by Greg Chapman
Carol squeezed the newspaper. “Our son is missing.” She could feel her heart racing.
Max gripped her shoulders. “Listen, this little shit’s gone to visit one of his friends. They probably just went into the city for a movie or something.”
“He’s never been out on a school night. He knows he’s not allowed to do that.”
She watched her husband roll his eyes and shake his head at her. “Jesus, Carol, he’s not a little kid anymore. He’s becoming a man. He just wants some freedom like I did when I was his age.”
She pulled free of his grip. “He’s not becoming a man like you. I won’t let him.”
“What the hell did you just say?”
He took a step toward her, but Carol wouldn’t relent. She pointed the newspaper at him. “I want you to call the police and report him missing. Now.”
Max’s lips became a taut line. “I’m gonna presume that what you said was because you’re all weepy, and I’ll let it slide. Like I told you, the boy is out with one of his friends, and you need to calm down and get on the phone and start calling around.”
Carol wanted to scream. She threw the paper down and grabbed the cordless phone off the TV table.
“I’m calling 9-1-1.”
Max reached out and snatched the phone from her hand. “For God’s sake, listen to me!”
“No! I will not! I’ve listened to you and your crap for twenty-one years and I’ve had enough of it! If you want to be a decent father, you need to get out there and find my son, or find someone who will.”
Carol was shaking, and her palms stung from where her nails had dug into the flesh. She’d never yelled at her husband that way before, and for a moment he stood there looking at her, not in shock, but as if he was simply waiting for her to say something else. She wanted him to yell back at her, because she wanted to yell at him, over and over until he did what she wanted him to do. He took a step forward and lifted his right arm, readying to strike her. She flinched.
“Dad!”
She turned and saw Matthew standing in the kitchen, a look of sheer horror on his face. When she looked back at her husband, both his arms were by his side and he was smiling.
“About time you got up, lazy,” he said.
“Dad, what are you doing?”
“Your mother and I are just having a discussion, about Zac.”
“You were going to hit her.”
Max raised an accusing finger. “Now you listen to me—”
Carol swallowed, and bent to pick up the phone and the newspaper. “Your father and I were talking about calling some of Zac’s friends, to see if he spent the night. If you can think of anyone we should call, I’d appreciate it if you’d give me the numbers.”
Max and Matthew watched silently as she walked into the kitchen.
“I don’t know about you two, but I need some coffee.” Carol, hands still shaking, tried to busy herself with a cup and coffee jar. A moment passed before she heard her husband stomp up the stairs and slam the door. Her son, however, lingered behind her.
“Are you okay, Mom?”
“Fine,” she said. “Just get me those numbers for Zac’s friends.”
Matthew shuffled off, leaving her to pour a cup and sit at the table. She stared at her reflection in the black liquid and felt like she wanted to retch. A tear ran down her face, but she was resigned not to let sadness claim her. She reached for the newspaper, looking for distraction, but the front page headline reminded her that everything within it was too close to home.
STENCH ALERTS NEIGHBOURS TO SUSPECTED MURDER VICTIM
Once she began to read the story on the happenings right next door, her fear rose anew, as now she’d become the victim.
~
Ben Traynor cried out when his wife shook him awake.
“There’s a woman at the front door,” Megan said. “You’ve pissed her off.” His wife left the room without another word.
Ben rose, sat on the edge of the bed, and stared at the alarm clock, while his eyes adjusted to the sunlight streaming in through the bedroom windows. He couldn’t even remember going to bed. Everything was a fog after 11 p.m. when he’d eventually turned in his story to The Gazette. He guessed he’d had too much scotch.
He stood and pulled on his jeans and yesterday’s T-shirt. A quick glance in the mirror told him he needed a shave three days ago. As he left the bedroom and headed for the stairs, he tried to conjure a woman who could be more pissed at him than his wife. The sight of his neighbour, hands clutched around a copy of The Gazette, her eyes narrow with scorn, answered his question. Megan stood on the sidelines, seemingly interested in what was about to unfold.
Ben decided to play the ignorance card. “Uh, hi…it’s Carol, right?”
“Don’t give me that, you know exactly who I am.” She held up the newspaper. “How dare you use my name and statements without my permission!”
Ben heard Megan sigh, and she left the room, which he was silently thankful for. “Hey, Carol, look, I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Carol threw the newspaper at him.
He grabbed it before it hit the floor, and he gave the front page a quick glance. The headline could have been stronger, but at least his photographs captured the gothic nature of the murder house. He put on a mask of shock.
“Oh, my God,” he said. “They must have overheard me talking.”
Carol folded her arms. “What?”
Ben approached her carefully. “The reporter,” he said. “After I spoke to you, I was talking to one of the other neighbours, and these media assholes must have been listening in. I’m so sorry.”
“It wasn’t you who wrote this?”
“No. I mean, I mentioned that I’d gone to check that you were okay, and that we’d talked about the house and all. The bastards must have recorded me and figured out who you were.”
His neighbour took the newspaper back and looked at it anew. “God damn sons of bitches,” she said. “I’m going to sue their asses.”
Ben slipped his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, you should do that.” He saw tears stream down Carol’s face. “Hey, are you okay?”
She folded the newspaper and sniffled. “No. My son is missing.”
“What?”
She took out a tissue. “He never came home last night. He’s probably just up to no good with one of his friends, but I’m worried.”
Ben reached out and touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I hope he turns up.”
“Yeah, me too. I’m not sure if I should call the police.”
“Maybe…”
“I mean, if there’s a killer on the loose.”
The possibility of Carol’s son becoming a follow up victim crossed his mind. “Well, I wish you good luck Carol. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”
She nodded absently and turned to the door. “Thanks.”
He ushered her through the door, eager for the conversation, and any further suspicions toward him, to come to an end. He’d have to call Jacob and give him a heads-up about her intentions. When she’d gone, he closed the door and rubbed his eyes, glad he’d gotten himself out of a sticky situation.
“Do you lie with every fucking breath?”
Megan watched him from the entryway to the kitchen. Her eyes were on the verge of angry tears. There were wide grey pools beneath them. She was as tired of him as he was of her.
“Just leave it.” He started walking for the stairs.
“Jesus, you just can’t help walking all over people, can you.”
He sighed and looked her way. “I said, leave it.”
She folded her arms, in it for the long haul. “I thought you’d given up the dirty tricks and all that hidden microphone shit.”
“Give it a rest. It’s my job!”
“And what, that allows you to put your morals to one side does it? Think of that woman and her family, or even the man who died across the street. Do you even care about them or just ge
tting that story?”
Ben approached his wife, heat swelling in his chest. “It’s my job, and it always has been. You knew that when you met me—when you married me.”
The mere mention of their marriage increased the fire behind Megan’s eyes. “I never realised I married someone to whom lying came so easily.”
“You think I enjoy lying?”
“Yes.”
She might as well have slapped him.
“Well, you’re wrong. I don’t like lying. I don’t like having to go to crime scenes and car crashes and burned buildings. I don’t like asking people what it’s like for their loved ones to die. I lie to them to stay detached.”
Megan laughed. “You’re not a cop, or a fireman, Ben. You’re a reporter for Christ’s sake.”
“Yeah? Well I may not have to pick up the dead bodies or sift through ashes, but I’m still expected to be there, watching as it happens. If society wasn’t so fucking hungry for every morbid detail, I wouldn’t have a job to pay for this house, or your weekly fucking shopping sprees!”
She smiled and shook her head. “If you meant one word of that, you’d have quit your job years ago. Tell your bullshit story to someone else, because I’m sick of hearing it.”
~
Ben took a drive, in an attempt to calm down. Willow Street was the epitome of the urban sanctuary, with its pristine lawns, clichéd white picket fences and enviable silence. The house at Number 69 had been the perfect choice; not too old, not too modern, and the purchase price had been a steal. The only downside was that Ben had thought buying a new house would make his wife happy again. He had mistakenly believed that the allure of the suburban lifestyle would reignite a spark of the love she once had for him, but that had clearly been snuffed out years ago.
Rows of houses blurred by. Willow Street was more than ten miles long, stretching north to south, located in one of the oldest and well-to-do parts of the city. For a middle-to-high-income earner, it was the most sought after suburb for those who wanted to settle down and start a family. He tried to think of the last time he and Megan had spoken about having children. They’d both expressed excitement at the prospect, but then Ben’s career had taken a giant, unexpected leap, with a revelation that hit right at the core of local government. A whistle blower had provided documents of unscrupulous land deals between the Chief Finance Officer and a large construction company. Land previously zoned as being prohibited from development. When Ben exposed the deals in The Gazette, the CFO was fired, and had tragically taken his own life before charges could be laid. The story earned The Gazette a boost in readership and Ben a new position as the senior reporter.
There was a flicker of guilt on Ben’s part about the CFO’s suicide, but Jacob told him that it wasn’t him who pulled the trigger, so there was no need to feel responsible. After a while, Ben came to accept Jacob’s point. Life, as far as his career was concerned, became much busier. Time with Megan involved saying goodbye in the morning and goodnight in the evening. The idea of family seemed so far away. But when a boost in pay provided the opportunity to move out of their flat in the city, and into their own home, Megan seemed amenable, as long as Ben agreed to ease back on work.
He gripped the wheel. Taking a step back from a job that he loved was never going to happen. It wasn’t about the money, or the thrill of chasing down the next juicy story. He truly felt he had a duty to everyday people, to inform them of what was going on in their town, no matter how dark it may be. People like him, who worked hard to pay their bills and plan for the future. Sadly, Megan had never shared the same point of view. Now he had a mortgage, a wife who despised him, and a murder mystery right on his door step.
As his thoughts brought him back to the Kemper House, his cell phone rang. The dashboard display told him it was Jacob.
“So, how’s today’s edition selling?”
“Ben, we’ve had a call from someone who claims to know more about the murder house.” Jacob said.
Ben pulled the car to the side of the road. An elderly woman watering her lawn looked at him warily. “Really?”
“Yeah, he says we’ve got the story all wrong. He says we should be looking into the architect who originally designed the house, not the guy who died in it.”
Chapter Nine
Alice feared she was losing her daughter all over again.
The signs were all too familiar: Amy withdrawing from human contact and lashing out at anyone who tried to offer her help. Just like before, Amy’s phone was the source of her latest bout of despair. This time though, the girl had screamed, opened her door to throw out the offending device, and had barricaded herself back inside her bedroom.
She wished Dale was with her, just to provide another presence, a source of comfort, but she didn’t want her son to be drawn into the fray. Alice loved her son, but she needed to protect him, by helping his sister, for all their sakes.
Alice looked down at the shattered screen of her daughter’s iPhone and wished Amy had done a better job of destroying it. If Alice had her way and fought harder against Dr. Ruskin, she would have melted it to slag the first time. Not only that, she would have tracked down every last one of those online bullies and…
No, she didn’t know what she would have done. All she knew, was that she never wanted this for her Amy. She never wanted to have a daughter who hated her own life so much that she was prepared to throw it all away.
She placed the phone on the kitchen counter. The cracked screen resembled a spider’s web.
How fitting. The social network was full of spiders, seeking out the weak and wounded, while flies that got too close often found themselves snared.
She walked away from the phone and approached Amy’s bedroom. “Amy, it’s me.” She reached up and touched the door. The glossy paint was cool on her fingertips. She heard her daughter sobbing and let out a sigh of relief. Silence was Alice’s greatest fear. She had to keep trying to help her little girl, to bring her out of the dark.
Flashes of the last time Alice had stood at Amy’s bedroom door assaulted her mind’s eye; Amy in her school uniform, hanging from the ceiling; shit and piss running down her legs onto the carpet, and the sound she’d never forget—the wet, gasping choke.
“Amy, it’s Mom.”
“Go away!”
Alice smiled, grateful for her daughter’s voice.
“Did you want me to throw the phone away, sweetheart?”
“Leave me alone!”
Alice stared at the door. She wanted the power to see through it, to see into Amy’s eyes.
“I can call Dr. Ruskin.”
“No! Just stop talking, Mom!”
Alice had to keep trying. “Sweetheart… just tell me what happened?”
“No!” A rush of sobbing flooded her daughter’s words. “I don’t want to talk about it!”
Alice could sense fear in Amy’s voice. This was different. Before, she’d been angry with her bullies, angry at her place in the world, but this sounded like those times when she was a little girl who’d had a bad dream.
“What are you afraid of, sweetie?”
The sobbing became a whimper, barely audible.
“Please, just talk to me.”
For several moments there was only Amy’s keening. Alice sat against the door, listening. In a morbid way it was peaceful and helped reduce some of the trembling in her hands. There were so many lines in Alice’s hands. She was so old and Amy so young. She’d forgotten what it had been like to be a teenager, how much turmoil it could be. She’d forgotten a lot of things since Bob had left her, especially compassion. Deep down she knew she had neglected her children after the divorce. Amy and Dale had become burdens, reminders of the hatred she had towards her husband. The fact he simply walked out of their lives had been a blow to her heart, so much so she’d no longer had any love to give her children. And as resentment ate away at Alice’s family, her daughter had become a teenager overnight. The girl only had Facebook to rely upon for guidance.
It had led her down the wrong path, with almost tragic consequences. The healing since had been slow and difficult, but Alice wasn’t about to let it come undone, now. She closed her eyes and looked into her heart.
“Did I ever tell you about the time my Dad caught me smoking pot?”
Amy’s whimpering softened, so Alice kept talking. As she did, she grabbed her own phone and started a text message to Dr. Ruskin.
“I was fifteen, and I’d been going steady with this boy, Reece,” Alice said. “Is steady still a word teenagers use? Anyhow, I really liked this guy. He was on the football team and he had the bluest eyes. I wanted to get to know him, and one night at a party at my friend’s house, I saw Reece in the backyard, smoking. I knew it wasn’t a normal cigarette because it smelled strange. Reece said hello. Smoke was swirling all around him and he offered me a drag. I was prepared to do anything to be with him so I took it. At first it felt like I was… weightless, like there was no gravity. It was amazing—until I started puking all over the place.”
Alice heard her daughter sniffling, then the sound of her bed creaking beneath her. The door opened and her daughter’s puffy-eyed face greeted her. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
“What happened?” Amy asked.
Alice stood, bewildered. “Are you okay?”
“Mom, what happened after you smoked the pot?”
Alice laughed. “You really want to know?”
Amy nodded enthusiastically.
“Well, my Dad wasn’t too happy when he came to pick me up. As soon as he got close enough to smell the pot on me, I knew my headache was about to get a whole lot worse.”
Amy wiped the tears from her eyes, but her smile washed away every other trace of sadness. “I can’t believe you smoked weed.”
“Hey, I was a teenager once too, you know.” She reached out to take Amy’s hand. “I know what it’s like to feel alone.”
Amy’s eyes filled with sadness again, but beneath that veneer Alice could also glimpse understanding. Was she finally reaching some common ground with her daughter? “So, do you want to tell me what happened before, why you smashed your phone?”