The Second Stranger

by J P Tompkins

  I say nothing. What do you say to that?

  “They’re not telling us much,” Mr. Thorpe says, sitting back down.

  I tell them everything I know about what happened this morning. As I talk, Mrs. Thorpe moves around the room. She’s nervous, anxious, and full of energy she needs to burn off. She’s unpacking their overnight bags, folding wrinkled clothing. She checks the fridge, interrupts briefly to ask if I’d like something to drink and I say no. She walks back to a chair, her thin frame moving almost birdlike on the long legs she passed on to her daughter.

  “And you heard nothing when it was happening?” Mr. Thorpe asks.

  “Nothing. I’ve been taking…my doctor insisted I try a sleep aid. It knocks me out.” I leave it at that, not going into the odd side-effects. The fact that it’s a deep sleep is all that matters. “I heard nothing. Maybe if I had—”

  “No, Kate,” Erin’s mom says, reaching for my hand. “It’s not your fault.”

  A silence falls in the dark, cold room. Just long enough to make this even more uncomfortable than it already is.

  “What else do you know?” Mr. Thorpe asks. “Anything at all?”

  The way he asks it, I’m unsure exactly where he’s coming from. He could be asking because he only knows that I’m a reporter and I’ve been working this story. Or he could be asking it in a “There has to be more and we deserve to know” kind of way. I wonder how much they’ve followed this story. They could have followed it closely, with their daughter living right in the killer’s zone. Or maybe they didn’t follow it at all, the old “It can’t happen to us” thinking.

  But I can’t ask. No matter how I word it, any question about how closely they’ve been following my work will sound tactless, like I’m polling a focus group.

  I take a deep breath and clear my throat. I give them the basics, figuring they’ll stop me if I’m covering ground they’re already familiar with. But they don’t. Erin’s parents listen intently as I recount the dates of previous attacks, telling them a little about each victim. Then I get to the difficult part, the part no victim’s family wants to hear.

  “The truth is, the police really have nothing. Just a bunch of false leads.”

  Mrs. Thorpe sobs lightly, while her husband leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. He stares at the wall behind me, pressing his lips together, his chin wrinkling slightly. If there was more light in here, I think I would see his eyes glassing over. But he’s fighting it off.

  Mrs. Thorpe wipes her nose with a tissue. “I hope they catch the monster.”

  Hearing the word “monster” reminds me of that last conversation I had with Erin. How she had used the word. How I had objected and told her my theory on why people like to use it. But now, sitting here with her parents as they mourn her death, I say nothing.

  The darkness of the room hides some of their grief, and it’s also having an effect on me. That sleeping pill hangover is back. It’s making my eyelids heavy and generating a dull throb behind my eyes.

  I’d been running off adrenaline all day and now it’s wearing off. Dr. Benson once mentioned something about “adrenal exhaustion,” but I was barely paying attention when he described it and never looked it up. Had I never heard of it, I might have even come up with that phrase because that’s what this feels like.

  Against my better judgment, I ask them about Paul. “Have you talked to him?”

  Mrs. Thorpe shakes her head.

  “Not yet,” her husband says. “As far as we know, he hasn’t tried to get in touch with us.”

  “I saw him today,” I tell them. “Just for a few minutes. And he called me right before I found her. Her job had called him when she didn’t show up this morning.”

  Mr. Thorpe says, “Not sure there’s much to talk with him about, anyway.”

  “They were engaged, Jack. And he called Kate. He must have been concerned.”

  He doesn’t say anything. It’s obvious he shares my negative view of Paul. It’s also apparent that her mom, for some reason, is giving Paul the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she’s holding on to something, or maybe she’s just a woman of generous compassion. I don’t know. It’s been a long time since I’ve been around them.

  Regardless, I remain silent. No way am I getting in the middle of that.

  I look at my phone and see that it’s almost seven o’clock.

  “I’d better get going.” I stand and step toward the door.

  “You can’t go back to your house, can you?” Mrs. Thorpe asks as she stands up.

  “No. They’re saying they’ll release the house to me tomorrow. You’re more than welcome to come by and go through her things. I’ll call you and let you know when.”

  I plan to have the crime scene cleaners out as soon as possible, and I’m thinking maybe it will be easier on her parents if the place doesn’t look so much like a crime scene anymore. The medical stuff, the fingerprint dust, all of it would make the experience that much worse for them.

  I get Mr. Thorpe’s number and add it to my contacts.

  “Do you have a place to stay?” Mrs. Thorpe stands and looks around the room, at the loveseat, and I can tell she’s wondering if it’s a pull-out.

  “I do.” I don’t yet, but I will, and I don’t want her to offer to let me stay in this room with them.

  “Will you be writing the story tonight? About Erin?” her mom asks.

  “Yes,” I say, omitting the fact that I’ve already written it and I’m not sure why. “It’s actually already done.”

  “We’ll be sure to get the paper in the morning and read it.”

  I force a smile.

  Riding the elevator down, I think of how I could have waited a couple of hours to submit the story. Delayed it by just a couple of hours, until after I talked to them. Then I could have included a couple of quotes from her parents, something Neil would insist upon. But he doesn’t know I’ve been here and he doesn’t know that I don’t want to use any quotes from them. At least not right now.

  It feels too soon. Too personal. The feeling is something I hadn’t felt at all while gathering information for stories after the other victims were killed, and it bothers me as I exit the elevator and make my way across the lobby, where I book a room for the night.

  Chapter 16

  The first thing I notice is the chill. I’m freezing. I’m also wet. My shirt clings to my shoulders and back.

  I imagine myself having just stepped out of a pool or the ocean. But I haven’t. That’s not really where I am, is it? There’s no wind. No sound of waves. I don’t feel like I’m standing on hot sand or cooler, damp mud.

  And then I open my eyes—slowly, struggling to see, to free myself from this state of confusion—and find myself looking in the mirror.

  I turn on the light and find my face pale, puffy. My hair, normally shoulder-length, looks shorter. I reach to the back of my head and feel it matted there, damp to the touch. Strands of hair from the front and top stick to my face near my eyes, which look like slits, barely open, just enough to take in this jarring image of myself.

  A stack of towels catches my attention and it’s starting to make sense. I’m in a hotel room. It’s coming back to me now.

  A shiver runs through my body. I peel the clammy t-shirt off, drop it on the bathroom floor, and reach for one of the towels to dry myself but change my mind. I take off my underwear and turn on the shower. It gets hot quickly and I step in. Just long enough to rinse off.

  While drying myself off, I try to recall how I got here.

  I left Erin’s parents’ room, then went downstairs to see about getting a room. They had only two left, both on the fourth floor, one level up from the Thorpes.

  I remember asking about that kids’ baseball team, the desk clerk smiling and telling me not to worry, that they were all on the first floor. I recall getting undressed for bed, then lying on top of the comforter, planning to rest there for just a few minutes and collect my thoughts. The next thing I remember is
waking up standing in this bathroom.

  I step out of the bathroom and see the digital clock on the nightstand. It’s 5:42 a.m. I must have had nine or ten hours of sleep. It’s the most sleep I’ve had in months, and all without the aid of that pill.

  The local TV news starts at 6 a.m. I turn it on and, not surprisingly, they lead with the story of the latest attack, complete with video footage. It starts with a close-up of the street sign, then the camera pans down to give a long shot, the street jammed with police cars.

  The reporter’s voiceover is giving the basic facts, then the video cuts to several short clips of my neighbors talking about how shocked they are. They show my driveway first, then just a sliver of my front door.

  And then the reporter closes with: “The home belongs to Kate Downey, a reporter with the City Herald who has been covering this story since the killer’s rampage began almost a year ago.”

  I wasn’t expecting to be able to keep my name out of this story for long, but I was hoping for a couple of days, at least. It would have given me time and space to do some more work. Now my coverage of all of this will change, no doubt. Or Neil is going to pull me off of it entirely.

  Which is exactly what I think is about to happen when my phone rings and I see his name on the screen.

  “Your secret’s out,” he says.

  “I just watched it too.” Here it comes.

  “Look, I did a lot of thinking last night. Don’t worry—I’m not taking you off the story.”

  ◆◆◆

  I go around the corner to a place called Grits and Grounds. Not exactly the most appetizing name for a restaurant, but one that perfectly fits a southern joint that specializes in breakfast. I’ve come here before to write. It’s dimly lit, barely any windows, and they have roomy booths with big dividers.

  The hotel had a continental breakfast laid out, but I didn’t want to stay there and run the risk of seeing the Thorpes again. So I packed up my stuff, slipped out a side door, and headed over here.

  Paul calls while I’m waiting on my breakfast. “Any idea why the cops want to talk to me again?”

  “Probably some routine stuff.”

  “I talked to them yesterday. You saw me. I told them everything I know.”

  He’s nervous, his voice pitched a little higher than usual. Part of me knows that’s understandable. Nobody wants to talk to cops, so the stress of having to do so after your ex is murdered is the kind of stress most people will never experience. Another part of me wonders why Paul isn’t eager to help out in any way he can.

  “What did they ask you?”

  He lets out a long sigh. “They wanted to know why we split up. I told them the truth. They asked if I ever hurt her, physically, or if she hurt me.” Another sigh. “Nothing like that ever happened. Ever. They asked if I ever suspected her of cheating. I said no.”

  “All routine stuff,” I assure him.

  “Then why did they want to know if I had an alibi?”

  I had been raising my glass of juice to take a sip, but his words stop me. The other questions really were routine, things they’d want to get on the record, make the file complete. But that question, about an alibi, was different.

  “Do you have one?” I ask.

  “Not a good one. I was home. Alone.” He stresses the word like a man who thinks people won’t believe him. And with good reason.

  Under any other circumstances, this wouldn’t be good for Paul. But his lack of an alibi won’t matter because this isn’t like other cases where the significant other becomes the prime suspect.

  “Have you heard anything at all?” he asks.

  “It’s early. Nobody knows much yet.”

  “I tried calling her parents this morning. Twice. Just got voicemail.”

  I hate having to comfort him, but the guy sounds awful.

  “I saw them last night,” I tell him. “They’re just very...private right now. That’s all.”

  “Did they say anything about me?”

  “No,” I lie.

  The server brings my food to the table and asks if I need anything else. I tell her no.

  “My breakfast is here,” I say.

  “I’ll let you go. I’m supposed to meet with those cops in an hour.” He pauses, waiting for me to say something, I guess. What that might be, I don’t know. So I don’t say anything. Instead, I begin to butter my toast. “Can you let me know if you hear anything before then?”

  “Like what?” I know what he’s getting at, but I want him to say it.

  “Hell, I don’t know, Kate. Just anything that might hint at why they want to talk to me again.”

  “Sure,” I say, ready to get this call over with.

  “That doesn’t sound convincing.”

  Now he’s on my nerves. “If you’re that worried, maybe you should bring a lawyer with you.”

  “You know what?” he snaps. I wait for him to tell me what. Several seconds of silence pass. “Fucking forget it.” He hangs up.

  A few minutes later, the plate in front of me is smeared with runny egg yolk and a few stray toast crumbs. I push it toward the edge of the table and pull out my notebook, intending to start jotting down some notes on the flood of ideas that I’ve had since talking to Neil.

  Paul pops back into my mind. I write his name, followed by Weird call and then Alibi?

  I start to plan my day and remember that I have an appointment with Dr. Benson in an hour.

  Chapter 17

  “I’m glad you didn’t cancel.”

  “I almost did.”

  Dr. Benson offers a look of concern. “Well, it certainly would have been understandable, considering the circumstances.”

  The circumstances. That’s an interesting way to put it. Vague, almost sanitized, and I’m sure there’s a reason he chose those words.

  I didn’t even consider canceling my appointment with him. I knew this hour would be good for me. Now, sitting here in his office, seeing him as calm and steady as ever, I can feel my muscle tension fading.

  Dr. Benson leans over the side of his chair and picks through a stack of folders and notepads. “I almost called you when I saw the news,” he says, “but I figured you would call if you needed me. Here we go.” He finds my folder, leans back in the chair, crosses his legs and puts the folder on one knee as he clicks his pen. “Like everyone else, I saw that he had struck again, but it wasn’t until late in the afternoon when I got home that the news had put it together that it was your house. So. Tell me what happened.”

  How many times have I done this now? Once, with the cops. A second time, with Cole Curtis. Third, with Erin’s parents. Did I tell Neil all of the details? I can’t even remember.

  I tell the story yet again, this time feeling a bit liberated. I was still shocked when I talked to Detectives Hogle and Roark right after it happened. I stayed strong when talking to Cole. Even stronger when I was with Erin’s parents. Now, finally, I’m talking to someone who is objective—not connected to the victim in any way and only associated with me as a professional therapist. For the first time since it happened, I am free to let my emotions out, spilling it all, like releasing a valve, and at least some of the pressure is relieved.

  By the time I’m finished, I have a wad of tissues balled in my right fist. Dr. Benson shifts forward in his chair, picks up the wastebasket and holds it in front of me.

  “Thanks,” I say, dumping the tissues in and immediately reaching for more.

  “What’s on your mind right now, right this second?” he demands.

  I pause for a moment. Not because I have to think about what’s foremost in my thoughts right now, but because this will be the first time I’ve said it out loud.

  “Why not me?”

  Dr. Benson nods.

  “He had to have been in the house because of me,” I say.

  “And why do you think that?”

  “My articles. He was probably following my coverage.”

  Dr. Benson taps his pen on the pad l
ightly, saying nothing.

  “It couldn’t have been a coincidence. I think he was there for me.”

  “And got the wrong person?”

  I shrug. “I know, it doesn’t make any sense. Doesn’t fit with how we know he watches the victims before the attacks.” I break eye contact with Dr. Benson and look over his shoulder, out the window behind him. “It also doesn’t make sense that he would kill one of us but not both.”

  “It’s very hard to know the motivation behind these types of things.”

  I nod, looking back at him.

  “And,” he goes on, “I don’t think you’re going to be able to look at this rationally.”

  His words sting. Judging by his reaction, I must have shown it in my body language, facial expression, or both.

  “I have to be blunt with you, Kate. And this is not a knock on your intelligence, your professionalism, or anything at all. But what you’re experiencing is survivor’s guilt. It’s common in people who make it through a tragedy that others don’t, especially if the ones who don’t make it are close to them in some way.” He lets that sit there for a moment. We are both silent. “And because of that, it’s going to severely cloud how you view what happened in your home the other night.”

  He might be right about the effect on my judgment, but I hope not. I’m glad he said it, though, because now I can at least be aware of it as I continue my work.

  The guilt part, he absolutely nailed.

  “I felt like I should apologize to her parents when I saw them.”

  “Guilt,” he says, raising his eyebrows as if to say: See?

  “And the last conversation I had with Erin was about the case. She called him a monster, said he was evil.”

  “And I suppose you told her your thoughts on those labels.”

  “I did. I’m surprised you remember that.”

  “It was an interesting conversation. It told me a lot about you.”

  We had talked about it months before. I brought it up because I wanted to leave a quote out of a story, one in which a friend of Payton Donnelly used the words “monster” and “evil.” Neil not only thought it should be in the story, he toyed with the idea of making me put it closer to the beginning, telling me it had “punch.”