he falls onto his bed again. I rest against the back of the closet, praying that he won’t see me.
“Whatever, just don’t text me about it. Of course it was fucked up. How could me being there not be fucked up? I literally fucked her the day before.”
My breathing stops.
What?
Lane calls from downstairs, “Sean?”
“Coming,” he shouts, before switching back to his phone voice. “Dude, don’t ask me that. It’s not like she is … or was Finch’s actual mom. Who wouldn’t want to fuck Shelly James? You saw her.”
A pause. My heart is pounding so hard my ribs begin to ache.
Is he the man who chased after me? Why would he have done that?
His voice drops to a whisper as he keeps talking, and I stop being able to hear clearly what he’s saying. He means to keep his parents from eavesdropping, I realize.
I stra
in to hear, but can pick up only fragments of what he whispers.
“… Got rid of my shoes and clothes from last night, so no dirt or whatever in the woods connects back to me. I vacuumed the car before my dad was up this morning and I’ll run it through a car wash … that car is usually immaculate … phone she gave me, I broke in half. They have no idea … nobody is going to suspect, we were just family friends or whatever. The other can’t come out. I’ll keep up appearances until I leave.”
“… girl gets wiped off the face of the earth.”
He stands up and moves to a place where I can’t see him. “Keep any of that shit out of my texts. No messages. I’m serious. No Insta, Snap, nothing. I’ll see you later.” He coughs again, loudly, theatrically. “We’re going to dinner somewhere. Then … Finch.”
Breathe.
“Where she always goes. The Paramount Grille. They don’t bother carding anyone in that back room.”
From downstairs: “Sean!”
“I gotta go. Later.”
I watch him pick his shoes up from the floor. He moves in front of the closet door. Then he stops.
He looks right at me.
Or seems to.
I draw a tiny gasp of a breath.
I see his shape—his head, neck, shoulders. Even if I hadn’t just heard what I had, that would be enough to know it was him I’d seen.
He pushes the closet door until it clicks shut, and everything turns pitch-black.
I hear his footsteps again, this time moving away from me.
Downstairs there are voices, softer. Then a door closing. He must not have seen me. Otherwise I’d be getting hauled out of here in handcuffs.
Breathe. Just a little longer.
On the floor around me are the sample bags I’ve dropped. I can feel the slight weight of them on the tops of my shoes. My legs are shaking so violently that my knees knock together.
What did I just hear?
14
The second I hear the downstairs door close, I fling open the closet door so hard it bounces against a box. I catch the door as I fall forward, the hard floor jolting my hands. The breath I’ve been holding escapes, and I gasp in another. Every muscle in my body is coiled but I tell myself I have to wait—just a minute—until I’m sure they’ve really gone. Their security guard is still downstairs, still watching—maybe even more closely than before. My elbows sink into the soft rug at the foot of Sean’s bed as I pant for air.