by E. G. Scott
“Oh my! I’m so sorry. I’m so clumsy!” I crane my neck to see the screen before she’s even bent down completely to gather up the mess.
“Not to worry, honey.” There is a tinge of exasperation as she starts to stack the boxes, and I see the address under my husband’s name. The numbers and street name float around as my brain tries to process. It isn’t our address.
As she’s stacking the boxes on the counter, I move to help her and she softens. I steady my voice. “I’m curious, how did you know my name? You said it was the same as your daughter’s?”
“Oh, the piece is personalized. I saw the inscription on the work order. I just love the name Dana!”
twenty-seven
PAUL
THIS LAST MONTH with Dana has given me more clarity than I ever knew I could experience.
I hadn’t realized how much I’d closed myself off from my life and the people in it. How much I’d penned myself in with the walls I’ve built and the tales I’ve told. But all of that is changing now. I feel as if I’ve finally gotten in touch with a part of myself that was there all along but that I never recognized. Until now. And I have Dana to thank for all of it.
The kind of intimacy that I’ve experienced during our time together has allowed me to finally feel safe enough to let go of the delusions and bullshit I’ve been hanging on to for all these years. I can feel the artifice peeling away. I feel lighter. I feel like I can breathe more freely. I feel like I want to face myself, head-on. I can sense the weight of the deceptive behavior I’ve engaged in and am desperate to shake free of. And with one exception, I’m almost there.
Rebecca can’t know. Not yet. Not until the time is exactly right. I just need to tie everything up and get my situation fully figured out, and then I can let her in on what’s been happening. I’ll explain my relationship with Dana and how she’s helped me to truly open my eyes. I know that Rebecca will understand.
* * *
THE NIGHTMARES HAVE been arriving fewer and farther between. No longer am I driving nightly under cover of darkness to dig up the body that turns out to be my wife’s. And the last time I dreamt of the snowstorm, it was hardly the nightmare I’d gotten used to.
I was trudging through the snow, in winter boots this time. I sensed something on my tail, but as I turned around, I saw that the snow was filling in my tracks. I spotted a line of trees just off to the side of the open field and cut sharply toward it. I hid behind the thick trunk of a snow-dappled oak and watched as the two detectives passed by, oblivious to my position.
I woke up next to Rebecca for the first time since she’d gotten over her illness. With a sense of relief, I rolled over and wrapped my arms around her. “I love you, Madoo.”
She groaned and swatted me away, in the adorable way that she does. I rolled back onto my other side and slept straight through until morning.
* * *
AS FAR AS I CAN TELL, Wolcott and Silvestri have grown bored of sniffing around. I thought I’d caught sight of them a couple weeks back as I was returning home from Smithtown, but I’ve become increasingly convinced that it was just a case of my nerves going haywire. They haven’t been poking around the house, and Rebecca hasn’t mentioned anything since she’s been back to the office. I’m more than happy to be rid of those pests.
Javier and the boys are just about wrapped up with the framing. They’ve hustled their asses off thus far, and it looks like they’ve got room in their schedules to stay on with me to help with the roofing, siding, and flooring. These guys really seem to take pride in their work. Also, the fact that I can afford to pay them time and a half on the weekends doesn’t hurt. At this rate, as long as the plumber, electrician, and painting crew can keep this thing from looking like a monkey fucking a football, we should be able to finish up construction just in time.
twenty-eight
WOLCOTT
“HOW LONG CAN we sit on this asshole?”
My partner and I are perched inside the cruiser in the dwindling light of dusk.
“Getting antsy, Silvestri?”
“No, I’m actually asking. How long will the department let us keep tabs on Campbell?”
“Well, luckily for us, Suffolk is a pretty sleepy county most of the time.”
“Yeah, lucky us.”
We’ve been following Paul Campbell to this house in Smithtown regularly. “Patience, my friend.”
“Two weeks, Wolcott. Two fucking weeks. And so far, we’ve got Campbell screwing around on his wife. Little mystery there, considering who we’re dealing with. Wouldn’t take Sherlock Holmes to piece it together.”
“Yeah, I suppose Larry Holmes could probably handle this one.”
Silvestri chuckles. “You follow the pugilists?”
“It’s the gentleman’s sport, after all.”
“Right. You mind if I eat dinner? I’m getting the growls.”
“Have at it.”
Silvestri reaches underneath the seat and produces the sack. He removes a jar and unscrews the lid, unleashing a wave of stench.
“Jesus, man. What went bad?”
“The cabbage.” He takes a bite and chews it slowly.
“I worry about you sometimes.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m taking care of myself, brother. Want a bite?”
I recoil. “Good God, man. No.”
“It’s just kimchi. It’s fermented.”
“I know what kimchi is. You’re a fan, huh?”
“Fuck no. It’s terrible. But it’s great for your gut. Probiotics.”
“You go in for that?”
“Swear by it. Science, man. Prebiotics and probiotics. Sets you up right.”
“Wait, what are prebiotics?”
“Helps you digest the probiotics. Gets your stomach set up in a kind of a loop. The asparagus and garlic I was eating before? Good prebiotics.”
“Hmm. How’d you learn all of that?”
“Read up on it, around the time I was really learning to cook. Had some time on my hands.”
“When was that?”
“When the old lady left.”
“She handled the cooking, huh?”
“No, I used to get down in the kitchen. But after she left, I figured out how to look after myself a little better.”
“Hmm.”
He’s silent for a long moment. “I used to have a bit of a fucking issue with the sauce. After she took off, I took stock of some things. Changed up some habits. It’s all part and parcel, living healthy.”
“I hear you.” I turn to look at my partner. “You still good on that?”
“The bottle? Yeah, all good there.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Oh, here we go.”
I follow his eyes to the front porch of the house, where a light has gone on over the doorway. After a moment, the door opens. Paul Campbell walks out, followed by a woman looking to be in her late fifties.
“What’s this now?” asks my partner.
Campbell hooks arms with the woman as they walk down the path and toward the driveway.
“Interesting,” I conclude.
As they approach Campbell’s Jeep, the woman leans in for a long hug. They exchange words for a few moments, then trade a kiss on the cheek before Campbell gets in and starts the engine.
“Very cozy, these two,” says Silvestri. He turns to me with eyes wide. “He seems to have charmed the hell out of the mother.”
“Really embracing the ‘family man’ role. This guy is just brimming with surprises.”
The woman waves warmly at Paul Campbell as he backs out of the driveway and turns onto the street.
I key the engine. “Let’s see where this animal takes us.”
* * *
WE’RE HALFWAY BACK to Stony Brook when Silvestri’s cell phone rings.
&nb
sp; “Detective Silvestri . . . Yes, yes . . . You don’t say? . . . Okay, great . . . Yeah, give it to me.” He reaches into the glove compartment, takes out a pen and a deli napkin, and starts jotting. “Terrific . . . I could kiss you . . . Thanks a million.” He hangs up the phone, a grin plastered on his face.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Well, this is one of those good news, bad news scenarios.”
“I’ll bite. Bad news first.”
“Now, are you generally a bad-news-first sort of guy, or is it just—”
“I’m on the edge of my seat, Silvestri.”
“You’re going to have to turn around.”
“Where are we going?”
“Huntington. We just got a hit on Sasha Anders’s credit card.”
* * *
THE MOTEL IS A MODEST AFFAIR. Cozy, but wholesome-looking. We approach the front desk and are greeted cheerily by a young woman barely out of her teens.
“Welcome to the Huntington Inn. Will you gentlemen be checking in together or separately this evening?”
My partner nods in my direction and offers the young woman an exaggerated look of arrogant confidence. “He wishes.”
I interpret her giggle as an opening and take a split second to consult the name badge on her polo shirt. “Good evening, Gina. My name is Detective Wolcott, and this is my partner, Detective Silvestri.”
“How can I help you, Detectives?” The look of concern—and lack of suspicion—on Gina’s face confirms that this is exactly the sort of establishment I suspected it was.
“Gina,” I continue. “We’re investigating a missing person, and it appears that their credit card was used here earlier today. Would you be able to look up that information for us?”
“Why of course, Detectives. What was the name of the guest?”
“Sasha Anders. A-N-D-E-R-S.”
Gina taps away at the keyboard. “Oh, okay, yes. Here we are. Sasha Anders. Checked in for two nights. Put the room charges on the card and left just before checkout time this morning.”
“And that’s eleven A.M.?” chimes in Silvestri.
“It sure is.” Gina’s brow furrows as she studies the computer screen. “Oh, right.”
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“It’s just, well . . . this was weird.”
“What was weird, dear?” asks my partner.
“I remember her when she checked in. So pretty. Looked really nice. Blond. Had this really gorgeous red Fendi bag with her too. Actually matched the convertible Jag she was driving. She was wearing a cap from Lotus Pedal, where I take spin. I was surprised I hadn’t noticed her in class or anything.”
“Okay.”
“So, she checks in alone, goes up to her room for a while, then leaves for the afternoon. Says goodbye on the way out. Like, supernice. She comes in and out a few times over the couple of days that she’s staying with us. I’m working most of that time, because Shannon, the other girl that works here, has been out with some kind of, like, stomach bug or something. Anyway, I only ever see Mrs. Anders coming in or out alone.”
“Right.”
“She checks out alone this morning. But then when housekeeping goes up to the room after she’s left, the place looks like a tornado hit it.”
“Is that so?” I ask.
“But, like, really bad.” Gina leans in closer, and her cheeks flush. “I mean, lots of sex stuff and all that.”
“Hmm,” I ponder. “Not to make you uncomfortable, but what sort of stuff?”
She lowers her voice to a whisper, even though we’re the only three people in the lobby. “Maria from housekeeping said there were condom wrappers, and lube, and the sheets were kind of all over the room and on the furniture and stuff. There were some pills lying around. Oh, and one of the lamps was broken. We were trying to reach her by phone earlier to let her know that we would be charging the damage to her card.”
“You have a phone number on file?” asks Silvestri.
“Yeah, she gave us one when she checked in, but when we tried it, it was disconnected.”
I take out my notebook and pen. “Gina, would you mind reading me back that number?”
She does, and I jot it down. “Great.” I nod in the direction of the security camera pointed down at us. “Do you happen to have a camera on the floor where Mrs. Anders was staying? Maybe we can get a look at her companion.”
“We do, but our whole system went down. The technician is scheduled to come in tomorrow and fix it. Sorry.”
“Not a problem. Is there a chance that any of the debris you found in the room is still on premises?”
“We saved the lamp. I think they were going to try and get it replaced or something.”
“How about any of the trash from the room?”
“No, housekeeping took care of that before the new guests checked in.”
Silvestri leans in closer to the desk. “Any possibility that trash is still in a dumpster on the premises?”
“No,” she says. “The trash gets picked up around two o’clock on Fridays. It’s long gone by . . .” Suddenly, her eyes brighten. “Wait a minute,” she whispers. “Are you guys looking for DNA or something?”
“You got us,” answers Silvestri.
“This is so cool.” She beams.
“Gina, are you happy here at the inn?” I ask. “Because we can always use young talent like yours at the academy.”
She blushes again. “Oh, you guys.”
I lean in slightly. “Before we take off, is there anything else you can remember?”
She thinks for a moment. “I mean, not really. Like I said, besides trashing the room, she was supernice.” Slowly, a look of concern takes shape on her face. “Wait, she’s not dangerous or anything, is she?”
I hold up an open palm. “Oh, we’re fairly certain that she poses no public threat.” I reach into my jacket pocket with the other hand and produce a business card. “Just the same, would you please give us a call if you see her again, or if you think of anything else that might be useful?” I hand her the card.
“Sure thing, Detectives.”
Silvestri pats the desk. “Gina, you’ve been a big help. Thank you so much. Hope the rest of your shift goes quickly.”
“Thanks, guys. You too. And stay safe out there.”
twenty-nine
REBECCA
IT HAS BEEN two weeks since the trip to the jewelry store. Two weeks of waking up with the alarm and either getting dressed for work as usual or for a prework Lotus Pedal class. I’ve packed lunches as usual, pretended to read emails over coffee in the morning, and fabricated marathon meeting days. I keep waiting for the shoe to drop and for Paul to catch me in my lie, but he’s too absorbed in his own to notice. Every day is a struggle to appear as though we are completely and totally back to normal. Paul is busy and preoccupied, but he’s also lighter and happy. I am the opposite.
Our house isn’t safe anymore. Most nights, I lie next to him unable to sleep, thinking I hear Sheila pulling herself along the carpet toward me. If I do fall asleep, I wake up every night around three A.M. The feeling that someone is in the house draws me out of bed every time. I walk through each room quietly, pulling back the shower curtain, checking behind the living room drapes, ferreting out any intruders in closets and under the bed. The only presence I find is myself becoming a little more unhinged with each passing night.
To gauge my sanity, or sanity lacking, I’ve been taking photos on my phone of each room before I get into bed and comparing them to what’s there when the sun is up. I am not crazy. Closet doors and drawers that were shut are ajar by the light of day. Faucets are running that I didn’t turn on, and windows that I have closed and locked mysteriously open in the night. A few times I’ve heard sounds throughout the house like someone is moving slowly and carefully around each room bu
t I haven’t wanted to wake Paul, since I haven’t been entirely sure if the sounds were outside my head. One morning I swiped through the images from the night before and caught a flash of something in the foreground of the living room behind the curtain. A shadow about the size and shape of a person. I zoom in and it is hard to tell from the photo if what I’m seeing is anything more than a shadow of something inanimate. But the more I examine it, the more it looks like an outline of someone around my height.
I fight the urge to confide in Paul. He’s good at shutting down and blocking out the thoughts that don’t serve him. Sheila, the detectives, the truth about how he spends his day are all off-limits topics. I learned my lesson after a few nights of sleep deprivation, a healthy pour of wine, and one too many Percocets. He was falling asleep with my head on his chest. I was listening to the sound of his heartbeat and feeling warmer toward him than my usual furious state.
“Paul?”
“Mmmm?”
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Madoo, come on.”
“What? Do you believe in life after death?”
“No.”
“Not at all?”
“Not even a little bit. I don’t believe in wasting time talking about ghosts, let alone believing in them.”
“We never talk about this stuff.”
“Come on, babe. This conversation is childish.”
“But what about if someone dies violently and gets stuck in between the living and moving on to wherever the afterlife is? What about—?”
“By that logic you and I would have seen half a dozen ghosts between us.”
“Maybe I have, Paul.”
“Madoo. I’m not going to have this conversation.”
“Well, technically you are having it.”
