Right Next Door

by Leah Montgomery

  Maybe on her.

  But maybe not.

  Maybe the sign at the mailbox worked.

  She hopes.

  She’s standing at the sink, drying a casserole dish, staring blankly out the window, when movement catches her eye. It’s Mark Halpern, coming around the back corner of their house, heading toward the side door.

  Marcy squints, looking more closely. The sun hasn’t been up long, and the clouds rolled in last night, making it hard to see very clearly. But it looks like Mark is covered in mud. The kind of mud that Marcy has seen with every turn of the shovel in this area. Dark, reddish brown clay. And it’s all over Mark. The gray shirt and faded jeans he’s wearing are smeared with it, and there are smudges all over his arms and chest, knees and thighs. Even his shoes, which she can only presume were once white, are layered with chunks of the stuff. There’s even a streak on his cheek, which she glimpses before he ducks through their side door.

  Pausing with her hands in the dishwater, Marcy wonders what the hell Mark Halpern is up to, covered in dirt, at this time of the morning. And why he’s sneaking in the back of the house rather than going in the front. Or, better, through the garage. That would make the most sense.

  She’s deep in thought when John walks in. Lost in the endless loop of her inconclusive pondering, Marcy doesn’t hear him approach. He winds his arms around her waist from behind, as he’s done a thousand times before. But this time, she jolts violently.

  Marcy turns on John, sparks of fury shooting from her eyes. “What the hell are you doing?”

  John’s brow puckers and he takes a step back, raising his hands in surrender. “Uh, the same thing I always do. Hugging my wife. Is that a problem?”

  Marcy slaps his arm. “Don’t sneak up on me like that. I’m liable to stab you with a butcher knife.” To make her point, she reaches behind her, into the sudsy water, and extracts just such a weapon. “See?”

  “Number one, I didn’t sneak up on you. I was whistling. Probably loud enough to rouse dogs two streets over. And number two, what’s going on with you?”

  “I told you—”

  “No, I mean what’s really going on with you. Not just what you feel like telling me to shut me up.”

  “I don’t try to shut y—”

  “Yes, you do. Don’t even try to deny it.”

  Marcy clamps her lips shut. “Fine. But the reason I don’t tell you is because I know what you’ll say.”

  “Which is?”

  “That it’s just my imagination run amok.”

  “What is?”

  Marcy sighs, leaning against the edge of the sink and letting her head fall back on her shoulders. “Something is going on with the neighbors. I’m just…uneasy.”

  “Is this about the—”

  “No, there are some things I haven’t told you.”

  “Such as?” His frown deepens. He crosses his arms over his chest in a defensive posture. He’s displeased. He doesn’t have to say a word for Marcy to know. John is the most easygoing person she’s ever met, but he does have a temper. It’s hard to prick, but when it gets stirred up, he isn’t one who is pleasant to fight with.

  Despite her normally bold ways, Marcy clears her throat and proceeds with caution. “Well, for one, I just saw Mark Halpern sneaking in through the side door, covered in mud. What could he possibly be up to at this time of day? He looked like he’d been digging a grave, for God’s sake.”

  John shrugs. “Maybe he was out and his car got stuck or something.”

  Marcy’s lips thin. “You’re the most infuriating man.”

  “Why? What’d I say?”

  “Yes, it could have been something like that, but coupled with all this other odd stuff, I’m not falling for it.”

  “What other odd stuff?”

  “Well, a couple of weeks ago when I got the mail, I tore into an envelope before looking at it. It was a letter. And it was…menacing to say the least.”

  John’s eyes narrow, the blue turning icy and sharp. “Menacing how?”

  “It said, ‘I know it was you. You’ll pay for what you did.’ And it had some numbers. Seven-two. Dashed. Like maybe a date.” John stiffens, but before he can speak, Marcy hurries on. “I was stunned, of course, which is why I looked on the envelope for a return address, because the note wasn’t signed.”

  “And?”

  “John, it was our address, but it was made out to Mark Halpern.”

  Marcy waits, watching her husband closely as he digests this information. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because of this.” Marcy waves her arms widely, encompassing his reaction to most of her suspicions about people and life and pretty much everything. “This is how you react. Every time. I figured I’d get something more concrete before I told you. Something you couldn’t argue.”

  “Ahhhh,” he mumbles, nodding. “This is why you’ve been so determined to get into their house and dig for dirt.”

  “Yes. And I’m not digging for dirt like some deranged paparazzi. I’m trying to unearth a skeleton, possibly a dangerous one. If Mark Halpern is some sort of serial killer or rapist, we need to know. This affects all of us, even our daughter. You get that, right?”

  Derision glides over John’s expression. “Of course I get that. I’m not unreasonable.”

  “Sometimes, yeah, you are.”

  “When have I ever failed to protect you from a threat? When have I ever not taken your safety, or Caroline’s, seriously?”

  Marcy didn’t answer. She merely stared up into her husband’s eyes. Finally, she asked, “So, what are we going to do?”

  “Let me see the letter.”

  “What? Why? You don’t believe me?”

  “Of course I believe you, but there might be something telling in it, something you didn’t pick up on because you were so upset by it.”

  “I’ve read it many a time since then and haven’t divined any big secrets from it.”

  “Still no reason not to let me try.”

  Marcy’s sigh is heavy with frustration. “Fine. I’ll get it.”

  After retrieving the letter and checking on Caroline, who is still in her room doing what she always does, Marcy returns to the kitchen and hands John the slip of worn paper.

  He studies it with exasperation. “Good God, did you wash it or something?” He unfolds the note and holds it by one corner, waving the flimsy sheet back and forth to show its level of wear.

  “I told you I read it a few times.”

  “How many is a few? Twenty five million?”

  “Don’t be a smart ass. Just read it.” Marcy crosses her arms over her chest as John’s eyes scan the fading words. When he reads through it a second time, she gives him a few seconds and then prompts, “Well?”

  Brows drawing back together, John’s consternation—and his concern—show. “I see what you mean.”

  “Annnnd Jill got some weird texts. One was about her being dead.”

  “She did?”

  Marcy nods in satisfaction. John can’t argue that this is something and not nothing. “Yep.”

  “There are other weird things going on over there, too.”

  “Interesting.”

  “So what are we going to do about it?”

  “I’ll need to think on that.”

  “Ugh. You’ll take forever.”

  “I won’t take forever. And taking a few days up front to get a plan together is much better than rushing headlong into something and hitting a brick wall every time. Is your face sore yet?”

  “Ha. Ha. I haven’t hit a brick wall every time.”

  “Okay, but have you actually found anything?”

  “I did find out that Jill and Mark have some marital issues.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know the details yet. She didn’t get specific. It’s not abuse, though. I know that. She flat out denied it.”

  “Don’t all abused women deny it?”

  Marcy considers that. “Good poin
t.”

  “If not, maybe an affair?”

  “Maybe.”

  Waving the paper again, John says, “A woman scorned and all that. Could be motive enough for a threat like this.”

  “So you do feel like it’s a threat?”

  “No question.”

  Marcy can’t help her reaction. It’s been years in the making. “See? See? I told you I’m not crazy. I don’t make this stuff up. You need to start trusting me.”

  “Being right about an outlandish suspicion one time doesn’t substantiate every niggle of irrational doubt you’ve ever had about anybody. Because there have been a lot.”

  “Substantiate? Who the hell are you?” John shrugs and Marcy marches on. “And what’s that supposed to mean—‘there have been a lot’?”

  “There have been. You go off half cocked on these nutty tr—”

  In the blink of an eye, Marcy’s blood comes to a hard, rolling boil. “I am not crazy, John Stanley, and if you keep making these comments and treating me like I am, I’ll take our child and be out of here faster than you can spit.”

  She sees his lips quirk at her expression. He’d always loved what he called her “Texanisms,” which were just old country sayings that probably didn’t even start in Texas.

  That only makes her madder.

  Marcy’s mouth thins into a grim line and her eyes dance with ire. “Don’t you dare laugh at me. Remember that knife I was washing?”

  Appropriately, John schools his expression and rephrases. “Look, I love that you’re observant and protective, but not everyone is out to get us.”

  “I have never once said they were.”

  “No, but you tend to see the bad in people and that’s not healthy, sweetheart.”

  John reaches out and rubs his palms soothingly along Marcy’s forearms. She’s trembling with suppressed rage. “Sometimes it’s all I can do to—”

  “Please don’t be upset. I don’t mean any of this in a bad way. Maybe I’m just too trusting. Maybe I don’t see enough of the bad in people. It’s a least fifty percent on me.”

  Breath huffs in and out of Marcy’s flaring nostrils, but his calming words and backtracking have the desired effect. “You could definitely use a dose of realism.”

  “Probably so, but let’s not spend the morning throwing blame and pointing out faults. Let’s put our heads together and figure out the best way to find out what Mark Halpern’s been up to before the Coves opened up. Doesn’t that sound like a much better way forward?”

  Exhaling, Marcy unwinds right before John’s eyes. He’s always had a way with words, a way with Marcy. Just one more reason why they’re perfect for each other.

  “Yeah, it does. Any good starting places in mind?”

  “Nothing concrete, but I’m thinking something along the lines of having them over and one of us sneaking back to their house to snoop around. Think we could pull off something like that?”

  Gone is Marcy’s anger, replaced by a childlike enthusiasm. It’s like the adult version of a treasure hunt. Just much more sinister. And, possibly, much more dangerous. “Are you kidding? There’s a good chance I was born for this.”

  “God, I love you.” John laughs outright, wrapping his arms around his wife’s waist. This time, the action is received in a much more expected way. She snakes her arms up around his neck and her eyes gleam up into his. Their love and support of each other is like a protective cocoon that they both work to keep intact.

  “Because I’m crazy?”

  Now she’s saying it in jest. John knows her well enough to know the difference. “Batshit crazy. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  He nuzzles her nose with his and they kiss, but Marcy’s mind is already elsewhere, imagining what sorts of things they might find in Mark Halpern’s closet.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Something jarred me awake.

  My vision was blurry. Head swimming. Nausea curled like whitecaps in my stomach.

  It took me several long minutes to come to life. To realize that I wasn’t in my prison. In the room with the padded, wire-covered walls.

  I opened eyelids that felt like they’d been glued shut. They were so heavy I lifted my hands to rub them. Wondered if there was really something keeping them closed.

  The first thing I noticed was the duck tape around my wrists. That was new. My arms felt feather light without the shackles and chains, yet they still weighed at least a thousand pounds each.

  The second thing I noticed was that there was sound. Not the roaring silence I usually woke to. No, there was a droning. A constant hum. It came with a fine vibration. Tickled every inch of my exposed skin. The air was cooler, too. Not the unnatural heat I’d become reluctantly accustomed to.

  It took all my effort to raise my lids. To keep them open. But I did it. Did it long enough to look around, to see, which I could actually do thanks to a dull red light seeping in through a square cracks.

  I turned my head. Saw the ceiling. It was less than a foot from the tip of my nose. My first thought was a coffin. Sweet God, I’m in a coffin.

  An instant of panic reverberated through me. But then my sluggish brain finally made the connection. The lid was metal. Grooved. Sloped. By all indications, I was in a trunk. We were on the move.

  He was taking me somewhere.

  I lumbered over onto my side. Checked the darker back wall of the trunk. There was a shape of some sort. Large, chunky. Something covered in a blanket, it looked like. Was it Lauren? Was that her body? Her dead, decaying body, just a few inches from my own?

  My pulse thrummed. My chin trembled. An unbearable ache spread beneath my sternum.

  With shaking fingers, I reached forward. With my bound hands, I tugged the closest corner of the blanket. Jerked it back. Underneath it was… nothing.

  It was possible it had covered me. Or that it had covered Lauren before they disposed of her body. I would never know what that blanket had seen. I only knew it couldn’t have been good.

  I felt my eyes narrow. My lips stretch. Tight. Painful. My face screwed up into a gruesome, silent sob.

  I rolled away from the blanket. Onto my other side, facing the red glow of the taillight. Dread and relief swirled through me as I contemplated my fate. The possibilities weren’t many. I boiled them down to two. He was either taking me some place to kill me, or taking me to a new prison. Those were the only two that really made sense.

  Maybe I could escape before he killed me or delivered me.

  I took stock of my body. I was tired. So, so tired. And weary. Down to the marrow of my bones. I’d been trapped in a hell that most people only read about or see in movies, and it had sapped everything from me. I wasn’t sure I cared what my fate was. Part of me even welcomed death. Wanted it. The release of it. The numbness of it. I wasn’t sure if that was worrisome or not, but it was true.

  What could life hold for me anyway? I’d killed a woman. If I were to be set free, it wouldn’t be long until they came for me. The police. They’d take me away. I’d go to prison—a different kind of prison—for murder. That would destroy Gabe. And Dalton eventually. Not to mention my family and friends. That was hardly the life I wanted to return to. I could see how it would be better for everyone involved if I never came back. Never resurfaced. If he killed me and disposed of my body somewhere. If none of these crimes were ever found out. Yes, that would be better.

  But that might not be his plan. He might have more torture planned for me.

  I couldn’t even fathom what that might entail. I’d always thought rape would be the worst fate for a woman in captivity.

  I was wrong.

  It was said in the Bible that we shouldn’t fear what man can do to our bodies, but what can happen to our souls. That had always made sense in theory.

  Until now.

  Now, I understood.

  I understood how physical pain and discomfort, how starvation and dehydration and sensory deprivation could be torturous, but not nearly as much
as emotional torment. Not nearly as much as damage to the soul.

  As it turned out, that was far more difficult to cope with. There was hope in physical pain—hope that it would subside when the stimulus was removed. That it would fade. That our mind could learn to block it out. All sorts of phenomena had been reported when it came to the human threshold for enduring pain.

  But emotional trauma…that didn’t seem to be escapable.

  I knew that unless I died, I would never be able to outrun or outlive or outsmart the scars of what I’d done. And rightly so. I was a criminal. A criminal of the worst kind. I didn’t deserve to be given a reprieve. Not ever.

  But that was no life. Not for my family. If I were returned to them, they would be getting a ghost. A shell of the woman I once was. I might look the same, but I knew I would be broken beyond repair after this.

  A smiling face, cherubic and elated, danced behind my eyes.

  But Dalton.

  He was the but in that scenario.

  If I didn’t survive, if I didn’t find a way out of this, what would become of him? Had the man released him when I killed Lauren, as he said he would? Or would he keep my son for his own amusement? As a sick toy?

  My body heaved. Bitter bile rushed up. Poured into my mouth. Dribbled out the corner of my cracked lips.

  It heaved again and again at those thoughts, but nothing else came up. I couldn’t even entertain the idea that Dalton wouldn’t be saved.

  He was why I had to survive this.

  He was why I had to make an escape.

  He was my reason. For everything.

  Urgency seized me. Gave me an energy born purely of adrenaline. It pumped into my bloodstream. Invigorated me. Supercharged me. I felt alert. More than I had in days. Weeks. However long I’d been held in that damnable room.

  I lifted my head. Looked around the trunk. I felt with my feet. Wiggled around. Felt with my hands. I pulled the blanket over me and felt for anything within its folds, anything underneath it. I scooted into the shadows. Felt around some more. That’s when I found the bag. Like a soft briefcase. The kind that have the shoulder strap. I’d seen them on shoulders hundreds of times as I moved through airports across the country.