Disturbed

by Jennifer Jaynes

  They sat, drinking and listening to throwbacks like the Cure, the Smiths, even the Beatles. They talked more about their hopes and dreams. She was glad to see that the damage he’d suffered hadn’t made his heart unkind. If anything, it just made him more sensitive to hurting others.

  Two hours after they’d returned to the apartment, they were in bed. They had sex twice. The first time was hard and passionate. The next was softer, more sensitive. Later, they lay exhausted and content on her bed, watching a movie. The only time either of them got up was when Boyd answered the door for the pizza. While he was eating, she went to take a shower.

  A few minutes later, as the hot water poured down over her face and body, she smiled, realizing she felt content and alive.

  Actually happy.

  She tried to commit the way it felt to memory, because she never wanted to forget it. She wanted this to last a long time.

  Forever, if possible.

  But as positive as she wanted to be about this new relationship, she was also realistic. No relationship was happy all the time. They took work. And most wouldn’t stand the test of time. Everything was temporary, especially relationships.

  She was so caught up in her thoughts, she barely heard the shower door open and Boyd step in behind her. She turned toward him and folded her arms around his neck, pressing her soapy body against him.

  “I couldn’t bear the thought of you in here naked and all alone,” he murmured.

  CHAPTER 14

  CHELSEA AND BOYD slept in until 10:00 a.m. and were about to head out for breakfast when there was a knock on the door. Chelsea looked through the peephole and saw Lang. Her heart sped up at the possibility he might have new information.

  “It’s Lang,” she told Boyd, who was on the couch pulling his shoes on.

  “Who?” she heard him ask from behind her as she swung the door open.

  “Good morning,” she said to a tired-looking Lang. The man smiled, his eyes crinkling at the edges.

  “Good morning. Have a couple of minutes?” he asked.

  “Absolutely. Come in.”

  She moved aside so he could walk past her.

  “I guess you two already know each other,” she said, looking from Lang to a surprised-looking Boyd.

  “Mr. Lawson.” Lang nodded. “What a nice surprise.”

  Boyd stood up. “Detective Lang.”

  The two men shook hands.

  “Want coffee?” she asked Lang.

  “Sure. If it’s not too much trouble.”

  She motioned for Lang to have a seat at her little kitchen table. “Is there anything new?” she asked, grabbing a bag of coffee grounds.

  “Nothing to report on quite yet. I just came by as a courtesy call,” he said from behind her. She heard him grunt as he sat down at the table. “Wanted to check in on you. Make sure you’re doing okay.”

  Chelsea dumped coffee grounds into the pot’s filter and filled the reservoir with water.

  “I don’t understand,” Boyd said, still looking confused. “Are you living in Boston now?”

  “No. I’m still in Springfield.”

  Chelsea realized she hadn’t told him about Lang actively looking into the case again or about the rock and the message that had been written on it.

  She turned to face them. “I received another note. And a big rock through my windshield.”

  “Wait. Are you serious?” Boyd asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “When?”

  She explained everything. When she finished, Boyd had a funny look on his face. One she couldn’t place. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

  “I meant to. I just . . . I guess I just wanted to think of happier things for a little while. Then time kind of got past me.”

  Harry meowed and jumped up on Lang’s lap, and the man pet him. “It’s been a long time, Mr. Lawson. Chelsea told me you guys were back in touch.”

  Boyd nodded.

  “So, how about you? Where are you living these days?” Lang asked.

  “Marblehead.”

  “Marblehead? Good for you. That’s a very nice area.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Affluent.”

  Boyd didn’t respond.

  “You drive here often?”

  “Just when I have business here.”

  “Boston’s a big town, so it’s a bit of a coincidence,” Lang said. “You and Chelsea, bumping into each other randomly like that. Especially with not even living here.”

  Boyd shrugged. “Happens.”

  “Yes, it appears so, doesn’t it?”

  Chelsea poured coffee for everyone.

  “When did you guys reconnect?” Lang asked Boyd.

  “A couple of weeks ago.”

  “Is that right?” Lang said. He took a small, leather-bound notebook from his jacket pocket.

  “Two weeks ago. That was about the same time you received the first note, correct?” Lang’s eyes flickered to Chelsea.

  Boyd seemed to stiffen a little.

  “Yes,” Chelsea said reluctantly, handing Lang his coffee. She knew what he was thinking. It was bad enough that Elizabeth was already suspicious of Boyd. She didn’t want Lang suspicious of him, too.

  “Interesting timing,” Lang said, peering up at her. His gaze swung back to Boyd. “So, have you heard from Ethan at all? Since the killings?”

  Boyd frowned. “Of course not.”

  “Nothing? At all?” Lang asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Any knowledge of his whereabouts?”

  Boyd shifted in his chair. “None.”

  Lang nodded and scribbled something down.

  “You receive any strange notes like Chelsea has? Anything like that?”

  Boyd shook his head. “Nothing that couldn’t be explained.”

  “What about strange calls? Get any of those?”

  Chelsea noticed the tip of Boyd’s nose and ears were pink. He passed his hand over his mouth, then shook his head again. “No. None.”

  “I’m sorry. Are you uncomfortable with these questions, Mr. Lawson?”

  “Not at all. Why?”

  “Because you look uncomfortable.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  “I’m just trying to piece things together. I’m sure you can appreciate that. You of all people want to see Ethan, or whoever it is who is doing this to Chelsea, behind bars, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Since you and Chelsea reconnected, let’s see, two weeks ago, how many times have you visited here?”

  “I don’t know, twice? Three times?”

  “Three times,” Chelsea confirmed, although all the hours of texting back and forth between his visits had certainly made it feel like it had been more.

  “So, you were here, in town, the day the first note was left on Chelsea’s car. Is that correct?”

  Boyd’s eyes flashed. “What are you trying to say? That you think I left that note?”

  Lang acted confused. “No. Of course not. Why would you do something like that? I was simply making an observation.”

  “I would never do anything like that. Never have. Never will. And I didn’t even know he’d left a second note and done that to her windshield. I had no clue.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t.” Lang studied Boyd for a long moment, then stood up. “Well, I’d better get going. I have a meeting with Garcia. Thank you for your time, Mr. Lawson. Miss Dutton, I’m glad to see you’re doing okay.” He tucked his notebook in his coat pocket, then looked pointedly at Boyd again. “I’ll be in touch again soon. Maybe next time we can talk more extensively, and in private. How about I come to you next? In Marblehead?”

  “Why? I’ve told you everything I know,” Boyd said.

  “Maybe. But in cases like these, new questions spring up all the time.”

  Chelsea saw Lang out and watched him limp down the hall. She closed and locked the door, then turned to see Boyd standing in the living room, facing her.

  “
What the hell was that?” he said. He ran his fingers through his thick hair. “Jesus!”

  Chelsea took a step back. It was obvious that Lang had been leaning hard on him, but she hadn’t seen Boyd angry before. He was usually so gentle and even-keeled.

  “What the hell does he want from me?”

  He walked over to the balcony and looked out.

  “Everything’s fine. He just had a few questions. Why are you so freaked out?” she asked.

  “Oh, jeez. I don’t know. Because I was just interrogated by a homicide detective in connection to a murder investigation . . . again. And he looked at me the exact same way he did back then. Like I was a total piece of shit. It’s how everyone looked at me those days. Like some people still do.”

  He turned to her. “Chelsea, I wasn’t kidding when I told you that those murders ruined my life. And until just now, I thought most of it, especially when it came to the police, was behind me.”

  He sank into the couch but then jumped up again as though he couldn’t sit still. “Jesus. I don’t need this,” he said.

  Chelsea’s heart fluttered in her chest like a trapped bird. “But he wasn’t accusing you of anything.”

  “Then why did he say he would stop by my house?”

  “What’s wrong with him stopping by your house and asking a few more questions? He’s trying to find Ethan. That’s a good thing, right?”

  “Right,” he said. He started walking back to the balcony again, then whirled around. “Why didn’t you tell me about the windshield?”

  “Like I said, I wanted to think of happier . . . more normal . . . things for a little while. It’s not a big deal.”

  “No. That’s a very big deal. Something that you should have told me . . . oh, I don’t know . . . right after it happened?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t want to, no, I can’t be in the middle of all of this again. I just can’t.”

  His phone vibrated. He dug it out of his pocket and looked at the screen. He shook his head again and stuck it back in his pocket.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” He threw his hands in the air. “Everything. Shit, I don’t know.”

  She wished he’d calm down. She wrung her hands, not sure how to help him. She glanced at her watch. It wasn’t even noon yet, but she knew how much he liked to drink. “You want a glass of wine?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

  She went into the kitchen and opened a bottle of wine. She brought the bottle and glasses to the coffee table. He poured wine for both of them.

  She took her glass and sat on the edge of the recliner. She wanted to reach out to him. Touch him. Reassure him. But she could feel his negative energy from where she was and couldn’t bear to get any closer to it.

  He finished his glass, then grabbed the bottle of wine and poured himself more.

  She watched him stare out the French doors for a while. When the sun slid behind a large cumulus cloud, darkening the room to a dusky gray, she reached out to turn on a lamp. When she looked up again, Boyd was bent forward on the couch, rubbing his thumbs over his cheekbones. His wineglass was on the coffee table. Empty again.

  He suddenly jumped up. “I gotta go.”

  Go? But why? He’d been planning to stay the night again.

  The room shimmered in front of her eyes. “Let’s talk about this. Or not talk about this. But don’t go.”

  “I have to. Something’s come up.”

  Come up?

  What, aside from Lang’s visit?

  She wanted to ask but felt it would only upset him more. She blinked tears away as she watched him grab his shoulder bag and gather a few things. When he was done, he pecked her on the cheek, then walked to the door.

  “I’ll call you,” he said.

  And five seconds later, he was gone.

  Hours later, Chelsea was still sitting on the couch, trying to make sense of everything that had happened. Harry rubbed up against her calf and meowed softly. She picked him up, grabbed her phone, and decided to text Boyd. Although she’d always waited for him to text her first, today was different.

  She’d felt a shift in him.

  A big one.

  And it scared her.

  I hope everything’s OK.

  She stared out the French doors as she waited for his reply. Darkness was falling fast. The sky was streaked with clouds, and the shadows were thickening. After a long few minutes and no response from Boyd, she set the phone down, grabbed her wineglass, and refilled it.

  She needed to feel comfortably numb again.

  To not feel.

  She lifted the wineglass to her nose, taking in the wine’s fruity scent. Grapes, apples, roses. She sipped, hoping it would take her back to earlier that day when they’d been enjoying each other.

  Hearing someone in the hallway outside her door, she jumped up.

  Had Boyd changed his mind?

  She started for the door but then heard a key slip inside the lock. When Elizabeth appeared, she sighed.

  “Wow. Glad to see you, too,” Elizabeth said. “Why the long face?”

  Chelsea went back to the kitchen. “Want a glass of wine?” she asked, picking up the bottle to pour herself more.

  “Uh-oh. This can’t be good. You don’t drink.”

  Chelsea grabbed another wineglass and poured Elizabeth some.

  “I’d ask how your date with Boyd went, but I think I have a pretty good idea.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Chelsea said and plopped on the couch.

  The two silently polished off the bottle of wine as they watched bad reality TV. Chelsea occasionally excused herself to go to the bathroom, so she could send Boyd texts in private. The more she drank, the more texts she sent. But he still wasn’t responding.

  Was he blaming her for Lang’s visit? Because if he was, that wasn’t fair. She’d had no control over that.

  Or maybe he just couldn’t get to his phone for some reason, or maybe his phone was dead . . . and he’d just text later. Even though she was well on her way to being drunk, or maybe already was, she knew it was best to stop texting him. She was pestering him, which was the last thing she wanted to do.

  When Elizabeth left at 11:00 p.m., Chelsea stumbled to her bedroom and crawled into bed. The apartment seemed extra quiet, and she felt an emptiness in her chest that up until that afternoon Boyd had been filling so very well.

  She tried to shake off the feeling, remind herself she was rushing to conclusions, probably making something out of absolutely nothing. Boyd had just been surprised by Lang’s visit. It had just been too much for him . . . reminding him of how horrible things had been for him back at the time of the murders.

  He probably needed time to process the conversation with Detective Lang. Put it in perspective and cool off. He’d be okay tomorrow, and things would hopefully return to normal.

  CHAPTER 15

  CLASSICAL MUSIC BLARED from the radio of Lang’s 2006 Crown Victoria during his two-hour drive to Newport. With 215,000 miles on it, the vehicle was deteriorating quickly, but it was paid off, and he had no desire to make a monthly car payment. Besides, he took meticulous care of it, and it showed. The gray-cloth interior looked surprisingly clean—especially for cloth. No stains, no cigarette burns. And, thanks to lots of tender loving care, the engine still purred like a kitten.

  He couldn’t tell a Brahms concerto from a Schubert waltz, but that didn’t matter to him. He still liked to listen to classical music while he drove. It helped him think.

  The classical piece he was listening to came to a climactic conclusion and was immediately replaced with the deep, soothing voice of the evening DJ. Lang switched off the radio, and his thoughts circled back to the rock left on Chelsea’s shattered windshield.

  Stretching his eyes open as much as possible in an effort to stay awake, he picked up the plastic travel mug from its cup holder and took a long sip, trying to rid himself of the oxycodone hangover he had from last night. Unfortunatel
y, the throbbing in his back had become so intense, he’d taken the medication two nights in a row, and it was slowing down his mind and his work.

  He’d visited with Garcia at his station in Boston that morning and found out that the analysis showed that the handwriting on the mirror of the Springfield crime scene matched the first note left on Chelsea’s windshield, so the likelihood that Ethan was the one who left it was high.

  Garcia’s APB hadn’t turned up anything. Neither had canvassing the neighborhood. No one remembered seeing anyone who matched his description. The fingerprint analysis had come back with only Chelsea’s fingerprints, so the perpetrator had likely used gloves. Also, Garcia had run Ethan’s credit report again and looked for any arrest records, but there’d been no activity under his Social Security number at all for almost five years.

  “Are you leaving these messages, Ethan?” he spoke aloud.

  If so, where are you?

  He tried the radio again. A piano concerto filled the air just as he pulled the car onto the exit ramp toward Newport. He had an appointment with Ethan’s mother. After Ethan’s father had passed away, he’d left their expansive oceanfront estate to her, which was where Lang was heading now. Among other things, he needed to find out if she had heard anything from Ethan over the past years.

  He pulled onto the long, winding road that led to the Klebold home and saw the sprawling redbrick English manor in the distance. The lawn was flawless and landscaped with meticulous detail. Lang had the feeling it had never been walked on by anyone other than the gardener.

  As he climbed out of the car, he cursed his back. Shutting the vehicle’s door, he counted more than a dozen windows along the front of the three-story house and wondered if Mrs. Klebold lived there alone.

  He walked up to the house. Knocking on the massive door, he couldn’t help but think there would be plenty of places to hide someone in a house this big.

  CHAPTER 16

  BOYD’S SILENCE SAT on Chelsea’s chest like lead. It had been a week since she’d heard from him. Was he not receiving her texts for some reason? She knew that was just wishful thinking.

  Of course he was.

  Which meant he was avoiding her.