by David Bell
“Everything?” I asked.
“That’s what he said.”
“What did he look like?” I asked.
“Of course I’m kicking myself for leaving the phone upstairs.” She did a face-palm. “If I’d had the phone, I could have taken his picture. I could have shown you and the cops. But I didn’t have it. He wasn’t much taller than you, Ryan. Maybe the same height. Not much hair. Kind of haunted-looking in the eyes, like he’d been kicked around by life pretty good. But clean. Not like a bum or a homeless guy. Just kind of pushy. He kept saying he needed to talk to one of you guys. And that he needed to tell me what was going on. If I’d just open the door, he said, he could explain everything, and it would all make sense.”
“But you didn’t open the door to him, did you?” I asked.
Steam started to come out of the spout of the teakettle, and within a few seconds, it whistled, a high, piercing shriek. Amanda turned the burner off with a flick of her wrist. Before she poured anything, she looked over at me.
“I undid the lock so I could talk to him through the little space the chain allowed,” she said. “It was hard to hear through the glass. And it felt kind of rude.”
“Rude?”
“The guy said he knew you. He said he was a friend of yours and Blake’s. How could I know he wasn’t? I still don’t know that he wasn’t.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
“Damn it, Amanda.” I clenched my fists, holding them down at my sides. “He could have kicked the door in once you did that.” I knew my voice came out like a sizzling hiss through pressed lips. “Do you know how easy that would have been?”
Amanda calmly went about her business. She poured tea into two mugs—she didn’t offer me any—and then passed one of the mugs to Sam, who took it with both hands and thanked her. Amanda then turned back to me.
“Do you think I don’t know that, Ryan? Do you think I didn’t learn that in my college self-defense class? Did it ever occur to you that I had my reasons?” Her voice rose a little in anger, although she kept it under control. “Maybe I want to know what’s going on around here. Maybe I thought this random guy had some information that would clear things up. And if that meant I had to open the door a crack to a stranger, I was going to do it.”
“But it’s—”
“I know what it is. I also didn’t know where you were. You ran out of here right after the police came. You could have been in danger. Or hurt. How was I supposed to know? So if this guy had information that might put my mind at ease, or that helped solve your problems, wouldn’t it make sense for me to get it?”
She’d made her case coolly and clearly. And I couldn’t argue. If I’d been in her shoes, wondering where she was, I’d have made the same choices. But I didn’t have to be happy about it.
“Okay,” I said. “I get it.”
Amanda picked up her mug and blew across the surface of the liquid. I smelled the peppermint from across the room. She took a cautious sip, and so did Sam.
“Are you going to unclench your fists and hear the rest of the story?” she asked.
I hadn’t realized I was still standing in such an aggressive manner, like I was ready to charge into a burning building. I opened my hands and loosened my posture as much as I could.
“Happy?” I asked. “Is that all this guy did or said? Did you get rid of him?”
Amanda put her mug down. Sam watched her and then me like a spectator at a tennis match. I felt certain she’d never seen any hint of marital discord on display between the two of us. Amanda and I managed to keep any issues that existed between us private. We didn’t see any point in spilling our problems out for the rest of the world to view. If anything, we did the opposite. We only showed the happiest, most polished side of our lives on social media.
“Let me ask you something first,” Amanda said. “When I described the guy, you acted like you might know him. Who is he?”
So I told her about Kyle Dornan. How he was over at Sam and Blake’s house when I went there, how he was inside their house. And how he was very distraught over what had happened to Jennifer.
“They were dating or something like that, he and Jennifer,” I said. “And so he’s taking her death pretty hard. He’s blaming Blake, but Kyle’s acting pretty strange himself. When the cops showed up at Blake and Sam’s house, Kyle ran off. I mean, he ran out of the house like it was on fire. He must have come right over here after he did that. It’s easy enough to look up an address. He knew me from the Pig. Maybe he thought he’d catch me here, or maybe he thought he could talk to you. But he’s acting guilty. And the cops want him.”
Amanda tapped her foot, her eyes squinting. “He didn’t say Jennifer’s name. I would have remembered that. But he did talk about her. He said it was terrible that the girl got killed, but that you and Blake knew all about it. He said you could tell me everything that happened to her. And so could Blake.”
Samantha gasped. I looked over at her. She was shaking her head, her eyes wide. “Why did he say that about Jennifer getting killed? If he said it that way, it must mean he’s the one who hurt her. Right? Why else would he be running around so obsessed about it?”
“If he did it, why wouldn’t he just leave town?” I asked, not expecting an answer. “He’s hanging around here a lot for a guy the cops are looking for. Blake is the one we can’t find.”
“Ryan, he’s not—”
“I’m sorry, Sam. I am. None of this makes sense. And none of us have answers.”
“You’re right,” Amanda said. “We don’t know anything.”
“Was this guy was alone? Did you see anyone else?” I asked.
“I didn’t see anyone. But I was pretty focused on him. There could have been someone out in the yard. Or waiting in a car.”
“You didn’t see a woman with him?” I asked.
“A woman? Why would you ask me that? Women don’t usually do this stupid bullying shit. That’s what men do.”
“I don’t know. I’m scrambling.”
But I really wasn’t. I was thinking of Dawn Steiner. Had she come the night before? And then Kyle that day? Were they somehow working together to harass us?
“Was that it, then?” I asked. “Did the guy leave?”
Amanda let out a long sigh. She stopped tapping her foot and shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “He grew a little more aggressive. It was subtle. But he had his hand on the door, and I saw he was pressing against it, exerting more force. Maybe he was getting ready to kick it in. I don’t know. I told him to leave. He said something about evening the score or getting even. I’m not sure which. But that scared me. More than anything else, that scared me. But then I caught a couple of breaks.”
“What?” I asked.
“Henry started crying. And the guy heard it. ‘Your baby,’ he said. And he said it in a way like he knew we had a kid. Had you mentioned that to him?”
“I don’t think so. But he heard Henry crying.”
“It’s the way he said it. Like he was confirming something, not like he was surprised. I began to worry he wanted to hurt Henry. But then the next break came. A car went down the alley. Slow, the way they have to back there. You could hear the tires over the gravel. The man—Kyle, or whatever his name is—turned to look, almost like he expected trouble.”
“He probably thought it was the cops,” I said.
“Maybe. When he turned and checked out the alley, I took my chance. I pushed on the door, slamming it shut. Then I threw the bolt and ran upstairs. He pounded on the door a few times. I heard him. But when I made it upstairs and picked up the phone, I looked through the window and saw him leaving. He went down the alley in the opposite direction of the car that had just passed. I called you right away.”
When she was finished talking, I realized I may have loosened my clenched fists, but the muscles in my neck were as tau
t as piano wire. Fear and relief tumbled through me like charged electrons. All I could do was move forward to give Amanda a hug. I folded her in my arms and pulled her close.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m glad you did what you did. You were smart to slam the door and get up to Henry.”
“And your baseball bat was right there in the corner still,” she said, her mouth against my chest. “If he’d come in, I would have taken a few swings. He wasn’t going to get near my baby.”
“He doesn’t know you started at third base in high school.”
“Damn right.”
I let her go, even though I really only wanted to hang on to her.
Sam had moved closer, the tea mug in her right hand. “We have to call the police,” she said. “You heard that. This guy Kyle, he practically confessed. And he’s out there looking for Blake for some reason. We have to call the police.”
She was absolutely right. So I did.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
While we waited for Rountree to arrive, Sam and Amanda talked about the wedding. Where it was being held, what kind of dress she was going to wear. If she was nervous with only one day to go . . .
The conversation felt strained and overly formal, mostly because it seemed so unlikely—at least to me—that any wedding could happen under the circumstances. But we soldiered on, trying our best to ignore the elephant in the room—who the hell had killed Jennifer, and did Blake know something about it? Or was he just a victim of circumstance? Was it Kyle Dornan who had killed Jennifer and put Blake in the crosshairs? Had Kyle hurt Blake as well?
Henry had woken up, and Amanda and then Samantha bounced him on their knees. He loved the attention, looking at Sam with wide eyes like she was the most fascinating person to ever set foot in the house.
“I hope we get to have one of these someday,” she said.
Amanda reached over and squeezed her hand. “You will. Of course. You will.”
“Just make sure you babyproof the lampshades,” I said.
Nobody laughed. I wasn’t as funny as I thought I was.
When Rountree finally arrived, entering through the back door, which Kyle Dornan had pushed against, she looked surprised to see Samantha there. She said, “You’re a tough woman to get ahold of.”
“It’s been a crazy morning,” Sam said, still holding Henry.
We all stood up from the table. Rountree eyed me, her face impassive.
“I’ll say.” Rountree raised her index finger in the air. Then she focused on Henry. “Well, hello there, mister.”
Henry looked just as happy to see her as he had been to see Samantha. Maybe he was already growing bored with our faces. Rountree tickled his belly, then looked at Sam. “You hold that thought. About the crazy morning. I’ll talk to you in a minute. But what about this man you called about? The one who tried to come in the back door?”
Amanda repeated her story, interrupted by a periodic question or request for clarification from Rountree. When Amanda told her that Kyle said it was terrible the girl got killed, Rountree’s eyebrows rose, and she pursed her lips.
“He said it was terrible the girl had to get killed?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say Jennifer’s name?”
Amanda took her time answering. I could sense the wheels moving in her head as she scanned through her memory banks to be certain.
“No,” she said. “It was a stressful situation, and I was worried he was going to get in and hurt Henry.”
“I understand. That’s your first instinct—to protect your baby. And it’s the right one. Always. If someone was at the door like that and my babies were upstairs, look out.”
“I’m just not sure what he said exactly. What I can tell you is that he was talking about Blake and Ryan, and then he said he was sorry the girl had to get killed.”
“Had you ever met Kyle Dornan before?”
“No. Never.”
Rountree looked at all of us. “None of you know him?”
We all shook our heads like obedient children.
“Well,” she said, “we definitely want to talk to him. He’s broken into one home and tried to get into another. He’s making quite a name for himself. We have his description out all over. Even with the state police.”
“Did you find Blake?” Samantha asked.
Rountree turned to face her. “No, we haven’t found him either. But that’s a nice segue for us to talk, isn’t it?” She made a face at Henry, one that prompted him to giggle. “Ah, if only we could just talk to this little guy for a while. Right? It’s been a long twelve hours or so, hasn’t it?”
Sam nodded. She looked young and small in the kitchen lights, standing in front of the authority figure. Like Henry’s older sister. Or a youthful-looking babysitter. “You can ask me whatever you want to ask me. It’s okay.”
“I hate to break up the party, but maybe you should give little Mr. Man back to his mama. That way you and I can drive down to our station and talk there. Do you have a car here?”
“No. Ryan drove me.”
“Even better. I’ll drive you back to your car when you’re finished with us. Okay?”
Rountree sounded cheery and peppy. Her tone failed to match the mood of the circumstances.
Sam agreed to the plan, and she gently handed Henry back to Amanda. She kissed him lightly on the forehead before turning to Rountree.
“Okay, Detective, I’m ready.”
“What about us, Detective?” Amanda asked. “That guy tried to get inside our house. He got into their house. Are we safe?”
“We can step up the patrols in the area, but it’s a busy time. We’re getting pulled in a lot of different directions today. Didn’t you say something earlier about going to your parents’?”
Amanda nodded. “That’s what I was getting ready to do when that man showed up.”
“Then I say head over there,” Rountree said. “I’m sure they’d be happy to see their grandbaby.”
Rountree pointed to the back door, but Sam hesitated for a moment. She looked uncertain, like she couldn’t decide what she wanted to do.
“Miss Edson?” Rountree said. “Are you ready?”
“Well,” Sam said. “I just . . . the police station?”
“Yes,” Rountree said. “The police station.”
Sam stood there a moment longer, and then she nodded her head. “Right. Okay, sure. I’ll call the florist on the way and let them know I’m going to be late.”
Finally, the two of them walked out.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
When Sam and Rountree were gone, Amanda went upstairs with Henry to finish getting everything together for their imminent departure. I felt a little at sea. I wandered around the house, once again making sure the doors and windows were locked. And they were. Still. From the night before.
I took out my phone and checked Twitter. I followed a number of local news outlets as well as the local police. I’d found they provided so much information I almost never read the local newspaper anymore.
Jennifer’s murder still dominated everything. The police provided little information, just the most basic facts. While they said they wanted to question a number of people, no names were mentioned, meaning Blake and Kyle were kept out of the news. For the moment.
I made the mistake of checking some of the replies to the tweets from a local television station. Aside from giving a hint as to what people in the community were thinking, it was also a surefire way for me to lose faith in humanity. Sure enough, a number of increasingly bizarre and horrible theories were already bouncing around. Jennifer had been murdered because she owed someone money. Jennifer had been murdered because she was mixed up in drugs. Jennifer had been murdered by a member of a gang of illegal immigrants.
I closed the app.
But I still felt a littl
e dirty. Twitter always made me feel that way. But not so much that I stopped looking.
Then again, I knew next to nothing about Jennifer. I knew nothing about what she might or might not have had going on in her life. I’d been fixated on blaming Blake—or Kyle—but how did I know it wasn’t something else, something completely unrelated to any of the things I knew about?
I’d have almost preferred it was.
Without even thinking, I checked Facebook as well. More notifications about my photo, but they were slowing to a trickle.
And the second friend request from Jennifer. Lingering. Unanswered.
I was afraid to deny it because the last time I had done that, another one came right on its heels. I’d had enough of that. When I thought of those mystery requests, the ones that seemed to come from beyond the grave, my skin felt like a million ants were crawling over it. And it made me wonder again if someone was watching me, gauging my reactions like some kind of mad scientist or twisted psychologist who wanted to see how much pressure they could apply before I cracked like aging plaster.
Maybe it was Kyle in control of her account. Maybe he had watched me through the windows the night before when I was in Jennifer’s house, since he said he was going by. Maybe he had watched me in my own house the night before, sending the request to see how I responded, and then come back again to harass Amanda.
Or maybe the ex-cons Jennifer worked with. Could one of them have gained control of her account? Could one of them have killed her and then decided to harass me?
I shivered.
To take my mind off that, and since I was standing there holding my phone, I decided to try Blake again, on the off chance he might pick up.
The trilling of the electronic ring went on and on, and then clicked over to Blake’s voice. A cool, ironic monotone as he told the caller he wasn’t available. And if you left a message, and he felt like it, he’d get back to you.