by A. J. Banner
The operator says help is on the way.
“Hurry!” I throw the phone onto the ground. I need both hands. I wade in, my heart racing, the icy water slamming into my legs. My muscles seize. The muddy bottom gives beneath my boots. I try to pull his arm. He’s too heavy. I stumble, he starts to sink. I’m calling for help. I struggle to turn him over. His lips are blue, his skin ashen. “Mr. Nguyen! Arthur!” I shake him. Nothing, no response. I can hear my labored breathing. He’s slipping from my grip, and then someone’s running up behind me, fast footsteps.
“What’s going on?” Jensen shouts, wading in.
“Help me get him out!” I yell.
“Shit, shit,” Jensen says, hauling Arthur out. “What the hell happened?”
“I don’t know—I just came over and saw him.” I gasp for breath, shivering, waterlogged. “I called 911. They’re coming.”
“Is Nathan home?”
“No.”
Jensen turns Arthur on his back on the ground, rips open his shirt, splays his fingers over his heart, interlocking them with the fingers of his other hand. He starts fast chest compressions. “One two three four five six . . . Come on, Arthur.”
I call Nathan again; his phone sends me to voice mail. “Pick up! Arthur Nguyen’s unconscious. He’s not breathing. He fell into his pond. I called 911. Hurry!”
Jensen keeps performing chest compressions, a hundred a minute. “Damn it. He’s still not breathing. Water in his lungs, maybe.”
“Keep trying,” I say, my voice breaking.
I think of the family photographs in the living room, his three daughters side by side, grinning at the camera. My teeth chatter, the sky darkens. In the house, Bert is going crazy, barking and throwing himself at the door.
“Did you see what happened?” Jensen says, still working. “Did he fall? Was someone else here? He’s ice cold.”
“I don’t know. I came by to talk to him. The door was open. Bert was wandering around!”
“How long was he in the water?”
“I don’t know.”
“I hope it wasn’t long. He’s not bloated. I think that’s a good sign.”
In the distance, sirens rise on the wind.
“Is anything happening?” I say, frantic.
Jensen shakes his head, out of breath.
“Keep going,” I say. Arthur’s toothy smile comes back to me, the single dimple on his left cheek.
“He’s on medication,” Jensen says.
“What medication?” I say.
Jensen keeps up the compressions. “I don’t know. Beta-blockers, aspirin. Blood thinners. He was complaining about all the meds the other day. Go and look. In the cabinets.”
“Jensen,” I say. He’s in shock. So am I. “He can’t ingest the medications if he’s unconscious. If he’s not breathing.”
Jensen pants from the effort of pumping on Arthur’s chest. But he keeps at it. “We need an automatic defibrillator. Maybe he has one. Check. It would be in an orange case. My dad has one.”
I run into the house, the dog following at my heels as I check the bathrooms, the bedroom. Arthur is neat to a fault; no sign of a defibrillator.
The ambulance pulls into the driveway, lights flashing, siren blaring. I dash out to meet the medics in the driveway, leaving Bert inside, my lungs about to burst. “He’s in the backyard!” I yell.
Two medics run down with their bags, in uniforms like Nathan’s. But Nathan’s not here.
We stand back as they check Arthur’s vitals, his pulse. “Pupils equal and responsive but sluggish,” one medic says. “No detectable pulse. Cyanotic.” They attach a defibrillator to his chest, and a metallic voice says, “Analyze, stand clear, shock advised.”
“I’m clear, are you clear?” says one paramedic.
The other responds, “I’m clear,” and presses a button. The defibrillator shocks Arthur, and his body arches off the ground. As the defibrillator recharges, they fit an oxygen mask over his face. I stand back, Jensen holding my arm, my view blocked by the medics crouched over Arthur. They transfer him to a stretcher, rush him into the ambulance, continuing CPR as a black sedan pulls up next to them. Detective Harding is here.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“I told you, I saw him in the water, facedown,” I say to the detective as the ambulance speeds away. No sign of Nathan. I pull the heavy blanket around my shoulders, handed to me by a medic. My clothes are soaked through. The cold night breathes on my face. The detective has already questioned Jensen, who has gone home.
Now the detective pulls me aside. “You rang the doorbell, knocked, heard the dog barking, went around back, and saw Mr. Nguyen in the water.”
“Yes, will he be okay?”
“Too early to say. I’ll let you know as soon as I know.”
“I need to change into dry clothes,” I say, drawing the blanket closer around me.
“Do you need a ride somewhere?”
“I’m fine. I have a key to Nathan’s house.”
“You seem to show up in these violent situations,” he says. “You should put 911 on your speed dial.”
“I don’t know how it works out that way.”
“Maybe you do know.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I’m prickling, moving away from him.
“Let me get this straight. You found a business card in Nathan’s house. You think he and Hedra Black employed Arthur Nguyen as their attorney.”
“I don’t know why Hedra was planning to see Arthur,” I say, shivering. “I came here to ask him.”
“You didn’t ask Nathan.”
“I haven’t spoken to him in a while.”
“But you were in his house.”
“I had to pick up something I left behind.”
“Have you spoken to Hedra Black?”
“At the hospital after I found her at the hotel. But not since then.”
“And when you arrived here, you—”
“I came around here and saw Arthur in the pond.”
“Did you see anyone else in the house when you arrived?”
“Nobody until Jensen showed up.”
“You came over to have a little chat with Mr. Nguyen. A little chat that turned into an argument?”
“What are you implying?” My throat constricts. I’m quaking all over, his accusation slamming into me. “We’re done here.” I throw off the blanket and head toward Nathan’s house, but the detective grabs my arm.
“Wait.” He pulls me back toward him. “Maybe you didn’t argue with Mr. Nguyen; maybe you did. Maybe he saw you outside the night Lauren Eklund died.”
I yank my arm away, shocked at the detective’s direct accusation. I’m quivering with rage. “What? You can’t be serious.” The memory of my shoeprints flashes in my head.
“Like I said, you make a habit of showing up—”
“I told you, I don’t know why. I’ve been trying to figure that out, too.” My feet are ice, numbness traveling up through my body.
“Right.” He looks at me, his nose pink in the cold. “Funny where your curiosity leads you. From one unconscious person to another. And the break-in at your house. Bit of a coincidence, wasn’t it?”
I want to slap that mustache right off his face. “You think I made that up? You think I faked a burglary? Why would I do that?”
His breath condenses into vapor. “I don’t know. Why would you?”
“You’re on the wrong track. Don’t look at me. I know what you’re thinking. But I wasn’t trying to deflect attention from myself. I would never do anything like that. You don’t know me at all.”
“All right. Maybe I don’t.” He steps back as Bert starts barking again.
I shift my gaze to Arthur Nguyen’s house. “What’s going to happen to the dog?”
“I’ll keep him for now. I’m a big fan of dogs.”
“Is that even allowed?”
He shrugs. “Probably not.”
I nod, shivering. Bert goes quiet again. �
�May I go?”
“For now.” He tucks the notepad back into his pocket. His phone buzzes. He answers. “Harding. Yeah.” He listens, frowns, looks at his shoes. “Thanks for letting me know.” He hangs up and rests a hand on my shoulder. “Looks like they were able to revive Arthur Nguyen. It will be a while before we know if he suffered any brain damage. He’s unconscious, but he is alive.”
Back in Nathan’s house, I change into a pair of his jeans, which I roll up numerous times, a flannel shirt, and his thick cotton socks. I throw my clothes in the dryer, then I make a cup of hot tea and try to gather my wits. The neighborhood is quiet and dark with the police and the ambulance gone.
I’m still trembling with anger. The detective can’t possibly believe I vandalized my own house, pretending my dress was stolen. He must be trying to push my buttons. But why? Does he really think I had anything to do with what happened to Lauren? To Hedra? To Arthur Nguyen? Did someone try to kill him? If so, who would do such a thing? Did the same person kill Lauren? If Anna saw something that night, maybe her jewelry box holds an answer.
I pry open the lid with a knife, breaking the lock and the flimsy hinges. That’s the thing about jewelry boxes. They give only the illusion of security.
A dazzling array of silver and stones winks out at me. A bracelet, a gold earring, a few smooth quartz specimens, rare coins. Found things. In the top drawer, an envelope bulging with small bills—from ones to fives. Anna’s allowance? In the bottom drawer, her cell phone is carefully zipped into a plastic bag full of uncooked rice. She didn’t lose the phone. It was here all the time. Did she bury the phone because it got wet? But why not say she got her phone wet? Why bury it? I press the buttons, but the battery is dead.
In Anna’s room, I can’t find a charger. Does she even have one? Did she take it with her for her replacement phone? Did she ever back up this phone?
From my own phone, I dial Rianne’s cell phone.
“Marissa?” she says cautiously. She must have my name in her contacts list.
“I’m at Nathan’s place, I—”
“At Nathan’s! But I thought—”
“It’s a long story. Could I talk to you about Anna?”
“You sound strange. Is everything okay?”
“It’s a long story . . . This is going to sound weird, but . . . she buried her jewelry box in the backyard, under her window.”
“What? That is odd. How do you know this?”
“In art class, she painted what an archaeologist might find five hundred years from now—”
“I didn’t see that painting,” she says, sounding slightly miffed.
“She didn’t take it home. It’s on the wall in the classroom. But she painted an identical jewelry box underground, and I noticed her jewelry box was missing from her room. I connected the dots.”
“And Nathan dug up the box?” she says.
“No, I did,” I say.
“Oh.” A beat of silence. “Did you tell him? Is he there?”
“I told him, but he’s working.”
“Well. I’m on my way back with Anna. Did he forget that he has her this evening?”
“He and I aren’t . . . I’m not—I mean, I don’t know the details of his schedule these days.”
“I’ll try to get in touch with him to have him meet us there. Thank you for telling me about the box.”
I hang up, feeling alone, my mind plagued by images of Lauren, her head caked in blood. And Hedra, incoherent, drugged. And Arthur Nguyen floating in his pond, his lips blue. The jewelry box stares at me from the coffee table, the monarch butterflies dusted in dirt. Outside, a soft rain begins to fall.
Only a few minutes later, Rianne’s SUV pulls into the driveway. When she and Anna step inside, Anna stares at the jewelry box and races to snatch it off the table. She trails droplets of rain on the floor, leaving muddy bootprints.
“Not so fast, Anna,” Rianne says, eyeing my baggy clothes, her brows rising.
“Long story,” I say. “I waded into the pond after Arthur Nguyen. He almost drowned.”
“What? Oh no!”
“He’s still alive. But unconscious. I don’t know if he’s going to make it.”
“The poor man. You were brave.”
Anna’s face turns white, the jewelry box clutched to her jacket.
“Give it to me,” Rianne says gently. “Take off your coat and boots and get into some warm clothes. I’m going to talk about this with Marissa.”
Anna opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Her painful silence knocks the wind out of me. She won’t let go of the box.
“Give it to me,” Rianne repeats. “We’ll keep it safe. Go and get changed. Now.”
Anna doesn’t move, as if in a trance. Rianne gently pries the box from her arms, and Anna turns and dashes down the hall, whipping off her raincoat on the way.
“She hasn’t said anything?” I say, my voice cracking.
“She isn’t mute all the time,” Rianne says. “She talks a little to us. To Nathan and me. But in public, and at school . . . It’s frustrating. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. But I’m at the end of my rope.” Rianne’s face is pale. Her blond hair appears a dull gray in the dim living room light.
“I understand. Don’t worry.”
“I wish she would talk to us and tell us what’s wrong.”
“I hope I haven’t traumatized her more by digging up the box.”
“You think there might be evidence in here? Of what?”
I sit on the couch, run my hands down my face. A deep fatigue settles into my bones. “I’m not sure, to be honest. But she’s hiding something.”
“When you told me about the box, I thought—it makes sense. With everything she’s done and said. And now, her silence. The way she’s been acting. But I was still shocked when you told me about this.” We’re both looking at the jewelry box. “Do you mind?” she says.
“Go ahead.”
She opens the box and takes out the jewelry, the money stashed in an envelope. Then she pulls out the cell phone, which I removed from the bag of rice. “I’m amazed that you dug this up. I don’t understand why she would bury it.”
“She takes videos out in the woods,” I say. “My theory is the phone got wet, and it stopped working. She thought a bag of rice would dry it out.”
“Which is a myth.”
“But a lot of people swear by it.”
She nods thoughtfully. “I feel as though I don’t even know my own daughter. I didn’t know about the drawings at school.”
“Neither did I,” I say.
She puts everything back in the jewelry box, and I try to gather myself as footsteps come down the hall. Anna appears in sweatpants and a T-shirt, face flushed, hair still damp. She stares at the jewelry box and mouths No, but no sound comes out.
“It’s okay, honey,” Rianne says, reaching for Anna’s hand, but Anna rushes to the table, grabs the box again.
Rianne holds up the cell phone. “I’ve got this. I’m not sure why you hid the phone in your jewelry box.”
Anna gasps, as if her lungs have been ripped right out of her chest.
“Anna,” her mom says patiently. “Put the box down.”
Anna puts the box on the table. Her arm darts out like a snake flicking out its tongue. She grabs her old cell phone from Rianne’s hand, then rushes down the hall.
“Should I go after her?” I say. “Explain why I dug up the—?”
“Don’t worry,” Rianne says. “Give her some time.”
“I shouldn’t be here,” I say, getting up. “With everything that’s happened . . .”
Lights sweep across the wall, voices outside. “The Eklunds are home,” Rianne says, leaping to her feet. “Brynn stopped into the shop yesterday. She said they were going away for a bit. I didn’t get to offer my condolences at the memorial service. Would you excuse me a minute?” She peers out the kitchen window.
“Go ahead. I’ll stay with Anna.”
She throws me a
grateful smile. “I’ll be right back, promise.” She pulls on her boots and rushes outside, pulling her sweater tightly around her. I watch from the kitchen window. The wind whips through her hair. Jensen approaches her, rubbing his gloved hands together. Brynn follows. I pour a glass of water and gulp down the cold liquid. What will happen once Nathan arrives to discuss the jewelry box with Rianne? What secrets will they unlock? I turn away from the window and nearly bump into Anna.
“You scared me,” I say, pressing my hand to my heart.
In her sneakers, she stands on tiptoe to peek out the window, then presses her fingers to her lips. The whites of her eyes shine in the dimness.
“What is it?” I don’t know why I’m whispering.
She places something in my hand—the damaged cell phone from her jewelry box, the screen lit by a photo of the ocean on the home screen.
“This is your phone,” I whisper. “The one you buried. You had a charger?”
She nods, swallowing, makes an urgent motion with her hand. The indicator shows the battery is only a quarter charged. She clicks through on the screen, shoves the phone back at me, shows me a series of texts. As I read, my throat tightens and my heart races. The walls begin to pulse.
The texts are dated the evening of the dinner party when Nathan proposed to me. “Anna, these messages . . .”
She scrolls back through earlier messages from previous days, and I read them all, stunned. The missives from Keith are jokes. Let’s shoot some squirrels. Oh, you mean with a camera. Anna’s response: You’re silly. I don’t kill things.
The other texts, interspersed with the playful ones, make my blood run cold.
I look up for a moment. Rianne is walking down the driveway with Brynn and Jensen, out of sight behind the hedge.
“Oh, Anna,” I say. “You were keeping all this a secret? The texts? Did you bury the phone because you wanted to hide them?”
Her face is pale. She clicks through the phone to her saved images. She scrolls through the pictures, stops at a video, and hits the play button. At first, I see a lone figure in the darkness, and then Lauren passes beneath the motion sensor light on her back porch, her features illuminated. She’s in her long black raincoat, carrying my Laurel Burch umbrella. Seeing her alive this way wrenches out my heart. I want to reach into the phone and save her. She hurries out of the light, into the garden. She strides all the way past the gazebo, almost to the edge of the cliff. Hesitates. She’s in shadow now. What was she doing there? She was afraid of heights.
