The Other Mrs (ARC)

by Mary Kubica

  How do I know that Morgan Baines’s killer isn’t there?

  How do I know that the dogs aren’t barking because there’s

  a murderer in my yard?

  Backlit by the kitchen light, I’m a fish in a fishbowl.

  I can see nothing. But whoever is there—if anyone is there—

  can easily see me.

  Without thinking it through, I take a step suddenly back.

  The fear is overwhelming. There’s the greatest need to run back

  into the kitchen, close and lock the door behind myself, pull

  the drapes shut. But would the dogs be able to fend off a killer

  all on their own?

  And then, the dogs suddenly stop their barking and I’m not

  sure what terrifies me more, the barking or the silence.

  My heart pounds harder. My skin prickles, a tingling sen-

  sation that runs up and down my arms. My imagination goes

  wild, wondering what horrible thing is standing in my yard.

  I can’t stand here waiting to find out. I clap my hands, call

  to the dogs again. I hurry inside for their biscuits and shake the

  box frantically. This time, by the grace of God, they come. I

  open the box, spill a half dozen treats on the kitchen floor before closing and locking the slider, pulling the drapes tightly closed.

  Back upstairs, I check again on the boys. They’re just as I

  left them.

  But Imogen’s door, this time as I pass by, is open an inch. It’s

  no longer closed. It’s no longer locked. The hallway is narrow

  and dark with just enough light that I’m not blind. A faint glow

  from the lamp in the living room rises up to me. It helps me see.

  My eyes go to that one-inch gap between Imogen’s door and

  the frame. It wasn’t like that the last time I was here. Imogen’s

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  room, like Otto’s, faces onto the street. I go to her door and press on it, easing it open another inch or two, just enough so that I

  can see inside. She’s lying there, on her bed, with her back to

  me. If she’s faking sleep, she does so quite well. Her breathing is rhythmic and deep. I see the rise and fall of the sheet. Her curtains are open, moonlight streaming into the room. The win-

  dow, like the door, is open an inch. The room is icy cold, but I

  don’t risk stepping inside to close it.

  Back in our bedroom, I shake Will awake. I won’t tell Will

  about Imogen because there’s nothing really to say. For all I

  know, she was up using the bathroom. She got hot and opened

  her window. These are not crimes, though other questions nag

  at the back of my mind.

  Why didn’t I hear a toilet flush?

  Why didn’t I notice the chill from the bedroom the first time

  I passed by?

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” Will asks, half asleep.

  As he rubs at his eyes, I say, “I think there’s something in the

  backyard.”

  “Like what?” he asks, clearing his throat, his eyes drowsy and

  his voice heavy with sleep.

  I wait a beat before I tell him. “I don’t know,” I say, leaning

  in to him as I say it. “Maybe a person.”

  “A person?” Will asks, sitting quickly upright, and I tell him

  about what just happened, how there was something—or some-

  one—in the backyard that spooked the dogs. My voice is trem-

  ulous when I speak. Will notices. “Did you see a person?” he

  asks, but I tell him no, that I didn’t see anything at all. That I

  only knew something was there. A gut instinct.

  Will says compassionately, his hand reassuringly stroking

  mine, “You’re really shaken up about it, aren’t you?”

  He wraps both hands around mine, feeling the way they

  tremble in his. I tell him that I am. I think that he’s going to

  get out of bed and go see for himself if there’s someone in our

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  backyard. But instead he makes me second-guess myself. It isn’t

  intentional and he isn’t trying to patronize me. Rather, he’s the

  voice of reason as he asks, “But what about a coyote? A raccoon

  or a skunk? Are you sure it wasn’t just some animals that got

  the dogs worked up?”

  It sounds so simple, so obvious as he says it. I wonder if he’s

  right. It would explain why the dogs were so upset. Perhaps they

  sniffed out some wildlife roaming around our backyard. They’re

  hunters. Naturally they would have wanted to get at whatever

  was there. It’s the far more logical thing to believe than that

  there was a killer traipsing through our backyard. What would

  a killer want with us?

  I shrug in the darkness. “Maybe,” I say, feeling foolish, but

  not entirely so. There was a murder just across the street from

  us last night and the murderer hasn’t been found. It’s not so ir-

  rational to believe he’s still nearby.

  Will tells me obligingly, “We could mention it to Officer

  Berg anyway in the morning. Ask him to look into it. If nothing

  else, ask if coyotes are a problem around here. It would be good

  to know anyway, to make sure we keep an eye on the dogs.”

  I feel grateful he humors me. But I tell him no. “I’m sure

  you’re right,” I say, crawling back into bed beside him, knowing

  I still won’t sleep. “It probably was a coyote. I’m sorry I woke

  you. Go back to bed,” I say, and he does, wrapping a heavy arm

  around me, protecting me from whatever lies on the other side

  of our door.

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  Sadie

  I come to when Will says my name. I must have spaced out.

  He’s there beside me, giving me a look. A Will look, fraught

  with worry. “Where’d you go?” he asks, as I look around, get

  my bearings. A sudden headache has nearly gotten the best of

  me, making me feel swimmy inside.

  I tell him, “I don’t know,” not remembering what we were

  talking about before I spaced out.

  I look down to see that a button on my shirt has come un-

  done, revealing the black of my bra beneath. I button back up,

  apologize to him for zoning out in the middle of our conver-

  sation. “I’m just tired,” I say, rubbing at my eyes, taking in the

  sight of Will before me, the kitchen around me.

  “You look tired,” Will agrees and I feel the agitation brim

  inside. I glance past Will and into the backyard, expecting to

  see something out of place. Signs of a trespasser in our yard last

  night. There’s nothing, but still, I prickle anyway, remember

  what it felt like as I stood in the darkness, pleading for the dogs to come.

  The boys are at the table, eating the last of their breakfast.

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  Will stands at the counter, filling a mug that he passes to me. I

  welcome the coffee into my hands and take a big gulp.

  “I didn’t sleep well,” I say, not wanting to admit the truth,

  that I didn’t sl
eep at all.

  “Want to talk about it?” he asks though it doesn’t seem like

  something that needs to be said. This is something he should

  know. A woman was murdered in her home across the street

  from us two nights ago.

  My eyes breeze past Tate at the table, and I tell him no be-

  cause this isn’t a conversation Tate should hear. For as long as

  we can, I’d like to keep his childhood innocence alive.

  “Do you have time for breakfast?” Will asks.

  “Not today,” I say, looking at the clock, seeing that it’s even

  later than I thought it was. I need to get going. I begin gather-

  ing things, my bag and my coat, to go. Will’s bag waits for him

  beside the table, and wonder if he stuck his true crime novel

  inside the bag, the book with the photograph of Erin hidden

  inside. I don’t have the courage to tell Will I know about the

  photograph.

  I kiss Tate goodbye. I snatch the earbuds from Otto’s ears to

  tell him to hurry.

  I drive to the ferry. Otto and I don’t say much on the way

  there. We used to be closer than we are, but time and circum-

  stance have pulled us apart. What teenage boy, I ask myself, try-

  ing not to take it personally, is close with their mother? Few, if

  any. But Otto is a sensitive boy, different than the rest.

  He leaves the car with only a quick goodbye for me. I watch

  as he crosses the metal grate bridge and boards the ferry with the

  other early-morning commuters. His heavy backpack is slung

  across his back. I don’t see Imogen anywhere.

  It’s seven twenty in the morning. Outside, it’s raining. A mob

  of multicolored umbrellas makes their way down the street that

  leads to the ferry. Two boys about Otto’s age claw their way on-

  board behind him, bypassing Otto in the entranceway, laugh-

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  ing. They’re laughing at some inside joke, I assure myself, not

  at him, but my stomach churns just the same, and I think how lonely it must be in Otto’s world, an outcast without any friends.

  There’s plenty of seating inside the ferry where it’s warm and

  dry, but Otto climbs all the way up to the upper deck, stand-

  ing in the rain without an umbrella. I watch as deckhands raise

  the gangplank and untie the boat before it ventures off into the

  foggy sea, stealing Otto from me.

  Only then do I see Officer Berg staring at me.

  He stands on the other side of the street just outside his Crown

  Victoria, leaned up against the passenger’s side door. In his hands are coffee and a cinnamon roll, just a stone’s throw away from the

  stereotypical donut cops are notorious for eating, though slightly

  more refined. As he waves at me, I get the sense that he’s been

  watching me the entire time, watching as I watch Otto leave.

  He tips his hat at me. I wave at him through the car window.

  What I usually do at this point in my drive is make a U-turn

  and go back up the hill the same way I came down. But I can’t

  do that with the officer watching. And it doesn’t matter any-

  way because Officer Berg has abandoned his post and is walk-

  ing across the street and toward me. He motions with the crank

  of a hand for me to open my window. I press the button and

  the window drops down. Beads of rain welcome themselves

  inside my car, gathering along the interior of the door. Offi-

  cer Berg doesn’t carry an umbrella. Rather, the hood of a rain

  jacket is thrust over his head. He doesn’t appear to be bothered

  by the rain.

  He jams the last bite of his cinnamon roll into his mouth,

  chases it down with a swig of coffee, and says, “Morning, Dr.

  Foust.” He has a kind face for a police officer, lacking the usual

  flintiness that I think of when I think of the police. There’s

  something endearing about him, a bit of awkwardness and in-

  security that I like.

  I tell him good morning.

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  “What a day,” he says, and I say, “Quite a doozy.”

  The rain isn’t expected to go on all day. The sun, however,

  won’t make an appearance anytime soon. Where we live, just off

  the coast of Maine, the climate is tempered by the ocean. The

  temperatures aren’t as bitter as they are in Chicago this time of

  year, though still it’s cold.

  What we’ve heard is that the bay has been known to freeze

  come wintertime, ferries forced to charge through ice floes to

  get people to and from the mainland. One winter, supposedly,

  the ferry got stuck, and passengers were made to walk across

  yards of ice to get to the shoreline before the Coast Guard came

  in with a cutter to chop it up.

  It’s unsettling to think about. A bit suffocating, if I’m being

  honest, the idea of being trapped on the island, cordoned off

  from the rest of the world by a giant slab of ice.

  “You’re up early,” Officer Berg says, and I reply, “As are you.”

  “Duty calls,” he says, tapping at his badge. I reply, “Me too,”

  finger at the ready to hoist the window up so that I can leave.

  Joyce and Emma are expecting me, and if I’m not there soon,

  I’ll never hear the end of it. Joyce is a stickler for punctuality.

  Officer Berg glances at his watch, makes an offhand guess that

  the clinic opens around eight thirty. I say that it does. He asks,

  “Have a moment to spare, Dr. Foust?” I tell him a quick one.

  I pull my car closer to the curb and put it in Park. Officer

  Berg rounds the front end of it and lets himself in through the

  passenger’s side door.

  Officer Berg cuts straight to the chase. “I finished speaking

  to your neighbors yesterday, asking them the same questions

  I asked of you and Mr. Foust,” he tells me, and I gather from

  his tone that this isn’t merely an update on the investigation—

  though what I want is an update on the investigation. I want

  Officer Berg to tell me that they’re ready to make an arrest so I

  can sleep better at night, knowing Morgan’s killer is behind bars.

  Early this morning before the kids were up, Will searched

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  online for news into her murder. There was an article detailing

  how Morgan had been found dead in her home. There were

  facts in it that came new to Will and me. How, for example,

  the police found threatening notes in the Baines’s home, though

  they didn’t say what the threats said.

  Overnight the police released the little girl’s 911 call. It was

  there online, an audio clip of the six-year-old girl as she fought

  back tears, telling the operator on the other end of the line, She won’t wake up. Morgan won’t wake up.

  In the article, she was never referred to by name, only ever

  as the six-year-old girl, because minors are blessed with a certain anonymity adults don’t have.

  Will and
I lay in bed with the laptop between us, listening to

  the audio clip three times. It was gut-wrenching to hear. The

  little girl managed to remain relatively calm and composed as

  the dispatcher talked her through the next few minutes and sent

  help, keeping her on the line the entire time.

  But there was something about the audio clip that got under

  my skin, something I couldn’t put my finger on. It pestered me

  nonetheless, and wasn’t until the third go round that I finally

  heard it.

  She cal s her mother Morgan? I’d asked Will, because the little girl didn’t say her mother wouldn’t wake up. She said Morgan

  wouldn’t wake up. Why would she do that? I asked.

  Will’s reply was immediate.

  Morgan is her stepmother, he said. Then he swallowed hard, tried not to cry. Morgan was her stepmother, I mean.

  Oh, I said. I don’t know why this mattered. But it seemed

  it did.

  Jeffrey was married before? I asked. It’s not always the case, of course. Children are born out of wedlock. But it was worth

  asking.

  Yes, he said, but he said no more. I wondered about Jeffrey’s first wife. I wondered who she was, if she lived here on the is-9780778369110_RHC_txt(ENT_ID=269160).indd 66

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  land with us. Will himself is the product of divorced parents.

  It’s always been a sore subject with him.

  How long were Jeffrey and Morgan married? I asked, wondering what else she told him.

  Just over a year.

  They’re newlyweds, I said.

  They’re nothing anymore, Sadie, Will corrected me again. He’s a widower. She’s dead.

  We stopped talking after that. Together, in silence, we read on.

  I wonder now, as I sit in my car beside Officer Berg, about

  signs of forced entry—a broken window, a busted door jamb—

  or blood. Was there blood at the scene? Or defensive wounds,

  maybe, on Morgan’s hands? Did she try to fight her intruder off?

  Or maybe the little girl saw the attacker or heard her step-

  mother scream.

  I don’t ask Officer Berg any of this. It’s been over twenty-

  four hours since the poor woman was killed. The etched lines

  on his forehead are deeper today than they were before. The

  pressure of the investigation is weighing on him, and I realize

  then: He’s no closer to solving this crime than he was yester-

  day. My heart sinks.

  Instead I ask, “Has Mr. Baines been located?” and he tells