by Edwin Hill
He texted Wendy. Finished with cops. We still on?
Meet me at the house, Wendy wrote back, I have a surprise for you, and a half hour later, Sam was naked again, this time lying on a massage table in one of the bedrooms on the second floor of the mansion. A therapist worked at his shoulders, and he was able to push the images of Hester and Gabe and Twig from his mind. Still, Wendy, who lay on the table beside his, wanted to know about his trip to the station. She wanted to know if they were any closer to finding Twig.
“Are you that worried?” Sam asked. “Don’t you think she went off somewhere with a friend and forgot to tell anyone?”
Wendy groaned. “Yup, right there,” she said to the therapist. “Harder. As hard as you can.”
Sam turned to see her arching back, that hair cascading from her neck as the therapist dug his elbow into her bony shoulder. The therapist winked, and Sam couldn’t help but think about the happy ending he’d get if they’d been alone. His own therapist continued to work at the knots in his shoulders. A CD of pan flute favorites played on repeat, and the air smelled of sandalwood. It was so peaceful, Sam almost laughed.
“Of course I’m worried,” Wendy said. “Or getting there, at least.”
Sam ran her through the basics of the police interview, looking at the photo, answering Detective White’s questions about his personal life. He had to remind himself that Aaron Gewirtzman had never laid his eyes on Twig. “She’s pretty,” he said. “At least in the photos.”
“She’s even prettier in real life. She’s healthy and outdoorsy. Her family is into roughing it. They have a house up in New Hampshire where they spend nearly every weekend in the summer.”
“Have you been?”
“Of course, but probably not again.” Wendy paused as what she’d said sank in. “God, I don’t mean it like that,” she added. “I mean that the house is … rustic. They have spiders all over the place, and the shower is outdoors, and Twig’s family is really into being naked. It’s too much, for me at least. So what else did you tell them?”
“I couldn’t really tell them anything besides the truth,” Sam said.
Wendy laughed. “Whatever that might be,” she said.
Sam’s shoulders tightened. The therapist’s hands paused and then went back to work. “Meaning?” he asked.
“Oh, come on,” Wendy said. “You’re so obvious, the way you watch and listen and morph into whatever you need to be. You were such a queen with Felicia, I actually thought you might be gay, even after we started sleeping together. I mean, what do I know about you? You grew up in New York and went to Columbia and rowed crew with Brennan Wigglesworth. That’s about it. But most people have mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers. They have exes who screwed them over. They have shitty jobs. Most people have a story. You dropped right into my life without friends or family or attachments.”
Sam let his shoulders relax. He willed his heart rate to slow and his breathing to steady. This was when he was at his best. “What do I know about you?” he asked.
“I’m an open book! Anyone who has an Internet connection knows about me. You know about my parents. You know that I live in their guesthouse. You know what food I eat, where I go on vacation, how I dress. You know that I’m thirty-one and the maternal thing has started to kick in. And if you want to know more, read my blog.”
She rolled halfway toward him, her boyish breasts flashing the therapists shamelessly. She reached across the space between them and took Sam’s hand. Her delicate bones and soft skin still unnerved him. “All I mean,” she said, “is that I want to learn more. You don’t have to be so mysterious. I don’t really care where you’re from or how sophisticated you are, or whether your father was a doctor or a lawyer or a bank robber. People sometimes don’t realize that they can be real with me, that I like that. You don’t have to pretend.”
Wendy, Sam realized, was as lucky as he was. She was too much of a public figure to make go away, except in the most convenient of accidents. That marble staircase, out in the foyer, arms twirling like windmills, a final grasp at hope. The cliffs at Scionsett. An accident at sea. “I’ll try,” he said. “You’ll have to let me know what you want to learn.”
The therapist massaged Sam’s cranium, signaling the end of their sessions. And a few moments later, Sam was across the courtyard in Wendy’s shower working shampoo into her scalp. “You want to take this to the next level, don’t you?” he said.
Wendy kissed him as warm water streamed over them. “I don’t know how to make it any more obvious,” she said. “Are you game?”
“What do you think?” Sam asked, kissing her again.
Later, they lay in bed. “There’s champagne in the fridge,” Wendy said. “Go grab it.”
“What are we celebrating?” Sam asked.
“Everything,” Wendy said. “Or at least … well, not everything, but let’s stay in the moment for a while.”
Sam left her and walked naked down the narrow stairs to her tiny kitchen, where he found the bottle of Moët in the refrigerator. He hunted down two flutes and had turned to go upstairs when he heard his phone ring. It was Gabe, and for a moment Sam considered letting the call go to voice mail but answered anyway.
“I can’t do this,” Gabe said.
“Of course you can,” Sam said. “Where are you now?”
“Outside her house. She’s there with the kid and the dog.”
“That’ll be easy enough.”
“No it won’t!” Gabe said. “None of this is easy. Ever.”
Sam glanced toward the staircase and spoke as softly as he could. “Should I come over?”
“No.” Gabe’s voice was steadier this time. “Stay where you are.”
“Maybe I should.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
“Be quick about it. Don’t linger.”
“I know,” Gabe said, pausing for a moment. “Have you seen the news?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“If Detective White calls, don’t answer.”
The call cut off.
Sam looked at the blank screen. He nearly pulled up the local news on his phone, but he heard the TV on upstairs, and when he returned to Wendy’s bedroom, she’d sat up, her back pressed into the headboard, her face blanched. On the screen, a reporter was talking into the camera. Below her, a caption read, Army veteran shot. Suspected in society killing.
Sam stared at the screen as a photo of Twig popped up, and Wendy began to sob. He watched, almost fascinated, reminding himself before it was too late that his job here was to comfort Wendy, to stroke her hair and let her cling to him till the emotions had played out. He did what he should, reciting lines like he was playing a character on TV.
“Give me a glass of that,” Wendy said when the sobbing stopped. “I need a drink.”
Sam popped the cork from the bottle. Wendy drank the wine down. “I guess I knew all along that something terrible had happened,” she said. “I was hoping it would be different.”
Sam sat on the edge of the bed. He looked at Wendy for a long moment.
“What?” Wendy said. “You look like you’re about to cry.”
Sam imagined life with Wendy Richards and her family—the houses in Nantucket and Stowe, the yacht. He imagined Christmas, with everyone scrambling to find gifts for those who thought nothing of buying anything they wanted. His presents would be wrapped in Hanukkah paper. He imagined staying here.
On the TV, a photo of Jamie appeared, and Wendy gasped. “He was at the party! Holy shit! I thought he was creepy.”
“He’s not,” Sam said.
“Yes, he is. He stood against the wall the whole night. He didn’t have a thing to say, not a word to anyone. Why would Twig have gone home with him?”
Sam put his flute on the bedside table and sighed. “The police will be all over me,” he said. “I know Jamie. I was at his house earlier today.”
“They won’t suspect you over him,” Wendy said, nodding toward the TV. The phot
o must have been a few years old, and in it, Jamie was drinking a forty and wore a do rag. “Not over that guy. I mean, look at him. I can’t believe I let him into my house.”
“He seemed so normal,” Sam said.
“They always say that. But you never know people, do you?”
“I guess not.”
Wendy slid deeper into the bed and patted the space beside her. “Be with me,” she said. “I need you close.”
Sam filled her glass again and then folded into her body. He snaked a hand over her chest and kissed her behind the ear, but she pushed him away. “No,” she said. “Not now.”
He let her rest her head against his chest. Wendy smiled, and touched his cheek. “Thanks for being here,” she said, as her phone beeped. “Oh, God, it’s Felicia.”
“Don’t,” Sam said. “She’s pissed off at me.”
“I have to. She must be devastated. Besides, Felicia wouldn’t be Felicia if she didn’t have someone to be angry at.”
Wendy answered and muted the TV. Sam heard Felicia’s voice, though he couldn’t quite make out the words. He watched the screen. In the background, through the snow, Detective White paced on Jamie’s front porch. An officer held Butch, Jamie’s little dog.
“I should go over there,” Sam said. “Make sure the dog is okay.” That’s what a friend would do, right?
“Sure,” Wendy said, glancing at him.
She sat up. Her face had blanched again. “Okay,” she said, but her voice shook.
“What’s wrong?” Sam asked.
He touched her, and she flinched.
It was different, each time. The change. The realization. The dawning. He hadn’t expected it, not tonight. He never did, but he should have. He’d allowed himself too much hope. He put his hand over the phone and took it away, and could still hear Felicia yammering on the other end as he clicked it off. Wendy had pushed herself as far from him as she could and folded her arms over her bare chest.
“What’s she saying about me now?” Sam asked.
“Nothing,” Wendy said. “She wanted to talk about Twig. We were close. We all went to college together.”
“Felicia hates Twig,” Sam said. “She hates her guts. Twig treats her like the help, which she is.”
“Felicia’s not the help. She’s my friend.”
Sam stood and pulled his clothes on, watching Wendy the whole time. He put her phone in his pocket.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m whoever you want me to be,” Sam said. “Right?”
He took a step toward her.
“Don’t come near me,” Wendy said.
“I won’t hurt you,” Sam said.
He took another step toward her, and she lunged out of the sheets and across the mattress and fumbled for the champagne bottle. It slipped from her fingers and spun across the floor. He clutched the hair at the back of her neck in a fist, and she twisted around and kicked his legs out from beneath him, and then scrambled across the carpet for the bottle. He grabbed at her naked legs. She kicked again, but he yanked her toward him. Then he felt himself fly through the air and land on the mattress.
“Get off her!”
Felicia stood in the doorway, gasping for breath, black hair swirling around her face. She held a butter knife in front of her. Off in the distance, Sam heard police sirens.
He crouched. Felicia jabbed the butter knife at him in a way that made him want to laugh, but the sirens were getting closer, and Wendy had the champagne bottle clutched in her fist. He edged along the wall. Felicia stood between him and Wendy, till he managed to get in the doorway and run, down the stairs, through the courtyard, out the front gate. Snow had begun to fall. It pelted his face as his feet pounded the pavement. The sirens were getting louder. He shoved his way past a man walking a dog as he turned the corner, out of Louisburg Square and down the hill to Charles Street. He could see the train coming, pulling into the elevated station. He dashed through traffic, jumped the turnstile, and fought against the wave of people disgorging from the train, only to see the doors slide closed in front of him. He glanced down the platform. The conductor leaned through the window, and Sam ran toward him, his hands clasped. Begging.
The doors opened again.
“Happy holidays,” the conductor shouted as Sam squeezed into the crowded car.
A moment later, they pulled into Kendall Square in Cambridge, across the Charles River. Sam hurried out of the train and upstairs. He could hear the police sirens on the Longfellow Bridge. He ran through the lobby of a hotel and onto Broadway. Then he put his hood up, and his head down, and let the snow envelop him.
CHAPTER 23
Wendy.
It was as simple as that. Sam had chosen the movie quotes based on character names, Wendy Torrance in The Shining, Wendy Richards in Boston. At the very least, Hester had a connection and a theory she could test out. She turned the movie off and left Kate sleeping on the sofa. In her bedroom, she powered on her tablet and loaded up the spreadsheets she’d put together. She’d already found the addresses of all of the houses Sam had sent photos of and had looked up the property records to see who had owned what, and now, as she scanned through the names, she saw more connections. Aurora Wright had owned the house on Hadley Square, East, in Baltimore. All the quotes Sam had used in Baltimore had come from Terms of Endearment a movie with a character named Aurora Greenway. The same held true for Chicago (The Big Lebowski, owner named Maude Hines), and New York (The Shawshank Redemption, owner named Andrew Meyer). Only San Francisco gave Hester pause, because that house, on Pacific Avenue, had been owned by a woman named Ellen Gonzalez. It wasn’t till Hester looked the movie up on IMDB that she remembered Sigourney Weaver’s character’s first name was Ellen. Ellen Ripley.
Next she found the current property records to see who owned the houses today. Only Maude Hines still owned hers.
Hester’s phone rang. She answered quickly to keep from waking Kate in the next room. It was Morgan, who sounded drunk and happy. He called her “Mrs.,” which she made her feel warm, grateful even. “I found Prachi,” he said. “We’re at the Independent. We’re closing the place down!”
“I’m sorry about tonight,” Hester said.
“What?”
“I love you,” she said.
“I can’t hear you,” Morgan said. “But I’m sorry. And I love you.”
Hester smiled and raised her voice as much as she dared. “I’ll talk to you in the morning,” she said and clicked off. A few seconds later, the phone rang again.
“You have to stop,” she said. “You’ll wake Kate.”
No one answered. She glanced at the number on the screen and didn’t recognize it. “Who’s there?” she asked.
“Hi.”
It took a moment to recognize Gabe’s voice.
“I know I told you to call,” Hester said. “But it’s late.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She put the tablet aside. “I was up anyway. I’m working on a project.”
“Me too.”
“Listen, Gabe, I wasn’t honest with you today, and I guess I want to be up front. Remember when I mentioned Morgan? He’s my boyfriend. He’s actually a little more than that. We’re like one step away from being married.”
Gabe laughed, but Hester could hear disappointment when he spoke. “You can’t really have a kid without a husband. I should have figured.”
“Well, you can, really,” Hester said. “Lots of people do. But I have a kid without having given birth. Go figure.”
“Yeah, go figure. Lucky you.”
“Well, I’m off the market. Do you know what I’m saying?”
She’d led Gabe on to get what she wanted, but she couldn’t manage feeling guilty about that tonight on top of everything else. It was too much. “I figured out the code on the postcards, or part of it,” she said to change the subject. “Wendy, Wendy. Aurora, Aurora. Ellen, Ellen. Tell Sam it was pretty clever. It took me long enough to break
it.”
“Research when the houses sold,” Gabe said. “That should help too.”
And then he hung up.
Hester pulled up the property records for the house in Baltimore. It had sold about three months after Sam’s last postcard from that city. The houses in Chicago and San Francisco had sold on a similar timeline, and when she searched on Ellen Gonzalez’s name, she found a series of news articles from ten years earlier. Ellen was an heiress who’d been killed during a home invasion. Her brother, Zach, had disappeared as well, and the murder had made headlines in San Francisco as the police had tried to tie Zach to the killing, showing that Ellen had made a play to take over their jointly owned company. Glancing through the articles, Hester could see that the police hadn’t been able to locate Zach or to find any leads worth following, and that the case had grown cold.
She put the tablet aside and checked on Kate, who was fast asleep. She ran down the stairs, into the other apartment, took the folder with the postcards from her bag, and headed up to Morgan’s bedroom, where she spread the cards across the bed. She flipped on the TV to the local news, where a reporter stood in the swirling snow. Waffles shimmed through the dog door and jumped up beside her. She looked through the messages one more time to see if anything else made sense, if other pieces fit into the puzzle. And then she glanced at the TV, where a reporter was interviewing Twig Ambrose’s father, Donald, who stood in the doorway to his house. “It’s such a tragedy,” the man said. “I’m devastated. Everyone who knew Twig is devastated. I’ll always think of her, hiking or boating or swimming in Squam Lake, doing something outdoors where she was always happiest.”
Squam Lake.
Where Sam and Gabe had grown up.
Where Little Comfort was.
Where they’d found a body in the woods.
Hester turned the TV off. She felt a chill run down her back. She needed to call Detective White, but she’d left the phone in the other apartment. Wind outside gusted as the storm grew in intensity, shaking the walls, seeming to strain the very foundation of the house. Waffles lifted her nose in the air and woofed softly. Hester put a hand to her collar and shushed. There was a lull in the storm, a moment of intense silence, and in that silence she heard a key slide into the lock on Morgan’s front door and the bolt turn.