The Family Tree: a psychological thriller

by S. K. Grice

  Mrs. Nichols hung her hat on a hook at the doorway and smoothed stray hairs from her low bun. “We loved Patsy. Poor dear. Her last months were full of heartache.” Her lined jowls lifted into a smile. “Please come sit. We rarely get company these days.” She gestured to a bare wooden bench which was meant to be the sofa.

  Cough. Cough. Aggggkkk.

  I turned toward the sound. Someone in the back of the house was having a coughing fit.

  “Dear Mr. Nichols has been sick and in bed for the past two weeks. The doctor said it would be a slow recovery, but I just hope he’s better before Winter hits. We’re too old and fragile to deal with illness.” She sat on the bench and patted the space next to her. “It’s nice to have a visitor. Tell me, how are you adjusting to living in the house?”

  I sat next to her. “So far, so good. But about the landline… you’d said Patsy was getting calls from old friends?”

  “Well, she’d had a couple of messages from friends back in July. Why? Has anyone else called?”

  “Just someone who hangs up whenever I answer. It’s probably just kids, but I’m thinking about getting rid of the line. Do you really think any of Patsy’s old friends from home haven’t heard that she’s died?”

  “Hmm. I suppose most would have. But she only died a few months ago,” she said, raising a brow. “And with the holidays coming up, I’m sure an old friend or two will try to contact her.”

  Patsy’s phone had rung non-stop during Christmas and New Year’s. I did remember that. Calls from her childhood friend who now lived in California, or a distant cousin in Italy. Once from a long-ago lover in Costa Rica. Patsy had friends everywhere. “I suppose I can keep it until after New Year’s Day. After that, the phone is gone, though.”

  “I think keeping it a little longer is a good idea,” she said. “So, how’s everything else going at the house?”

  “Without Patsy and Annette around, it can get lonely at times.”

  “Can’t be too lonely.” She looked at my left hand. “I’ve noticed another car in the driveway.”

  My thumb went to my bare ring finger. “I guess you hadn’t heard that Aaron and I divorced.”

  “I did, dear. And I’m so sorry—”

  “Don’t be. The red Volvo you see in my driveway belongs to my friend, Melissa Harrington. She’s staying with me for a short time and helping me get settled in. You might remember her from when we were all kids.”

  A wide smile crossed her face. “Melissa. Of course. I remember all you girls. Riding your bikes up and down the street all day long. Always picking my apples.”

  “We thought you’d never notice.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I see everything.”

  Did you see us bury Mike Morton? Shivers spread over my skin.

  “Tell me,” Mrs. Nichols said as she clasped her hands on her lap. “Are your children living with you?”

  “They will be. The lucky ducks are in London with their dad right now. A trip of a lifetime. We have shared custody, so you’ll see them around soon.” I hoped I wasn’t being blindly optimistic. But it was time to change topics and get to the point. “You probably heard the police have re-opened the investigation into the disappearance of that guy who went missing all those years ago—Mike Morton.”

  Her back straightened. “Oh, yes. The young Baker boy is the detective handling the case now.”

  “Noah.”

  “Yes, Noah. Nice young man. He came by about a week ago and asked me and Harry some more questions.” She paused, frowning. “I feel for the Morton family. They’ve even put up a big reward if I’m not mistaken.”

  “That’s right. Fifty grand.”

  “Tsk, tsk.” She shook her head slowly. “I hope for the family’s sake that something pans out and they find the boy.”

  Boy? A sour taste came to my mouth. Mike had been twenty-two, not a child. More like a fully grown, violent criminal man. But now wasn’t the time to argue semantics. “If someone knew what happened to Mike, don’t you think it would’ve been reported by now?”

  A troubled smile grew on Mrs. Nichols’ lips. “We can only wonder what’s going on in other people’s minds or what the police know that we don’t.”

  A random thought popped into my mind. The last person I’d talked to about Mike had wound up dead. I shook my head, and the paranoid thought flew away. A lot of people in town were talking about the reward. No need to read into things. I continued with what I’d come for. “Well, I know they believe he disappeared somewhere near Willow Road. But no one reported actually seeing him on this road.”

  A twinkle flashed in her light grey eyes. “Oh, I saw someone.”

  My stomach hit the floor so hard that my head spun. Had I heard right? “You saw Mike Morton?”

  “Well, I saw someone.” She rolled her eyes and sighed. “I told the police all of this seventeen years ago. Told the young Baker boy about it again when we talked last week. But in all honesty, I can’t tell you if it was that Mike Morton fellow. The person I saw was dressed in all black and running along Willow Road.”

  My hands grabbed hold of the edge of my hard seat. I had to make sure this was true. “You saw someone dressed in black. On Willow Road.”

  Mrs. Nichols tapped her forefinger on her lips for an excruciating second. “Yes. It was a long time ago, but I remember exactly what happened. I told Harry to slow down—you know, it seemed strange seeing someone in a black hoodie on a hot Summer night.”

  I squeezed the bench tighter. Why had I never heard this? “Did Harry—Mr. Nichols—did he see this person, too?”

  “No.” She pointed to her squinty face. “I’m the one with the eagle eyes.”

  My jaw slackened and my vision blurred. Only, the truth was clear. The dark figure I’d seen running across the lawn that night hadn’t been a hallucination. It had been a real person. The weight of doubt slipped away, and my vision cleared. All these years, my paranoia hadn’t been delusional.

  I’m not insane.

  But I wasn’t blind to the other side to the truth. Someone had seen what Annette and I had done. My blood chilled, and I choked on a staggered breath. My stalker for all these years and the runner dressed in all black. They had to be one and the same.

  Mrs. Nichols put her hand on top of mine and wrinkled her brow. “Jolene, are you all right?”

  I loosened my white-knuckled grip on the seat. Nothing was right. The clearer my thoughts, the more questions came shooting into my head. I put my hands on my lap and rubbed them together. “Where exactly did you see this person…the one dressed in black?”

  “Saw him right after we turned onto Willow Road. He was jogging toward Crab Creek Road.”

  My heart pounded, reverberating up my throat. “The police…did they investigate? Did you tell Patsy about what you’d seen?”

  “Well, yes.” She clasped her hands on her lap. “It’s been so many years it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  I rubbed my forehead. “Patsy was notoriously overprotective. She would’ve wanted us to know if a lone man was lurking in the woods.”

  “Ha—that’s what I thought. But no. Patsy sided with the police.” Her face sagged. “She didn’t believe in what I’d seen, either.”

  “Hmm.” I understood the pain and frustration of not being believed. And though Patsy had told us on more than one occasion how Mrs. Nichols had a habit of embellishing stories, this was one story I believed.

  “But things were different back then, and Patsy didn’t want you girls getting worked up about a non-existent boogey man living in the reserve.” She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “No siree, Bob. Patsy wouldn’t want you two all scared for no reason.”

  Typical Patsy. Protecting us like we were babies even though Annette and I were nineteen years old at the time.

  I looked Mrs. Nichols in the eye. “Did anyone else report seeing this person running?”

  “Ha.” She flicked her hand like she was shooing away a fly. “Nobody. See, th
e police didn’t take what I’d seen seriously. Said the Morton boy was tall and skinny, wearing a light-colored T-shirt and those surfing shorts all the young people wear.”

  An image jarred my mind: Mike in his shorts and a beige Rip Rider Surf Shop T-shirt smeared with blood. My stomach turned and twisted into a knot. “Board shorts,” I whispered.

  “Anyway, when I told the police what I’d seen—you know, the person dressed in black—well, I recalled that person being shorter.”

  I’d never been close enough to get a read on the person’s height. “They dismissed you that easily?”

  “Didn’t completely dismiss it. Officer Baker showed the most interest.”

  Tingles needled up my spine, spreading over my scalp. Old Man Baker. My danger radar was right on target. Baker did know something. “Officer Baker, huh? Why was he more interested than the other cops?”

  “He knows the Morton family pretty well. I suppose he didn’t want to miss any detail. I remember he checked the area for footprints and interviewed all the residents on Willow Road. No one had seen either Mike or the person dressed in all black. But I don’t know. The cops could’ve been right.” She’d changed her tone to that of a Doubting Debbie. “I mean—there were a lot more deer on the roads back then.”

  It wasn’t a deer. It was a person. I saw him, too. The words were on my lips—the need to share my truth, my secret, to someone, to anyone—welling in my chest like an overfilled water tank.

  “I guess the police still don’t have any clues,” Mrs. Nichols said.

  “Oh, they have clues. They’re just not telling us what they are.”

  “And why are you asking so many questions?” She tapped me with her elbow, a sly smile on her lips. “Looking at that fat reward?”

  I forced a laugh. “Nah. Just an interesting story to talk about.”

  She tilted her head, like she was considering what I’d said. “I suppose you heard about the murder of Jackson Howell over on Cardinal Street.”

  “Yes.” My insides squirmed. What else could this old lady know? “You remember him? He went to a lot of Patsy’s parties.”

  “Of course. He was always a happy boy.” Her eyes widened. “Have you heard anything about what happened?”

  Woman, you tell me. “Nothing. What about everyone else in the neighborhood? Heard anything from them?”

  “Pfft.” She waved a hand. “People around here tend to keep to themselves these days. Like I said, we don’t get many visitors.”

  The loud coughing and hacking started up again. She turned to the noise and wrinkled her nose.

  “I should go... it sounds like Mr. Nichols may need you.” I scooted forward on the cool, slick seat. I had to get out. Had to find out who the hell both Mrs. Nichols and I had seen that night.

  She squeezed my hand, pleading in her eyes. “Please. Don’t go yet. These are strange times, and it’s nice to have someone to talk with.”

  Mrs. Nichols seemed needy for company, and I understood. I was her closest link to Patsy. But her desperation felt borderline creepy. Then again, I wasn’t used to being smothered.

  “Maggie!” The hoarse call of Mr. Nichols.

  Mrs. Nichols rubbed her nose and sat up straighter. “I suppose I should check on Harry. He’s been unwell for some time now, you know?”

  “Maaaggie!”

  Mr. Nichols’ voice scratched against my raw nerves and I stood, wiping my hands on my jeans. “I’ll let myself out. We’ll catch up again soon. In the meantime, if you need anything, make sure to call me. You have my number.”

  I gave her a hug and made a quick exit.

  The orange glow of sunset framed the treetops, and I zipped my lightweight jacket up to my neck, shivering against the chilly autumn air. Willow Road was quiet with no traffic. I walked on the asphalt road back toward my house with my head in a tailspin. All these years, I’d believed I was crazy, looney, on the verge of insanity. I’d questioned why I’d always believed I was loco and numbed myself with pills and alcohol because I’d found no answers.

  But I had no time for regrets. It was time to think straight.

  My stalker was real. But who was this person, why where they after me, and why hadn’t they turned me in and taken the reward?

  Maybe that was the reason Noah had taken an interest in the tree.

  Noah? What did he know?

  On my left, I passed the horse paddock with its heady smell of hay and manure. The outer edge of my forested property to my right; the entrance to my driveway was visible ahead. The pines groaned in the soft breeze, every sound amplified, the earth talking, warning me.

  Danger. Danger. Danger.

  My pulse beat faster, and I counted my steps in sets of five. “One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three—”

  An engine sounded from behind me, breaking my perfect sequence. I moved aside to the road’s gravel edge and focused on taking even steps on the uneven ground. The engine slowed. Tires rolled closer behind. I picked up my pace, the vein on my forehead throbbing.

  I looked back, then released a breath. A white postal service truck. The mailman waved and drove past, sending a flurry of leaves twirling around my feet.

  My muscles loosened. I’d overreacted, but I couldn’t let my guard down and pretend all the drama unfolding around me was going to fade away. Not now that I felt certain someone else had been on Willow Road when we’d buried Mike.

  The mailman stopped at my driveway, stuck mail in my letterbox, then drove off. I filled my lungs with crisp October air, tinged with the musky sweetness of fallen leaves. My mind slowly refocused. I was getting custody of my children back, and I couldn’t let myself fall apart.

  I opened my letterbox. A white envelope. I pulled it out and noticed the familiar block-style handwriting. A slam to my chest threw me back. The postmark from the main post office was two days ago. I tore open the envelope just enough to see the red oak leaf. The last leaf had come in June, right before Patsy had died.

  My pulse quickened and thoughts bloomed like images in a word cloud. Danger. Run. Hide. Bolder words appeared. Kill. Murder. Stab.

  A flock of clattering crows broke my thoughts, and I looked around. The sun had dipped behind the treetops, dropping the temperature to what felt ten degrees cooler.

  I ran into the house, bolted the door, switched on the alarm, closed all the window shutters—slam, slam, slam. The banging in my chest made me dizzy, and I fell back into the armchair, panting.

  Looking at the envelope in my hand, I considered all the pieces of the puzzle. The person on the lawn. My stalker. The leaves. Jackson’s murder. The family tree. All were connected but drew no clear picture.

  A primal burn grew in my core, firing my survival instinct. I couldn’t take this torment anymore. It was time to get ten steps ahead of the problem, not stay ten steps behind. First, I had to know who I was up against. I realized the day may come when I might have to face more police questioning. When that time came, I’d need credible evidence that my terrorizer was Jackson’s killer. Only then could I truly protect myself from the law and this demented murderer.

  Whoever was tormenting me wasn’t after the reward, but me. What did they want?

  Grey lines of fading daylight seeped through the closed shutters. The living room grew dimmer with each passing moment. My hands turned cold, and for the first time since moving into the house, I was afraid. Really afraid. But I didn’t know of who or why.

  The first thing I’d do the next morning was call the security company and arrange for a thorough inspection of the security system. I’d do everything I could to stay safe while I figured out a way to discover who I was dealing with.

  I tossed the envelope onto the coffee table, jumped to my feet, and turned on the floor lamp. If it was police protection I wanted, I only needed to confess. I might even help solve two murders all in one phone call to the police.

  Pacing the floor, I thought about it. Telling the police how we’d killed and buried Mike, my theory
about how the murder and oak tree planted over Jackson was a message to me and had been done by the same person. How Mrs. Nichols and I had both seen someone on the road all those years ago. How that person had stalked me to this day. Sent oak leaves to me in the mail.

  “Ha!” I couldn’t stop myself from laughing out loud. Just like the police would as they dragged me away to jail.

  Honesty wouldn’t exonerate me from jail or Jackson’s murder. If anything, I’d look even crazier than most people already thought I was.

  I had to find a way out of this.

  This was about my future and justice for Jackson.

  Mike’s parents wanted that for their son, too, but while I hated being cold and harsh, I had no control over the injustices in life. I was sorry for the Morton family, but justice for Mike had been served, and the suffering of his family was collateral damage. My teeth grinded and heat flushed to my head. Mike had deserved to die. He’d raped Annette. Threatened to kill both of us. He’d ruined our lives. But not Jackson; he’d never hurt anyone.

  It wasn’t an easy choice, but even with the guilt and remorse, I wasn’t ready to turn myself into the police. I’d lived with the secret this long, and I’d live with it for the rest of my life if I had too. The problem was that someone else couldn’t.

  My task wasn’t easy. I needed to figure out how I was going to find Jackson’s killer and stay safe while not allowing my OCD to confuse my logic. To lose control was paramount to giving in and letting the terrorizer win. I wouldn’t allow that to happen.

  I pulled my phone out of my back pocket and pressed the number of the person I’d been afraid to call for too long.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The House of Celeste wasn’t hard to miss. A wood-shingle beach house painted aqua with a pink neon sign in the window: Psychic. I’d called yesterday, and her male assistant had been able to book an appointment for me today, under the fake name of Jolene Denton.

  A sun-bleached shingle hung on the door: Please Come In.