The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2019 by Laura Benedict
Cover design by Lucy Kim
Cover photograph © Paul Treacy/Millennium Images, UK
Author photograph by Julia Noack Photography
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ISBN 978-0-316-44494-1
E3-20181214-DANF
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Laura Benedict
Newsletters
For Cleveland, without a single ghost
Chapter One
The outcropping of limestone on which Michelle Hannon struck her head had been a part of the hillside for three thousand years, before there were trees in sight taller than a scrubby pine. It was thicker and a dozen feet broader back then, but storms and earthquakes came, and chinkapin oaks and butternut trees sank deep roots in the hillside, fracturing the big rock. Chunks of it fell away and tumbled into the timid creek at the bottom of the ravine. Now most of those old trees were gone, long ago sacrificed to logging, and the rock was little wider than Michelle’s hunched and broken body was tall. She lay wedged between it and the earth, as though she were trying to hide in the rock’s shadow. Her thoughts were caught in a blink, the slow closing of one undamaged eye, and she was at the beginning of her life again, soothed by her mother’s thrumming heartbeat. She felt only a quiet joy. There was no unmovable rock, no blood streaking her face, no pain seething through her body. Nothing mattered. Nothing at all. But the moment that lasted both a split second and an eternity ended, and with each frantic beat of her heart, the joy ebbed away. Death was coming for her. She could hear it stalking through the leaves carpeting the hillside, eager to whisper its frigid breath in her ear.
Her eye closed.
Chapter Two
The front door key in Kimber’s hand won’t turn in the lock, but she tries it again and again: taking it out, sliding it back in, her mind unable to connect what’s happening with what is supposed to happen. Frustrated, she tries the other keys on the fob, the keys to her garage, her mother’s house, and the radio station where she works, just in case she’s gone a little crazy and forgotten which is which. With each successive key, she tries harder to force it in, making her hand hurt. All the while, a low, insistent voice in her brain is telling her what she already suspects. None of the keys will work.
She stares at the door a moment, then glances around her porch and the tree-lined street beyond. There’s no one around, and the day seems to be slipping quietly into evening, as it should.
Wait. Am I being punked?
Is someone hiding and watching? Laughing at her?
She lets her laptop bag slide off her shoulder to rest beside the weekender at her feet and pushes her dark blond bob away from her face with her sunglasses.
Stepping back, she looks up at the familiar rows of green and orange glass squares arranged above the lintel. This is definitely the same door she closed—and locked—behind her when she left four days ago. The same polished mahogany, the same simple Shaker lines that complement the rest of the Craftsman-style bungalow. The same faint scratches inflicted by her next-door neighbor’s tiny dog. A dozen feet away, the cedar porch swing hangs unmoving in the torpid August twilight. She looks at the useless set of keys in her hand, feeling stymied and helpless. Shading her forehead, she presses against a front window and is relieved to see the kitchen light she left on Thursday afternoon is the only light burning.
Still.
An empty house somehow feels empty, doesn’t it? But this house—her house—doesn’t feel empty at all. The idea that someone is inside takes hold of her and won’t let go.
“Hello? Is somebody in there?” She raps hard and fast on the glass until her knuckles sting. “Hey! Hello?”
Along with the unending hum of cicadas, there’s the sound of a lawn mower from a few houses away yet nothing but silence from inside her house.
She presses the doorbell once, twice, five times. Nothing.
There are other ways to get inside.
Kimber leaves the porch and stalks across the yard on the half-buried stone pavers to drop her bags on the driveway beside her Mini.
On her way to the backyard, she glances warily at the steep concrete stairwell tucked beside
the house. The door at the bottom opens into the basement. She’s seen enough horror movies to know better than to force her way in through there. The door, like the basement itself, is rough and cobwebbed and gives her the creeps. She’s never tried to open it and doesn’t want to.
Reaching one hand to a back pocket of her shorts, she touches her phone for reassurance. If someone really is inside, she’ll eventually have to call the police, but right now she feels a nervous tingle of excitement at the possibility of confronting them.
The hinges on the back porch’s screen door grate and squeal as she pulls the door open. She looks over her shoulder into the darkening yard. No one is behind her. But did she really expect there to be? Giving herself a little shake, she tells herself she’s just being paranoid. Ridiculous! What a funny story it will make to tell her best friend over wine. Maybe there is just something wrong with her keys. Maybe it’s only someone’s idea of a bad joke after all.
Then she enters the dim porch, and the remnants of the lovely calm she stored up during the long weekend’s lake retreat rush from her body like an outgoing tide.
An unfamiliar, sparkling red and white Novara Strada bicycle leans against one wall. It’s no kid’s toy, and her beat-up Trek looks homely beside it. A scratched yellow helmet hangs from the newer bike’s handlebars. And is that one of her bathroom face towels draped over the seat? She grabs it up to find it’s spotted with grease and smells heavily of rancid sweat. Disgusted and furious, she drops it and kicks it away.
Her hand shakes as she struggles to fit her key into the back door lock. When it doesn’t work, she doesn’t bother to try the other keys.
The feeling that someone is inside is stronger now. She’s dealt with some obnoxious people in her life, but breaking into her house is over the top. And it makes her angry.
She peers through the glass into the narrow hall that serves as a mudroom. At its end is the interior basement door, illuminated by light spilling from the kitchen. A black baseball cap hangs on the door’s hook, along with the frilly kitchen apron her ex-husband gave her as a housewarming joke. She doesn’t own a black baseball cap.
A formless shadow slides across the basement door and disappears.
“Hey!” Kimber rattles the loose handle below the offending lock. “Who’s in there?” An ugly sense of violation takes root inside her.
She retrieves the stained towel and hurriedly wraps it around her hand before she can change her mind. But as she steels herself to punch through the glass, the kitchen light blinks out, and everything on the other side of the door turns from gray to black. Deep inside the house, a door slams.
Stunned, she backs away. All her brave anger gone, she turns and bursts out the screen door, feeling as helpless as a child. Helpless in her own backyard. Unable to enter her own house. Her mind races. Did she accidentally leave a door unlocked, so a stranger—or strangers—could get inside and even go so far as to change the locks?
Shit. This can’t be happening.
Then comes that answering voice in her head. The one that is hers, only not quite: Oh yes. It’s happening.
Tall shade trees engulf the backyard in shadows, and Kimber walks quickly out to the brighter driveway. Her fingers fumble as she tries to dial 911, as they do in her nightmares. What if whoever is inside gets to her before the dispatcher answers? Finally the call goes through and it rings three, four times. “Nine one one. What is your emergency?”
She hesitates. She hasn’t planned what to say.
“Hello? Can you speak?”
“Someone’s broken into my house. I need you to get them out.”
A light from the second floor draws her attention. Looking up, she sees the silhouette of a man in her guest room window.
Chapter Three
Kimber paces in the driveway, gripping her phone hard. The guest room lamp is still on, but the man is gone from the window.
The lawn mower has stopped, leaving the block deceptively quiet but for the endless scritching of cicadas. People rarely linger on the sidewalks of Providence Street, or any other street in her quaint, well-kept neighborhood. Strangers are conspicuous, and being out in front of her house instead of inside makes her feel like she doesn’t quite belong. There are Richmond Heights Neighborhood Watch signs everywhere, but apparently no one was watching out for her house.
Startled by something cold and wet on her ankle, Kimber jumps. Only the familiar jingle of dog tags stops her from kicking out. Her neighbor’s shaggy tan Yorkie pants up at her, his brown eyes appealing, his tail wagging. She stares at him, but his presence doesn’t really register in her brain. He doesn’t fit what’s going on. Nothing fits. Everything is wrong. He stares back at her, his head at a questioning tilt.
“Kimber!” The dog’s owner, elderly Jenny from next door, calls from her porch. At the same time, a police cruiser with its lights flashing silently pulls into the driveway.
Thank God. Finally.
Kimber shields her eyes from the flashing red and blue strobes, as well as the scathing white light of the cruiser’s headlamps. She fights an impulse to run to the driver’s window. Come on! Tell whoever is in my house to get the hell out!
Except.
Her experiences with police haven’t always been good ones. She knows to be polite. Respectful. Even when she’s the victim. When panic threatens to overcome her, she takes a deep, calming breath.
I’m the victim. You’re here to help me.
“Kimber, what’s going on? What are you doing here?” Jenny rushes down the sidewalk with surprising speed. The tiny dog jumps and barks, excited by Jenny’s worried voice and the presence of the strange car.
“Not now, Jenny.” Kimber holds up a hand to stop the older woman. Not now. This isn’t your business.
With a twinge of disappointment she sees that the officer inside the cruiser is a woman. It’s a sexist reaction, she knows, but she can’t help herself. The idea that she and the female officer will be the ones trying to evict a stranger—almost definitely a man—from her house worries her. At least one of us is armed. Then she remembers the gun in her bedside table, an old Smith & Wesson .22 revolver her father left in the house. The man inside might have already found it. Should she tell the police? She doesn’t even know if the gun is legal. What if he shoots at them from the house? Get a grip. Things like that don’t happen in real life. Not in my life.
At least they never have before.
The officer gets out, leaving the car running, and comes around to meet Kimber. She doesn’t offer her hand to shake. “Ms. Hannon? Kimber Hannon? I’m Officer Maby.”
Rhymes with “baby.”
Officer Maby is perhaps thirty, definitely seven or eight years younger than Kimber, the age of someone she might have babysat when she was a teenager. Her short-sleeved uniform shirt, buttoned securely at the neck, is snug around her apple torso, and her pants have military creases. Not a single strand of chestnut hair is loosed from her low bun, and her large eyes and sensuous, full lips are devoid of makeup. Her voice is smooth and controlled and confident, and Kimber silently reflects that Officer Maby has both a voice and face for radio.
Out of patience, Kimber jumps in right away. “This is my house.” She points at the bungalow with its single burning light. “I called because there’s somebody inside. The locks were changed sometime between Thursday afternoon and today. I want whoever is in there to get out.”
“Ms. Hannon, when did you first try to get into the house?”
“Um, around eight o’clock. Does it matter?”
“You say the locks have been changed? What happened when you went to the door?”
Kimber bristles. “Nothing happened. The key didn’t fit. And someone is turning lights on and off. Look.” She points to the second-story window overlooking the driveway. “I saw a man’s—you know—shadow, up there.”
One of Officer Maby’s overplucked eyebrows lifts. “Did you invite anyone to stay at your house? Or is the house in foreclosure?”
“No, it’s not in foreclosure, and I didn’t invite anyone to stay! Why would I do that and then call you?” Agitation makes her voice louder. “I was out of town. Nobody has a key except my mother, and it’s not her. I talked to her earlier today.”
“Well, I know who it is. And you do too, Kimber. What is all this fuss about? Why did you call the police on that nice man?”
Kimber turns around to stare. Her neighbor, Jenny Tuttle, stands in strobing red and blue cruiser lights, her red wig and her candy-apple-red glasses both slightly askew. The jacket of her velour tracksuit sags on her wilted body, and the slightest of breezes carries the odor of cigarette smoke from her clothes to Kimber. The little dog sits at her feet. Now they both look defiant.
“Ma’am?” The officer speaks before Kimber can respond. “What’s your name, please?”
“I’m Jenny. Jennifer Tuttle. I live next door.”
Kimber finds her voice. “What are you talking about?” She has a love-hate relationship with the woman she’s lived next door to for the last year. Jenny is the neighborhood busybody and knows all the gossip, though she rarely leaves her house except to walk the dog. But she is also kind, occasionally gifting Kimber with half a casserole or tomatoes from her garden. Her dog is a sweet, lively thing. Now Kimber is wondering if Jenny has finally lost her mind. She only admits to being sixty-eight years old yet looks eighty, or older.
Jenny stands up a bit taller. “I saw you hand him a set of keys, and you helped him carry his bags in before he drove you away again. He’s here for six months! Have you had some kind of accident, dear? Like amnesia, on the soaps?”
A breathy sound from the officer draws Kimber’s attention. “I don’t know what she’s talking about. I didn’t rent my house to anybody. Why would I do that?” Where the officer’s mild face was serious and business-like a moment earlier, now there’s a glint of skepticism in her eyes. She looks from Jenny to Kimber. “That’s crazy. Why would I do that?” Kimber repeats. Now she really does feel as if, like Alice, she’s on the other side of the looking glass.
“What else happened that makes you believe Ms. Hannon rented out her house?”
The Stranger Inside Page 1