The Last Night (The Last Series Book 2)

by Harvey Church

  “Thank you. Paul worked hard to make this happen for us.” She glanced back and smiled before waving him to one of the leather sofas. “Can I get you something to drink? Water? Juice? A beer?”

  A beer? Ethan smiled and said: “Water would be delightful.”

  Lisa wandered off to the kitchen area, allowing him to inspect the large, open space. The big windows begged you to drool over the Hyatt’s resort-like backyard—the landscaping alone had to be worth more than his house at 121 Cobalt. The Hyatts weren’t big fans of photos or other memorabilia that lent character to the rooms where they spent time, as if those things might provide too much insight into what the Hyatt family was truly all about. Like the interior of their boat, their mini-mansion was rather stark.

  When Lisa returned, she held out a crystal glass and a chilled Dasani, its plastic exterior foggy with condensation. Ethan took it and thanked her, watching her sit down on the opposite sofa. He took his time to pour the water into the glass, watching how it trembled in his hands. Nerves.

  Separated by the big table, there was quite the distance between them, and Ethan wondered if Lisa expected him to text her his questions and thoughts. But when she asked about what happened to his wife, he was surprised to find that the sound travelled incredibly well in this space.

  He gave her the short version of what had happened that night—the fall, the nine-one-one call, the ambulance that came and took her away—and then explained how he’d arrived at the scene of Paul’s accident. “Right away, I was spooked. He had a Jaguar SUV, just like mine.”

  Lisa’s eyes were now heavy, moist with tears. “He loved that vehicle.”

  “I can understand why.” The Jag oozed luxury, the finest craftsmanship, an incredibly potent engine.

  “I tried telling him to take the Bentley into town, but Paul liked to do whatever he wanted. And that day, he wanted to drive that made-in-India Jaguar.” She shook her head and wiped at her eyes.

  Made in who-gives-a-shit…we’re talking about a Jaguar, one of the sportiest, safest, and most luxurious SUVs on the market.

  The fact that her husband had been taken out by a possibly-drunk, possibly-texting driver of a mammoth Ford pick-up truck with the kind of reinforcements that put it on par with an M1A2 military tank had more to do with his death than the vehicle he’d been driving. Jaguar or Bentley, that Ford driver would have killed Paul Hyatt.

  It had been Fate.

  Ethan cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hyatt, but when I saw your husband’s picture on the news, I . . . I . . .” he shook his head and then opened his mouth like he might try to explain how he’d felt one more time, but she took the bait and cut him off.

  “I know, I understand now.” She nodded, sniffling. “Paul’s resemblance to one of those EMS workers was a link to your missing wife.” She nodded some more. “He has a very unique look . . . those eyes . . . his lips . . . and, of course, that scar.”

  The scar cut through the permanent five-o’clock shadow, Ethan thought, but instead made a pained, empathetic face and nodded his agreement. “Yes, which was why he was easy to describe to the police sketch artist.” Ethan unlocked his phone to the photo he’d taken of the police sketch and slid the phone across the table.

  Lisa took the phone again, her eyes registering the same awe as when she’d opened her big front door. Ethan watched her jut out her jaw and bite her upper lip as she raised a hand to her face. He knew what she was thinking because he’d thought the same thing about Raleigh a million times already. Lisa missed Paul so much . . . and it hadn’t even been a couple weeks since he’d been gone.

  Clearing his throat, Ethan took another sip of water before pointing out the obvious. “I think you can agree that the sketch is a precise representation of Paul.”

  “His doppelganger,” she said, placing the phone on the table and sliding it back, except she used too much force and it slipped off the table and hit the floor.

  “Doppelganger,” Ethan said, picking up the phone and noticing a crack that now ran across the top corner of the screen. “I don’t know . . .”

  “The man you saw seven years ago wasn’t Paul,” she said, her eyes changing again. Like a storm had rolled in. “It wasn’t him. It’s impossible.”

  “You’re sure about that.” Ethan sighed, sitting back into the sofa. Rubbing the pad of his thumb across the crack on the phone’s screen like he could magically make it go away, he stared up at the ceiling, a healthy three stories above him. Anything to make the irritation with her clumsiness pass. Damn phone wasn’t cheap. “Do you remember what you might have been doing back then that would make it impossible for it to have been your husband . . .?”

  “You said it was early spring, right? That makes it easy. We were getting the boat ready. There’s a big opening party at the marina, and . . .” Her voice trailed off, catching Ethan’s attention. He noticed the way her puffy eyes had narrowed as she thought about it before shaking her head. “No, we didn’t have the boat seven years ago. What were we doing?”

  Leaning forward, Ethan wanted nothing more than to get a little closer to Lisa Hyatt, hear the thoughts pounding through her head because he could see that she was finally entertaining the possibility that her husband could’ve been off his leash that night.

  “Night out with the boys?” he suggested. “A conference? Anything that might have had him out of the house for the night, Lisa?”

  And then she seemed to snap out of her own thoughts.

  He was out, wasn’t he? No alibi.

  At last, Lisa shook her head. “I don’t think Paul would moonlight as an EMT.” She was doubtful. “No, Paul’s business has been his sole purpose and priority since he started the company, right out of college. I’m sorry, but I just can’t see why he’d take a part-time job without telling me, let alone a part-time job doing something he’s got no formal training or qualifications for—”

  “What if it wasn’t a job,” Ethan said, pretending to be thinking it through for the first time. “What if it was . . . oh, I don’t know, a kidnapping?”

  Lisa started laughing, but stopped once she saw that Ethan wasn’t kidding around. She was right to laugh, though, even Ethan acknowledged that. Because, what would a man like Paul Hyatt have to do with a kidnapping that the FBI says wasn’t a kidnapping at all? So unless he had moonlighted—without his wife’s knowledge—as an EMT, just like Lisa had suggested, he’d have no interest in covering up an EMS foul-up involving Raleigh never reaching a hospital.

  “I know,” she said, her face twisting as she left the opposite sofa and settled next to Ethan on his. He felt her arm slide across his back as she pulled him into a side-hug, squeezing as best as she could. “You obviously loved your beautiful wife.”

  “Very much.” Ethan realized he was sobbing. Uncontrollably, just like he had in the weeks and months following Raleigh’s disappearance, the kind of sobs that warranted anti-depressants and daily check-ins with the therapist, time off work, the whole package.

  “And you clearly miss her, the same way I miss Paul. I’m sorry, but I just don’t think he had anything to do with what happened.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  As Lisa walked him back through the house to her front door, Ethan apologized once again for his behavior at the funeral home. He felt her hand rub a forgiving circle into his back.

  “It’s crazy what we do for the people we love and miss,” she said, like she was a veteran at this kind of thing after less than a week. Maybe she was, because Ethan clearly hadn’t pulled his act together after seven and a half.

  Smiling politely, he slipped his feet into his shoes and tied the laces.

  “And sorry about getting emotional.” He rolled his eyes, both embarrassed and trying to lighten the mood with some self-deprecating humor. Lisa didn’t.

  “If you think of anything else, you’re welcome to stop by,” she said as she opened the door.

  “I will.” Giving a casual wave, Ethan started down the steps and
headed to the waiting Jaguar. About halfway there, he had another idea and since Lisa had just welcomed him to stop by if he thought of anything else, he spun around and caught her watching. “Actually, I have thought of something else.”

  Frowning at him from the front door, she made a confused face before offering a forced chuckle and opening the door a little wider to invite him back in. “Should I grab another Dasani?”

  Standing in the middle of the driveway with the quiet and empty water fountain between him and his Jag, Ethan stared back up at the house. He knew what grief could do to people. And there they stood, two grieving people with a couple of things in common. One of those things was loneliness. The other thing, Ethan was sure of it, was Paul Hyatt.

  “Ethan?” she said, motioning sideways at the door she was holding open. “You want to talk it through?”

  At last, Ethan simply smiled and gave a dismissive wave. “I’ve taken up enough of your time, Lisa. Maybe I’ll save it for another time, use it as an excuse to pop in and see how you’re doing.” He made a key-turning motion against the side of his head, indicating that he’d just locked his “excuse” away for later.

  “I’d like that, Ethan.” She smiled before closing the door completely.

  Climbing into the Jaguar, he said a quiet and quick prayer that he would never have to come back and talk to Lisa about that the final thought that had jumped across his mind. Because coming back to this mini mansion would be a horrible idea, even if Lisa indeed possessed a vital piece of information.

  Unlike Paul Hyatt, Raleigh is alive.

  If Lisa couldn’t be honest and help him out, then she was wasting his time, no matter how friendly she might seem and how much Dasani she stocked in her refrigerator.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Monday afternoon, after spending his weekend locked in the house with his own thoughts and theories while he renovated the formal living room for Raleigh’s welcome home party for two, Ethan made a quick phone call and decided to take a trip downtown. Since Raleigh’s disappearance, most of the people in his life had steered clear of the mess he’d become, preferring to avoid his potential for sudden outbursts of tears and other emotional breakdown randomness. Ethan wasn’t an idiot, he understood that avoiding him like the plague was a lot easier than asking how he was making out. Of course, a few so-called friends continued to send Christmas cards, but it was a small and intimate group, and most of them didn’t bother to include a return address on their cards so that he couldn’t figure out how to get in touch with them. Like depression was contagious.

  As well, it probably didn’t help that, early on, Ethan had been a suspect in Raleigh’s disappearance, that the Chicago Police had become so desperate to figure this thing out that they’d finally turned to him, pointing their fingers and suggesting he’d fabricated the “disappearing ambulance story” as a way to conceal his involvement in something more sinister, something they’d aptly called “foul play.” And yes, the detectives had used air quotes in their accusations, which was only second to the fact that they’d used those air quotes after the neighbors had corroborated his claims about the existence of said ambulance and confirmed that it had, indeed, taken his wife away after she’d voluntarily walked down the front stairs and climbed onto the waiting stretcher, alive and well.

  Despite being dumped by all of those suspicious and cautious friends, Phil Bernard had stuck by his side. Phil had been the best man at Ethan’s wedding, the kind of friend who maintained a Ritalin prescription as an adult, a lively guy who had kept asking Ethan if he was sure he wanted to go through with the nuptials. But Phil was also one of the most honest and up-front people that Ethan knew.

  Plus, getting out of the house was therapeutic, almost as much as tearing up the flooring and ripping down drywall in the formal living room. Seeing real-life people walking the streets and interacting in various social settings recharged Ethan, and meeting Phil at a coffee shop like Barney’s for lunch was a reminder of just how fine that line between normal and crazy could be.

  As always, Ethan had arrived on time, which meant before Phil. He ordered a twelve-dollar cappuccino and a twenty-dollar Atlantic, free-range tuna wrap on a gluten-free pita, and then settled at a table in the back area, tucked into the corner between the employees-only door and the hallway to the bathrooms. Most of the other tables were occupied by business people on their lunch break, most of them middle-aged or creeping up on it. The table directly beside him, though, was occupied by three students talking about video games.

  Ethan knew when Phil arrived; he wasn’t one for making a subdued entrance. “Bro, whazzup!”

  All of the other people in the back area watched the man in the thousand-dollar suit and neon-orange button-down shirt embrace Ethan, smacking his back so hard that he could already feel the welts taking shape.

  “Man, look at you! Finally getting laid again, aren’t you?”

  Ethan noticed an older man a few tables over spit out his food and shake his head. The students at the next table chuckled.

  “Jeez, it’s been way too long, bro. Olly’s got me working so hard, my ulcer’s acting up and I’ve been shitting blood for two weeks straight.” He laughed so loud that Ethan’s ears started ringing. Again, Phil didn’t understand quiet. His graphic explanation of his work environment had another Barney’s patron spitting out his food.

  “Go grab a bite to eat,” Ethan told him, keeping his voice at a respectable volume.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said, nodding. He was still smiling, clearly as happy to get out of his office as Ethan was to get out of his house. “What are you eating?” He motioned to the tuna wrap. When Ethan told him what it was, Phil accused him of being a ball-licking tree hugger and said he’d be back with the sirloin on focaccia, but pronounced it as fuck-at-ya.

  Once Phil left the back area, Ethan sighed. Everyone else sighed, too, before getting back to their meals. Even the students seemed more at ease with Phil outside of view.

  Ethan knew it wasn’t exactly Phil’s fault that he lacked social tact. He worked at one of the investment banks downtown (strike one) as an associate (strike two) to one of the top-producing bankers (strikes three, four, and five) in the Midwest (strike six). What that meant, Phil had once told him, was that he was Oliver Faulk’s bitch, one of his glorified and badly abused (strangely, he left out the part about being highly paid) administrators who ensured the old man looked, smelled, and sounded good at whatever deal table he decided to sit at. The way Phil explained it, he was a victim, today’s equivalent of a disposable factory worker from the dirty thirties; only he had to wear expensive suits, shirts, and ties, he didn’t qualify for overtime, there was no promise of a worker’s union swooping in to protect him and his quarter-million dollar salary, and he wasn’t allowed to swear in front of customers or prospects. Poor princess Phil.

  When Phil returned, he was already tearing into his sirloin sandwich. “This fuck-at-ya is damn tasty,” he said, his mouth full. “Faulk hasn’t let me take lunch since we ordered Chinese on Valentine’s Day.” When Phil started making a suggestive motion with his hips, Ethan closed his eyes and focused on eating.

  He finished the first half of his tuna wrap before Phil could ruin it with another offside comment.

  “Speaking of getting laid, who’s the lucky lady, Ethan? I mean, it’s about time. That ten-year dry spell even had me bummed out, no pun intended!” He laughed loud enough to send vibrations rippling through the walls.

  Seven and a half years. Not a decade.

  It suddenly became apparent that Phil had forgotten about getting his Ritalin prescription filled. And now that everyone at Barney’s knew how long it had been since he’d had been with a woman, Ethan didn’t feel it was an appropriate time to correct Phil. Best to get things back on track.

  “Phil,” he said, clearing his throat and stumbling over the right words, “the night Raleigh had that, well, incident, remember those three medics?”

  Phil raised a suspicious ey
ebrow. “Well, I wasn’t exactly there.”

  “But I told you about them.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I remember you telling me about her being kidnapped a million times.” Phil shifted in his seat, not exactly comfortable speaking about the “incident” in public like this. Or maybe at all, as if Ethan were the one with mental heath issues here.

  Phil had posted the bail after the police arrested Ethan in connection with Raleigh’s disappearance. The Chicago Police Department’s act of desperation had Ethan’s lawyer forcing the 19th District’s Commander to issue a written apology. Those early days had been stressful for everyone, so after a year of silence from the police and no sign that Raleigh was ever going to return, Phil had suggested that Ethan move on. Bury it all. “Forget the marriage ever happened,” he’d insisted, “and go find your happy. Everyone’s got a soul mate, even me. I just don’t want to find mine yet, but you should go looking for yours. Okay?”

  Phil kicked him under the table, snapping him back to reality. “Ethan, what’s going on?”

  It took Ethan a moment to spit it out. “I saw one of those EMTs.” He explained how he’d come across the scene of the accident and watched the news that night and, then, bingo.

  Phil kept eating his sandwich and shook his head as he groaned dramatically in the way that only Phil did. He sounded like a whale taking its final breaths while a harpoon was being pulled out of its lungs. “I thought you let this go a long time ago, bro. And now that she’s been officially declared dead, there’s no excuse for this.”