The Request

by David Bell

  There was a long pause. I thought she might hang up on me.

  “Ryan, you know Bill is a very good listener. If you’d like to, come over sometime and talk to him. Or maybe the two of you could go out for a beer or something when he gets back, even though it’s early. I could take Henry to the park and leave the house to you. It’s important to talk. Maybe you could get some perspective. We know Amanda very well, and she can be difficult if she feels she’s been betrayed. She seems very rational and calm most of the time, and she is. But betrayal and dishonesty can really get her. She just needs time to come to her senses—”

  “Karen. Karen, it’s fine. Just take care of Henry for us. Okay? It gives us peace of mind knowing he’s with you.”

  I hoped the flattery would work, that it would redirect her away from the questions about the events of the last couple of days. It did.

  “Well, you know we just love to have him here. He’s a doll.”

  “Yes, we know. Now, are you sure Amanda didn’t say anything about where she was going today? Anything at all?”

  “She was pretty evasive. . . .”

  The volume of the TV increased. It felt like Karen had moved closer to the set, almost like she’d placed the phone up against the speaker. I angled my phone away from my ear to get some relief.

  “Karen?”

  “Ryan, is Amanda okay? I’m concerned about all of this. She’s our daughter . . . our only . . . and if you can’t find her and she didn’t tell us where she was going, then we’re going to start worrying. All these things you men do. The drinking and the driving. The stuffing away of feelings. It ends up hurting people. Please tell me something that will set my mind at ease.”

  “There’s a lot of stuff going on right now. I think Amanda just needed time to clear her head. She learned a lot of things pretty quickly, even some things about me she didn’t really know.”

  “Are you the one who’s been giving money to that family? The girl who was hurt in the accident? They’re saying that on the news.”

  “That’s part of it, okay? Yes, I have been doing that. And Amanda didn’t know about it.”

  “Oh, my. I bet she’s angry. She can get her back up with the best of them when she’s pushed. But where is she now?”

  “Karen, can you do me a favor? If Amanda calls or texts or comes by, will you have her call me right away? The police need to talk to her.”

  “The police?” Her voice rose an octave. Louder and higher than the TV. “Ryan, Amanda didn’t do anything. She didn’t do anything at all, did she?”

  “Are you sure she didn’t say where she was going today? Think hard. Even just the smallest hint about what she might have been doing.”

  “She didn’t tell us anything, Ryan,” Karen said. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe she’s just clearing her head. I’d like to think that. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, I would. I’m trying to.”

  But in the back of my mind, I thought of the threatening messages sent to Jennifer by someone. Amanda leaving the house without telling any of us where she was going.

  “A couple of days ago, Karen, Amanda asked you to come over to the house to watch Henry while she went out. Do you remember that?”

  “Sure. Of course.”

  “Did she say where she was going that afternoon?”

  “Let’s see. . . . She said she had an errand to run. She was gone about an hour. Maybe a little more. I thought maybe she went to the store, but she didn’t have any bags when she came back.”

  “How did she seem?”

  “Oh, frazzled. Like most young moms are. I think Henry was being difficult. You know, I wouldn’t have cared if she just wanted to go out and have a glass of wine with a friend. That would be okay with me. Maybe she did, although she didn’t seem any more relaxed when she came back than when she left. But she didn’t tell me anything.”

  “I see. . . .”

  From time to time, I lost sight of how smart my mother-in-law really was. While she could seem distracted and fuzzy as she grew older, she also managed to surprise me with pointed insights when I least expected them. That day looking for Amanda was no different. The most important things failed to get past her.

  “That’s the day that girl was murdered, wasn’t it?” Karen said. “The day she asked me to come over to watch Henry.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “And on the news they’re saying that was about the time she died. Late afternoon.”

  “Karen, if she calls or comes by, please tell her to call me. Immediately.”

  “Ryan, all of this makes me wonder what was going on. With you. And her.”

  I chose not to clarify who she meant by “her.” Was it Amanda? Or Jennifer?

  I didn’t have time. And it didn’t matter.

  “Just take good care of Henry,” I said, and ended the call.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  I’d spent the morning ignoring texts, voice mails, and social media messages from concerned friends who had seen my name splattered all over the news. Hours had passed with me swimming in a self-imposed news-blackout bubble.

  So when I started calling Amanda’s friends, a number of whom had already reached out to me, they assumed I wanted to talk about Jennifer or Aaron or Kyle or something related to that mess. When I cut their questions off, trying as much as possible to be courteous, and asked them if they’d heard anything from Amanda, their confusion and then their suspicions only grew.

  “Amanda?” they asked. “Don’t you know where Amanda is? Isn’t she with you?”

  I stammered over my responses, even though I knew the questions would be coming.

  “I’m not sure where she went,” I’d tell them. “And I just really need to talk to her.”

  I left out any mention of the police. Or the hacking of Jennifer’s Facebook account. Or the mystery of Amanda’s whereabouts on the day Jennifer died. I sacrificed a chunk of the truth in exchange for protecting Amanda from the suspicion of her friends. If they wanted to cast blame, they could cast it on me, the doltish husband who kept secrets and embarrassed his wife. I hoped no one would ever find out what Rountree had told me. I hoped Amanda would be found, and there would be a simple explanation for everything.

  After a series of fruitless calls, I headed upstairs. Amanda kept an office in the room next to Henry’s. When company came, we put them on the couch in my office because it folded out into a bed. And then our guests were far away from us at night.

  I almost never went into her office when she wasn’t in there. It was her private space, a room where she could retreat and get her work done. Or she could hand Henry off to me in the evenings or on the weekends while she shut the door and polished her résumé or stayed up to date in her field. I understood the need for that designated work space.

  Unlike me, Amanda managed to keep her desk clean and orderly. A place for everything and everything in its place. Files and cabinet drawers were labeled. Pencils, pens, and Sharpies were neatly arranged in a cup. Every office supply—stapler, Post-its, paper clips—was within easy reach and functional. More often than not, I couldn’t find my stapler. And when I pushed down on it, I’d find out it was empty.

  Amanda’s laptop sat in the middle of the desk, a silver island amid all the clean space. I’d never gone on there without her permission. And even when I had permission, it felt strange. Sort of like—

  Sort of like being in a stranger’s house when they weren’t home.

  Or scrolling through a stranger’s texts and social media messages after they were dead.

  I opened the lid of the laptop.

  Her screen saver greeted me. A photo of Henry in his crib smiling like he knew the secret to a happy life. And a request for the password.

  I knew it. Amanda had told me over a year ago, when she’d bought the computer, what the password was in case
I ever needed it. I hoped she hadn’t changed it since then. If she’d changed it and hadn’t told me . . .

  I entered the password. The name of her favorite book when she was a child along with the number she wore on the softball team in high school. WindWillow43.

  It worked. Everything on her neatly organized desktop appeared to me. I sat down and used my finger on the pad to move the cursor around until I opened her text message app. I imagined archaeologists way in the future trying to decode our language of emojis and abbreviations. Our one-sentence and fragmentary communications. Would they find anything worth digging up?

  I saw my name. Sam’s. Karen’s. Bill’s. Several friends’, and the name of Amanda’s cousin in Los Angeles.

  But right at the top, clear as day: Steve.

  I felt a little jab in my guts, a sharp twist of jealousy. The back of my neck where my skin met my shirt collar grew warmer. Sweat formed there.

  I knew how Amanda had felt seeing those messages from Jennifer.

  She and Steve had been talking just twenty minutes earlier. In other words, right before Amanda left the house, supposedly to get Henry. But really not.

  So what was she doing?

  I scanned the messages, and a few phrases jumped out.

  Someone threatened this Jennifer.

  Police can’t trace it.

  Someone named Lily Rose. Do you know who that is?

  Oh, God. I have to go.

  Lily Rose? Threatened Jennifer?

  Why did Amanda have to go once she read that name?

  I remembered the other threatening messages from that account.

  I entered Steve’s number into my phone and hit CALL as I started down the stairs.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  Steve answered by the time I reached the kitchen. I took my keys and wallet off the counter, left the bat resting in the corner of the room, even though a part of me wanted to grab it.

  “This is Amanda Francis’s husband,” I said. “Ryan.”

  “Oh,” he said. “I see.”

  “Yes, you see. Where is she?”

  I started for the back door. If my collar had been hot when I was upstairs, it reached the boiling point when I heard his voice. My actions were frantic. I dropped my keys twice as I walked to the door, the phone cradled against my shoulder. My heart thumped, and I wanted to shout. Really shout.

  I wanted to reach through the phone and throttle him.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who is Lily Rose? What’s going on here? You know, the cops are looking for you. They’re going to track you down. They know about the hacking. Do you think you can skate on this?”

  I stopped by the door, my hands shaking. I wanted to make sure I really heard what he had to say.

  “Look,” Steve said. “I can tell you what I know.”

  “Where’s Amanda?”

  “That I don’t know.”

  “Don’t lie to me.” I saw Henry’s high chair, his plastic cup sitting on the dish rack. A copy of his birth announcement still on the refrigerator. “You’re in the middle of this.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t be talking to you.”

  His voice was so calm, so reasonable, that I wanted to shout. Then I saw my hurried movements and shaking hands from the outside for a moment. I was stomping around like an angry kid. And what was it accomplishing? Nothing. None of my theatrics would tell me where Amanda was. Or who Lily Rose was.

  I took two deep breaths, felt the sweat on the back of my neck cool a little.

  “Don’t say that,” I said. “What do you know?”

  “I don’t know where Amanda is,” he said.

  I hated hearing him say her name. Hated it.

  He went on. “I texted her this morning. I looked over the messages on that Facebook account we hacked when I heard all the details of the murder. This Jennifer’s murder. I saw that someone had been threatening her. Someone named Lily Rose. So I wanted to tell Amanda about it. I knew she was dealing with the police. I thought she could put the detectives in touch with me. But Amanda . . . she acted very upset and scared when she saw that name. Lily Rose. It’s like she knew who that was.”

  “And who was it? Is it someone you work with?”

  “She didn’t say. She said she had to go. I tried calling her, but she didn’t answer.”

  “That’s it?” I asked. “That’s all you know?”

  “That’s it. Okay? If I knew more, I’d tell you.”

  “Well, you can tell the cops,” I said. “They’re going to be coming to talk to you.”

  “They’re on their way over now. I can show them everything I have. Which isn’t much.”

  Again, he sounded so calm. So rational. I wanted to say something. Insult him. Call him a name.

  But nothing came to mind.

  So I said, “If you hear from her, tell her to call me.”

  “I will.”

  I poked the red END CALL button with as much force as I could muster. It in no way felt satisfying.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  Lily Rose.

  Who the hell?

  I gripped my keys tighter and pulled the back door open. The cool morning air brushed over me. Someone was mowing their lawn, and the sweet smell of freshly cut grass hit me, mocking me with its invocation of more innocent times.

  I pulled the door shut and started to lock it.

  “Hold it.”

  I froze. That husky voice. The time of morning.

  I spun. “I can’t deal with you, Dawn.”

  She stood ten feet away, her hip cocked, her hands stuffed into the pockets of a hoodie. Her features were set as hard as marble. Her hair was loose from her ponytail, and dark circles showed under her eyes.

  It must have been a long, sleepless night for her as well.

  “You have to,” she said. “This is the time.”

  “It’s over, Dawn. With you and me and all of this. The secrets are out. And I have to go.”

  I started to move past her and she moved along with me, blocking my way. Her running shoes scraped against the pavement of the driveway like a basketball player’s.

  “Get out of the way,” I said.

  I reached out, intending to brush her aside, but she held her ground.

  And pushed her hand forward in the pocket of her hoodie. Something long and firm pointed at me. Something that wasn’t a human finger.

  “Dawn? This is crazy.”

  “You didn’t lock the door yet. I was watching. Get back inside.”

  “No.”

  I tried to move past her with greater speed, and again she moved along with me. She came close enough to press the object in her pocket against my ribs. She applied so much pressure it hurt.

  It was sharp. Metal.

  A gun barrel. For real.

  “Get back inside,” she said.

  For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, a nutjob threatened me with a gun. While more sweat poured down my back, my insides turned to ice.

  “Go,” she said.

  Did I have a choice?

  I backed up slowly, making no sudden moves, and pushed the door open. Dawn followed me inside. Her eyes were narrow, the pupils like polished river stones. She left the door open behind her, the view of the green grass and the car beyond taunting me with the possibility of escape. But it was so far away from me with her in between.

  I thought of yelling or screaming, but if she was desperate enough, she might just cut me down as soon as I shouted. I had no idea how far she’d go. But at that point, she seemed determined to go as far as she could.

  “I don’t have the money for you,” I said. “Even if I wanted to give it to you, it’s not here. And the bank is closed on Saturday. I could get a few hundred bucks out of an ATM, but that’s all. Come back Monday.”


  I’d positioned myself when I came in the door so that the table was between us. I harbored some faint hope that if a bullet flew, I could drop down and find some shelter or protection. But as I spoke, Dawn moved around the end of the table, coming closer, that threatening object in her pocket always zeroed in right on my torso.

  “Monday’s too late,” she said.

  “Too late for what?”

  A change passed over her face. Her chin quivered ever so slightly. And the hardness went out of her eyes and was replaced by welling tears. Her cheeks flushed.

  For a moment, the gun wavered inside her hoodie as though she’d grown momentarily weaker.

  “You’d never understand the loss my parents suffered,” she said.

  “I know. I can’t.”

  “Everything they’d dreamed of stripped away. Two children’s lives cut off.”

  The cold inside me turned to nausea. “I’m sorry. I am.”

  “And me . . . what have I done for them? They couldn’t count on me either.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I’d been so intently focused on Dawn—on the object in Dawn’s pocket—that I hadn’t been watching the door.

  But someone slipped in. They moved stealthily, like a cat.

  A familiar figure . . .

  And then they were behind Dawn. Pressing something into the small of her back.

  “Drop it,” Bill said. “Just take it easy and drop it.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

  Bill reached around Dawn’s waist and took the object out of her hoodie pocket.

  It was a gun. Black and sleek, the light from the window above the sink reflecting off the barrel. Bill adroitly racked the slide and ejected the clip.

  “Nothing,” he said. “It’s not loaded.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. I wanted to slump down on the floor and let every tense and corded muscle in my body unclench.

  Dawn appeared to feel the same way. She took a hesitant step forward and pulled out one of the kitchen chairs. She dropped into it, letting her body weight crash into the seat. Her shoulders slumped, and for the first time since I’d met her, her body looked limp and powerless. She put her head in her hands, as though Bill and I weren’t in the room.