The Boy in the Window: A Psychological Thriller

by Ditter Kellen

  “He was your only child.” It wasn’t a question.

  Jessica weakly nodded. “My husband wanted to have another baby, but I couldn’t do it. No one could ever replace Jacob.”

  Sandy moved around the coffee table and sat down next to Jess on the sofa. She took hold of Jessica’s hands and tugged her around to face her.

  A faraway look entered Sandy’s eyes. “You have severed the bond you once had with your husband. Though he holds tight to it, refusing to let go.”

  “Yes…”

  “There has been no intimacy,” Sandy continued, coasting her thumbs along Jess’s palms. “You have lost the ability to love, to trust…to feel.”

  Jess swallowed hard, unable to speak.

  Releasing her hold on Jessica’s hands, Sandy picked up the painting and held it up in front of her. “Terry Dayton is buried in this grave. Of that, you can be certain.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jessica sat in Sandy Weaver’s living room, unable to look away from the woman’s strained profile.

  Sandy had just confirmed what Jess already knew. The boy who’d once lived in that two-story house hadn’t merely disappeared, he’d been murdered. “Where is this grave, and who put him there?”

  Returning the painting next to the couch, Sandy shrugged. “If I had those answers, the police would have found his remains by now.”

  “But you’re a psychic,” Jessica argued, unwilling to believe that Sandy didn’t know anything. “How can you see his grave but not know its location?”

  Sandy laughed without humor. “It doesn’t work that way. I only know what I’m shown. I can’t make the images appear at will. If I could, do you think I’d be living like this?” She waved her hand out in a wide arc.

  Jessica considered her words. “Okay, so you don’t know where he’s buried, but you must have some idea of who put him there.”

  “I have no proof, but I believe Eustice Martin is involved.”

  Jess had wondered the same thing. “Aside from him being the world’s largest asshat, what makes you think Eustice had something to do with it?”

  “He threatened me.”

  “Just because he threatened you doesn’t make him a murderer. Although, I would be willing to bet the farm that he is.”

  Sandy got to her feet and lit up another cigarette. “It was no mere threat to me, it was made toward my boys.”

  The reporter had mentioned that Sandy had children. “Go on.”

  “After I’d told the police what I’d seen, I confided in Terry’s parents. They, of course, thought I was insane, and Melanie attacked me.”

  Jess held up a hand. “Melanie, Terry’s mother? And attacked you how?”

  Sandy began to pace once more. “Yes, the child’s mother. She became inconsolable, screaming and crying, and then she threw herself at me. It took her husband and one other man there to pull her off me.”

  “Oh, my God,” Jess breathed, picturing the scene in her mind. “What did you do?”

  “The only thing I could do. I got out of there and ran home. Later that night, Eustice showed up at my place wielding a gun. He told me if I opened my mouth about the Dayton boy once more, he’d turn the gun on my boys.”

  Jessica’s mouth dropped open. “Did you go to the police?”

  Sandy shook her head, but never slowed her pacing. “I was going to until I dreamed that night that I saw my youngest son buried in the same grave as Terry.”

  Surging to her feet, Jessica skirted the coffee table and placed herself in Sandy’s path. “That’s proof enough that Eustice killed Terry. How else would you have seen your son buried in that same grave after Eustice Martin’s threat against your boys?”

  Sandy stopped her pacing and held Jessica’s gaze. “You’re right, yet I can’t help but feel there’s something I’m missing. I don’t know what it is, but I believe there’s more to it than Eustice killing Terry for the hell of it.”

  “Maybe Terry saw something he wasn’t supposed to?” Jess offered, grasping at straws.

  Snuffing out her cigarette, Sandy moved to the door, twisted the knob and threw it open. “I’ve done all I can do to help you. Please… just go now.”

  Jessica picked up the painting and trailed to the open door. She stopped on the porch and turned to face Sandy. “If you see anything else, would you please call me?”

  “I’m sorry, I really am, but I’ve said all I’m going to say. If Eustice Martin finds out that I spoke to you, he’ll hunt me down and make good on his threat.”

  “I would never tell him that I saw you. You needn’t worry about that.”

  Sandy didn’t look convinced. “He has ways of finding out your every move. That whole damn neighborhood does.” She closed the door in Jessica’s face.

  Jess glanced at her watch on her way to her SUV. She still had five hours before Owen came home from work which left her enough time to pay Ruckle a visit.

  She carefully set the painting in the backseat, climbed behind the wheel, and backed out of the drive.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jessica sat in the back-corner booth at Happy’s Bar and Grill, waiting patiently for Steven Ruckle’s arrival. She’d thought about everything that she would tell him on her trip back to Sparkleberry Hills.

  The bell rang above the door, drawing Jessica’s attention.

  Steven Ruckle sent her a nod while weaving his way through the crowd. He sat down across from her.

  The waitress appeared, but he casually waved her away before meeting Jessica’s gaze. “Has something happened?”

  “You could say that. I met with Sandy Weaver this morning.”

  Surprise registered in Steven’s eyes. “I thought she left this area?”

  “She did. It was a good two-hour drive from here.”

  He leaned back in his seat and loosened his tie. “How did that go?”

  “Not good. She was terrified that my showing up there would lead Eustice Martin to her door. I tried to assure her that he wouldn’t find out.”

  A muscle ticked along Steven’s jaw. “She was right to be terrified. Eustice isn’t someone to play with. He spent the first ten years of his adult life in prison for killing a man.”

  Jessica’s eyes widened. “What? That’s the first I’ve heard of it. How did he only get ten years?”

  “Crime of passion. He supposedly caught the guy with his fiancée.” Steven ran a hand through his light brown hair and softened his gaze. “Look, I’m going to give you some friendly advice here. Leave it alone. The boy’s been missing for thirteen years, he’s not coming back. He—”

  “He’s dead,” Jessica blurted, cutting him off. “And I’m fairly sure that Eustice Martin murdered him.” Jess went on to tell Steven everything she’d learned from her visit with Sandy Weaver, ending with, “He threatened her at gunpoint. He also threatened her children.”

  Steven blew out a breath and leaned back in his seat. “I knew her packing up and leaving in the middle of the night had something to do with Eustice.”

  “It had everything to do with him.” Jessica reached beneath the table and tugged her painting up onto the seat next to her.

  “What is that?” Steven nodded to half hidden painting.

  “Proof that Terry is dead.”

  Steven simply stared back at her with a blank expression.

  “I painted this one night shortly after we’d moved into the neighborhood. I have no recollection of doing it. I’d sat down to paint my son and the next thing I knew, my husband was standing in the doorway, calling my name.”

  Steven’s eyebrows lifted. “I didn’t know you had a son.”

  “He died three years ago,” Jessica murmured, speaking the words for the first time in three years without tearing up.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Nobles.”

  Jessica nodded her thanks, her mind still racing from everything she’d learned at Sandy Weaver’s place. “The point I’m trying to make here is that I somehow blacked out and painted the very sce
ne that Sandy Weaver saw all those years back.”

  Steven jerked his chin toward the painting. “Let’s see it.”

  Gripping the sides of the canvas, Jess hoisted it up to give him a better look.

  “That’s the Dayton boy,” Steven unnecessarily pointed out. “But a painting of a child lying in a grave isn’t proof of anything as far as the police are concerned. And if you tell anyone else about it, they’ll think you’re as nuts as poor Sandy Weaver.”

  Jessica set the painting next to her on the booth seat. “I am nuts, Mr. Ruckle. I have been ever since my son passed away. I really couldn’t give a damn what anyone thinks of me, but my husband doesn’t deserve the stigma of my insanity attached to his name. I wasn’t planning on turning it in.”

  Instead of the uncomfortable look she’d expected to get from Steven about her statement, he merely rested his hands on the tabletop and leaned forward. “I’d love to find the Dayton boy as much as you, but without any evidence or even a few concrete leads, we’re just spinning our wheels. I searched for Terry Dayton for three years, dug around in everyone’s business on that street—both legally and illegally. I uncovered many secrets I’m sure they’d rather not have told, but I never found any evidence on who took Terry.”

  “I know this painting isn’t considered evidence to you, Mr. Ruckle, but it is to me. Especially after finding out that Sandy saw the same thing thirteen years ago.”

  “Please, call me Steven.”

  Taken aback for a moment, Jessica paused before continuing. “Sandy doesn’t believe that Eustice was alone in what happened to Terry. She seems to think there was someone else involved.”

  “Did she say why she thought that?”

  Jess shook her head. “Not really. She said it was more of a gut feeling, and I’m inclined to trust her gut after everything she told me.” Jess quickly repeated her conversation with Sandy. “If she does know more, she’s staying tight lipped about it. Not that I blame her.”

  Steven glanced at his watch. “I’m going to have to run. I have a meeting in ten minutes.”

  He reached across the table and wrapped his warm fingers around Jessica’s wrist when she moved to get up. “I have access to a lot that never got printed in the papers. I also have friends on the force who worked the Dayton case. I’ll see if there’s anything that got overlooked during the investigation.”

  Jess sent him a grateful look. “Thank you, Steven. It means a lot.”

  “No problem.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Stay as low-key as you can until you hear from me. I’ll be in touch.”

  Jessica watched him go with more than a little relief inside. Not only had he believed her theory on what happened to Terry Dayton, but he hadn’t batted an eye when she’d confided in him about how the painting came to be. He believed in her, and that felt better than she could have imagined it would.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “How was your day?” Owen lay in bed, flipping through the channels on the television.

  Jessica wanted to tell him everything that had happened since he’d left for work that morning, but she couldn’t. He would only become angry and probably insist she get back on her meds. “It was okay.”

  He turned off the TV and rolled to his side to face her. “Something is different with you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Owen shrugged. “I’m not sure. Did you cut your hair?”

  “No. I applied a little makeup this morning. Maybe that’s what you’re seeing.”

  A sleepy smile touched his lips. “That’s probably it.”

  He leaned in and kissed her. “Goodnight, Jess.”

  “Night, Owen.” Jess remained completely still, staring up at the shadows on the ceiling and listening to Owen’s soft breathing. It didn’t take long before the expected snoring ensued.

  She inched back the covers, careful not to shake the bed, and got to her feet. She hated sneaking around behind Owen’s back, but he honestly left her no choice.

  Back in the office, Jess seated herself in front of her desk and turned on the laptop. She typed in Jasper and Melanie Dayton, steadily glancing at the door while the page loaded.

  A black and white photo appeared of the Dayton’s holding a press conference. The date below the image told Jessica the conference had been held four days after Terry’s disappearance.

  The distraught look in Melanie’s eyes tore at Jessica’s heart. Jess knew all too well the pain Mrs. Dayton had felt in that moment. Nothing could ever come close to the agony of losing a child.

  Jessica’s gaze touched on Jasper Dayton, taking note of the protective way his arm held tightly to his wife.

  Jasper Dayton had been a handsome man thirteen years ago with his dark, semi-long hair and masculine jawline. He appeared to be tall as well, standing a good foot above his dainty wife.

  Handsome couple, Jessica thought, clicking back and then onto the next link. A picture of the Dayton house appeared in the article currently loading. It amazed Jessica, how much it had changed over the years. Little Terry Dayton had lived in that house, probably felt safe, happy, and loved.

  Jessica wasn’t sure how long she sat there scrolling through the different articles once again before her aching back demanded she get up and move around.

  She ventured out into the living room, drawn to the front window like a moth to a flame.

  With the glare of the streetlight shining in her eyes, Jess cupped her hands around her face and pressed her forehead to the glass. There, looking back at her from the second story window of the abandoned house, stood Terry Dayton.

  Jess squeezed her eyes tightly shut, counted to ten and then eased them back open to find the Dayton boy…gone.

  Doubt quickly surfaced. What if all of this was a figment of her imagination and she was back in Chicago, rocking in a corner somewhere in an institution?

  She trailed over to the door, disengaged the locks, and stepped outside.

  Though the night felt warm, a gentle breeze blew through the trees to cool Jessica’s bare legs.

  Moving off the porch, she inched down the driveway, never taking her gaze from the window of that house.

  “Looking for something?”

  Jessica sucked in a startled breath and spun to face the owner of that deep voice.

  A tall, blond man stood in the street wearing jean-cutoff shorts and a tank top. He held a can of beer in one hand while flipping a knife in the other.

  “I—I—no, I was just taking a short walk.” She couldn’t look away from that knife.

  The man glanced toward the Dayton house and then resettled his gaze on her. “Seems to me you were looking for something in that house over there. Now, what could be so interesting that you would be out here at midnight, creeping around to see?”

  “I wasn’t creeping,” she whispered, backing up a step. “I told you, I was —”

  “Out getting some air. So you say.”

  Jess eased back another step. “Well, as you said, it’s rather late. I’ll bid you a goodnight, then.”

  He didn’t respond. He simply stood there, flipping that knife in his left hand and staring at her through bloodshot eyes.

  Once Jessica backed far enough away, she spun on her heel and fled to the safety of her house.

  Throwing the deadbolt home, she scurried to the window to find the blond man staggering down the street, still flipping that knife.

  She watched for several minutes more, taking note of which house he stumbled up to, before turning away from the window and heading to bed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Owen sat in his office at the First Bank and Trust of Sparkleberry Hills sucking down his third cup of coffee.

  He pushed back his chair and stood, stretching his muscles and fighting a yawn. He hadn’t slept worth a damn last night. Every time he’d rolled toward Jessica in his sleep, he would find her gone. Figuring she was in the office painting, he’d left her alone and attempted sleep once more.

  A k
nock sounded on his door.

  “Come in,” Owen called, smoothing his tie before returning to his seat.

  Brenda, his secretary, stuck her head inside. “You have a visitor.”

  Owen lifted an eyebrow. “A visitor?”

  The secretary nodded. “A Mrs. Hawthorn. Says she’s your neighbor.”

  “Send her in.” Owen couldn’t imagine what his casserole making neighbor could possibly want with him.

  Marge Hawthorn bustled into the room wearing a bright yellow pantsuit. “I do apologize for barging in on you like this, but I felt it important enough to speak with you about in person.”

  “No need for apologies,” Owen assured her while waving a hand toward the chair in front of his desk. “Please, have a seat.”

  Closing the door behind her, Marge strode across the room and lowered her ample weight into the chair. “I appreciate you seeing me.”

  “What can I do for you, Mrs. Hawthorn?”

  She made a big show of smoothing her pants around her knees. “It’s about your wife.”

  Owen’s stomach tightened with dread. “Is she alright? Has something happened?”

  “Oh no, Mr. Nobles, I’m sure she’s fine. It’s just that…”

  “Go on,” Owen urged, attempting to keep the impatience from his voice.

  Marge blew out a breath and clasped her hands in her lap. “She’s been acting rather strange, lately.”

  “Strange, as in?”

  “Well, for starters, I see her outside at all times of the night. Usually staring at the abandoned house next door to you. Then last night around midnight, I noticed her standing in the street talking to Dale Schroder. Looked to me like they were arguing about something.”

  Owen couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Surely to God, Jessica wasn’t sneaking out of the house at night! Furthermore, what was their busybody neighbor doing up at that time of night watching his wife’s every move?

  He cleared his throat, wondering what to say to Marge without coming across as an asshole. “I appreciate you letting me know, Mrs. Hawthorn. Jessica doesn’t sleep very well since our son’s passing.”