by L. T. Vargus
“Of course, if you absolutely want to watch your spouse take a shit, this is the only way to go,” Allie said.
Charlie chuckled as she rifled through the drawers on the nightstand. But that wouldn’t be much of a hiding place, would it?
She checked the obvious places: under the mattress, the HVAC vents, the far recesses of the large walk-in closet. She was nearly ready to give up when something in the closet caught her eye.
On the wall the closet shared with the master bathroom, there was a small, hinged door. Charlie crouched down before it. The panel was just like the one in the closet of the bedroom she’d shared with Allie growing up. The one Allie had always used as her secret stash spot.
“No way Marjory is as clever as I am,” Allie said. “She’s not on my level.”
Charlie opened the hatch and peered inside. The light in the closet wasn’t enough to reveal what was in there, and she had to stick her hand into the dark cavity and feel around.
Her fingers brushed over pipes and wires until finally they grazed something that crinkled. Plastic.
She pulled out a sandwich baggie containing a collection of pills in various size. Two shades of pale blue stood out from the otherwise white tablets.
“Oh-ho-ho! What have we here?” Allie said. “I’m thinking Viagra, Valium, Cialis, and Xanax. The perfect party. In order.”
Just when Charlie had given up on the stash spot as containing solely pharmaceuticals, a solid black nub emerged from the jumble of pills. She couldn’t tell what it was at first, but she opened the bag and plucked it out of the mess.
The little rectangle rested in the palm of her hand. The exterior looked featureless at first—solid black, smooth. Then she saw the seam running around about a third of the way down, and she knew what it was.
Sliding a thumbnail into the creased space, she popped the lid off, exposing the little metal mouth with the blue plastic held within. A USB connector. It was a thumb drive.
“Just doing some mental math here,” Allie said. “We’ve got a thumb drive in suspiciously close proximity to a bunch of boner pills. Which leads, I think, to the question of the day: is there a sex video on the thumb drive, or are there a bunch of sex videos on the thumb drive?”
Allie giggled as she reached the end of her joke, but Charlie barely heard her. She was rushing back down the hallway to the security console.
She found a USB port just next to the purple triangle and plugged the thumb drive in. A circle wound around and around itself on the center of the monitor, and then a list of thirteen files popped up—all of them MKV extensions, which meant they were video files. The names themselves were generic, AK40001, AK40002, etc.
“Could be some of the deleted security videos,” Charlie muttered as she sat in the office chair and rolled back up to the desk.
“Are you kidding? These are sex tapes, Charlie. I say tread lightly. I know this kind of thing turns your stomach.”
“What? Shut up. Turns your stomach.”
Charlie reached out for the screen, touched the first file on the list with the tip of her index finger. The screen snapped to black.
Then the video came to life. Right away, she could see that it was one of the deleted security videos. She recognized all of the gleaming stainless steel in the kitchen, the angle looking down from above.
And then she saw Marjory draped face up over the counter, a dark-haired man on top of her, his shirtless back to the camera. Kissing. Groping.
Unreal. This could be the accomplice, but she still couldn’t see his face.
Most of the lights were off, one fluorescent bulb on the opposite side of the kitchen lighting the scene in long shadows. The system seemed to auto-adjust for the lack of light, though, so the details were plain enough. Too plain for Charlie’s taste.
The shirtless man pawed at the buttons of Marjory’s shirt. His face slid down her neck, kissing all the while. The muscles in his back rippled as he climbed onto her fully, mashing her down onto that stainless-steel counter top.
Marjory’s face contorted in some ecstasy that almost looked like a snarl. Her hands fumbled to undo his pants.
“Gross,” Charlie whispered.
“C’mon, the kitchen counter?” Allie said. “Food is prepared here! This isn’t… isn’t… sanitary.”
Charlie moved a finger to the menu button on the console, but then she stopped herself. The outstretched finger trembled just shy of the screen. Her eyes widened.
The man lifted himself, his hands finding the corner of the countertop, triceps flexing. Then he turned, and the side of his face came into view at last.
Charlie gasped. Her eyelids fluttered. She couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing at first. Couldn’t process the information.
It looked like… But that couldn’t be…
Brother and sister?
Another hard blink turned everything black for a second. When she opened her eyes again, the face on-screen was now almost fully in view, and there was no doubt left.
It was Brandon Carmichael.
SEVENTY-FIVE
Charlie’s mouth dropped open. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.
She stared at the screen, Brandon’s figure frozen there, draped over Marjory, a carnivorous look in his eyes.
“Marjory and Brandon,” Allie said, her voice blank from shock. “That’s… that’s incest.”
A chill gripped the backs of Charlie’s arms, and she shivered. She yanked the thumb drive from the USB port and tucked it in her pocket.
When Charlie replied, she was surprised to hear the strength of her own voice, the clarity of her thoughts.
“Keeping something like that secret would make for the ultimate motive,” she said. “This must be what Gloria figured out. Fits the ‘sordid and disgusting’ bill, don’t you think?”
“Holy shit,” Allie said. “Uh, yeah. That would explain… a lot.”
“It fits,” Charlie said, talking to herself as much as Allie now. “If Gloria found out about Marjory and Brandon, they’d stop at nothing to hide their secret. And while Marjory had an alibi for that crime, Brandon didn’t.”
“And Dutch?”
“Marjory’s alibi has always been weak. I think the whole story about sleeping off a headache is a lie. She let her assistant see her that morning and then slipped over to her father’s house without anyone knowing she was gone.”
“Jesus.” Allie’s voice was just a little hiss now.
“It’s still not hard evidence that they did all of this, but… it paints too perfect of a picture, doesn’t it? My gut believes it. Brandon and Marjory. Working together. Now I just have to prove it.”
Even as the puzzle pieces snapped into place in her mind, she struggled to think straight somehow. There was something else she needed to do here…
Her hand patted at her pockets. Felt the bulge of her phone there on her left hip. Yes. That was it. She needed to call Zoe. Let her know about all of this. The man they were interrogating was innocent. Marjorie’s accomplice was Brandon Carmichael.
She dug the phone out. Scrolled to Zoe’s number on the contact list.
She blinked down at it, overwhelmed at the prospect of pressing this button. Lights spun in her head, her vision blurred. These were symptoms of shock, she knew.
She closed her eyes. Sucked in a deep breath. Let it out slowly. Centered herself.
When she opened her eyes, she finally was able to take in the lack of bars in the upper corner of the phone. No cell service out here. Of course, she knew that.
“OK. No cause for panic. I’m pretty sure Trevor mentioned a landline,” she said aloud, again talking to herself more than to Allie. “And if I can’t find that, I can drive down the road until I get some bars. If I head toward Bad Axe, I should get something sooner than later.”
Just as she went to stand, the front door slammed shut downstairs. The thud seemed to shake the whole house.
“Oh, shit,” Allie said.
SEVEN
TY-SIX
Charlie’s eyes went wide. Her heartbeat thundered in her chest. She didn’t dare breathe.
Someone was here. With her. Now. In the cabin. She could hear them downstairs.
The heavy footsteps clattered across the floor, loud in the stillness.
“It’s probably a maid or something, right?” Allie said.
Charlie said nothing. She slipped the stun gun out of her bag and let her finger find the trigger. Then she glanced at her phone, saw that little “No Service” staring back from the upper left-hand corner. And she didn’t know where the landline was.
Instinct told her to run. Scramble out into the hallway. Duck into one of the bedrooms. Find a place to hide.
The security closet felt like a trap. A cell. If anyone came close, she’d have no way out. And if it was who she thought it was downstairs, this might well be the first place he looked.
She didn’t run, though. She froze. Waited. Listened.
She heard the intruder’s feet hit the stairs like sledge hammers thumping down on each tread.
THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.
The wood moaned and creaked, deafening in the quiet.
Charlie turned back to the bank of monitors. Splayed fingers shaking over the console. Eyes scanning back and forth, flickering too fast to focus on anything.
Panicking.
She forced in a deep breath. Found what she needed.
She clicked a couple buttons to get the live feeds back on the screens. All the rooms showed empty on the monitors—blank and motionless, save for one.
And there he was. Broad-shouldered and dark-haired. His flannel shirt a blur of red on the monitor.
He bobbed as he ascended the stairs. Face mostly expressionless except for some glint of darkness in his eyes.
Then he disappeared off the edge of the first monitor and reappeared on another—the one showing where the staircase met the second-floor hallway. He moved left to right, sloping upward alongside the banister.
He tilted his head, a ripple passing over the muscles in his jaw.
Brandon Carmichael climbed the steps, a handgun dangling from the end of his arm.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
The footsteps grew louder. Closer.
Charlie flipped the switch to turn the monitors off and saw copies of herself reflected in the blank screens. Blinking. Trembling slightly.
The stun gun wouldn’t do much good against a nine millimeter. She tucked it into her hip pocket.
Then she spun to her right. The door into the security closet was open a crack, and she reached for the knob. Clasped her hand around it in slow motion.
Her mind raced. Tried to come up with options. Play out plausible scenarios in her head.
Should she hide here? Or chance a trip out into the hall? Which would buy her more time?
Brandon would know she was here. He must. The car out in the driveway wasn’t hers, but why else would he have the gun in his hand?
She was the next obstacle to overcome. The next threat to the family secret. The open loop that needed closing.
Yes. He’d know why she was here.
She took one last breath and held it. Edged the door open as quietly as possible. Needed to be quick and quiet as she bent low and shuffled into the hall. Into the open.
She pulled the door most of the way closed behind her, not quite daring to latch it and make a noise.
Then she tiptoed a diagonal path across the hall, suddenly exposed and vulnerable. The five paces felt endless.
She dared a glance to her right. Couldn’t quite see the top of his head jutting up from the staircase.
Any second now, he’d be there. Right there.
When she reached the opposite side of the hallway, she ducked into a bedroom and eased the door shut behind her. The wood settled into the jamb without a sound, but the latch clicked when it caught. A faint snick of metal on metal.
She hunched her shoulders. Waited for some change in the rhythm in the footsteps. A pause to indicate that he’d heard the click.
But no. The thumps carried on as before.
She took in the room around her. A queen bed took up most of the floorspace along the far wall. An oversized quilt was draped over it, reaching almost to the floor—rust-red fabric patched with cream and gold, with bears and moose and ducks embroidered onto it.
A cherry-wood dresser huddled opposite of the bed. More of those dark wooden details lined the windows and ran a border around the middle of the room.
At first glance, she didn’t see anything of immediate use. No blunt objects or other makeshift weapons at the ready, not that they’d do her much good in a gunfight.
Charlie’s head snapped back the way she’d come. Her eyes scanned up and down the crease where the door and its frame meshed, lingering on the brushed brass doorknob.
No deadbolt. No way to lock herself inside. That left her without much choice. She could hide here for the moment, but she’d ultimately need to keep moving. Avoid him. Get to the car.
His footsteps changed as they reached the top of the steps. Muffled by the lush carpet.
She heard him trail down the hall. Move to the security closet. That metallic snick of the latch replaying as he opened the door.
Silence.
He paused there for what must have only been a few seconds even if it felt longer. Then the footsteps started up again, coming her way.
Charlie scrambled underneath the bed. Churning her arms and legs. Wishing for the patch of darkness there to swallow her, those flaps of bedspread to conceal her.
The rough Berber carpet grated at her elbows, and her shoulder blades grazed the wooden planks that formed the supports for the mattress. It smelled like dust and old potpourri.
She flattened onto her belly and wriggled the last stretch like a worm. Inching. Hip bones shuffling her forward until she was fully concealed, reaching back to cover her entryway with the bedspread just as the bedroom door burst open.
His shoes stood there in the doorway, the rest of him cut off by the quilt shielding her view.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
Brandon Carmichael stepped into the room. A single step. Then he stopped.
The soles of his shoes squished the carpet. Bent the pile downward in semicircles around the balls of his feet. It made the floor look warped.
Charlie heard the faintest wind flutter between her lips, and she reminded herself to hold her breath. To make no sound.
Her eyes snapped upward. Looked where the gun would be. Then where his face would be.
But the bedspread and frame blocked her view. She saw pale planks of wood. Saw one of the ducks on the blanket smiling at her.
He took a few steps forward.
Careful movements. Precise. Feet rocking heel to toe.
The carpet tilted under the treads of his shoes. Molded to his every touch.
All Charlie could see were the cuffs of his jeans nestled over a pair of Adidas.
The shoes stopped at the foot of the bed. Feet set wide. Just more than shoulder-width apart.
He stood there. Motionless. Silent.
Charlie’s skin prickled and itched at the knowledge of how close he was.
Her breath constricted in her throat, and she blinked. Scraped her bottom lip against her teeth. Felt the pattern of the carpet etching into her palms. Dared not move.
Sweat leaked down from her hairline, snaking down her temple and tickling over her cheekbone. The saltiness clung to the corner of her mouth.
He let out a sigh. But how to read it? Frustrated? Aggressive? Resigned? Disappointed?
He shifted his weight. And Charlie’s mind moved a million miles per second, imagining his face appearing next to hers against the carpet. A cocky smile playing at the corners of his lips.
Instead he turned. Squared his feet toward the open doorway. Paced across the room, back the way he’d come.
Charlie scraped her bottom lip against her teeth again. Felt the sharp little
bones grate at the soft pink flesh.
Some disbelief welled in her. Made her blink several times. Verify what she was seeing.
Brandon’s feet stepped through the doorway and moved out of sight.
She listened. Strained to hear through the sound of her pulse thudding in her ears. Fought back the panicky feelings that fought for her attention.
The footsteps trailed away. Heading down the hall. Probably planning to work his way down. Room by room.
This was her only chance.
No hesitation this time. No thinking. She slithered out from under the bed.
SEVENTY-NINE
Charlie peered through the open doorway.
He was there. All of him now, not just the feet. A walking shadow at the far end of the hall. He turned right and disappeared into a bedroom doorway. Perfect.
She darted into the open. Heart punching in her chest.
Her eyes focused on the top of the stairwell. Trying to zoom in on it like a movie camera.
She hunched down, instinctively making herself smaller. If she beat him to the steps, she could beat him to the door. If she beat him to the door, she could beat him to the car.
Then? Spill out onto the road, into the night, into the open. Into some place with cell service. Far away from here.
As the wall cut off to her left and the banister took shape there, Charlie got an overwhelming urge to leap over it, hop it like a subway turnstile. Of course, she’d plummet some twenty-five feet and snap both of her ankles, but the urge to flee was so strong that—to the panicking part of her brain—this strategy made perfect sense.
Instead she closed on the top of the stairs. Eyes flicking to the bedroom doorway in the distance. Waiting for him to emerge and see her.
He didn’t.
She hit the steps. Flying downward. No longer worried about sound.
She could do this. Win this race. Beat him outside. Get to the car. Get gone.
She hit the landing and vaulted herself over the banister to bypass the last ten or so steps.
Flying. Soaring. Weightless.
Then the ground came rushing up. Too fast. Too hard.