Christen rested a comforting hand on Annalise’s arm. Her expression softened, searching Annalise’s face. “What more could they uncover about you?”
Her words might have intended to be rhetorical and reassuring, but they weren’t.
Annalise blinked. This was why she needed to research this alone. “Tyler will make up a story from practically anything.”
Annalise hit the garage door opener as she exited the garage, playing with her keys in the dark to identify her house key. She hiked up the brick walk to the front porch, the height of the Victorian house casting a gothic shadow over the yard.
“Lawyers,” Annalise muttered. She really felt like dropping an extensive line of cusswords right now. Her purse slipped off her shoulder, and she yanked it back on, dropping her keys on the bottom porch step. A curse slipped out.
She needed to get herself under control. She was a mess. Snatching the keys from the step, Annalise hurried onto the porch and opened the screen door. Her life was spiraling completely out of control, like Dorothy’s tornado on The Wizard of . . .
Annalise halted, her key poised to insert into the doorknob, but the door was already ajar. The opening of a few inches revealed the blackness of the interior of her home. She always left the light on in the foyer. Always. Not to mention she’d double-checked the door was locked before she left.
Tendrils of fear curled around her, and Annalise’s heart increased its pace. She looked over her shoulder and did a quick survey of the yard, the bushes, and the shadows. Nothing. But the distinct feeling, that unnerving prick in her gut, made her speed up her mental assessment of what steps she’d taken before she left the house and compare that to how it looked now.
The door hadn’t been pried open, and there was no sign of damage. Annalise distinctly recalled flicking on the entryway light switch and tugging the door shut with a firm latch that morning before work. It was her habit. Every morning. She was predictable, like Garrett said, and her habits rarely shifted.
She stepped back and let the screen door slam shut. Fumbling in her purse, Annalise found her phone. Was this a 911 scenario? Annalise backed away from the door. There wasn’t any sign of anyone being inside now. It was pitch-black. Outside too. The moon was a sorry excuse for a light source tonight.
Annalise jogged back down the steps and the walk toward her garage. She stopped. What if someone had been in the garage when she pulled in? What if they were skulking behind the garbage can? She spun on her heel. This feeling of being watched, studied, surveyed was enhanced by the vision of Eugene Hayes’s wall covered with her photographs.
Without a second thought, Annalise hurdled over the low bushes and sprinted into Garrett’s yard and onto his porch. The much more modest house boasted a porch light—turned on even!—and a doorbell that begged to be rung. Annalise rammed her index finger against it while eyeing her house, as if some hulking figure might emerge from the inside.
Garrett’s door opened. He looked like he’d just woken up, but then he always did. His hands were covered in chalk dust.
“Q.” He stared at her. She’d caught him off guard this time. All was fair in love and war.
Annalise pushed past him into the living room.
Garrett shut the door, a confused expression plastered on his face. “What’s going on?”
Annalise tossed her purse onto his couch and hugged her arms across her body. “I think someone broke into my house.”
“What?” Garrett’s brows went up quizzically, and he crossed the room to the kitchen window to glance outside toward her porch.
Annalise explained the open door that had greeted her on her arrival home. The dark interior with the entryway light no longer on.
Garrett rubbed his chalky hands down his tattered shorts, leaving white splotches against the black. “Let’s call the cops.” He reached for his cellphone.
Annalise leaned against the back of the couch, waiting. So maybe she wouldn’t have been overreacting to call the police? She should have done that rather than engage Garrett’s assistance. He’d think her helpless or that she needed him.
He ended the call. “Cops are on their way. We need to stay put until they get here.” Garrett motioned toward the couch. “Have a seat. I was just in the basement on my salmon ladder. I need to go shut off the light.”
“Your salmon ladder?” Annalise inquired, if only to distract herself.
“Yeah. Ever watch American Ninja Warrior?”
“No.”
“Arrow?”
“Huh?” Annalise wasn’t following.
“Never mind.” He shook his head. “It’s a ladder I use to build upper body strength.”
“Oh.” Annalise had no idea what he meant.
Garrett disappeared for a minute. On his return, he was pulling a sweatshirt over his head. His eyes were soft as he addressed her. “Let’s head outside. The police will be here any second.”
Annalise nodded and followed him outside. A cop car pulled up as they exited Garrett’s house, and Brent stepped out along with his partner.
Thankfully, Brent happened to be on duty tonight and was the one who came. Welcome to Smalltown, USA, population four thousand—where everyone knew everyone, and the police force was just a handful of people.
“Annalise, what the heck?”
“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I got home and the door was open. I thought maybe I was just a bit too jumpy after tonight.”
“After tonight?” Garrett interjected.
“So you went to Garrett?” Brent asked in disbelief at the same time.
Both men eyed each other. Annalise shifted on her feet. This was awkward. Brent gave her a look that said What were you thinking? And Garrett’s shoulders stiffened.
Annalise waved her hand toward the house, frightened, tired, and exasperated all at the same time. “Can you just see if I’m going to be murdered tonight or if I can go into my house?”
Brent shot Garrett one last big-brother glare and then addressed his partner. “Check the perimeter. I’ll check inside.”
He approached the front door. In a few moments, lights popped on inside.
“What happened tonight?” Garrett asked, his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the lights turning on in the second story.
He wasn’t going to let it go, was he? Annalise sighed through her nose. “Eugene Hayes happened.”
Garrett had no reaction. Another light popped on in what would be the upstairs bathroom. “So, he’s not going away, even though he’s dead?”
“Nope.” Annalise watched Brent’s silhouette move past the window.
“What now?”
Annalise gave Garrett a sideways look. In the darkness of the night, his features were still strong, still attractive, and still so much trouble. “I inherited his property. He left it all to me.”
Garrett’s frown made him turn his head and stare at her. “Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re safe to come in!” Brent hollered from the front door, and Annalise pushed past Garrett. She nodded her thanks to Brent’s partner, who returned to the police cruiser.
“I don’t see anything that screams intruder.” Brent assessed the house as Annalise entered. She hung her purse on the antique hall tree and eyed the entryway. Nothing off here.
“Do you see anything missing?” Brent followed her into the front parlor that doubled as her study. Annalise surveyed the room. Garrett entered behind them, silent.
“Everything looks fine here.” Annalise moved past them, and they continued to check each room. Nothing. No damage, no vandalism, just . . . nothing. Annalise almost wished someone had poured sour milk all over the furniture and graffitied the walls. The nothing was more terrifying than if it had been something.
The three of them hiked up the stairwell and paused outside of Annalise’s bedroom. She glanced at Garrett. Brent edged between them and again raised an eyebrow at Annalise. She ignored it and entered her room.
Her
queen bed was undisturbed, the comforter in hues of greens and grays still pulled neatly in its place with the pile of solid-colored pillows carefully arranged just as she’d left them that morning. The curtains were pulled back and the shade pulled up. She remembered doing that first thing when she woke up, to see the sunrise and—if she were honest—to stare down at Garrett’s bedroom window, and remember. Just for a moment.
She turned toward the men. Brent was alert and on guard, his stance stiff, and Annalise wondered if it was because of Garrett or because of the potential intruder. Garrett was impassive, his hands still in his pockets, and his eyes lidded and unreadable.
“Everything looks fine.” Annalise wondered how she would ever sleep tonight. Both eyes would be open. Had Brent checked under the bed? She took a step away from it and eyed the dark chasm that lurked below the bed frame. An intruder brought a whole new meaning to the idea of a bogeyman under the bed. She glanced at her dresser, trying to recall if her pepper spray was still in her underwear drawer.
An empty spot on top of the dresser snagged her attention. Annalise stared, her chest weighted down with horror. She rushed past Brent and Garrett to the dresser.
“No.” Her whisper was much louder than she’d intended. She palmed the top of the dresser. Her earrings, her journal, her box of Kleenex. All still there. The jewelry tree with various necklaces dangling from it, the bookmark Christen had given her for Christmas, and next to it a glaring absence. The intruder, for there had been one, might as well have come inside and stabbed a knife through Annalise’s pillow.
“What is it?” Brent’s question echoed through her subconscious as she stared at the empty place.
She didn’t answer—couldn’t answer.
“Annalise?” Brent again. Insistent. His tone indicated that he knew she’d noticed something awry.
Annalise touched the empty void on the dresser.
“Annalise!”
She snapped out of her stupor and turned to Brent. “It’s gone.”
“What’s gone? What’s missing?” Brent urged.
Annalise looked beyond him and locked eyes with Garrett. His brows were pulled deep in question, and his eyes crinkled at the corners as if silently coaching her to tell them.
“They took it.”
Garrett stepped toward her. “Took what, Q?”
His voice pulled at her. His eyes reminded Annalise of every moment, every look, every everything. She remembered the first and the last, she remembered the smiles and then the tears. Worst of all she remembered the tearing apart when her soul was torn into shreds.
“It’s gone,” she choked out, drilling her gaze into the man who had once meant everything to her. “They took the only one I had. They took the picture of our baby.”
Chapter 13
Libby
How did this get printed?” Paul smashed the morning’s paper on the desk in front of her. Libby startled and for once was glad Mitch was beside her. She could tell Paul was fuming.
“How did what get printed?” Mitch didn’t so much as flinch. He straightened from his position beside Libby where he’d been explaining a few of his unreadable scribbles to her for transcribing.
Paul stabbed the column with his index finger. “This—this nonsense about the Petersons!”
Mitch blinked as if bored and rested his hands at his waist. He eyed his partner with a bit of disdain, and once again Libby found herself pivoting between the two like watching a game of catch.
“It’s the truth,” Mitch shrugged.
Paul blustered, spun on his heel, took a few steps toward the office door, then whipped back around. He shook his finger at Mitch. “You’re making a spectacle out of them!”
“I believe Mr. Peterson made a spectacle out of himself.”
Libby had no idea what the two men were sparring about. She leaned over the paper and quickly read the short column.
Mr. Lowell Peterson was fined $25 for assault and battery committed against his wife. As told to the authorities, Mrs. Peterson stated she desired to be in attendance at the revival meeting of the Corbin twins, and Mr. Peterson heartily objected. The words led to some slaps and a little choking, which provided her a reason for her husband’s subsequent arrest.
Libby lifted surprised eyes. Spousal abuse over the attendance of a Christian revival? The idea was ludicrous, but considering her disturbing walk home, not at all strange. Jedidiah Corbin’s message and his subsequent interaction with her was enough to make her believe he was capable of twisting even solid minds awry.
“The violence ensuing because of these two preachers is worth being written about,” Mitch argued.
“Violence? What violence? A man has a right to refrain his wayward wife without making the paper!” Paul snapped in return.
“The man was arrested.” Mitch snatched the paper out from under her as he glared at Paul. “Not to mention, I’ve noticed quite a few columns I’ve written lately have suspiciously not been printed. Are you censoring my paper?”
“Our paper.” Paul clenched his teeth. “You’re supposed to be the editor, not the reporter, and yet you’re gallivanting around town writing those ridiculous pot-stirring stories. It’s shaming the Democrat and what I established this paper to be about!”
“You established it to be about news. This is news.” Mitch tossed the paper in the air.
Libby ducked as the paper swooped, nearly missing her face. She cowered, waiting for the men to cease arguing. Her nerves stood on end, raw and aggravated. She would almost consider purchasing a train ticket and leaving this madness behind had she anywhere to go.
“News should be about community,” Paul groused. “If I didn’t pull certain rabble-rousing articles of yours, this paper would go under, and this town would self-combust in tension and turmoil. No one wants their secrets splayed on the front page!”
“This was printed on the third page,” Mitch muttered, derision dripping from his voice. He was thumbing through the paper he’d snatched from where it’d fallen, then stopped when he spotted something. His brow furrowed. “What is this?”
“What’s what?” Paul barked.
Mitch eyed the paper, glancing at Libby before leveling a glare on his partner. An eyebrow rose and disappeared into his graying mop of curls. “Did you write this and print it without my knowledge?”
Paul blanched.
“This list of good things the Corbin twins are doing?” He shook the paper and read out loud. “‘The Corbin brothers’ recent message both at the Friday evening revival meeting and several church meetings earlier this week at the Baptist and Presbyterian churches has led to many converts. The honesty in the Corbin twins’ approach is both refreshing and necessary to bring about a change in one’s soul.’”
“Your stories needed counterbalancing,” Paul said, shoving his spectacles against his face.
Mitch laughed. “Speaking of controversy! Your article is at war with mine. You’re undermining your own mission to build community.”
Libby folded her hands in her lap, wishing she could both disappear and that she had the resourcefulness to tell them they were making the newspaper into a tug of war. No one would know what to think if they continued to compete for print space.
Mitch threw the paper back on the desk. “Well then.” He turned to Libby. “The next time I give you my articles to transcribe for print, please be certain you return them to me so that I can oversee they make it into the paper.”
Libby nodded.
Paul blew a puff of exasperated air through his lips and stomped from the office. Mitch stared after his partner’s retreating form. Libby said nothing, knowing any words but his own would irritate Mitch in this moment.
Finally he spoke. “I can make this paper grow. I will print news whether Paul likes the content or not.”
Libby didn’t reply. He gave his head a little shake and widened his eyes, as if feeling guilty in her silence.
“It’s going to get worse before it gets better, you
know. Those Corbin brothers are as devoted to the Word of God as they are to collecting fame.”
“Then why help them achieve fame?” Libby ventured, remembering the worrying interlude with Jedidiah Corbin the night before and the condemnation in his words. “Why print anything at all?”
Mitch gave a small sniff. “Because that’s what makes news interesting, Libby. That’s what sells papers.”
Libby finished transcribing her father’s scribbles, notes, and articles. Laying the pen on the desk, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the shine of her father’s silver-plated pencil case. She lifted it and stared at herself. The distorted image of her dark hair in wisps around her face and her almond-shaped eyes stared back at her. The conversation with her father replayed in her mind like the repeated circular motion of the newspaper press.
The twist on the news sold papers, no matter who it hurt, shamed, or exploited. Mitch wasn’t particularly wicked, but his discretion rivaled Paul’s insistence that the paper take the position of extremely conservative. Pleasantries, feed prices, almanac weather predictions, and the like. Sensational versus boring, and the Democrat had evolved into an unpredictable mess.
Libby replaced the pencil case to its spot.
She pushed back in the desk chair, its wheels squeaking against the wood floor. Standing, Libby shook the wrinkles from her gray skirt and adjusted the watch pinned to her soft, pinstriped blouse. She needed to walk, to clear her mind.
Libby closed the office door behind her, the mechanism clicking into place. She waved at the pressman, then slipped into the hall toward the front desk. The broad glass windows had the words The Daily Democrat painted black and backward so as to face the front. She reached for the brass door handle and glanced at the mail slot in the green door. It was where the obituary had been slipped, falling to its resting place on the scratched wood floor, staring up at the ceiling until she’d arrived to discover it.
The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond Page 8