by Joseph Souza
I should have forced Clarissa to go to the police. What if Russell comes home this evening in a foul mood and does something terrible to her or the kids? I’d never be able to forgive myself if that happened. But she insisted that I not call the police, and I can’t bring it upon myself to defy the wishes of someone who I hope will one day be a dear friend.
Zack hangs around downstairs, reading on the couch, which is unusual for him. Zadie’s playing on her tablet, most likely messaging one of her schoolmates. The fireplace crackles as soon as I flip on the switch. It feels cozy and safe, protected from the evil lurking just outside our door. I make some hot chocolate and a batch of sugar cookies while listening to Andrea Bocelli. The fragrant odor of baked goods wafts throughout the house. I want to feel happy and unburdened. I want this intense yearning in the pit of my stomach to go away.
A car pulls up in the driveway. I peek out the curtains but do not recognize the man getting out. He walks up to the front door and rings our doorbell. Neither Zack nor Zadie can be bothered to answer it. Who is this man, and why is he here? Is he a solicitor who has found himself lost in this vacant neighborhood? A Jehovah’s Witness looking to make converts out of ghosts?
“Who is it?” I ask through the locked door.
“Detective Armstrong, ma’am. I’m holding up my badge for you to see.”
I close one eye and take a look through the peephole. It certainly looks like an official police badge, but who knows these days.
“What do you want?”
“I’m investigating the murder of Cordell Jefferson and the disappearance of Mycah Jones.”
My heart skips a beat. If I refuse to let him in, he may suspect me of something. Yet if I answer his questions, I fear I might incriminate myself. Or at least appear as if I’m withholding valuable information. The problem is that I’m a terrible liar and always have been.
I open the door and stare at him through the storm door. Clay has not yet installed the glass, so the cold autumn air rushes inside. I cross my arms to keep warm, a gesture meant to demonstrate my extreme discomfort.
“How can I help you?”
“May I come in and ask you a few questions?”
“I suppose, but I’m not sure how I can assist you. I didn’t know either one of those individuals.”
“I promise you I’ll be quick.”
“My children are inside, Detective. I don’t want to frighten them with all of this crime business.”
“I suppose we could talk down at the station if you prefer.”
The notion of being interrogated at a police station terrifies me, and I realize that talking to him here is my only hope of staying calm and telling my version. “No, it’s okay. Give me a minute to escort the children up to their rooms.”
I let him inside, telling Zack and Zadie to go upstairs. Zadie’s sitting at the table with her cup of hot chocolate and a cookie and complains about having to get up. Zack follows my direction, but not before stopping to look up at the impeccably dressed detective. After a brief but contentious confrontation, I allow Zadie to take her tablet, hot chocolate, and cookies to her room despite our strict rule about eating in bed.
“Who are you?” Zack asks the detective.
“Detective Armstrong. And who are you, young man?” He holds out his hand to shake but Zack ignores it.
“Are you here to arrest me?”
Armstrong laughs. “Arrest you? Why in the world would I do that?”
“I’ve been getting into a lot of trouble at school.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but we don’t arrest students unless they do something really bad.”
“Like bring a weapon into class? Or attack their teacher?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Bad stuff like that happens all the time in the inner cities. I read on the Internet where one kid stabbed his teacher.”
“That’s terrible.” The detective looks up at me before returning his attention to Zack. “Fortunately, we don’t have those kinds of problems here in Dearborn.”
“I also read that most crimes in the inner city are black-on-black crime.”
“Sometimes you have to look deeper into the statistics.”
I grimace at Zack’s words and usher him upstairs before he says any more embarrassing things. What’s gotten into that boy? And where has he learned all this crazy stuff? Once he’s safely ensconced in his room, I check on Zadie. She’s sitting at her desk, brushing her doll’s hair and speaking softly to it.
Detective Armstrong is sitting at the kitchen table when I arrive downstairs. Across from him is a platter of cookies.
“Would you like a cookie with a cup of coffee, Detective?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
I put the plate down in front of him, trying to steady my shaking hand. I pour him a cup of coffee.
“I’m sorry for showing up so suddenly.”
“It’s not a problem.” I sit down across from him and pour myself a cup. “Have you had any luck locating the missing girl?”
“Not as of late. This case has been a total head scratcher. But the reason I came here is to speak to you about Cordell.”
“What about him?” I try not to panic.
“Did you know him?”
“No.”
“Then could you explain to me why you met with him the night he was murdered?”
I sit perfectly still and stare at him. How does he know about that?
“You want to talk about it, Mrs. Daniels?”
“How did you find out?”
“The restaurant has the two of you on security tape. You entered the restaurant first and then Cordell came in later. Prior to meeting him there, the hostess at the restaurant he works at said you showed up at the bar where he worked.”
“Yes.”
“Why in the world would you meet with him?”
“You’re going to think I’m a stupid woman, Detective.”
“I promise you I will not. It’s merely a procedural question that I’m required to ask.”
“My family and I moved to this neighborhood a little over two months ago. My husband owns the new brewery in town.”
“Yes, I’m familiar with your husband’s brewery,” he says.
Has he already spoken to Clay? “I’ve been so lonely and bored, and I thought if I could help the police solve this case, then I might make a name for myself in town. I was only trying to help.”
“You were trying to track down the missing girl?”
“Yes.”
“Which is why you also went over to the college, passing yourself off as a reporter, and interviewed members of the lacrosse team?”
“Is that illegal?”
“No, but it does complicate things when you interfere with an ongoing investigation. It also demonstrates a lack of confidence in your local law enforcement.”
“Oh no, it had nothing to do with your competence. I’m sure you’re a very good detective. Searching for that girl gave me something to do. A reason to get up in the morning.”
“These cookies are fantastic, by the way. Ever think of opening your own bakery?” He smiles and takes a sip of his coffee.
I look across the kitchen. On the granite counter sits the plastic blue bowl and the empty pouch of premade cookie mix. Did he see it and is now mocking me? Cops often notice such small acts of deception.
“You know that Cordell and Mycah were not really a couple. Not in the traditional sense,” he says.
“Oh?”
“It appears that he was sexually attracted to men as well.”
“Hmm.” I try to act surprised.
“We checked his computer. He was involved in many dating sites on the Internet. Two or three times a week he met with one of these strangers in Portland for what, I assume, was a ‘hookup.’”
“Hookup?”
“Casual sex.”
“Do you think Mycah knew about this?”
“I’m almost certain she di
d, but that it was not much of an issue between them.”
“Cordell told me that Mycah was involved with a lot of activist groups.”
“Mycah was a controversial figure on campus. She was elected president of the student body and started the Black Lives Matter group. Although she had a good deal of support, she was also despised by many students.”
“If you call advocating for social justice controversial, Detective, then I think that’s where you and I part ways.”
“I suppose that being an officer of the law gives me a certain perspective about these things, especially when it comes to the Black Lives Matter movement.”
“That’s because there’s not the same level of anxiety out here in rural Maine as there is in the inner cities.”
“I suppose,” he says. “As for Mycah, she was constantly attacking the administration for what she perceived as white privilege on campus. Many people believe that she went too far by posting pictures of herself on Facebook, mocking Chadwick’s alleged racist culture. Seems odd, considering all the men she dated.”
“People have the right to do whatever they please. This is still America.”
“True, but don’t you find it a bit curious that she was secretly dating the captain of the lacrosse team—the one group on campus most students associated with white privilege?”
“If it was a man sleeping around, no one would say boo about it.”
He bites into another cookie. “These are delicious. What did you put in them to make them taste so good?”
I drop all pretenses. “They came premixed from the supermarket. Just add water and bake.” I point to the empty blue package on the counter.
“Wow, some detective I am.” He laughs. “Still, they’re very tasty.”
“My children need to come down shortly and finish their chores, Detective.”
“Of course. I have only a few more questions to ask,” he says, flipping through his notebook. “Did your husband know the missing girl?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“How long have you two been married?”
“Fourteen years.” His questions confound me. “Why are you asking me this?”
“I can’t understand why Mycah Jones made so many calls to the brewery the night she went missing.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. Just asking a question.”
“Maybe she wanted to know what sort of beers were on tap that evening.”
“That must be it.”
“Clay rotates his beers on a regular basis.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard.”
“Or it could have been something else,” he casually remarks.
I stand and give him a cold glare. “What are you implying?”
“Maybe she had a . . . a thing for your husband. He is a very good-looking guy.”
“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” I say, laughing. “Clay is a dedicated and loving husband. He would never cheat on me.”
“I never implied that he was cheating on you.”
“Please go, Detective. I can’t take any more of this crazy talk.”
“I have one more question to ask,” he says, taking another cookie. “What did you and Cordell talk about that evening?”
“He told me exactly what he told you. That some white guys had attacked him and Mycah as they were walking home. He remembers them shouting out a racial slur before he was knocked unconscious.”
“How did he know they were white if he never saw them?”
I shrug. “Maybe he just assumed.”
“Did he tell you that Mycah was his girlfriend?”
“He did.”
“Did he tell you where they had just come from the night of the attack?”
“I don’t recall.”
“You don’t recall?” He looks puzzled. “They spent part of the night in your husband’s tasting room.”
“Clay never told me that.” I hate lying.
“You didn’t think to ask Cordell such an important question?”
“Honestly, I don’t remember much. I had a few more margaritas than I should have had that night.”
“A detective should never drink while on the job.” He smiles coyly.
“It’s obvious that my skills are far inferior to yours, Detective. Now, if that’s all.”
“It is. For now.”
He thanks me and leaves, driving out of the neighborhood in his unmarked car. I collapse on the sofa. My hands are shaking, I’m so upset. What is happening to me? There has to be a reasonable explanation for why Mycah called the brewery so many times that night. I’m not worried in the least about Clay’s loyalty. I remember when we first met at that protest march, and how he called me for days on end after we met at that dog park. His mild manner was what I found most attractive about him. He seemed to lack the alpha male gene that most men use when wooing a girl. It’s how I knew early on that he’d never betray me.
I broke up with Clay after a year of dating. It felt like he was smothering me and always around. He reminded me of a lost puppy nipping at my ankle. My old boyfriend called out of the blue and we went out a few times, but it wasn’t the same as before. I realized that I missed Clay more than I thought, and when I went over to his Capitol Hill apartment one day I was disappointed to learn he wasn’t there. His roommate answered the door instead and informed me that Clay was out drinking. In fact, he’d been drinking heavily every night since I’d broken up with him. His roommate claimed that Clay was depressed and missed me terribly. He’d had every opportunity to cheat on me with one of the girls at the bar, but Clay couldn’t even think about anyone else. It was then that I knew we were meant to be together. I asked his roommate what bar he frequented, and then I went over there and claimed him. He cried drunkenly on my shoulder when I told him that I’d take him back.
From then on I knew he would always be true to me.
LEAH
Thursday, October 22, 5:56 p.m.
A BIT LATER MY PHONE RINGS, AND I HEAD UPSTAIRS TO GET THE kids. It’s Clarissa. I feel overjoyed that she thinks enough to call me. I lift the phone to my ear and the first thing I hear is the sound of her sobbing.
“Clarissa? Are you okay?”
“Russell’s home. He’s in the bathroom and in a bad way.”
“Do you want me to call the police?”
“No, promise to take care of my children if something bad happens to me.”
“Don’t talk like that. You’ll get through this, and I’ll be with you the entire way.”
“I fear he’ll hurt me if I don’t go along with his demands.”
“What would you like me to do?”
“You can see into my bedroom, right?”
Sheepishly, I admit that I can.
“Keep your lights off and record it on your phone in case he gets violent. It may be the only evidence I have against him.”
“Are you sure?”
But the line has already gone dead. I run downstairs, grab some chips and cupcakes for the kids, snatch my phone off the kitchen table, and then head upstairs to my bedroom. All the lights are off. I slip the curtain aside and peer through the shutters.
The light to the Gaineses’ bedroom is on and I can see Clarissa lying on the bed, wearing pink lingerie and with her legs splayed. She doesn’t look happy. I raise the phone up to the window as Russell walks into the room, dressed only in his boxers. He stands off to the side and takes in his wife. I zoom in as far as the lens will allow and watch the scene through the video. Russell climbs on the bed and forces her to her stomach, twisting her arm up behind her back. I try to control my rage and keep my hand from shaking. He reaches under her belly and pulls her up so that her behind points toward the ceiling. He slaps it three times in succession before reaching down toward her face, which is buried in the pillow. His large hands wring her neck as he enters her from behind.
It brings
me to tears. I look away so as not to witness this humiliating offense. I feel sick to my stomach. When I look up, I see something that shocks me.
This can’t be happening.
CLAY
Thursday, October 22, 6:04 p.m.
THE TASTING ROOM IS SLAMMED TONIGHT. PEOPLE SIT AT THE PICNIC tables and line up against the bar, waiting for Bree to pour them drafts. I should be happy at all the money filling the till, and I am, but I can’t seem to rest easy. The meeting with Armstrong this morning worries me. Does he suspect me of anything? The thought of that extramarital affair continues to haunt me. I will lose everything if that comes to light: my family, the brewery, and all that I’ve worked for.
Mycah’s calls to the brewery didn’t worry me at the time. Who had any idea that she would go missing and that her boyfriend would end up dead? I assumed that our affair would fizzle out quietly and without notice, and then we’d go our separate ways. The burden of this guilt will be my lifelong albatross.
I walk among the crowd gathered in the tasting room. Happy customers slap my back and tell me how awesome I am and how wonderful the beer tastes. Although I don’t usually crave such attention, it feels good to be praised by others. And all because of my talent for brewing beer. If not for that, these people could care less about me and my myriad of problems.
I sit down and have a beer with a group of young hipsters who frequent the brewery. We engage in the usual small talk, and I tell them about my brewing philosophy and how I craft my beer. But in the back of my mind all I can think about is Mycah. If I wake up tomorrow and hear that her lifeless body has been found in pieces along the riverbank, it wouldn’t bother me in the least. No, I’d probably cheer her squalid demise with a rousing toast. Drinks on the house. Then maybe I could get on with my life. There’d be no witnesses to our affair. Only an unborn child from an unnamed father, unless she’d aborted it like I asked her to. But what if she’s alive somewhere? What if the demon seed is still churning in her belly? What then?