by D. J. Palmer
I nodded because that was the deal I’d struck with him. I was okay with it, too. Even if this didn’t work out, I still had my other secret hope about how we’d get rid of Simon—the one about our dad.
I wondered if Dad was camped out in the woods of Vermont like we were camped out now. I had messaged him on Talkie every day with no reply, and tried the number he had called me from countless times, but never got an answer. As much as I wanted to know where he was, why he left, I had to know what Mom did to him and what he planned to do about it.
Then I thought about our last call suddenly going dead. I tried not to think the unimaginable—that he was dead in a ditch somewhere, that the people chasing after him had found him, those kinds of thoughts. But I had this knowing, a deep in my bones kind of knowing, that he was fine, that he was going to come back and everything would be like it had been. He’d get over his anger at Mom, whatever that was all about; Mom would realize she loved Dad, not Simon; and we’d be a family again. I believed this even if our spying expedition turned out to be a big waste of time.
With no warning, and seemingly for no reason at all, Connor gasped and his eyes grew wide with fright, as if something terrible was about to happen. He looked every which way, his body crouched, tense, head darting, searching for the safest route to run.
“It’s a drug dealer,” he whispered in a mocking way. “No, no, it’s a prostitute.”
Connor straightened and curled his lip at me in disgust. “Really, you two clowns have been streaming too much crap on the Internet.”
I shouldn’t have told Connor what we thought we might find, but he’d demanded some kind of explanation for the stakeout, and Ben’s theory about prostitution or drug dealing was the best one we had.
Connor was done. He was going for his bike. It was a long ride back home, a lot of it uphill. Mom was at work, thinking I was at Ben’s house, and Simon was out of the house, we didn’t know where, when we left, but we all had to get home soon or questions might get asked.
“Listen,” Connor said, taking a serious tone. “You’ve got to be over this Simon business. I mean it, Maggie. After we prove this was a waste of time, no more. You’ve got to accept the fact that Dad is dead and Simon is in our life now.”
My heart shattered because Connor should know—no, he had to know; he deserved the truth as much as I did. It wasn’t fair of me to keep the secret from him. No matter what our father thought, I could trust Connor. I’d explain that Dad would be in danger if the police found out he was alive. All I had to do was show him the Talkie messages we’d been exchanging to feel a million pounds lighter. The harsh wind felt like a slap across my face, like it was my father’s hand punishing me for breaking my vow.
“Connor,” I said, reaching for my phone. “There’s something . . . something I need to tell you.”
But before I could get the words out, I heard the sound of car wheels coming down the road. All three of us froze like deer sensing a predator.
“Get down,” Connor said in a harsh whisper, no joking this time.
We all went down quickly as the car came into view. But it wasn’t a car, it was Simon’s truck, which I recognized even before he turned into the driveway, flashing us his signature bumper sticker: I’M A TEACHER, WHAT’S YOUR SUPERPOWER?
“What’s he doing here?” whispered Ben, who looked extremely nervous, like this was the first time he’d done something wrong and was about to get caught in the act.
“I bet he’s meeting a prostitute,” Connor said with a grin. “It is his house, dummies.”
Ben shook his head in disgust as if to say Connor was too immature for his liking.
“Quiet,” I hushed them as Simon got out of his truck. He did not look suspicious, worried, hurried, or anything like that. He looked exactly like, well, Simon—khaki pants and a heavy jacket over what I presumed was some kind of polo shirt. He closed the door of the truck with a bang. Connor shifted position and a large branch snapped under his weight. The crack drew Simon’s attention, and his head pivoted in the direction of the noise.
I let out a gasp, loud enough for Ben to shush me. We lay frozen on the ground as if encased in ice. Simon’s probing eyes searched the trees for the source of the noise. I turned my head to look at Connor, who didn’t look so cocky anymore. He must have been thinking what I was thinking: We can’t explain being here. Talk about things getting awkward at home.
Ben was breathing loudly beside me. I watched Simon advance down the driveway, his gaze locked on the woods.
“Oh shit, I think he sees us.”
Connor’s warning got Ben ready to bolt, but I held him down. Even that little bit of movement rustled the leaves underneath him, drawing Simon forward right up to the top of his driveway, then beyond.
When he crossed the road, Simon walked to the edge of the woods, put his hands on his hips, and stood perfectly still. Ben’s breathing became increasingly shallow. I risked a glance. His face was white as a sheet. Dots of sweat popped up on his forehead even in this chill.
Simon took a single step into the woods. I heard leaves crunch under his foot. For a second, I thought Ben was going to get up and make a run for it. I moved my hand, slowly as could be, over to Ben, whose cold fingers interlocked with mine. We made eye contact. I tried not to breathe too hard, too fast, but I was quaking inside. Turning my head, I watched Simon take another step into the woods, peering through the trees, now no more than fifteen yards from our hiding spot. Ben squeezed my hand harder. I was coiled so tight I thought I might spring up by accident. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Connor looking as nervous as I felt.
Simon took another step. I held my breath. I’m sure both Ben and Connor were doing the same. He fixed his gaze right on the spot where I was hiding, and I swore he saw me, but instead of advancing, he turned and started walking back to his driveway. Moments later, he was inside his house. We waited. Nobody moved a muscle for what felt like an hour, but it was probably only a few minutes.
“Okay,” Connor whispered. “Take the bikes through the woods. Don’t get on them until we reach Black Oak.”
I nodded as I stood. My legs were stiff and cold. We formed a line, Connor in front, me in the middle, Ben taking up the rear. We kept low as we pushed our bikes as quiet as could be over the dead leaves carpeting the forest floor. I took the whole terrifying encounter as a sign from Dad to keep his secret at least for one more day.
I turned my head to look back at the house and felt my stomach drop when I saw that the curtains in the front room were parted. From my position, I could see Simon looking out the window in our direction. Then, I watched as he pulled those curtains closed.
Chapter 46
Regret is an awful thing. It filled Glen with shame and sadness. There were things he missed, of course. Football games. Lacrosse games. Cookouts. Fishing. Those hazy memories that would flitter in and out of his mind at random intervals all the days he sat chained in the box. But regret was its own special kind of torture. It was more potent than depression, boredom, longing, even memories. Because at the root of regret lay helplessness—an inability to change a desired outcome.
If only . . .
Those, he’d come to believe, were the two most destructive words for the mind.
If. Only.
If only he’d told Maggie to run.
If only he’d passed a message to her.
If only he’d kept his mouth shut at his job.
If only he didn’t go to the Muddy Moose.
If only he appreciated his family more.
If only . . .
Glen kept hearing Maggie’s voice over and over in his head, sweet and unsure, and the sound crimped his heart anew. He had failed his family in a whole new way. He had one chance, one swing of the bat, and he had missed. Simon would never let him talk to Maggie again. He had made that abundantly clear.
Glen’s stomach rumbled with hunger. He’d been left with no food. He embraced the pain; he deserved it for his failur
e.
Swing and a miss . . .
But hours went by, and maybe even days; hard to track time down here.
All he knew was that Simon hadn’t visited the box, maybe for the longest stretch yet.
Is this how I’m going to die? Glen asked himself over and over. Left alone. Completely forgotten. If so, at least he wouldn’t have to bear witness to his family’s suffering any longer. At least he’d be gone.
His bathroom had a foul reek. The water he’d been rationing was running low. The batteries of his LED light were nearly out of juice, but it didn’t much matter. He couldn’t read even if he had wanted. His mind was elsewhere. Soon he’d be in the dark. Then he’d waste away. Maybe it wasn’t so awful. He considered it almost romantically. One day he’d close his eyes . . . and then all those regrets would be gone. Someday someone would crash through the wall of the box to find his bones shackled to a chain. Then, those who mattered to him most, assuming his family was still alive, would at last have some closure.
Glen was entertaining these thoughts when the door to the box flew open, and light flooded in. Simon was there, looming in the doorway.
“Did you say something to Maggie? Did you get a message to her somehow?”
“No,” Glen said, cowering, slinking away. His first inclination was always to move to safety, but there was no safe corner in the box. Simon stayed rooted and Glen quickly got the sense he didn’t come to hurt him; he came for answers.
“I think she was here, with her friend. Now, why would that be?”
Glen got anxious, too. Why would that be?
“She’s probably curious about you. She’s inquisitive. It’s her nature.”
“Hmmm . . .”
Simon appeared lost in thought. “Maybe so,” he said, rubbing his chin. “But if I find out you’re lying, Glen . . .”
He didn’t bother finishing.
“Nina’s been in contact with my ex-brother-in-law, Hugh,” said Simon. “Why?”
“Who is Hugh?”
“Emma’s brother. He’s a junkie. A loser. I decided to start checking Nina’s Facebook app on her phone. Careless girl never logs out. Sure enough, she and Hugh have been exchanging messages about me. He wants to meet her. Maybe they’ve already met. Now, why would Nina reach out to him? What’s she thinking?”
Glen was Simon’s best source for information. Knowing Nina the way he did, he could venture a guess.
“Obviously, she’s looking into you. Something’s made her nervous and she wants to know things about you. Things you might not be sharing.”
“The therapist?” Simon wanted the source.
“For sure, that.”
“I thought the same. But I also went to the Muddy Moose—see if Teresa Mitchell returned. That would be a problem. Remember her?”
Glen said nothing.
“Well, she is back. I bet you anything Nina went to see her. If she did, she’d have found out your love story was just a little one-night stand. Why, why, why does this all have to get so complicated?”
It sickened Glen to imagine what Nina must have thought of him all this time—a liar, a thief, an adulterer. His spirit lifted somewhat at the possibility she’d learned part of the truth.
Glen knew that Simon had carefully planned the setup with Teresa. He loved talking about his cleverness. At first he wasn’t going to use Teresa’s name in that text message he sent Nina. When Simon learned Teresa had taken off, leaving no forwarding address, and nobody counted on her coming back, he decided to add more detail, thinking it made the story more believable.
The pictures he’d sent coupled with the lie, had served their purpose well. As long as Nina believed Glen had enjoyed a torrid affair, it made it easier for her to move on with another man—specifically Simon.
Simon made a tsk-tsk sound. “I didn’t think she’d go looking for that waitress after all this time. Damn therapy.”
And that’s when Glen knew Simon intended to kill Teresa, if for nothing else than out of sheer vindictiveness.
“You must be hungry.” A kinder look came to his face. “I’ll make you some eggs. Then I got to get home for dinner. Pasta primavera tonight. Yum. Maybe I’ll come back later and let you watch TV. I’m thinking you’re going to be really interested in the evening news.”
“The news?” Glen was confused.
“Yes, sir—the monster is on the loose.”
Glen went cold inside. “Simon, what have you done?”
“You’ll see soon enough. Thought I did a better job of it, but no worries. I wore a mask. It’s not like she’s going to identify me or anything, and besides I left plenty of reasons for the police to look elsewhere.”
Glen’s mind wandered, as it tended to do, from this thought to that, and he wasn’t concerned about monsters, or the news.
He was thinking about Maggie.
Why was she here?
Maybe he had gotten a message to her, unwittingly even? Was it possible? And just like that, hope returned—hope tempered with a great deal of worry.
The house was alarmed; not with one system, but two. The second system was a solar-charged backup in case of a power failure. That backup alarm sent an alert directly to Simon’s cell phone anytime someone entered the house.
Glen prayed nobody got the foolish idea to come looking here alone.
Simon was about to shut the door, but turned back to Glen.
“I think Nina’s going to quit this time. I really do.” Simon looked quite pleased with himself. “If not, I’ve got one more thing to try. Anyway, here’s to hoping.”
The door clicked shut. Alone again.
Glen’s LED light flickered . . . flickered . . . and returned him to darkness.
Chapter 47
There was something odd in the air at dinner, something strained. Meals had been quieter in general with Simon at the table, but usually Nina couldn’t hear the clink of a fork on a plate or a gulp of water going down. Tonight it was different, but when pressed, nobody owned up to anything being amiss. Connor took his usual mini-mountain helpings of pasta; Maggie ate her food solemnly with Daisy splayed out under the table at her feet; Simon served Nina the asparagus drizzled with olive oil, all with little more said than “Pass the bread, please.”
Nina wondered if the tension had to do with the disagreement she and Simon recently had about Thanksgiving. Simon did not want to go to Nebraska, saying that his continued difficulties with Maggie would make the trip too uncomfortable and would ruin the holiday for everyone. To assuage Nina’s guilt at leaving him behind, Simon assured her that there were plenty of teachers with whom he could celebrate the day.
Hugh Dolan’s words flashed like a neon sign illuminating lingering doubts: Has he isolated you from your friends and family? Nina dismissed the notion. Simon was happy she was going home for the holidays; he said so himself. He was the one staying behind, for his reasons. Even so, none of this felt right to Nina. Family meant everything to her. The thought of this divide between her daughter and Simon and its impact on other parts of her life was incredibly upsetting.
“Maggie, honey, you look tired, are you feeling all right?”
Nina was concerned about the dark circles ringing her daughter’s eyes, her wan complexion, and worried she might be coming down with something. God, please don’t be the flu.
“You do look a bit . . . stressed, Maggie,” Simon said, delivering an odd pause. “That must have been a difficult homework assignment you and Ben were working on.”
To Nina’s ears, Simon’s tone sounded a bit off, almost mocking, as if he were suggesting Maggie and Ben had been engaged in some other kind of activity, maybe the sort a boy and girl with raging hormones might test out. But Nina knew better. Ben was Maggie’s friend, nothing more.
She knew that Maggie had gone to Ben’s that afternoon to study for something, but hadn’t pressed for details, because once again, her mind had been on her caseload. Guilt about the holiday, worry about Maggie, it all ate away at her ap
petite, but Nina took a bite of pasta to be supportive of Simon’s efforts in the kitchen.
She was about to ask Maggie if the lab report grade had been adjusted as Simon had promised, when the doorbell rang. Daisy barked wildly. Nina looked puzzled—popover visits from Susanna had ended when she’d moved in with Simon.
“I’ll get it,” Connor said, up from the table in a flash, with Daisy close on his heels. Nina heard him open the door, heard Daisy’s excited barking, and then heard a familiar voice from her past. The man assured Daisy he wasn’t a threat, and soon enough the barking stopped. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been bringing Daisy home to her. A moment later, Connor came back into the kitchen with Detective Eric Wheeler following.
Wheeler still wore a military-short haircut, but looked like he’d put on some weight. He was here alone, and Nina didn’t know if his previous partner, Detective Murphy, had been reassigned or had moved on.
“Sorry to interrupt dinner,” Wheeler said to Nina, “but I was wondering if I could get a moment of your time. In private.”
Nina was up from her seat the instant she laid eyes on him. She knew he had come with news about Glen. There could be no other reason for the unannounced visit.
“Of course,” Nina said, her gaze shifting over to Simon, who looked as tense as she felt. “Simon should join us. We can go to my office. Kids, stay here a moment.”
Nina’s voice quavered slightly. Maggie and Connor exchanged worried looks, while Nina, Simon, and Detective Wheeler departed the kitchen for the office, where the framed pictures were still on the floor.
“What’s going on?” Nina asked nervously.
“No easy way to say this, so I’m just going to come out and say it,” Wheeler began.
Nina took hold of Simon’s hand. His bones, she thought. They finally found his bones.
“The DNA analysis of hair fibers from the assault of Dr. Sydney Wilcox came back from forensics this afternoon.”
Why is he telling this to me? Nina wondered. Why is any of this my business? I’m just a client. Why not tell Dr. Wilcox’s family?