Her Every Fear

by Peter Swanson

  A loud beep emanated from her laptop, and Kate toggled back to her e-mail page. She’d gotten a response in the chat box from Corbin. Hi, he’d written back. Her heart fluttered a little, as though he’d suddenly shown up at the door, not just on her computer screen. She took a moment, then wrote: Did you kill Audrey Marshall?

  Then deleted it.

  Then wrote it again, and pressed send. There was a lengthy pause, a series of dots flashing next to Corbin’s name, indicating that he was composing his answer.

  Corbin: I didn’t. I promise you. Do the police think I did?

  Kate: They’ve been back here. They say you were in a relationship with her. Were you?

  Corbin: I was.

  Kate: Why did you lie about it?

  Another pause. Then: Habit, I guess. When we were seeing each other, it was a secret, so I just got used to not talking about it. I didn’t kill her.

  Kate: Do you know who did?

  Corbin: No. I wish I did.

  Kate: Where are you now?

  Corbin: Home. Your home, in London. It’s rainy here. What’s it like there?

  Kate: Nice. Windy and nice. The police are going to send someone to talk with you.

  Corbin: That’s okay. I’ll talk to them.

  Another chat box suddenly appeared. It was Martha. You there?

  Kate wrote back to Martha: Yes. Do me a big favor. Are you home?

  Martha: yes

  Kate: Can you go knock on my door and find out if Corbin’s there? Don’t say anything about me.

  Martha: okay, but I don’t think he’s there, haven’t heard anything from your flat for days

  Kate: Please check.

  Kate turned her attention back to Corbin’s chat box. He’d written: Everything ok with you?

  Kate: Everything’s fine. Sanders says hello.

  Corbin: Ha!

  Kate almost asked a question about Rachael Chess, but stopped herself. He’d know that she’d been snooping around his place, trying to discover if he was a murderer.

  Instead she wrote: What was Audrey Marshall like?

  Corbin: She was great. It’s awful what happened. I can’t stop thinking about it.

  Kate: Did you know her friend Jack?

  Corbin: No, I didn’t. Who’s that?

  Kate: A friend from college. He knows about you.

  Corbin: Jack what?

  Kate: Jack Ludovico.

  Corbin: What did he look like?

  Kate: Pretty ordinary. Short, reddish hair. Glasses.

  Corbin: And you talked with him?

  Kate: He came here, looking to find out what had happened. He stopped me on the street and asked me all these questions.

  Corbin: Did you tell the police about him?

  Kate: I did, but I don’t think they’ve talked with him yet.

  Martha was back in the other chat box, and she wrote: not there.

  Kate responded to Martha: You sure?

  Martha: I pounded on the door. maybe he’s hiding, but no, he’s not there. I’d have heard him come in and out

  Kate: Thanks. How’s the weather?

  Martha: sun’s out this morning for the first time since you left. didn’t even know what it was at first

  Kate: Martha, I have to run. Kisses.

  Corbin had written: I should go.

  Kate: Say hi to Martha for me.

  Corbin: Have you talked with her?

  Kate: A little. She said you were an upgrade from me.

  Corbin: She seemed nice.

  Kate didn’t write anything back, not immediately. Neither did Corbin, and it felt like an awkward silence, if you could have an awkward silence during an e-chat.

  Kate finally wrote: I’ll let you know if anything happens here.

  Corbin: Okay. Bye.

  Kate logged out of her e-mail browser. She was still cold, despite the blanket, and shut the laptop, pressing its warm plastic against her chest. Why had Corbin lied about being in her flat in London? Unless he was hiding in there, the blinds pulled, refusing to answer the door. It was possible, of course. Martha could be a little aggressive.

  Sanders came into the bedroom, jumped up onto the bed, and meowed. Kate sat up, and Sanders leapt to the floor, racing toward the front door. She followed him and let him out, then went to the kitchen for a drink of water. The digital clock on the microwave read 6:25. It seemed late. Had she fallen asleep on the bed?

  After drinking two glasses of water, she realized she was hungry, made herself a piece of toast from the stale sourdough bread, then slathered it with butter and honey. She carried the toast with her across the apartment, turning on lamps and pulling curtains halfway closed. The door to one of the spare bedrooms was open wider than she’d remembered, and she went inside. It was that time of night when the fading light outside made the inside seem darker than it was. She turned on a bedside lamp and finished her toast, having to lick honey from her fingers. This bedroom was vaguely feminine, with flower prints hung on the wall and a cream-colored blanket on the bed. She noticed a slight indentation on the blanket, and looked closer. There were white hairs—Sanders’s hairs—and Kate pressed her hand on the bed; it was still a little warm from where he’d had his afternoon nap. That was why the door was ajar. She breathed a little deeper and left the room, leaving the light on.

  She peered into the dark, windowless cave of the den, considering trying to watch some television, but she felt too jumpy. Instead, she decided to sketch, getting the sketchbook and pencils from the bedroom and bringing them to the living room. She stretched out along the couch and opened the book. She was prepared for the picture of Alan that she’d drawn on her first full day in Boston. It was less than a week ago, but felt like a year. She studied it. She’d caught his likeness, she thought, except for the eyes. They were vague, a little glazed, instead of intent. She stared at them, her scalp prickling. Had his eyes been changed, maybe a little? No, she told herself, but they seemed smudged. Maybe it just happened on its own.

  Yeah, his eyes got smudged but the rest of his face didn’t.

  Did I do it? she thought. Of course not, George said, but she ignored him. Her days and nights since she’d arrived in Boston had been so fuzzy that it was hard to remember. It wasn’t unheard of that she went back over drawings she’d done and altered them slightly, usually with a fingertip. Cleaning up lines, adding texture. She flipped past it, determined not to make herself insane, and found a fresh, unmarked page. She quickly sketched Alan again, trying to get the eyes right this time. When she was finished, she held the book at arm’s length and looked. It was Alan, but she’d tried so hard to get the intensity of the eyes right that he looked pissed off, a little bit scary. Then she realized that that was exactly how he’d looked when she’d peered through the peephole earlier in the morning, when she hadn’t let him in. Had she made a mistake? He’d probably just been worried that she’d left without saying goodbye. But, no, the sketch was accurate—he’d been upset. She’d made a big mistake, not just in sleeping with someone she barely knew, but in sleeping with someone who, at the very least, was a voyeuristic creep, and maybe a whole lot more. She turned to the next page, and quickly drew Detective Roberta James’s face. She did a pretty good job, nailing the high cheekbones, the dark eyes. It was the mouth that wasn’t perfect. Too severe, the lips not full enough. She smudged it out and gave the detective a half smile. Satisfied, she labeled the sketch and dated it, and then started another drawing.

  It was fully dark outside by the time Kate had finished sketching Mrs. Valentine, Mr. Valentine, the other woman at the drinks party (she’d forgotten her name), and, finally, a picture of George Daniels. She’d never stopped drawing him. A number of counselors had suggested that it wasn’t healthy to dwell on his likeness, but she couldn’t help herself. He was always somewhere in her head, and it felt good to pull him from inside of her and put him on the page. In today’s picture, she drew him as she’d seen him in her recent dream, his mouth toothless and grinning.


  It was a good drawing, the best she’d done that day. She used the flat of her thumb to smudge the forehead lines, and felt a sharp prick where she still had the splinter from the storage unit door. She’d forgotten all about it, and took a look, the swollen skin around the splinter now a pinkish red. She went to the kitchen and washed the charcoal off her hands, then searched through drawers until she found a safety pin and a book of matches. She burned the sharp tip of the pin, then returned to the living room, where the light was better. There, she picked at the opening in her thumb, widening the ragged skin so that she could see the splinter and prod at it with the pin. It was pretty deep. She sucked on it, tasting her own blood, but it didn’t budge. She’d have to look for tweezers, but the thought exhausted her. What would happen if you left a splinter in your thumb? Would it eventually work its way out on its own, or would it stay there forever and become a part of you?

  A scratching sound from the kitchen startled her. She’d let Sanders out, hadn’t she? She put the safety pin down on her sketchbook, got up, and returned to the kitchen. She heard the sound again. It was coming from the door that led to the basement—Sanders again, having looped around through the basement. She opened the door, and there was Alan, holding his palms toward her, his eyes bleary and wild looking. “Please let me in,” he slurred, taking a step into the kitchen before Kate could slam the door.

  Chapter 24

  Alan wasn’t exactly sure how he’d gotten so drunk, but it had happened, almost accidentally, and now he was walking back through the darkness, determined to see Kate, even if she didn’t want to see him.

  After encountering Jack on Brimmer Street earlier in the day and hearing from him that he thought Corbin Dell had murdered Audrey Marshall, Jack had become chatty, suggesting they go somewhere and talk more. Alan, more than anything, wanted to turn around and go home, in hopes that he’d spot Kate in the courtyard, but decided instead to spend some time hearing what Jack had to say. Alan suggested St. Stephen’s. When they got there, settling into one of the high-backed booths, Alan ordered a large Coke and Jack ordered a bottle of Heineken. The waitress spun on her heels to get their drinks, and Jack immediately started talking about a woman named Rachael Chess, who had been found murdered on a beach in New Essex a few years earlier.

  “She was mutilated,” Jack said, “just like Audrey was.” His voice cracked every time he said Audrey’s name.

  “How did you hear that Audrey was mutilated?” Alan asked.

  “It’s all over the Web, and so I started to search other cases, other cases where someone had been cut down the middle, sliced open, and I found Rachael Chess.”

  “And what does she have to do with Corbin Dell?” Alan was interested in what Jack had to say, but also a little wary. Jack was becoming increasingly animated, almost manic, in the way he was talking. The waitress returned with their drinks. Jack took a long pull from his bottle of beer.

  “Get this,” he said, setting down the beer hard enough that foam spilled over its lip and rolled down its side. “Corbin Dell used to live in New Essex, and his mother still does. She has a place right on the beach—”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Audrey told me some, and some of it I just looked up online. That’s not the point, though. The point is that Rachael Chess’s parents also lived in New Essex, not right on the beach, but close. It’s how Corbin and Rachael met, obviously. He’s a psychopath. Audrey told me that when they were together he was paranoid about being seen in public with her, that he always wanted to stay in. It’s because he didn’t want to be associated with her, because he knew he was going to kill her. But then she started to see me, and wanted nothing to do with Corbin anymore, and that was why he killed her. It’s him. I know it.” Jack scratched at some raised welts on a reddened arm.

  “You okay?” Alan asked.

  “Hives, I think. I hate the spring.”

  “Have you gone to the police with all this?” Alan asked.

  “I will. I promise. But I want to get all my ducks in a row. He’s not getting away with this.”

  Alan knew that he hadn’t gone to the police because he was playing amateur detective, maybe even hoping to get revenge on his own.

  “I think you should go to the police. They’ll probably know if there was ever a link between Corbin and this Rachael person.”

  “Another thing that he always told Audrey was that he wasn’t any good for her, almost like he knew what he was going to do. You want to get something to eat? It’s lunchtime.”

  Alan had already finished his Coke, and agreed to get lunch. Jack waved the waitress over and they both ordered cheeseburgers. Jack asked for another beer, and Alan decided to have one as well.

  “Jack, how often did you see Audrey?” Alan asked, after they gave their orders. He was hoping to get some information on why he’d never seen him before through Audrey’s windows.

  “About once a week,” Jack said. “We’d get together for coffee or for drinks. I think at first she thought I was trying to date her again.”

  “But you weren’t?” Alan asked.

  “I don’t know. Yes. No.”

  “I never saw you at the apartment building. Were you ever there, or . . . ?”

  “A couple times.”

  Alan thought he was lying about being in Audrey’s apartment. He guessed that in Jack’s mind, the friendship with Audrey—maybe a couple of coffees, a few text messages—was much more important than it had been to her. The beers came and Alan took a sip. It was so cold it made his teeth hurt.

  “Just this one beer and then I should go to the office,” Alan said. “It is a Tuesday.”

  “Thanks, man,” Jack said. “Thanks for spending time with me. It’s nice to talk with someone who doesn’t think I’m crazy. You don’t think I’m off the rails about Corbin, do you?”

  “I don’t.”

  “So you agree with me?”

  “I agree that Corbin had a motive, and he probably had a key to Audrey’s place, and he left town right after she was murdered.”

  “Why do you think he had a key?” Jack asked.

  “Just thought it was probably likely. They went out. They lived next to one another.” He didn’t want to mention what he’d learned from Kate. He wasn’t exactly sure why, but somehow he wanted to keep her out of it.

  “I can see that,” Jack said.

  The food came and Alan listened as Jack explained, again, the reasons he was sure that Corbin had killed before. Everything he was saying made sense.

  Alan and Jack stayed at St. Stephen’s till late afternoon, each drinking several more beers. It had been a strange few hours. Alan found himself telling this man all about his relationship with Quinn. He almost found himself telling him about the previous night with Kate, but stopped himself just in time. Why was he talking so much? He went to the bathroom, stared at himself in the mirror, and didn’t like what he saw. Why was he drunk in a bar with a stranger on a Tuesday afternoon? He decided he needed to leave.

  As they stood outside the bar, saying goodbye, Jack’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, thank you, for hanging out with me. I know . . . I know it wasn’t . . .”

  “It was nice,” Alan said, and put a hand on Jack’s shoulder.

  Jack removed his gloves and wiped at both eyes, then held out his hand to shake Alan’s. Alan was relieved that there had been no hug; the handshake, long and aggressive, had been enough. “Which way you headed?” Jack asked, and Alan, suddenly desperate to escape, tilted his head east, since Alan was already taking a step down the hill back toward Charles Street. They parted ways, and Alan walked through a residential neighborhood he had never walked through before. The wind had died down a little, but the tops of the trees still rustled, and Alan’s T-shirt flattened out against his body as he walked aimlessly. He was hungry again, and needed to pee. He spotted the State House and walked toward it, knowing there’d be bars nearby. The first one he passed was a faux-Irish pub on the corner called Ros
ie McClean’s that was empty except for a table of Japanese tourists eating an early dinner. Alan sat at the bar and ordered fish and chips and a large Coke. After drinking the Coke, he asked for another, but with Old Overholt in it. He knew enough about day drinking to know that if he quit now, he’d wind up with a splitting headache for the rest of the night. The fish and chips came and the food made him feel better, less drunk, and he ordered another rye and Coke and thought about his conversation with Jack.

  Alan’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his bag and checked the screen. His sister. He was all set to hit Ignore, but then decided to answer, just in case she had a real reason to call and wasn’t just checking up on him.

  “Just checking in,” Hannah said after they’d said hello.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You sound funny. Have you been drinking?”

  “A little bit. I’m eating, too. My mouth was full.”

  “Don’t forget to call Mom on her birthday.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s why you called?” Alan was annoyed, even though he probably would have forgotten.

  “No. I’m worried about you. I had this crazy dream.”

  Alan listened while Hannah described, in detail, the dream she’d had where she found Alan dead in his apartment, a rotting corpse, after not hearing from him for years. During the description, Alan finished his drink and ordered another one by catching the bartender’s eye and pointing at his empty glass.