The Night Before

by Wendy Walker

  I screamed out in frustration. Once, twice. I folded over and screamed again, pounding my fists into my legs. There was no other way out. The windows didn’t open and were too small for a body to squeeze through. Just two doors, that was it. And they were both locked.

  I was not being rescued, saved from the police and the crimes I didn’t commit. I was a prisoner. Gabe’s prisoner.

  Something inside me gave way then. Locked doors would not stop me from getting out of this house.

  I began a search—every inch of this basement would be torn apart until I found something I could use to cut the chains or break down the door. I started in the corner by the mattress and worked my way around, opening boxes of old memorabilia, his mother’s clothing, framed photos. One of them was of Rick—the one on top, and I wondered if Gabe came down here and stared at it and if that was what had made him crazy. Remembering the lifetime of abuse he suffered in this house at the hands of his brother.

  So many secrets on this godforsaken road. How had his parents not seen it? How had they not stopped it until it was too late to undo the damage? It was becoming clear—this picture of Gabe, so different from the one I had growing up.

  Dr. Brody had seen it. Kevin. He asked me frequently about the Wallace family as he got to know me. I thought he was just appalled by the negligence of his parents, but it was more than that.

  I put the picture back in the box, and then remembered the last time he asked me about Gabe and Rick.

  Where was Gabe the night Mitch Adler was killed?

  I thought I had the answer. I believed what everyone believed—that he had gone back early to college. But then he was there the next day. He came to cheer me up after he found out what had happened. He came to be my protector, just like he’d done now.

  He said he’d protected me my whole life. He said he’d protected me from his brother. And then he told me I had to stop being with men who wanted to hurt me and use me. He mentioned Mitch Adler when he said it. And Dr. Brody—he mentioned Kevin.

  I didn’t stop to put this together, although it was coming together all on its own. That night in the woods. The man who pulled Mitch Adler from the car was strong and quick. Not the body of an old man who lived in the woods.

  It was Gabe.

  The thought exploded in a violent scream. I closed my eyes and tried to see him, see his face as he opened that door and dragged Mitch from the car. But I didn’t see it. I never saw the face. I hid in the bushes by the side of the road. I waited until the car was gone. And then I picked up the bat.

  What did I do then? I can never remember.

  I moved frantically then, tearing open every box and trunk, finding things—clothing and boots and luggage and, finally, a bag of sports equipment. I stopped with those. Golf club. Hockey skates. Baseball bat. Remnants from Gabe’s childhood. If I could slip the blade through the crack in the Bilco doors, and then hit it hard with the club or bat, it might break the chain.

  I took the skates and hockey stick back to the utility room and set them down next to the door. And when I did, I saw a small opening, a crawl space, with a duffel bag inside. It was strange, because that crawl space always flooded in the winter when the ground was too hard and cold to absorb the groundwater. They never kept anything in there.

  I reached inside and pulled the strap. It was unbelievably heavy. I grabbed it with two hands and pulled with all my weight until, finally, it slid close enough for me to open the zipper.

  A quick pull—it opened easily, but then I jerked my hands away and stared at the contents as the sides fell apart. It took a moment to understand what I saw, and every possible thought rushed in to make it not be what it was. A doll. A mannequin. A Halloween prop.

  No. There were toes and feet and two grayish-white calves. The toes were painted red from a pedicure. Human toes. Human feet. Human legs.

  I couldn’t scream. My chest wouldn’t move, wouldn’t draw air. I pulled the zipper farther, knowing what I was about to find but still needing to see it with my eyes. As I unzipped the bag and the sides fell fully open, each part of her was revealed—feet, calves, thighs, folded up to her chest. Her side, an arm and then, at the top fold of the bag, Melissa’s long black hair.

  I did not see any blood. I did not know how long she had been there, but her limbs were stiff and cold. I zipped the bag up and pushed it back into the crawl space.

  I was not able to escape. I was not able to break the chains with the hockey skate or the bat or the golf club. I was not able to break down the door.

  So I did the only thing I could do.

  * * *

  Hours have passed again as I stand now behind the door at the top of the stairs. Waiting for my best friend. Waiting for my captor. This time, waiting to kill someone.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Rosie. Present Day. Saturday, 4 p.m. Branston, CT.

  Joe didn’t answer, so she left him a message. The same message she’d left for Gabe back at the police station. Call me as soon as you get this.…

  She drove north, away from downtown, but now she didn’t know where she was going. Home? The police would be there, going through Laura’s things. Joe said he would go to the house to relieve the sitter, to be with Mason. God, what must he be thinking? Aunt Lala gone, his parents coming and going, on edge. Frantic. Maybe she should go there too. She also had to call her mother, tell her to get on the next plane. Yes, she thought. Home was where she should go, but something was tugging at her, a thought. A question.

  How did they get so far afield? Chasing a man who had no connection to Laura? She’d been so certain. Gabe had been so certain. Laura’s phone had died at the harbor—only it hadn’t. And Edward Rittle had fit the profile of Jonathan Fields—only he was a different man. Yet Edward Rittle was at the bar by the harbor. He went there every Thursday night with a different woman. And—the biggest coincidence, though not really given the abundance of apartments—both men lived in apartments near Richmond Street.

  Rosie pulled the car off to the side of the road. She grabbed her phone and tried Joe again. Still, no answer. She tried Gabe. No answer. She left a message for Laura’s roommate in New York, though she couldn’t imagine Laura would have gone there after so much time had passed.

  Then she decided. It was Gabe who would know how all of this happened. Gabe could call the woman at the phone company and ask why she’d told them the wrong information. And … Gabe said he was going home to look into Jonathan Fielding, so maybe he would have something the police didn’t. Something lurid or criminal. Something on another dating website, maybe with another woman. Maybe they could expose him as well—the way they’d exposed Edward Rittle. And maybe he was even worse. Maybe it would help Laura if they found out. God help me! These thoughts were terrible. The man had been assaulted and was in a coma—but maybe he did something and Laura had to defend herself. Or maybe it had nothing to do with Laura at all! Yes—that could be it. Maybe someone else attacked him and Laura had run for her life.

  Raw, nervous energy surged through her as she thought her way out of that horrible box where her sister had committed this violent act. Yes! she thought. There were other possibilities. And as horrible as they were, they left a strange kind of hope that only one person would understand.

  Rosie pulled back onto the road and headed toward Gabe’s house.

  FORTY-SIX

  Laura. Present Day. Saturday, 4:15 p.m. Branston, CT.

  I hear his car pull into the driveway. I hear the garage door open, a silent hum that vibrates through the walls. I hear it close.

  Footsteps now, across the floor in his kitchen. They are light and deliberate so as not to alarm me and make me run for the Bilco hatch to make my escape. How clever he was to tell me that—to make me believe the doors would open by repeating it over and over. I didn’t even think to check, to doubt him, until I saw the change in his face and his voice.

  It occurs to me now that I was right this time. That the broken reasoning inside my head work
ed. I had sensed something amiss, and for once in my life, I’d been right about it.

  I squeeze the bat in my hands, but the tightening of my fingers does not soothe me. My fists for hands—they bring no comfort.

  I want to turn back time and be in Rosie’s attic, under the covers. Safe. Loved. It would be enough now. That would be enough.

  The footsteps grow louder, the click of his heels against the wood, the floorboards creaking.

  He’s outside the door, just on the other side. I hold my breath for fear he can hear me. The air going in and out, heavy, and the pounding in my chest. He is so quiet. I can feel him, mere inches away now. My head grows light, dizzy. I wait for the sound of the dead bolt. I stare at the doorknob, waiting for it to turn.

  But then another sound. Another car, pulling up the driveway. His feet move away. Two steps back. Then he is quiet. Listening the way I am. A car door opens and closes. And then the doorbell rings.

  “Gabe?” the voice calls from outside the house. Rosie’s voice. With the bat still in my hands, I race down the stairs and slide a trunk beneath one of the windows again. I look outside and see her car. The blue minivan. They found it. They found the car. I think now that they must know where I am. But then why is Rosie here alone? Where are the police?

  Then a horrible thought. Gabe said Rosie and Joe were helping him. Maybe he’s fooled them. Maybe they all think I hurt Jonathan Fielding and now I have to be saved from myself. But why? To what end? What does Gabe want with me?

  Floorboards shift above my head as he walks to the front door. I can’t see Rosie, but I can hear her voice clearer now, just outside.

  “Gabe!” she calls out.

  The footsteps turn to shuffles just outside the front door. Then the turn of a lock. And the door opens.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Rosie. Present Day. Saturday, 4:20 p.m. Branston, CT.

  “Gabe! Where have you been? I’ve been calling you.…”

  Rosie walked inside the house the way she always did. It was strangely quiet today. And dark. She looked around and noticed the shades and curtains were all pulled shut and the lights were off.

  Gabe stood still, his hands in his pockets. His expression was strange, like a little boy caught stealing candy.

  Rosie started rattling off the things that had happened. The man Laura called from her phone was named Jonathan Fielding—he’d been assaulted and was unconscious. They wouldn’t know anything from him for a few days. The police were at her house, looking through Laura’s things, her computer. Joe had rushed off to be with Mason and he wasn’t answering his phone either.

  “What is it with the two of you?” she asked. “Anyway…”

  She told him about the records from the phone company—how they said Laura’s phone died on Richmond Street, not by the harbor. Fielding’s apartment was near Richmond Street, just like Rittle’s. Which explained the car being found there.

  “Can you call your contact back? Find out why she said that about the phone? Maybe Laura charged it in between the two signals.…”

  Gabe didn’t move. Not one muscle, not even his eyes blinked. If he hadn’t been standing up, she would have wondered if he was even alive.

  “I know you were researching Edward Rittle, but we need to find out more about Jonathan Fielding—that’s the man she was with last night. The man in the coma. I think maybe he’s into something bad. Something criminal. And Laura just got mixed up in it. Don’t you think? Isn’t that possible?”

  The theories that had seemed possible inside her head were suddenly absurd as she said them out loud. Most things were exactly what they seemed. The simplest answer was usually right. These were things Joe used to say. Joe … where are you?

  “Gabe … what if there’s really something wrong with her? What if she hurt this man and is running now? Scared and alone…”

  Rosie fell into Gabe, wrapping her arms around his neck as she started to cry. She waited to feel his arms wrap around her back, for his voice to calmly tell her it would all be okay. They would find Laura and they would help her through this. But he didn’t move. He stood straight and stiff like a piece of wood.

  Rosie didn’t move either then, except to open her eyes. She looked beyond his shoulder into the next room, the kitchen, and then stopped breathing.

  On the counter was her black purse.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Laura. Present Day. Saturday, 4:25 p.m. Branston, CT.

  Rosie!

  I climb down from the trunk and back up the stairs to the door. I press my ear against it, but all is quiet now.

  I move quickly back down the stairs and into the utility room to the Bilco hatch. I don’t look into the crawl space where Gabe’s wife is folded into a bag. I have to create a distraction. Gabe won’t want to hurt Rosie. He will want her to leave so he can finish his plan. Put me into the trunk of his car and drive out of town. I know that’s what he wants. He’s gone to great lengths to make this plan. To execute it. He’s made me sandwiches and a soft bed. He’s stroked my hair while he thought I was sleeping. He wants to finish the plan. And his plan does not include getting rid of Rosie’s body.

  Gabe told me to leave through the Bilco hatch if I heard three thuds on the ceiling. He had been careful with his footsteps, but maybe Rosie had been louder than he realized. Maybe I heard thuds when Rosie walked into the house. And maybe I’m trying to follow the plan and escape from the house.

  I put the bat down against the wall and grab both handles of the Bilco hatch. Then I push—hard against the chains, making the doors rattle. I push again. And again. And again.

  FORTY-NINE

  Rosie. Present Day. Saturday, 4:25 p.m. Branston, CT.

  Slowly, gently, she released her arms from around Gabe’s neck.

  Laura was inside this house. Gabe had been lying the whole time. That explained why he’d sent them off in the wrong direction. Chasing the wrong man at the wrong bar. It explained why he’d been so assertive, so strong for her and Joe in the face of Laura’s disappearance. And it explained why he was behaving so strangely now that she was here, inside this house. So close to Laura.

  The question now was whether Laura was safe here. Whether she was hiding somewhere, as desperate as Gabe was for Rosie to leave. Or whether she was hiding somewhere, desperate for Rosie to find her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, the way she would have hours before, when she had no reason to doubt him. “I’m just so scared.”

  She turned to face the living room, away from the kitchen, so he would have no reason to wonder if she’d seen the purse.

  “Is Melissa home?” she asked, now covering for why she had looked away and into another room.

  She turned back to Gabe and he opened his mouth as though he was going to answer, but then they both turned toward the bay window that looked out into the backyard.

  “What is that?” Rosie asked.

  There was a banging sound, metal against metal.

  She started to walk toward the window to open the curtains and look outside, but Gabe grabbed her arm, his fingers digging deeply into her skin.

  “It’s nothing,” he said. “The screen door out back doesn’t latch anymore. The slightest wind will blow it against the frame.”

  He smiled then, his face returning to normal. “It’s been driving me crazy all summer. Melissa will be home soon. That’s why I’m in a bit of a state, honestly. With everything happening with Laura—well, you know how she feels about her.”

  Rosie nodded. “I’m sorry, Gabe,” she said. “I should go. I’m sure the police can find out about the phone. And they’re already digging into Jonathan Fielding’s past, so they’ll find whatever there is to find. I’m just impatient and worried.”

  Gabe released his grip and led her back to the front door. “It’s fine, Rosie. You know I want to help if I can. Call me later. I promise I’ll answer this time.”

  Rosie felt a final surge of fear as she stepped outside the house. She could see her car. She
was so close to safety. But then Laura …

  The sound came again—metal on metal from behind the house. It was louder now that they were outside.

  “You should get that fixed,” Rosie said. Her mouth was dry, the words barely making it out.

  “I know. I will.” Gabe closed the door quickly and Rosie heard the turn of the locks.

  She didn’t look back. She got in her car, then took out her phone and called Joe.

  FIFTY

  Laura. Present Day. Saturday, 4:30 p.m. Branston, CT.

  Loud footsteps across the floor above me. I let go of the doors and race back to the foot of the stairs, the bat in my hands. I hear the bolt. I see the doorknob turn. There’s no time to get back up the stairs, behind the door where I can hide.

  I place the bat against the wall near my feet. I hold on to the stair rail and look up to the door. I watch it open. And wait.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Rosie. Present Day. Saturday, 4:30 p.m. Branston, CT.

  “Joe!” Rosie was frantic as she sat in her car, staring at Gabe’s house.

  “Where are you?” Joe asked.

  “I’m at Gabe’s. I think Laura is here. I saw my purse—the one she borrowed.…”

  Joe started yelling into the phone. “Get out of there! Right now!”

  Back and forth. Short bursts of information, each of them trying to catch up with the other.

  Joe was frantic as he told her what he’d found in his office files.

  “That man—Edward Rittle. I remembered the name from a case. Gabe worked it. Rittle was seeing our client’s wife. Gabe found him the same way he did yesterday.… He knew this guy was on the website.… He knew he was a cheater and a liar and he knew where he took women.… Rosie—it was all a setup.…”