by David Bell
The blond hair, the big eyes. The incandescent smile. Sophia made Madeline feel warm every time she saw her. But the glow was dimmed that night, like something had gone out of it.
Sophia came in and looked around. Madeline apologized for the rickety stairs, the crappy apartment, the pathetic lighting on the landing. “The place is kind of a dump.”
“Don’t apologize for that,” Sophia said. “It kind of makes me nostalgic for college. Good times, you know? Simpler times.”
“You went to Vanderbilt, right?”
“I did. My mom’s a lawyer with a really big firm. She’s done well. Privilege, I know.”
“I wasn’t saying that,” Madeline said, although she had thought it. What would it be like to go to a school like Vanderbilt? And have your parents pay? And graduate with no debt so you could maybe buy a house or a car or take a vacation? But she didn’t really know if that was the case with Sophia. Madeline was doing what she always did—making a character biography of everybody she met. “I’m sorry. Do you want something? I think I have some tea. Maybe a little coffee. I don’t cook much.”
“It’s cool,” Sophia said, taking a seat in the recliner. “I won’t be long. And I’m sorry to just barge in when you’re studying.”
“That’s okay. I could use a break. Some of the guys write these stories for class. . . . I think they all believe our society is going to be taken over by sexy robots.”
Sophia’s hair was in the braid she always wore to yoga. Her oversized Commonwealth U sweatshirt hid most of her body. Madeline wondered if the sweatshirt belonged to Zach. Sophia crossed one leg over the other and jangled her foot in the air. She seemed nervous, not her usual calm self. And that made Madeline freaked. Madeline wished she did have something to drink. A cheap beer. Some shitty wine. Anything.
“I’m sorry to bring all this up, Madeline,” Sophia said. “I’ve just been wondering if everything went okay at the party after I left.” She looked down at her lap, played with the strap on her purse. She kept her eyes down when she said, “I know Zach and I talked to you when you first showed up. We only went because Lance invited us. We know a few Commonwealth graduates, people closer to our age who were going to be there. And Zach plays golf with Lance and hangs out with him sometimes. Lance likes to brag about these parties he has for students and recent graduates. And I know how Zach is. He has his issues, growing up without a dad. I saw the way he looked at you. It was the same way he looked that first night you met him at the Owl’s Nest.” She lifted her eyes then, fixed them on Madeline. They were watery. “So . . .”
She let the word hang in the air between them. Madeline thought everything hung on that word. An entire friendship. An entire marriage.
“Sophia, I don’t know what you’ve heard—”
“I haven’t heard anything. I could tell by the way Zach looked at you, by other things he’s done since we’ve been married. By the way he talked about you when he came home. And then you didn’t come to yoga when you always do. . . .” She shook her head. “I should have stayed at the party, but I wasn’t feeling well. I’d eaten something that didn’t agree with me. But now I wish I’d been there. It would have made everything so much easier.” She started to play with the purse strap again. “You can just tell me, okay? We’re friends. We’ve talked about a lot of things. Please, tell me.”
“Zach had a lot to drink that night. He must not have been himself.”
“Just tell me, Madeline.”
Madeline shifted in her seat. If there’d been a way out, a magic portal through the floor or ceiling, she would have taken it.
But things like that existed only in stories. Like the kind Isaac wrote. Not in her actual life, which had suddenly become very, very real.
“I don’t want you to hate me.”
“I won’t.”
Sophia said the words quickly. Madeline tried to believe her. Wanted very much to believe her.
And Madeline refused to lie and make it better.
So she told Sophia what had happened. How she had been talking to Rebecca by the bookshelves, and then she saw Sophia leaving, and she wanted to say good-bye. And Madeline didn’t really mind going outside since the house was getting hot and Hoffman was getting drunker and drunker. After saying good-bye to Sophia, Madeline got waylaid on the patio by Isaac and the stoner guys. Madeline talked to them but refused to smoke since she wanted to stay in command of her faculties. She grabbed a beer and started walking, hoping to be alone for a minute and look at the stars. But as she went through the backyard, someone called her name.
“Madeline.”
She knew who it was without looking, without turning.
And looking back, she wished she’d just kept on going. She could have claimed she hadn’t heard and dashed away, back out to the street where she’d parked her car. Left.
But she hated to be rude, especially to Sophia’s husband. She considered Sophia a friend—a pretty good friend, all things considered—and even if the guy was kind of acting like a creep, maybe she could just talk for a minute and then keep right on going.
But things like that happened fast. She knew. She’d seen it before. With her mom. With other friends. Things happened fast.
She considered herself smart, streetwise even. More so than the spoiled kids she went to school with. She kept her guard up, always watched three hundred and sixty degrees around. She’d learned that from her mother.
But Zach moved quickly. And before she knew it, he’d maneuvered himself between her and the alley, guiding her with his body until she was against a car. He leaned in, his eyes glassy in the shadowy light.
“I just want a kiss,” he said.
His hands landed on her hips. Then started sliding up.
She pushed them away once. And then again.
“Just a kiss,” he said.
“You’re married. What about Sophia?”
“It’s just a kiss.”
There was Mace in her purse, which she’d never have been able to get out. She’d dropped the beer can, so her hands were free to fight back. If only Hoffman had bought bottles, she could swing one. . . .
Then Zach’s hands were under her shirt, moving up. She tried to push them away, but he was faster. Stronger. She saw Sophia’s face in her mind.
Her friend. Her loving, caring friend.
And then someone called her name. A woman.
“Madeline?”
And it was enough to make Zach step back, even to distract him so Madeline could slip past him and away from the car. In the dark, Madeline squinted to see who it was. A familiar face, kind of. Someone she’d just been talking to inside.
Rebecca. The quiet girl from the bookshelves. The one who looked scared and a little out of place.
“Hey,” Madeline said. And started toward her.
And as she walked away, she heard Zach muttering to himself. Only one word reached her ears that she understood.
“Bitch,” he said.
She told Sophia everything. She told her friend everything because what was the point of hiding it? Sophia seemed to suspect already. And she certainly deserved to know.
She didn’t tell Sophia that she’d started working it into the plot of her novel. Sophia might remember that Madeline had been casting around for a plot, starting and restarting, but now she thought she’d discovered what her book could be about. Two friends, and the husband of one of them started showing an unhealthy interest in the other. Driving a wedge between the two women.
“I’m sorry, Sophia,” Madeline said. “I didn’t mean for any of it to happen.”
Sophia didn’t cry, but she did sniffle. She gathered her purse and stood up. Normally she hugged Madeline every time she left her, but that time she didn’t. She just stood up and started for the door, turning her back to Madeline.
And Madeline didn’t know
what to say, didn’t know if she should reach out or follow her, but decided to just let her go.
And that was what Sophia did. She went right through the door, slamming it shut behind her.
And Madeline assumed she was never going to see her friend again.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CONNOR
PRESENT
Despite Diana’s—and Bowman’s—promise, I expect to see cops waiting for me at the house.
If they’re there, I tell myself, I’ll take my medicine.
But I see nothing and no one as I pull up. And I feel relieved to have a few minutes alone to gather my thoughts.
Inside, the house feels as lonely as the cemetery without Grendel here.
I once again make a circuit, checking every door and window. I peek into every closet.
I’m tired of being freaked in my own house. And everywhere I go.
I think about going to Preston’s house and bringing Grendel back home, but what if I’m stuck in the police station a long, long time? I know Grendel is well taken care of. It’s best to leave him where he is.
Once I know the place is secure, I go to the kitchen and check the knives. There is one missing from the block on the counter. And it isn’t in a drawer or the dishwasher.
Or anywhere.
The house is still turned upside down from Madeline searching for the manuscript. I make a halfhearted attempt to clean. As I do it, the task feels Sisyphean. Will the cops just be in here later tearing the place up again, looking for evidence to use against me?
Looking for that knife?
No matter. I clean up. I try to be useful. And distract myself.
I go down the hall to my office. That is the biggest mess. I already had too many old student papers and stories piling up around the edges of the room. Emily used to make me toss them when a year had passed. I’ve grown completely lax at doing that. I’m not sure I’ve gone through the papers and tossed the old ones out in five years. And when Madeline went tearing through the house, looking for her manuscript, she did a number in here. Papers are strewn everywhere. It looks like a tornado hit.
I begin on my desk, start pushing the piles of papers into stacks. I’ve been digging through piles for ten minutes when something catches my eye.
Some typewritten pages, about ten of them—a short story.
And it’s called “My Best Friend’s Murder: A Brief Sequel,” and there’s no date on it.
But I know who wrote it. Who else could be the author?
And she must have left it here for me to find the night she knocked me out and stole the novel manuscript.
I start reading. And it’s excellent, just like her thesis. Just like everything she wrote. I fall into the story immediately. It’s about a young woman returning to the town where she attended college after an extended absence. The description of the town is dead-on for Gatewood, and I’m flipping to the second page when I hear something at the front of the house and look up.
I listen.
And I miss Grendel because he would have let me know if it’s something to worry about or not. But he’s at Preston’s house, and I’m alone.
I keep listening, and the house grows quiet. I’m imagining things. I’m jumpy because of everything that’s going on. I turn back to the story—
And I hear it again. A rattling noise, like the wind blowing a branch against the side of the house. Except there’s no wind, and the only tree that ever grew close to our house had to be cut down before Emily died.
Could it be Diana? Did she come this quickly?
I allow my hopes to rise. Maybe she came to give me good news? Maybe they decided I didn’t have to go to the police at all.
But then why wouldn’t Diana just call?
Or did the cops show up?
I put the story down and go out to the front of the house. I half expect to see Grendel perched on the couch, his snout pressed against the window in order to decide whether he should be alarmed or not. When I look outside, the porch, bathed in the glow of the light by the door, is empty. No one walks by. There aren’t even any cars.
I let out a long-held breath. Maybe someone was here a minute ago. A kid, a salesperson.
Maybe the neighbors slammed their car doors.
I turn to go back to the office and the story when I hear the rattling sound again. And this time it’s coming from the kitchen. The back door?
I head that way, stepping onto the dirty linoleum. My scalp feels cold. The spot where Madeline smacked me with the bottle starts to ache again. A flashback. But everything here looks fine.
The back door is locked and secure. There’s no one on the back stoop, no one in the driveway.
But then I hear a noise coming from the basement. Footsteps up the stairs. Madeline came in that way the first night she was in here. Someone else is doing the same thing now.
But the door from the basement to the kitchen is locked.
I bolted it.
But it hits me how flimsy that door is. How old. How thin.
The footsteps stop. I sense someone on the other side.
The door explodes into the kitchen. Wood flies toward me.
Someone has kicked it open. Shattered it, busted the lock.
Zach Greenfield is in my kitchen, his eyes blazing with anger.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
I retreat, moving toward the back door as fast as I can.
But Zach’s faster than I am. He’s across the kitchen in two long strides and has my shirt in his hands. He spins to his right, yanking me away from the door. His strength and my body weight propel me. The room swirls around me, like I’m on an out-of-control merry-go-round. I hit the table, and he lets me go.
I’m unable to stop. I go over the table and fall on the other side, crashing against the floor. I scramble to get back to my feet, the cells in my body lit up with adrenaline like an overloaded circuit board.
But Zach is here above me, and before I can get to my feet, he knocks me back down, looming over me.
I don’t have my phone. Or anything like a weapon.
If I’d only packed a knife as I had when Madeline was here.
And Zach is younger and stronger than I am.
“You killed her,” he says. His voice is raw and husky. His eyes glazed and red. He looks like something forged in a furnace of anger.
“I didn’t even know your wife, Zach. You have to believe that.”
“Sophia saw you walking by the house. You watched her. You came by like you were walking your dog, but you were really watching her.”
“I was watching both of you.” I wish I could retract the words as soon as I say them. Zach isn’t in a state of mind to hear a nuanced description of my grief. Or to understand the reasons a man would watch another couple going about their mundane lives. “I had no reason to kill anybody. And I promise you, I didn’t.”
“It was Madeline,” he says. A wave of whiskey-tainted breath comes off him. “It started with her. I know you were the last one to see her before she left. And I know that’s a bad look for a college professor. It’s not that uncommon for professors to get involved with their students. I’m sure you and Madeline were doing it.”
“You’re crazy. There was nothing like that.”
“And Madeline told Sophia during one of their post-yoga bitch sessions, so you killed Sophia to silence her.”
“I didn’t. I didn’t know your wife except to see her from the street. Jesus, Zach, you have to know none of this is close to true. It isn’t.”
Zach goes on, ignoring me. “And that must have spooked Madeline for a while. But then what happened? Did it all get to be too much for her? Did she finally just have enough of whatever was going on between the two of you and run away? She let everyone think she was dead. You must have thought she was dead too, right? Or did you a
lways suspect she’d come back into your life?”
“I thought she was dead, just like everybody else. I can promise you that.”
“What happened when she came back?” Zach asks. “Did she threaten to finally expose you? Had she worked up the nerve to do that?”
My elbows ache where they touch the tile. Zach towers over me, but his certainty and anger strike a deeper chord within me—a chord of injustice. He accuses me in my own home, asserts his right to come in and attempt to dominate me.
“You’re out of your mind,” I say. “You’re the one who attacked Madeline at a party. Did you follow her when she got back to town? Kill her at the cemetery? You’re the one they should be after.”
His face changes. The anger wanes, only to be replaced by confusion. He drops his chin, flexes his hands like they’re weapons he’s keeping loose and ready.
“How do you—” He stops himself. He snorts. “That girl from the university. Is she one of your students?”
“You got physical with Sophia. You assaulted Madeline. You’re the guy with a reason to hurt them both.”
“Okay, so I got a little handsy with Madeline. I had too much to drink. It happens. I probably had too much today.”
“Do you have the book?”
“The what?”
I roll to the side, and he stumbles. I use the opportunity to kick with my right foot, which connects with his left knee, causing it to buckle.
Zach grunts, his face contorted by pain. I kick out again, but this time I strike only a glancing blow. He recovers his balance and shakes off the pain. I hoped the kick would incapacitate him, but he keeps coming. And with greater fury.
He swings at me once and then twice. He connects with the side of my head. I try to cover, to get my head out of the way of his blows. But he manages to pin my left arm and swings away again and again.
For a moment, I’m able to turn my head, avoid taking the blows directly. But he keeps swinging. And connecting more and more.