The Shadow Box

by Luanne Rice

  “Thank you, I love it,” I said, holding the book. Not just because I adored poems but because he had been so thoughtful, had brought me an unexpected gift. I’d been on edge, walking on eggshells with him to avoid setting off his moods, and the weekend was a healing balm. No stress. No anger.

  “Let me read one to you,” he said.

  “Should I choose it?” I asked.

  “No, let me.”

  We were lying on the rug in front of the fireplace, snuggled up with down bed pillows and comforter, firelight reflecting on the ceiling above us.

  “Here’s one,” he said and read one of her most exuberant:

  “Wild nights—Wild nights

  Were I with thee

  Wild nights should be . . .”

  I laughed and held him tight, loving the spirit of the poem, the energy and emotion he put into reading it. We joked about having our own wild night, and our passion kept us up so late that we slept through breakfast and didn’t start skiing until nearly noon.

  On the way home, we stopped at the Long Brook flea market, wanting to buy something to always remind us of the weekend and our wild night. I had thought it would be something for us to share, but as soon as he saw the table—old scarred maple, held together with wooden pegs—he said I had to have it.

  “For your studio,” he said. “So you can spend all day working and thinking of me.”

  “I always think of you,” I said.

  “But this will be different,” he said, putting his arm around me. “This table will hold your supplies. Your boxy things.”

  “Shadow boxes,” I said.

  “Right,” he said, chuckling—and that laugh was my signal that it was all about to change. “Shadow boxes, sorry. Sounds like something kids make in art class. Anyway, this table will hold all the weird little things you pick up. It’ll support them, hold them up, the way I do for you.”

  “Well, we do that for each other,” I said. I didn’t know if he was referring to money—he certainly had more than I did, but I sold my art, earned a living.

  “Don’t pretend it’s equal,” he said. We were standing at the checkout; he had his credit card ready.

  “Which part?” I asked.

  “Support,” he said. “I’m giving you all I have.”

  “And I’m not doing that for you?”

  “You could be more understanding,” he said, his jaw set and his eyes darkening. I knew I had a choice—I could fight him on his statement, stand up for myself and say it was hard to be understanding of someone who flew off the handle so easily. But instead I took his hand, squeezed it, and forced myself to smile. I chose to believe that the weekend was a new start.

  I tried not to think of Nate—easygoing, even-tempered Nate, the husband I had taken for granted and had left. I told myself that Griffin had been through so much in his childhood, had gone through a bad time with Margot, and that it was up to me to be patient while he learned how to love me. Yes, I was in the running to be a new age saint.

  We loaded the table into the back of the Jeep. When we got home to Catamount Bluff, Wade Lockwood met us on the road; he helped Griffin carry my new worktable into the studio, setting it down in this very spot where I now stood. I hadn’t moved it since.

  It held the materials I had started to gather to build the shadow box for Max Coffin. I had sketched Ravenscrag from memory—from the walk I’d taken with Evans and Max to the seawall, when I’d looked back at the house and noticed all the bizarre features.

  My drawing was still on the spiral-bound sketchpad. I had collected a basket of black feathers—whether they came from crows, grackles, red-winged blackbirds, or ravens, I wasn’t sure.

  I had already built the frame. It was fourteen-by-sixteen inches, four inches deep. I had cut basic shapes from balsa wood—the outline of the house, the crenellations of the towers—and glued them into place within the frame, ready to be adorned with other elements. Even with the anxiety of being home, the artist in me was pleased to see I had succeeded in giving the impression of Ravenscrag.

  I counted on the fact that Griffin was so deeply uninterested in my work that he wouldn’t have disturbed this shadow box, and I was right about that. I lifted the false bottom and saw the envelope inside. This is what I had come for.

  I pulled out the letter from Evans. It was written in blue ink on pale-blue stationery, in small, tight handwriting, and had arrived days before I was attacked. Finally, I had learned what she had been trying to tell me that night at Griffin’s fundraiser.

  Dear Claire,

  I am writing this by hand because Max reads my email, checks the call logs on my phone.

  You know the Last Monday Club has twenty members. But within it is a much smaller group—my husband, his brother, Wade, and Griffin. Over the last two months those men have split from the club and come here to Ravenscrag. It is more private, and they need privacy as they strategize your husband’s election campaign. Alexander and Ford were at the last meeting.

  They are the most powerful men in Connecticut, and they are counting on Griffin to eviscerate the laws and protections that hold their companies in check. They are counting on him, as governor, to deliver more riches, more power, to them all.

  I have heard them talking. They believe that you have “something on him” that could prevent his election. You pose a threat to him—to them.

  Perhaps my imagination is too vivid. Perhaps the danger to you is mostly in my head, but I strongly believe it’s greater than that, and you are not the only one. Dan Benson, another member of the club but not of the inner circle, “has something” on Griffin as well, and he also needs to be careful . . .

  I heard footsteps and voices, so I quickly tucked the letter back into the envelope and looked out the window. Alexander and Emily were walking toward the beach with two children—I immediately recognized them from news stories: Gwen and Charlie Benson. I knew Gwen had been rescued, but I’d thought Charlie was dead. Like me, he had come back to life.

  My emotions went wild—I wanted to grab the children, get them away from here. I hesitated for just a moment. I always believed that Alexander was kind. I’d seen him being gentle, not like Ford. Was it possible he and Emily had the children’s best interests at heart? No, I thought. He was just better able to hide his evil, like his father. He’d been at the meeting, part of the group targeting Dan and me. I had to save Gwen and Charlie.

  I shoved the letter into my pocket, then took a deep breath. I stepped outside my studio door, ready to call to Alexander and pretend I still thought he was good. Hide the fact that I knew everything.

  “Claire,” Griffin said quietly.

  I wheeled around. The sound of his voice made my fists clench, ready to defend myself and fight him off. He was standing right there, ten feet away, in the shadow of the privet hedge.

  “I wondered what happened to you,” he said.

  “I escaped,” I said, staring into his green eyes.

  “That’s unfortunate,” he said.

  “I’ll scream,” I said, pointing at Alexander and Emily and the children.

  “It won’t matter,” he said. “My sons will always help me.”

  We had an audience—the four of them standing still, watching us. Would Griffin kill me right in front of them? I glanced at his hands; he didn’t seem to have a weapon.

  “I didn’t expect you to be here,” he said in an almost confessional tone. “I was planning to meet the children and get them set up.”

  “The Benson children?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “Their mother’s death was a terrible accident. Who could ever have guessed? Only Dan was supposed to die. A quick shot to his head after they docked at Block Island. And you were supposed to go, too, of course.”

  “Why?”

  “Because neither of you could be trusted to keep your mouths shut. To be discreet and loyal. You couldn’t forget Ellen.”

  “And Marnie,” I said. “She deserves to be remembered too.”


  “You see? You’re obsessed, how would you even know that? I never told you. I suppose there’s someone else out there who wants to take me down. You’re going to tell me who that is,” he said. “Jackie—you’ve talked to her about it?” Griffin asked.

  I thought of Jackie and Spencer, clenched my jaw and felt a trickle of cold sweat run down my back, knowing I had to warn and protect them.

  “I was young and . . . overactive,” Griffin said. “People make mistakes, but they deserve to be forgiven, especially when they’re in a life of public service. Let’s go inside, so you can tell me who else you’ve told,” he said. I stared at his eyes. They were the barometer of his rage, and they were still green.

  “What about Gwen and Charlie?” I asked quickly. “You said you’re going to get them set up?”

  “Of course,” he said. “They are innocent, and now they’re orphans.”

  “You killed Dan?”

  “Ford did. I told you, my sons will always help me.” He stared hard at me. “You’re worrying about the Benson children. Don’t. I know what it’s like to suffer as a child, to be badly treated, abandoned. I could never do that to them. They will be fine.”

  “Where are you going to send them?” I asked, horrified by yet another of Griffin’s machinations, playing with lives, discarding them when they threatened or had no further use.

  “We have friends,” he said. “Who will take care of them. You don’t have to worry, Claire. They will have everything they could ever need or want.”

  “Except their parents.”

  He laughed. “Listen to you, talking about family. How ironic.” His eyes narrowed. “You were going to abandon us, weren’t you, Claire? I felt it—I could almost read your mind. You knew my political plans—how critical this election year is to my future. A separation, divorce, and whatever garbage you planned to publicize about Ellen would ruin me. It would destroy our future.”

  “Our future?” I asked.

  “Not yours and mine,” he said. “My sons’ and friends’. My true friends.”

  “The inner circle?” I asked. “The men? So you can make them richer, share the power?”

  “Get inside,” he said, grabbing my shoulder with one hand, shoving me toward the door. At the same moment, he gestured to Alexander and yelled, “Take them out of here now!”

  The children began to cry, and the girl dashed ahead. Emily lurched after her, grabbed her, distracting Alexander and Griffin.

  I wrenched myself out of his grip and started to run. I thought of how Griffin had ambushed me in the garage that Friday—and it was him, I was sure now—I had felt that same grip on my arm, smelled his sweat rank with hate and violence.

  I heard a boat engine putting along, just down the bluff. Was it here to take the children away? To be flown out of the country? If I could just beat Griffin to the rickety stairs, I could grab the kids away from Alexander. As I started to run, I rounded the end of the stone wall and saw Wade Lockwood hurrying from his house, blocking my way to the beach.

  Griffin grabbed me from behind, holding my arms so tight I felt he might rip them out of the sockets. “You shouldn’t have come back,” he whispered.

  Griffin put his hands around my neck and began to strangle me. I wrenched away, tried to run, and in that one instant before he caught me again, I looked into his eyes, and they were black. He grabbed me again.

  “Stop,” Wade shouted. “Not here.”

  “What the hell, old man?” Griffin asked, dropping his hands. I rubbed my throat and saw Ford walking down the hill with Leonora.

  “Wade,” Leonora said. “Have you lost your mind? You let her go and all is lost. Do you want victory in November or not?”

  “I didn’t say let her go. Just not here. I don’t want this on Catamount Bluff,” Wade said. “Take her somewhere else.”

  “I’ll take her somewhere, Dad,” Ford said. “You shouldn’t be involved anyway. We’ll protect you.”

  “Good boy,” Leonora said. “Griffin, let’s get the children out of here.”

  I was ready to run, but Ford and Wade grabbed me, tried to force me to the ground. I kicked and screamed, and Ford clamped his hand over my mouth. I bit him as hard as I could, and he wrenched away.

  “Goddamn you!” Griffin shouted and tackled me.

  I fought him with everything I had, scratched his face and kneed him so hard in the groin that he bellowed and rolled off me. I knelt on top of him, gasping for breath. I grabbed his neck with both hands and squeezed with all my might, the way he’d done to me. His cheeks were raked and bloody from my fingernails. He was moaning from the kick in the balls, his eyes nearly rolled back into his head with agony, but I pressed my thumbs into his Adam’s apple and made him look at me.

  “You murderer,” I said. “Your life is destroyed, you know that? And women brought you down.”

  Ford grabbed my hair and tried to pull me off Griffin, but I had the force of a wildcat in me. I banged him in the face with my elbow; bone met bone, and I heard his nose break. He grunted in pain, but I felt and heard an inhuman roar boil out of me, drowning out his pathetic cry. Sirens wailed, the sound coming from Shore Road, getting louder as the vehicles sped into Catamount Bluff.

  “Griffin,” I said, finally letting go of his neck. I stood up and towered over him. “I want you to realize that this is the moment everything changes for you. Right this very second. You’re over. And I’m here to watch it happen.”

  Griffin scrambled to his feet. Leonora had called to Alexander and Emily, and they were carrying the screaming children up the hill toward the house. Wade and Ford headed to the Lockwoods’ house; Griffin followed them, limping. They didn’t even wait for him.

  Our peaceful bluff hummed with noise. I heard that boat engine idling in the Sound, and now the police cars were so close that I heard their tires crunching on the driveway. The two children clutched each other, crying. At the sound of the sirens, the adults had abandoned them in the middle of the lawn.

  I went to the children, crouched down beside them, put my arms around them.

  “My name is Claire,” I said, my voice hoarse from Griffin’s hands around my neck. “Are you Gwen and Charlie?”

  Gwen nodded, eyes wide with terror.

  I glanced toward the main house and saw a dozen state and Black Hall police officers and other emergency personnel streaming onto the property. Conor Reid spotted us.

  “Claire,” Conor said, running over.

  “They killed Daddy! And they tried to kill her!” Gwen said.

  I hugged her as she wept into my shoulder. I felt her shaking with grief and horror.

  “Is it true?” I mouthed, looking at Conor. He nodded, and I could see the emotion in his eyes.

  “Gwen,” Conor said after a few moments, crouching beside us. “I’m going to take you and Charlie to your Aunt Lydia. She is going to be so happy to see you.”

  “You look like Tom,” Charlie said.

  “Yep,” Conor said. “He’s my big brother.”

  “They shot him,” Charlie said.

  “He’s going to be okay,” Conor said. “Jackie’s at the hospital with him right now.”

  “Bring Maggie to him,” Gwen said, lifting her face from my shoulder, shuddering as she tried to stop her sobs. “She will help him get well. She always makes him smile. We’ll share her with him.”

  I held Gwen’s and Charlie’s hands, and we walked with Conor around the big house I had lived in with Griffin, past the old barn where he’d nearly killed me the first time. The turnaround was full of emergency vehicles. I saw Ben Markham put handcuffs on Griffin. I left the children with Conor and walked over to stand in front of Ben and Griffin. Griffin glared at me, his pupils fully dilated, his eyes gleaming black.

  “Thank God you’re okay, Claire,” Ben said.

  “I’m better than okay,” I said, never taking my gaze off Griffin.

  “Get me away from her, Ben,” Griffin said.

  “Seems she h
as something to say to you,” Ben said. “So you’re gonna listen.”

  “Prison,” I said to Griffin in a quiet voice. “I wonder what that will be like for you. I hope when you get to the lockup today, you’ll think about what I said back there on the lawn. I hope you’ll remember, then and forever, the moment it all changed. And I hope that when you close your eyes, you’ll see us. Me, Ellen, Marnie, Spencer, all of us. That’s my wish for you, Griffin.”

  Then I nodded at Ben, letting him know I was done, and he opened the door to his police car and locked Griffin into the caged back seat.

  Other officers surrounded Ford, Alexander, Emily, and the Lockwoods. Conor walked toward me with Gwen and Charlie. A female EMT came over and knelt down beside the children, gently asking them if they were hurt.

  “I want you to get checked out too,” Conor said to me.

  “What about the kids?”

  “I’ll drive them to Shoreline General. And we’ll call their Aunt Lydia,” he said. “She’ll meet us there. She doesn’t even know about Charlie yet. You don’t have to worry, Claire. She’s their guardian now. She’s ready for this.”

  “I hope so,” I said, thinking of all they had lost, what they were about to face. Then, I suddenly thought of Jackie, of how she had supported me, been there for me, and how I had hurt her by hiding out so long. “Did Jackie call you?” I asked. “To tell you I had come back here?”

  “It was a race,” Conor said. “Between Jackie and your other friend.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Spencer Graham Fenwick,” he said. “She gave me a quick rundown about Griffin, and she told me to watch out for you. She was afraid he’d try again.”

  “Spencer did it,” I said. “Without her, there’d be no justice. She gave me the key to why he did it all.”

  I closed my eyes, thinking of the sisterhood: all of us who had been affected by Griffin’s violence. I wasn’t sure when Spencer planned to leave Charlestown. I knew she had important work to do, but I hoped she would stay for a while at least. We had so much more to talk about. I wanted to learn all she knew about monsters—men like Griffin. I hoped that maybe I would be able to help somehow. Justice was its own art, shining light into the shadows, complex yet ultimately as simple as can be: bringing balance, making things right. Helping women know that their experience, no matter how horrific, was their strength. It showed them that they were their own superheroes.