The Night Before

by Wendy Walker

  Laura: So my father wasn’t the bad guy? My mother wasn’t the victim?

  Dr. Brody: You told me a story about something you overheard. Something your father said to your sister the night he left. It’s the only story that doesn’t fit with that narrative, and yet it stands out enough that you told it to me.

  Laura: I was listening at the door. Rosie was mad at him for leaving. Yelling at him. And he said to her—and this I know is exactly what happened—he said, “Your mother is no saint.”

  Dr. Brody: Something happened, Laura. Something no one told you or Rosie. But I have a feeling you knew inside even as a little girl, that your father was the one who was broken.

  Laura: The one I tried to fix so he could love me? I learned all of this from my father?

  Dr. Brody: It’s almost always the case, Laura. With women who seek men who won’t love them, and turn away the ones who can, and do.

  Laura: I think I hate him even more now.

  Dr. Brody: Except you don’t. And you need to find out why.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Laura. The Night Before. Friday, 12:45 a.m. Branston, CT.

  “So about that hangover situation,” I say to Jonathan Fielding.

  I’m dressed but still feel naked. It’s Rosie’s dress. I hate dresses. I hate the way the air feels against my legs. How it creeps beneath the hemline and makes its way up as far as it pleases, sometimes all the way to the sleeves. I hate my bare feet and loose hair, falling around my face and sticking to the back of my neck.

  I hate a lot of things right now.

  Jonathan hands me a glass of scotch from the other side of the kitchen counter. I am close to the door. My purse is right in front of me. I left my shoes in the small foyer, but they are gone now. Probably moved to a closet where I can’t find them without more delay. More chances to work his way into my brain. No matter. I don’t need shoes to get home.

  Home, I think now. Rosie and Joe and Mason. My cozy space in the attic, hiding beneath the fluffy comforter.

  Home, I think again. Only, it’s not my home. It’s Rosie’s and Joe’s and Mason’s. And the attic is where I found the last of the three notes. Not so cozy after all.

  I have no home. That’s the truth. But that still doesn’t make this a place I want to stay one minute longer.

  I take the drink and swallow it down.

  “So what is this about the hangover?” Jonathan asks. He’s smiling like we are lovers and I suppose we are, technically. The way that phrase is used. Lovers. Home. Just words. Stupid, meaningless words.

  “Yeah…” I begin. I’ve swallowed the rage and turned it to steel. “So I thought I’d preempt it with something more medically sound than more alcohol.”

  “Oh?” he asks. And I see a trace of concern.

  That’s right, Jonathan. It’s your turn to worry.

  “I figured some Advil might be in order. Luckily, I found some!” My voice is cheery.

  He seems relieved. “Oh, good. I’m glad. I don’t have a lot of medicines in there. I don’t really like to take things and I haven’t been sick for a long time. God, my ex used to keep everything!”

  “Funny you should mention her,” I say.

  “My ex? I’m sorry—I guess that is a little insensitive after the night we’ve had.”

  I study his eyes then, as he studies mine. He is looking for clues about what’s inside my head. I have the upper hand because I know.

  I lift up my left hand and turn it backward so the palm faces me and the bright gold ring on my finger faces him.

  “Did you want to put this back on before you go home?”

  Jonathan freezes. He’s so still that I wonder if I should check for a pulse. He freezes like he’s been dipped in liquid nitrogen.

  I say nothing. I do nothing.

  Rage is steel and it makes me feel strong. I haven’t felt strong in a very long time, and I would be a liar if I said I didn’t like it. I would be a liar just like Jonathan Fielding.

  “Laura…” Finally he speaks. But only this one word makes it past his lips.

  I pull the ring off my finger and place it on the counter.

  “It’s not what you think,” he says. His defrosting face is forlorn but not regretful. It’s not guilty, either, and this lets confusion slip past the steel gates.

  “I know you’ve noticed a lot of things tonight. You’ve been polite not to bring them up. You’ve been trusting and forthcoming and I feel like a complete shit.…”

  “Your car,” I say, now that he’s opened the door.

  “Yes, the Toyota that looks like a throwback to the 1980s, only it’s brand-new.”

  “And your job…”

  “Right again. I don’t work in Branston. What forty-year-old divorced hedge fund manager would work out here when he could be in Manhattan? Right again.”

  “The bare apartment, the woman from the bar…”

  He looks away to take a long drink of scotch. He sets the glass back down on the counter. Then he picks up the ring and twists it between his fingers.

  “The woman from the bar is who I said she was. A crazy stalker who bothered my ex-wife after I stopped seeing her a few weeks ago. That was the truth.”

  “And the…”

  “The apartment is new. I moved in at the end of the summer.”

  My mind is spinning as it processes this new information. He’s admitted things but given no explanations. And he’s avoided the biggest one of all—the one that’s moved to the top of my list. The ring. The fucking wedding ring he keeps hidden in a bottle of Advil in his empty apartment where he brings other women.

  There is something about what now sits between us. Facts without a conclusion. Facts without the truth. It’s a puzzle with missing pieces—the important ones that leave nothing but ambiguity in their absence. The steel begins to melt. The strength, subsiding now.

  “I can’t do this,” I say. Tears come fast. Giant sobs follow. And the words fly out in broken pieces, cutting me like little shards of glass. “You’re married!” Sob. “You lied about everything! You’re lying now!” Sob. “Whatever you say, I won’t know how much of a lie it is because you’ll sprinkle in small truths. Little admissions that aren’t fatal but instead give you credibility because why would you say them at all if they cast you in a bad light? I know how this goes!” Sob. “I’ve been here before. I’ve been with the best of them … better than you!”

  Hysteria sets in. Jonathan’s face refreezes. The rage is now liquid that seeps from my skin. I know he can see it.

  “How can you do this to people? It’s cruel! It’s so fucking cruel!”

  That word is new to me. It’s a word I learned from Dr. Brody.

  Can’t you see his cruelty?

  He was talking about another liar. Another man I tried to make love me. A man who bled to death at my feet. Mitch Adler. Liar. Cruel, cruel liar.

  I see it now, Kevin. I see the cruelty.…

  “Hold on a minute!” Jonathan says. He moves away from the counter and leans against the refrigerator. We’ve been here before.

  “Things moved fast tonight—faster than either of us anticipated. Yes, I told some white lies because I’m trying to meet people here, but it’s far from cruel. Honestly, you’re way off base.”

  Adrenaline now. Rage becomes fear. What the hell is this? A cover-up? Or have I done it again?

  She’s so hard to love with her mountains from molehills.

  “Can I explain? Please, will you do me that courtesy?”

  I wipe my eyes. I hold my breath. Maybe I will die if I hold it long enough.

  “Okay … I’m going to start from the beginning. Are you good? Have your drink.”

  He doesn’t move closer to me. I wish I could move father away.

  I hold my drink. Take a sip. The adrenaline kills it the moment it hits my blood.

  “I’m from Boston. You already know that.”

  “Is your mother really dead?” I blurt out. If we’re starting from the begin
ning, I want to know every lie. Every single one of them.

  “Yes. All of that—the man who drowned. My sister. My parents—and how I met my wife. All of it’s true. And we did move to New York. And we did live out here. She kept the house. It’s on Blackberry Drive—way up north and on the west side. I don’t know why she wants to live there, but she does. It’s not my problem anymore. I hated that house, hated the commute.”

  “So you did work in New York?”

  “Yes! I worked in New York. The name of the firm is Klayburn Capital. It’s a small hedge fund. The headquarters are in Boston, but they have offices in New York and London. When I got divorced, I didn’t stay here. You were right about that. I moved back to Boston. I worked at the office there and lived with my father for a while. I was broken. Truly broken. I still loved her and I wanted the family we tried so hard to have.”

  “So that’s the first lie—that you stayed here?”

  “Yes. That’s the first lie.”

  I finish my drink and pretend to be indignant. Ha! He’s admitted to a lie! But it’s so small. It’s a little baby lie. And babies can’t be cruel. Not intentionally.

  “Okay,” I say. “Go on.…”

  He does and I can see his demeanor change. He knows he has me. He knows what’s coming are just more baby lies. A cute little nursery school of lies.

  “After about six months, they asked me to transfer back. They want to have an office in Branston for some of the older partners who have families here. It’s a better lifestyle. They asked me to open it. One year—that’s what they said. And then I can have my choice—stay here, work in New York. Or go back to Boston.”

  “So you just came back. That’s why there’s no furniture.”

  “Yes—I’ve only been back for seven weeks, which is why I don’t know my way around downtown. We never went to the harbor when I lived up north. I’ve spent four weeks in a hotel. Three in this apartment, which I’ve subleased for now—off the books, so who knows how long I can keep it. I can’t decide what I want to do—move to New York. Go back to Boston. And I’m working all the time.…”

  “And the car…”

  “A loaner. I do have a BMW. It’s in the shop. They were going to charge me for one of theirs, so I just got this one for the week. I should have said that from the start, but you didn’t ask and I didn’t want to just blurt it out.”

  God … I need Dr. Brody. I need Kevin. How do I know what to believe? Yes, I have a heightened sense of perception, but then I never know what to do with the information. This is all so convenient. So perfect. And yet it all adds up like two plus two is four.

  “The ring,” he says suddenly. “The last question, right?”

  “For now,” I say. I try to be smug. Self-righteous. But all I’ve got are these baby lies.

  “Everything I own is in this apartment building. I can show you the storage unit in the basement—boxes of winter clothes, some pictures and photo albums. Everything I have is from my adult life, and that involved my wife. My childhood things are at my father’s house. So what to do with this…” He twists the ring between his fingers again, and I stare at it with remorse for my rage, and longing for what it represents.

  “I couldn’t leave it in the basement. I don’t want it to get stolen. And I don’t have a safe. I read somewhere that a pill bottle was a better place to hide valuables than socks, so that’s where I put it. I wasn’t expecting company—not like this. Not to the point where I caused a headache.”

  Now he’s trying to be cute. I don’t know if I like it. I can’t even decide if it’s real.

  But something comes through loud and clear.

  He wants me to stay. He wants me to believe him.

  It would have been so easy to shrug and let me storm off. Maybe he’s afraid he’d have another stalker on his hands. Or maybe he’s afraid of losing whatever it is we’ve begun.

  Someone tell me. Please. Someone tell me which it is before I lose my mind. The rage is turning inward, turning on me now because I am so incompetent.

  “Laura,” he says. And he walks back to the counter. “I know you probably want to leave. I know some of this sounds too convenient. But will you do me one favor before you go? And then I promise I will walk you to your car.”

  I don’t say yes. I don’t say no. The tears are behind my eyes again. The sobs choking my throat. So I stand there like an idiot and shake my head.

  “Okay—let me get my laptop from the bedroom. We are going to Google the shit out of me and my ex-wife and my firm—I even have an email from the BMW shop. Will you do that with me? Will you let me show you?”

  What is going on here? Somebody tell me.…

  The doorbell rings then and I jump back, startled. We look at each other for a second and then his eyes light up, big and wide and bright.

  “The pizza!” he says, like a little boy. He claps his hands with excitement.

  He walks around the counter, behind where I stand. And opens the door.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Rosie. Present Day. Saturday, 11 a.m. Branston, CT.

  Rosie followed Gabe to Maple Street. Kimmie Taylor had recognized the entrance from the pictures he’d sent, and the ones she’d found on the Internet. Gabe knew which building it was and she was certain of the number—2L. L is for Liar, she’d said.

  Joe called three times along the way. But Rosie couldn’t talk to him. Not yet. Not now when they were so close to finding Laura. She sent a text with a lie—I’m stopping by the police station then coming home. If she told him about the apartment, he’d already be here. Only, now she didn’t know if he’d be here for her, or for Laura. A few hours ago, she wouldn’t have minded either way. But everything had changed.

  His name was Joe.…

  She rushed from her car to catch up with Gabe. He was moving fast.

  “I called the police,” he said. “Told them to meet us here.”

  Rosie walked beside him, trying to keep up with his long strides. “What did they say?”

  They got to the front door and stopped. Gabe pulled out his phone and looked at the picture, then back at the door. “This is the one,” he said.

  “Are they coming?” Rosie asked. “The police?”

  Gabe nodded. “Yeah.”

  “What did they say? Did you speak to the officers who came yesterday?”

  “Conway. I spoke to Conway. He said to wait outside.”

  Gabe looked at her then, inquisitively.

  “To hell with that!” Rosie answered.

  “Agreed.” Gabe pulled on the door, but it was locked. A panel of black buttons was on the right side of the entrance. Gabe pushed them one at a time until a voice came out of the panel.

  “Hello?” a woman said.

  “UPS,” he said.

  “Amazon?” the woman asked.

  “Yeah,” Gabe answered.

  Then the buzzer.

  Rosie pulled the door open and rushed inside.

  “That’s so scary,” she said to Gabe, who followed right behind.

  “You have no idea. But I guess that’s why people live here. So they can afford to be trusting.”

  Neither of them spoke as they climbed the stairs to the second floor. Then down the long hallway, following the letters on the doors. When they got to 2L, Gabe grabbed her arm, stopping her.

  He pressed a finger to his lips, telling her to be quiet.

  “What?” Rosie whispered.

  “Take a second, okay? You haven’t slept or eaten. We need to think. We should have a plan.”

  Rosie knew what she looked like. She’d seen herself in the window of that hotel in New York, and again in the rearview mirror of her car. But Laura could be on the other side of that door, and nothing else mattered until she knew.

  Gabe was suddenly in control, the way Joe used to be when they were children. But Joe wasn’t here, so Gabe had stepped in—doing the thinking and the executing of the plan. And thank God, because Rosie didn’t have the ability for eithe
r of those now. Nothing was going to stop her from getting inside that apartment and finding her sister.

  Gabe laid it out.

  “What if he answers and she’s not there? What if he lies and says he has no idea who she is? What if he says they had a drink and she left right after?”

  He spoke evenly as they stood in the hallway, but Rosie couldn’t calm herself.

  “I don’t know, Gabe! I just need get on the other side of that door!” Rosie felt her cheeks flush. Her head was light but somehow hard to keep steady. “I have to get inside that apartment! I have to know what’s happened to my sister!”

  The elevator door opened then. Rosie and Gabe turned their heads when they heard the chime. Officers Pearson and Conway emerged, finding them in the hallway.

  Rosie ran to meet them. She took Pearson by the arm and pulled her along.

  “He’s there!” she said. “The man my sister was with—he lives in that apartment!”

  “Okay, Mrs. Ferro.” Pearson was condescending, even just saying her name. Rosie still had her by the arm, but it was like pulling dead weight.

  “It’s him! His name is Edward Rittle. He lies about it—calls himself all different names. He’s married and has children! He uses this apartment to be with women from that website!”

  Rosie could hear herself. She knew she sounded crazy. She knew she looked crazy. She could see herself in the expressions of all of them—Pearson, Conway, and even Gabe.

  And she could see Gabe waiting for her to tell them the rest of it—about the threatening notes, or how Laura had been sleeping with her therapist in New York. Also married. Also with children. And now—dead.

  But she stopped herself when they reached the front of the door. She looked at Gabe to make sure he wasn’t going to say a word about any of that. It would do nothing but distract them, make them worry less about her sister than this horrible man who lied and cheated and misused women any way he could.

  If he hurt Laura, and if she hurt him back—God help her—but Rosie felt he deserved it.