The Space Between

by Dete Meserve

Camera one shows us a clear shot of the inside of the front door, and light spilling from the living room is enough for us to see that the deadbolt is horizontal—the door is unlocked.

  My stomach lurches.

  Zack points at camera two. His voice is a sliver. “Look.”

  Peering into the kitchen window is a man wearing a gray baseball hat. The hat shadows his face, but he’s built like a linebacker, muscular with broad shoulders.

  My mind flashes to the gun that’s in my nightstand, but I don’t know how to use it. And my whole body is trembling so hard that I doubt that I could aim it properly even if I did have training.

  “What’s he doing?” Zack whispers.

  The man moves from looking into the kitchen window and out of camera range. Now we see him on camera three, and he’s peering into the living room window.

  “We have to get to the panic button,” I say.

  Zack looks at me wide-eyed. The alarm panel is next to the front door.

  He makes the word “no” with his lips, but no sound comes out.

  I’m afraid to go downstairs. And I know he is, too. Yet I stride into the hallway, phone in hand, and head to the stairs. I see the alarm panel at the bottom to the left of the front door, but it feels like it’s a mile away. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it pulsing in my ears.

  I glance at my bare feet, draw a deep breath, and race down the carpeted stairs, lunging at the panel and jamming my finger on the panic button until the loud sirens blare inside and out.

  I hear footsteps running down the brick driveway. Then the screech of tires on the street. I lock the front door and bolt the living room window.

  The car is gone.

  CHAPTER NINE

  DAY THREE

  The gun is more fearsome in the morning light. I’ve cleared a place on my desk and set it more than an arm’s length away from me while I watch YouTube videos on how to use it. I’m relieved there are near-dummy-proof safety features that prevent anyone from accidentally shooting it unless they have a full grip on the trigger. Still, there’s something about the hard, heavy metal that sends a shudder through my body.

  It’s a machine whose primary purpose is to kill.

  I spend a lot of time around machines. Computers and telescopes, of course, but also sensors, cameras, and satellites. Yet none of them—even the Giant Magellan Telescope being built high atop a mountain in Chile and weighing over one thousand tons and housing nearly four thousand square feet of mirrors—could unleash the destruction equivalent to a single shot from this thirty-ounce hunk of metal.

  Could I use it for its intended purpose? Could I actually point it and pull back the trigger?

  I rest my chin on my clasped hands and take in a few deep breaths. Activating the alarm panic button had brought police to the house, and after they checked the property with guns drawn and found no one, Zack and I had reset the alarm and eventually fell back into restless sleep. I woke every hour, burdened throughout the night with disturbing dreams about intruders in the house. But in the dreams, whenever I pulled the trigger, I’d hear a tiny click and nothing would happen. The hard gun in my hand would suddenly become a plastic toy pistol like the ones Zack played with when he was little.

  The brightest star in the known universe is the Pistol Star. It’s ten million times brighter than our sun and unleashes as much energy in six seconds as our sun does in an entire year. But the brightest star in our universe can’t be seen—not even with our most powerful telescopes—because it’s hidden behind a great dust cloud.

  It’s like this gun, whose reason for being here is hidden from me, brought here because of events I don’t yet understand.

  I know Ben left me this gun for a reason, but I also know it can’t stay in the nightstand by my bed, invading my dreams with its very presence. Instead, I open the metal case for one of my telescopes and pull back the gray foam inside the lid. I slide the gun behind it. I snap the metal latches closed and thrust the telescope and its errant passenger back in the corner.

  But knowing the gun is there should I need it again isn’t enough to quell the gnawing anxiety that grips my entire body. I pick up the phone and dial World Intelligence Network, the security service that Ben had hired, and ask for their owner, Travis Rollman. I tell the woman who answers the phone that I’m Ben Mayfield’s wife, that I’d met Travis a few times at Aurora, and need to speak to him on urgent business. I sit on hold for several minutes until she comes back on.

  “He’s not available right now. But he’d like to speak with you. Can I have him call you back?”

  “No,” I say, my voice sounding bigger than I feel. “Tell him that I’ll meet him in his office in half an hour. I’m on my way.”

  As I step into the World Intelligence Network’s suite, with its polished concrete floors and high exposed ceilings on the twenty-second floor of a sleek office building on Sunset Boulevard, I feel like I’ve just walked off a cliff.

  I’ve never been like this before—careening from thought to emotion, acting seemingly on impulse. Even when we were little, it was my sister Rachel who was the dramatic one while I was steady and predictable. Now, after last night’s intruder, I’m a whisper away from coming unglued.

  I gaze out the windows at the Hollywood Hills skyline, seduced for a moment by its glamour. This is what Ben grew to love about LA—the adrenaline-soaked hum of the city and towering structures of concrete and glass.

  I spy the verdigris-domed Griffith Observatory perched high atop the Hills, remembering a trip there with Ben a few months after we had started dating. We fixed our eyes on the gentle swaying of the bronze ball in the observatory’s Foucault Pendulum. As the minutes passed, the pendulum knocked over a succession of pegs—proof of the Earth’s rotation. Watching this elegant scientific instrument, we tried to wrap our heads around the idea that even while we stood still holding hands, the Earth was spinning below us at over a thousand miles per hour.

  Movement and change are happening all around us, even if we can’t see it. Ben and I were happy together once . . . and then we weren’t. But it wasn’t a seismic shift that had changed us—it was the slow, inevitable rotation of things. The Earth shifts below our feet, bringing forth not-so-subtle changes—lightness and dark—but after a while, we cease to notice them.

  “Sarah,” Travis says, rushing out of his office. He’s dressed in a trendy blue sueded jacket with a red printed T-shirt underneath, and sporting blue-tinted glasses. He greets me with an awkward hug, which tells me he isn’t the hugging type but, given the circumstances, thinks he should pretend to be. “You didn’t need to come all the way here. I’ve been planning to call you.”

  He ushers me into a glass-walled conference room with a commanding view of the famed Hollywood sign, then hands me a chilled bottle of water from a small refrigerator.

  “You look pale, Sarah. Can I get you something else besides water? Coffee maybe?”

  “No, but thanks,” I say, realizing that I’d forgotten to apply any makeup this morning. I’m pretty sure that my hair has a slept-in look, too, even though I made a half-hearted attempt to run a brush through it.

  “I’ve been planning to reach out to you, but with Antonio’s death, it’s been nonstop looking into what happened.”

  “I’m just . . . trying to understand why Ben hired you. Why he hired Antonio.”

  He motions for me to sit in the chair next to him. “Ben thought he’d been poisoned at the Parkway Bistro and wanted to question the kitchen staff about it. We didn’t think it was safe for him to go there alone, so I assigned Antonio to go with him. They questioned everyone there—and came up with nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “It’s a small staff that’s been together for about two years with little turnover. They work in extremely tight quarters—practically elbow to elbow—so it’d be nearly impossible for one of them to slip in a poison without being seen. And the way the kitchen’s set up, it’s not like an outsider could sneak in there
unnoticed, either.”

  “Is it possible that someone paid the Parkway Bistro team to poison Ben?”

  “I don’t see how anyone could get in that restaurant to do it, honestly.”

  “But someone could’ve been smart enough to figure it out . . .”

  His neck muscles tighten. “I’ve been over it again and again with them. That theory doesn’t pan out. Your husband knows everyone there. He’s friendly with all the staff, and everyone likes him.”

  I know this is true about Ben. People like him. Within minutes of meeting someone new, he always found a way to connect with them about a quiet passion of theirs. He could bond with complete strangers over classic Hollywood movies, a deep-dive discussion about civil rights, or even a shared passion for off-road BMX racing.

  “Maybe Ben was poisoned somewhere else?”

  He takes a swig from his water bottle. “After our investigation at the Parkway Bistro, that’s what we’re thinking. The problem is Ben isn’t here to tell us what else he consumed that afternoon. Do you have any idea?”

  I shake my head. “I was out of town at NASA Headquarters, and my son was on a school trip.” My head begins to throb. “I need your help, Travis. We’ve had several intruders on the property since Ben disappeared. Last night Zack and I saw a man looking in our windows, and then he tried to open the front door. Something similar happened Tuesday night, the night Ben went missing. And on Monday night, apparently, Ben made a 911 call about an intruder on the property.”

  A muscle twitches in his jaw, and now it’s his turn to turn pale. “You’re not safe,” he says. “And if something happens, police may not be able to help you in time.” He leans forward, clasps his hands. “In a perfect world, I’d like to hide you and Zack away somewhere safe while we figure out what’s going on—”

  “I can’t disappear. I need to be here to work with the police and the family and friends helping search for him.”

  He nods. “Then let me put a couple of my top guys at your house twenty-four-seven to keep an eye on things. I’ll give you my best. No charge.”

  “Really, Travis, I can afford—”

  “It’s the least I can do for Ben.”

  “Then thank you.”

  He stands. “My guy—Brad—will make his presence known. We want to send a loud message for whoever is behind this—Ben’s disappearance, the shooting, the poisoning—to stay away from your family.”

  The front door is locked. I’ve armed the alarm, even though it’s noon, and Brad is patrolling the perimeter of my property. I’m still rattled about the prowler and consider asking Brad to show me how to use the Glock.

  I lean on the kitchen counter, watching the images of Ben’s story play out on the television news. Channel Eleven reporter Kate Bradley is talking about the life insurance policy that Ben took out naming me the sole beneficiary. “If Ben Mayfield isn’t found,” she says, “his wife stands to not only gain the proceeds from his seven-million-dollar life insurance policy but become heir to his vast Mayfield Department Store fortunes.”

  I can’t figure out how she knows any of this. But I’m also shocked at the photo of me that they choose to feature in the story. Not my official photo, where I’m wearing a suit and had a stylist do my hair and makeup, but a candid shot—perhaps one from the bowels of social media—where I am makeupless and blurry. I look on the edge of crazy.

  I text the detective to tell him I’ve hired a security service. Seconds later, a text flashes across the screen. But it’s not from the detective. It’s from Aaron.

  I looked.

  Then: Wonder if I should be doing this?

  Damn. What has he seen?

  Can you send the clip? I text.

  No.

  Calling you now. I type.

  Wait.

  I see the blue bubbles on screen as he starts typing something else then deletes whatever it is. No response.

  My first thought is that he’s seen more of the news reports about Ben’s disappearance and he wants—needs—to distance himself from all of it. But then I reread his texts and wonder what he’s seen on the DVR that has made him question whether he should be helping me.

  Has he found a clip that will explain what Ben was hiding? Why he erased the DVR?

  His response comes a full fifteen minutes later: Can you stop by the office soon?

  Heading into work feels like a herculean task. Even the simple act of turning on the electric tea pot and opening my email feels exhausting. What made me think I could actually drive into work today?

  I’m annoyed at Aaron. Why didn’t he just send me the clips he didn’t think he should be seeing?

  Want to just send the data? I text.

  I see the blue bubbles again as he’s typing something, and it feels like forever until it comes through: Not a good idea . . .

  I feel light-headed as I race to CIT under gray skies. Rain is rare in LA, but the clouds that had been looming behind the San Gabriel Mountains are emerging as black storm clouds, spawning a wall of darkness ahead of me that mirrors my mood.

  The threatening rain keeps many CIT employees and students indoors, making it easier for me to get to Aaron’s office largely unnoticed. He’s waiting for me when I arrive, dressed more casually than usual, in a black polo and jeans.

  I close the door behind me.

  He turns to me and I see the veil of nervousness in his eyes. “Sorry. Paul was in my office when you were texting me.”

  Paul is one of the top brass at CIT, heading the Space Systems Laboratory. Besides being an engineering genius, one of his many strengths is what he calls MBWA, Management by Walking Around. Without notice, he’d pop into your meetings or into your office, just to catch up briefly with what you’re working on and what challenges you were facing.

  “I didn’t want you to call or come in while he was here,” Aaron says. “He would definitely ask why you’re calling or meeting with me, especially when everyone here has seen your husband’s disappearance all over the news.”

  “I’m sorry to be putting you through this. Maybe we—”

  “No, I want to do this for you, Sarah. But I think I’ve seen something I shouldn’t have.” He hands me his iPad and presses the play icon on the screen.

  This twenty-eight-second clip is from the camera in the office next door to our bedroom. Ben is standing with a woman whom I instantly recognize as Simone. The time stamp reads Tuesday at 11:45 a.m., just a few minutes after the first clip I saw of the two of them together.

  I press pause. “I’m not sure I want to see this.”

  He looks at me, holds my gaze. “It’s not what you think. But it is troubling.” He holds his hand over the play button and waits for me to nod my approval.

  “Okay,” I say finally.

  “No suspects yet,” Simone says. They’re right under the camera so her audio is clear. I can even see the starlike pattern on the necklace she’s wearing. “But they found fingerprints on Rebecca Stanton’s purse and on her countertop. And the neighbor gave police a description of the man they saw leaving her apartment around six thirty that morning.”

  The clip stops.

  “I don’t . . . understand.” I play the clip again, paying close attention to her words and the motion of her hand as she gives Ben a piece of paper.

  “Take a closer look at the paper,” Aaron says.

  He enlarges the image enough that I can read “New York Police Department” at the top of the page. But the rest of the words are too blurry to make out.

  “My guess? This woman is some kind of private investigator,” he says, tapping on the screen.

  My mind is racing. Why is Ben talking to a private investigator about a police report for a woman in New York?

  Aaron’s voice is unsteady. “I googled Rebecca Stanton in New York.”

  He taps on the screen and pulls up a four-day-old article in the New York Post. A photogenic blonde apparently on vacation in Hawaii or some other beach paradise smiles from the photo. S
he’s wearing a white tank top and colorful skirt, holding a small dog up in the air. I read the article:

  “New York police are investigating the death of a popular restaurant owner who was found shot to death on the rooftop patio of her Manhattan apartment on Saturday morning. The woman has been identified by police as 36-year-old Rebecca Stanton. About 6:45 a.m., paramedics responded to a medical emergency call and when they arrived, they found Stanton with a fatal gunshot wound to her upper torso. The co-owner of Paragon on 55th in Manhattan and graduate of Duke University, Stanton lived a seemingly picture-perfect life of high-end parties with celebrities like Justin Timberlake and Emma Stone.”

  The air leaves my lungs. A woman is dead. Murdered. Why was Ben looking into her murder hours before he went missing?

  “Do you know who she is?” Aaron asks.

  “No,” I say, barely above a whisper. My heart jumps. Was Ben involved in Rebecca Stanton’s murder? If so, maybe that’s why he contacted a defense attorney. Perhaps he erased this drive because what’s on it would incriminate him.

  “What’s on this drive?” he says. “If we continue to keep it a secret, we could both be in serious hot water. Not just with police. But here, too.”

  I feel off-balance. I know what he means by “here.” CIT has a code of conduct, and its twelve principles include “obeying the law.” Hiding this potential evidence could jeopardize both of our careers. “I’m sorry. I should never have brought you into this.”

  He touches my arm. Heat moves up my throat. I glance at his hand and make the mistake of meeting his gaze. I’m not imagining the concern in his eyes. And something else.

  “What do you think we should do?” he asks.

  “You’ve already done more than enough. Let me get the drive out of here.”

  I reach for the drive on the corner of his desk. And then he does something I don’t expect. He places his hand on top of mine. “Wait. Let me . . . let me do one more pass. There’s another utility I haven’t tried yet. I’ll send you whatever I come up with. That way you’ll have everything.”

  “You really shouldn’t,” I say quietly. “It could get you in a lot of trouble.”