Passerby: A Psychological Thriller

by Britney King

  He turns to leave, as though this is the reason we’ve come, as though everything that’s happened hasn’t. “Where is Roy?” I demand, and Davis stops as though he remembers. He glances around the shadowy cellar. It's an unsettling part of the house, always has been.

  Davis stands very still and watches the edge of the cellar where the light doesn’t quite touch. Just beyond that is the door that leads to the small room where Mama used to store canned goods, and Daddy liked to keep money.

  As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I see that just in front of the door lays a lump in the exact shape of a human. The light swings this way and that way, until Cole catches it in his hand. He fiddles with it until it’s steady and the room is illuminated.

  “Roy?” I say, taking strides in that direction. I kneel next to the figure on the floor. In his right hand is a baton, and he rears it back. Just when I am certain he is going to strike me, Davis moves forward and kicks it out of his hand.

  Cole steps forward and takes my brother by the arm. He forces him to the ground. “Stay,” he says, and Davis complies.

  I check Roy over, or at least as much as one can in the dark. “Are you okay?”

  He’s kind of going in and out of consciousness, which is maybe why he doesn’t answer. God, let him be okay. Killing a cop is no joke, and Roy is my friend. It’s my fault he’s here. Blood drips from his temple, and one hand is cuffed to a pipe. His gun is missing from his holster. This would be really difficult to make look like an accident. “Roy,” I say, slapping his cheek. “Roy, talk to me.”

  “He’s fine,” Davis coughs. “He just took a little tumble down the stairs.”

  My eyes land on my brother. “What the fuck?”

  “I know,” Davis says. “It was stupid. But he saw me covered in blood, and I didn’t know what to do.”

  I look over at Cole, who is searching for something. Hopefully, it’s the gun. Above us, there are footsteps. Party-goers have made their way into the kitchen.

  “Davis,” I say, saving Cole the trouble of searching for a needle in a haystack. “Where is the gun?”

  He points upward.

  “In the kitchen?” It can’t be. “I would have seen it.”

  “Yeah, well,” Davis tells me with a scoff. “I guess there are a lot of things we don’t see. Not unless we know to look for them.”

  Roy stirs. I place my hand on his shoulder. He reaches up to touch the gash in his forehead with his free hand. “Your brother is in deep shit,” he mumbles as he cups his head.

  A chill sweeps over me. “I know.”

  I turn to Davis. “Where’s the key to the cuffs?”

  He shrugs. “How should I know?”

  “The key is in my wallet,” Roy says, shifting. He winces as he moves. “I’m going to need you to hand me my radio.”

  As I move to empty his pocket, my foot connects with something on the floor just beyond where he is crouched. My eyes shift, and it takes me by surprise when Roy reaches up and takes my chin in his hand. “I wouldn’t look if I were you.”

  I should listen, but I don’t. “Cole, shift the light this way, would you?”

  He does and then I wish he hadn’t. What I see is gruesome, but from the chin upward, it’s also just a young man with a forgettable face. Roy releases the grip he has on my chin. I take a deep breath in and let it out. “Who is he?”

  “That’s Chris Larsen,” Davis says flatly.

  My stomach sinks like I’m on the downward slope of a very fast roller coaster.

  “Who’s Chris Larsen?” Cole asks.

  “Ashley’s ex,” Davis and Roy say at the same time. I don’t answer because there’s a lump in my throat that’s too big to speak around.

  “You asked me to do some checking,” Roy tells me with a groan. “And I did…”

  It seems a little late for this information, but as I search his wallet for the key to free him, I let him talk. “She had a restraining order against him.”

  “He tried to kill her,” Davis says.

  My fingers make contact with the key. I fish it out and hold it between my fingers. “What’s he doing down here?”

  Davis’s eyes meet mine. “He finally succeeded.”

  Cole bends over the man. With one hand he holds a flashlight, with the other he covers his nose and mouth. “He’s dead.”

  Davis chokes out a sob. “He killed them. He literally beat them to death.”

  I don’t believe him. Not for a minute. I want to know how he ended up down here. It doesn’t add up, and I want more detail. But this doesn’t feel like the time to ask.

  “He’s damn well nearly decapitated,” Roy says.

  Davis nods. “I wanted to see the look in his eyes when he knew it was over.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Ruth

  It’s difficult to explain what it was like coming out of that cellar. For the most part, what took place after was, and still is, a blur. It could be the spectacle aspect of it that has caused me to block it out. No one likes to sit with shame, and to say the entire town was watching would be putting it mildly. And if recent events are any indication, they won’t be looking elsewhere anytime soon.

  As they say in the press, “If it bleeds, it leads.” Killing someone, no matter if you claim it was in self-defense, makes a great news piece. Kill several people, mix in a little love triangle, an allegedly deranged ex and well, you have all the ingredients for a real show. Gossip and speculation are one thing Jester Falls excels at.

  That doesn’t mean I’ve been able to put it out of my mind entirely, just because my memory is hazy. Of course, I haven’t. It’s in my face every single hour of every single day.

  That night brings up a lot of things. I wake sometimes, sitting straight up in bed, in the dead of night, certain I see flashing lights. I dream about standing around, watching Magnolia House being roped off with yellow tape. It’s always the same. Someone wraps a scratchy blanket around my shoulders as flashes catch my eye from the second floor. The nightmare is the same as the reality. It takes me a second to understand what I am seeing when I look up at that window. Flashes from the camera photographing my brother’s corpse. It’s the strangest things you remember. It’s the strangest things that haunt your dreams.

  The usual characters make their appearance. Ryan Jenkins and his lovely wife. The thoughts about those people, they don’t change. I remember thinking that Ashley had, in fact, pulled off what she’d set out to do and how ironic that was.

  That night outside Magnolia House, police pushed us back, beyond the yellow tape. Ryan and his wife stood close to where Cole and I were. At this point, Davis had already been placed in cuffs, and Roy was being assessed in the back of an ambulance. I turned to look over my shoulder, and my eyes caught his for the briefest of moments. His wife was leaning into him, whispering in his ear. I couldn’t hear most of what was being said, just this one thing. She said, “I bet you’re glad you didn’t marry into this family.”

  That was when our eyes locked, Ryan’s and mine. He held my gaze for a beat, and then he looked back at her. “Huh?”

  “I said, this family, they’re crazy.”

  “Oh,” he told her. “Yeah.”

  Cole squeezed my arm. “It’s going to be okay. Not tonight. But it will be.”

  Tears snuck out of the corners of my eyes. “How do you know?”

  “I don’t.”

  “This is a fucking nightmare.”

  “Yes,” he said. “For me, too.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Ruth

  For a second, I think I might be actually losing it, and I wonder if this is what they mean by the term psychotic break. I consider calling someone. But who? What kind of friend do you call to get you out of a jam like this?

  Problem is, I know exactly what kind of friend.

  But I won’t go there. I can’t go there.

  Bad things happen when I go there.

  Things worse than being questioned in a small, stuf
fy, dimly lit room with a lead investigator that looks like she’s barely a day out of college.

  She apologizes for my loss and then she says, “It can’t get any worse for you, Ms. Channing, can it?”

  You wouldn’t think anything could be worse than this. “I don’t know,” I tell her. But I do know. Prison would be worse.

  She blinks several times. I don’t know if this is a tactic, only that it works. Her rapid blinking, it makes me want to talk. “I can imagine how you must be feeling.”

  I offer a nod. It’s the best I can manage. She flip-flops so much it makes me dizzy. One second she’s warm and compassionate, the next it’s like she’s taunting me. It’s like she’s poking at a bear in a cage. “Hm.”

  “This has to be really hard for you.”

  “Yeah.” But again, like I said, you wouldn’t understand.

  I expect her to continue, to say something, to say anything, but she doesn’t. Not for several minutes. She just sits there stoically, blinking and not saying anything, and I don’t understand. What is she doing? Is she trying to wait me out?

  “Is there someone I can call?”

  “No.”

  I watch as she crosses and uncrosses her legs. She does some more blinking, and I wonder what her family is like. I wonder what led her to a job like this. “Is there anything I can do to help you feel more comfortable?”

  “No.” It’s not you. I tell her there isn’t anything she can do, though I’ve said it all before. I’ve told the story. One way and then another, and still, she isn’t satisfied.

  “You think I don’t understand?”

  I shrug. I hope you’re not offended. I’m not saying you're stupid or anything.

  “Wait.” She holds up one hand. “I know,” she says, right before she repeats what I’ve told her, word for word. “Most people wouldn’t understand.”

  I shrug again. Bingo.

  The less I speak, the better.

  She empties her foam cup, slurping every drop. When she places the cup on the table, she jiggles it as though coffee might manifest from out of thin air. Not that I blame her. She’s making a point.

  I’m wasting her time. I figure she’s getting paid either way, and at the moment, I don’t exactly have gainful employment to go back to. All I’ve got is time.

  “You’re not under arrest, Ruth. You don’t have to answer my questions.”

  This, I know. I’m also not falling for this good cop, bad cop shtick, either. I remember what Cole said to me, standing outside my house as they strung the crime scene tape. He looked at me and he placed his hands on my shoulders. Then he leaned in like his life depended on it and he said, “You’ll think you're too smart to fall for their routine, but you're not. You'll be upset and you'll want to talk, especially to anyone who appears sympathetic. Law enforcement officers are not necessarily your enemy, but they're not your friend either. Shut up. Talk to your lawyer—clear it with Mike—before you make any statement of any kind.”

  “Okay,” I told him.

  He searched my face. “Promise me.”

  “I’m terrible at promises. You know that.”

  I look at the young woman seated in front of me and I say, “I’m terrible at promises.”

  “How so?”

  “I promised Mama and Daddy that I’d take care of them. And now one is under arrest and the other is dead.”

  She looks at me like she understands, but she doesn’t.

  “Do you have any brothers?”

  She nods. “Yes, one.”

  I say nothing in response. I let the sentiment hang in the air. She may not understand, but I’ve just leveled the playing field some.

  “Did you know Ms. Jepson had a restraining order against Chris Larsen when you reached out to him?”

  “I told you I didn’t.”

  “Were you aware that Ms. Jepson was sleeping with your brother?” She clears her throat, realizing that clarification is necessary. Her discomfort brings me a sense of enjoyment I haven’t felt in a long time. “With Johnny?”

  “No.”

  “Did you suspect?”

  I think about all the times I felt like someone was watching me. All the times I heard noises coming from upstairs and how when I called no one answered. I shake my head. “No.”

  “Did Davis know?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You’ve stated that Ms. Jepson wanted to sell Magnolia House. That she went so far as to find a buyer.”

  I don’t see what this has to do with her murder, but I’m afraid she might. She’s trying to connect dots that aren’t there. “That’s correct.”

  “He was your neighbor. This potential buyer?”

  “He was a developer. Looking for a property grab.”

  “To your knowledge, did Ms. Jepson have a relationship with him?”

  “I have no idea. She only told me they spoke once.”

  “Did Davis think they were having a relationship?”

  “If he did, he never told me.”

  “The family moved after the murders?”

  “It lowered the property value, I assume.”

  “As you mentioned before, it’s your opinion that Ms. Jepson was using your brother to urge him to sell your bed and breakfast?”

  “Johnny wanted the money.”

  “He told you this?”

  “More than once.”

  “What do you think, Ruth?” Her eyes narrow. “I want your opinion. What do you think Ms. Jepson stood to gain from any of this?”

  Opinions aren’t facts. She knows this. I think about her question for a long moment before answering. “I don’t know. Money. A comfortable life. Love. Or what she thought was love.” What everyone wants. I pause just long enough to shrug, and that’s when the hypothetical answers end and the real one begins. “I don’t know. Only she can answer that.”

  “Except she’s dead.”

  She says this to try to goad a reaction out of me. It almost works. I know Ashley is dead. I saw. Believe me, I saw. “All I know is that she was obviously running from something. And that something found her.”

  “Ah, that’s right.” She toys with a bracelet on her left wrist, and I can see that she’s running out of patience. This is good and bad. It means she’s losing steam, but also that she’s about to play hardball. “Davis suggests he walked in on Ms. Jepson on Johnny after Mr. Larson murdered the two of them. But the evidence doesn’t show this to be the case.”

  “So I’m told.” I glance at the clock and back at her. I think about Magnolia House and what I would be doing right now if I wasn’t here. “I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”

  “Do you think Davis killed your brother and Ms. Jepson?”

  Her question does not surprise me. The particular wording she uses does not surprise me. She wants me to be emotional. When emotions run high, intellect runs low.

  But I will not give her what she wants, at least not fully. It does not surprise me I’m being treated like a criminal. I assumed that I’d be handcuffed, placed prone on the ground, locked in the back of a cruiser, possibly even jailed. It takes time to sort out the truth of any crime, and I was aware it would be likely that the police would do any or all of these things. So I don't take it personally. I don't resist or argue. Even though I want to. Even though those responses would be natural, even instinctual, I know that the best way to make this go away is to cooperate until things are sorted out in my favor. Which they will be. So I am direct, but respectful. “Like I said, I wasn’t there.”

  “You were picking up your dress.”

  “Yes. I had it altered for the party.”

  “Did he tell you what happened in the cellar?”

  “Roy?” I know who she is talking about, but I can also play her game.

  “Davis.” She leans in and rests her elbows on the rickety table. “Did he tell you how he killed Chris Larsen?”

  “No.” I don’t tell her I could see it for myself—that his head was barely attached t
o his body or that the floor was coated, and is still somewhat coated in that man’s blood.

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Who?” Facts are important.

  “Davis.”

  “He said he was dead.”

  “Anything else?”

  I glance at the clock on the wall once more and back at her. It’s obvious what she’s trying to do, and I won’t allow her to try my case on the spot. I know from years of hanging around Roy that police have more than one way to get you to talk. Aside from good cop/bad cop, she’s challenging the use of lethal force. I want to argue my case—or Davis’s case, she’s still deciding—but I won’t. I’ll keep my mouth shut. I’m not a lawyer and I’m not in a courtroom. Not yet, anyway.

  “Ms. Channing. Did Davis say anything when he took you into the cellar?”

  I wanted to see the look in his eyes when he knew it was over. I give it several seconds before I shake my head. “Not that I recall.”

  Epilogue

  Ruth

  Eight years later

  Daddy used to say a house divided against itself cannot stand. He’d look at other families, usually guests, and proclaim: That family is going to eat themselves alive from the inside out.

  I didn’t know what he meant back then, but I do now.

  I found Johnny’s notebooks in the workshop, detailing what he did. How he tried to kill me. It took several days for detectives to complete their investigation and clear the house, but once they did, it was slightly less messy.

  I did not share the contents of those notebooks with the police. Sometimes less is more.

  A house divided against itself cannot stand.

  I’m just glad Daddy isn’t around to see what’s become of us. It’s not all bad, but it’s also not what it could have been. Cole calls my name, and I push myself forward, up out of the rocker, leading with my burgeoning belly.

  “Look,” Shelby says. “Look at me!” She’s grinning from ear to ear, and she speaks animatedly as I waddle over to her. She has her Daddy’s smile and her uncle’s translucent eyes. It makes me ache for Johnny in a way I hadn’t known possible. It’s a tricky thing, and it’s nearly impossible to describe how you can hold such love and such hate for a person, and sometimes in equal proportion.