by David Bell
“Ugh.”
When my hand starts to feel normal, I reach again. I touch the side of my head and pull my hand away, examining my fingers.
Dry. No blood. Just a knot.
I look around. Is anyone here?
I see no one, feel a little relief.
Grendel’s nails clack against the linoleum. He licks my face again, his way of telling me he wants to be fed. He wants water. He wants to pee. Somewhere on the list is him asking if I’m okay.
“I’m fine,” I say to him, but the words make me wince.
I sit up, lean back against the counter. The night before comes back. Madeline’s visit. My inability to give her the money she wants that I don’t have. Her threats to go public with my plagiarism.
I worried she carried a gun or a knife. Her weapon of choice was the deadliest of all—bourbon. The bottle sits on its side on the floor across the room, some of its contents dribbled out on the tile. I pat the side of my pants, searching for the knife. I feel lucky I didn’t fall on it and stab myself.
But there’s nothing in my pocket. No knife. I check the floor around me as well.
Nothing.
Has Madeline taken it?
Fragments of the night dance in my mind, like images viewed through a curtain. Someone stood over me. Someone checked my pockets.
The back door hung wide open, the cold air blowing in.
Someone said my name.
Wasn’t it a man’s voice? Was Madeline alone?
“I’m going to stand, Grendel.”
He wags his tail, encouraging me. Everyone needs a cheerleader in their life.
I look over. The back door is closed. Wasn’t it open at one point?
I push against the tile with both hands, bend my knees. I move slowly, getting my feet under me. So far, so good . . . I straighten up. When I’m all the way up, the room tilts, sliding to the left like I’m in a fun house.
“Crap.”
I steady myself against the counter, take a few deep breaths. In a moment, the room stops spinning. I see my abandoned sandwich, which looks even more unappealing in the harsh morning light.
“I’m okay,” I say. “It’s okay.”
Grendel’s tail wags. He comes over, nuzzles against my leg. I know he’s hungry. I know he has to pee.
“I see you there,” I say. “And I know what you’re thinking. But this isn’t because I was drinking bourbon. This is because someone hit me with a bourbon bottle. You saw it, didn’t you? Thanks for protecting me, by the way.”
I feel capable of moving around. I should see a doctor, but how would I explain why I’m there? You see, my former student whose book I stole and who might have murdered someone . . .
“All right,” I say. “Let’s go for a walk, and then I’ll feed you.”
I decide to change my shoes before we go. I’m still wearing what I wore the day before, what I wore all day at work and while at the police station. And I have to pee, probably as much as Grendel does.
I take a step into the hallway, heading for the bathroom. The linen closet door is open, the towels and sheets and spare soap spread all over the floor.
“What the . . . ?”
I step back and look out into the living room. The couch cushions are thrown around, the books dumped off the shelves. The coat closet by the front door stands open, the bin of gloves and hats emptied, its contents flung across the carpet like there’s been an earthquake.
“Oh, shit.”
Madeline didn’t just hit and run. She hit and ransacked.
And I think I know exactly what she was looking for.
I go down the hall to our spare room, the one I used as an office when Jake was little and I needed to lock myself away to attempt to get any work done. Each step jars my head, makes the pain throb. The office is a cluttered mess. Overflowing with books, stacks of old student papers. Everything I should have been dealing with for the past five years but haven’t.
It’s also where—
The desk drawers hang open, gaping like the mouths of dead fish. The closet door stands wide, having vomited its papers all over the worn carpet. Inside the closet is a chest, one Emily received from her grandmother as a wedding present. It’s stuffed with old quilts, Emily’s baby book, and her First Communion outfit. A lock of hair from when she was two.
And underneath all of that, hidden in a place I thought no one would ever bother to look . . .
The chest lid is closed. The lock broke a year after we were married, but is it possible Madeline passed it by?
I fling the lid open, look inside. Everything is there, everything in its place. Unlike the rest of the house, the chest appears to be untouched.
My heart sinks. Why put this one spot back in order unless you wanted to send a message, a giant middle finger to me?
I dig to the bottom, moving aside the musty heirlooms. In a matter of seconds, my hand scrapes against the bottom of the chest, my nails hitting the cedar. I move the pile one way and then the other.
I could sit here all day, moving shit around. But I know.
I know for damn sure.
Madeline found her handwritten manuscript.
She took it back.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
A couple of hours pass. And nothing happens. No doom lands on me as a result of Madeline having the book. I walk Grendel, looking over my shoulder the whole time, expecting Preston to show up and fire me. Or my publisher to call, saying I’m ruined.
My head thumps, but nothing happens.
Maybe Madeline fears her own exposure. Maybe she plans to come back to try to pressure me one more time.
Maybe she has something more diabolical and dangerous in mind.
Maybe I’m driving myself crazy over nothing.
And I am driving myself crazy. I pace the house. I check my phone.
If Madeline isn’t going to blow the lid off things on the publishing side—at least not yet—that means the biggest threat to me remains the police. They think I’m a killer because they think I wrote the book. They know I was lingering outside the Greenfields’ house. And they know I wandered around the neighborhood where she lived. That I watched them so much, Sophia thought there was something wrong with me. And maybe there was . . . but I was watching their normalcy. Nothing else.
Is it possible there’s a way to take some of the heat off with the police?
“I’m going out, boy,” I say. I grab my keys and my coat and head for the car.
It’s easy for me to find the little blue house north of the dog park.
It helps that Bowman gave me a refresher the night before, but even without it, I’d remember. For those months over two years ago when I walked Grendel there, hoping for a glimpse of the couple I now know as Zachary and Sophia Greenfield, that house and the street—those people—loomed larger in my mind than anything in my own life. I don’t think it’s overstating things to say they kept me going and gave me something to look forward to during the grayest time.
They gave me hope.
I park on Iroquois, a few doors down from the Greenfields’. It occurs to me as I lock the car and walk up the familiar sidewalk that Zachary may not live here anymore. Would he want to remain in the house that held so many memories of his late wife? He’s a young guy. He may be off in another part of the country.
But then I look at myself. I’m in the same house I shared with Emily and Jake. Why? Inertia, for one. Who wants to move? But when my family died, many people asked me if I planned to sell, to find a place not so haunted by their memories. My response was the opposite. I cherish the memories—the familiar scents and squeaks of that home. And those details keep Emily and Jake alive for me. My house is like a time capsule, sealing in the things I hold most dear. I can’t let it go.
As I mount the steps to the Greenfields’ wood
en porch, I check out the yard. It’s not as pristine as I remember, not as well manicured and cared for, and that makes complete sense to me. If someone were to look at before and after photos of my house, they’d see how much things slipped once Emily was gone and my interest and energy flagged. Zachary must have been the same way, a guy who realized how much harder it is to maintain a life when half of yourself is gone.
My heart flips one way and then the other as I ring the bell. Bowman refused to say that Zachary was cleared of his wife’s murder. It’s possible he’s the killer. But if he is, what’s taking the cops so long to close the deal? I told Bowman about the fight. Might they turn their eyes back to Zachary now? Had anyone else ever been a suspect? Was I a fool for coming to his house?
The blinds are drawn behind the large front window. Brittle stalks of long-dead flowers remain in a window box, quivering in the cold wind. It’s almost ten, and Zach is likely to be at work. But I have to try something. Anything.
I wait. The wind kicks up, freezing the tips of my ears, and I keep my hands in my coat pockets. My head thumps dully, a steady but not excruciating presence. A reminder of Madeline’s wild swing. I wait some more, then ring the bell again.
I think it’s a lost cause until the lock starts rattling, the sound just reaching me above the wind. The door swings open and I’m face-to-face with Zachary for the first time since that night I stepped in between him and his wife.
He stares at me across the threshold, searching for recognition that isn’t quite there. He looks the same but without a beard. Maybe a few flecks of gray in his dark hair.
How do I start? Where?
“Can I help you?” he asks, still searching my face.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I say. “I’m not sure if you—”
His eyes shift. Something brightens there. Or maybe it flares. I can’t be sure. But I see the change. He knows who I am.
“What do you want?” he asks, his voice sharper.
“I want to talk.”
“About what?”
“I think you remember me, right?”
“I do,” he says. “It’s been a while, and I do. You’re the creep who used to come by here with your dog.”
“No, I’m the guy who stopped you from fighting with your wife.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, I’m not interested in relitigating the past. Whatever you’re here for, you’re way too late. Just like the cops, just like everybody else. Get lost.”
He steps back and shoves the door toward my face.
I make the only move I can and stick my foot out. I place the sole against the bottom of the door, blocking its progress. Zachary’s brow wrinkles. He bites down on his lower lip and applies more pressure to the door, as if through sheer application of strength he can knock me out of the doorframe and out of his life. And he probably can. He’s younger than I am. Stronger.
But I do what I can.
“Zachary, wait. Just wait.”
He pushes harder.
“Sophia,” I say. “I want to talk to you about Sophia.”
It’s like I said the magic word. He stops trying to push me away.
“Why are you talking about her?”
“The cops suspect me because I used to walk by here,” I say. “And she told you about me. But I think there’s someone else they should be looking into. Can I come in and explain?”
“You can talk out there,” he says. “I know you were walking by the house. I know the cops tried to find you.”
“Zachary, it’s cold. Look, you’re barefoot. Can we just talk inside? For a few minutes?”
He watches me, appraising me like he’s the emperor and I’m the gladiator awaiting the thumbs-up or thumbs-down. Then he takes a step back, flinging the door open.
“Make it fast,” he says. “I work at home, so you’re interrupting me at my office.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The last time—the only time—I’d been in the house was when I stepped between Zachary and Sophia, interrupting their argument. And guilt strikes my heart like a burning brand. If I’d called the police then, if I’d reported what I’d witnessed, would Sophia be alive?
Had I added my name to a never-ending list of those who turned away when something could have been prevented?
Zachary closes the door, blocking out the faint sunlight. He stands between me and the door, hands on hips. He doesn’t invite me to sit. I study him, trying to decide if he looks like a murderer. How would I know? Do I look like one? Does Madeline?
“I need your help,” I say.
“I don’t see what I can do for you— Wait. You mentioned another suspect. If you just—”
“You know I interrupted that fight—or argument—between you and your wife.”
He sighs. “Isn’t it great to always be judged by your worst moment?”
“I’m in trouble with the police about that,” I say. “Your wife’s murder.”
“You should have been a suspect all along. . . . Wait a minute. Is this why Detective Bowman called me this morning? She said she wants to come over and ask me about something relating to Sophia’s case. Is it you she wants to ask about?”
“When is Bowman coming over?”
Zach’s face darkens. He takes a step back to look at me more carefully.
“Are you a new suspect? Let me tell you something—if you laid a hand on Sophia—”
“Wait.” I don’t know exactly how to proceed. The thumping in my head returns, doing its best to drown out my powers of logic and reason.
“Why should I wait?” he asks. “You killed my wife—”
“I didn’t.” I decide to come clean. “Okay. Your wife told you a man was watching her before she died. Someone who walked by with his dog and—I don’t know—looked at her. Looked in the house.”
“How do you know Sophia thought that?” he asks.
“Bowman told me. Yesterday.”
“Why?” Zachary cocks his head, curious now. Listening. “Why is Bowman stirring up the pot again? Did something happen?”
“That night I came in, the way I heard and saw your fight . . . I was walking by with my dog. I always walked by here. I used to see the two of you together.” It seems foolish to try to explain to this guy why I noticed them. I sense he’s not feeling very patient and won’t want to hear a litany of my downward emotional spiral. “It was a misunderstanding. I wasn’t a creeper. I wasn’t anything but . . . curious.”
Zachary sounds disbelieving. “And the cops want to arrest you for being curious? Is that what you’re saying? Just over two years later you’re going to get arrested for curiosity. You’re not making any sense to me. And I’m out of patience for things that don’t make sense when it comes to Sophia’s murder—”
“You never told the police about the fight you had with Sophia,” I say. “The one I interrupted. They have no record of it, no witnesses but me. And they’re not exactly fans of mine right now. They think I made it all up to cast blame on you and away from me.”
Zach takes a couple of steps away and plops into a wooden chair. His body is slack and loose, like he’s ready to collapse. He shakes his head and looks a lot older than he really is. He looks broken.
“I don’t think you know what this has been like. My wife was murdered. Do you understand that? Murdered?”
“I’m sorry. I am.”
“And then for weeks and months after I buried my wife, the cops were asking me questions. Checking my financial records, talking to all of our friends. Calling my mom at work. They asked the most personal questions. Am I a cheater? Am I abusive? Did I owe somebody money for a gambling debt? Or was I being blackmailed by an unhappy lover?” He shakes his head again, his eyes blinking rapidly. “And you want me to rip that scab off? Everybody in town, everybody I work with, they all look at me like I’m guilty. That’s why I sw
itched to working at home. That’s why I can’t see most of our old friends.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Zach,” I say.
“I don’t even know who you are.”
“Okay, maybe this was a mistake. My coming by. I was just . . . I’m trying to figure out what’s going on too.”
“Join the club.” He points to the door. “You can see yourself out—” Then his arm falls limply to his side. “Wait a minute,” he says. “I thought you wanted to talk about another suspect. That’s what you said when I let you in. That’s the only reason I opened the door for you. And I’ve heard my fair share of whacked-out theories about the case. People call me on the phone. I have an unlisted number, but they find me. They message me. Everyone in this town thinks they know who killed Sophia, but none of them has been right. What are you bringing to the party?”
“I think there might be someone they haven’t thought of,” I say. “Someone who might know more about this than either of us.”
“Okay, you’ve got my attention, friend. Who? A name. Say a name.”
“Madeline O’Brien,” I say.
If I’d stuck Zachary with an electric cattle prod, he likely wouldn’t have jerked around any faster.
“Madeline,” he said. “What the fuck are you bringing her up for?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Zachary jumps out of the chair and comes toward me, taking several quick steps across the room.
Maybe I’m gun-shy from the blow Madeline delivered, or maybe my instinct for self-preservation is at an all-time high, but I move back, lifting my hands in the air between us.
“Look, just hold on,” I say.
“Why are you asking me about her? She’s dead.”
“She’s missing,” I say. “There’s no proof she’s dead.” I think about the night before. Whoever went through my pockets. A male voice saying my name. Was it Zach? “You haven’t seen her, have you?”
“She’s been dead for two years, and you’re asking if I’ve seen her. What are you smoking?”
“But you did know her?”