The Shadow Writer

by Maxwell, Eliza

  The desk clerk is friendly, the room is clean, and Laura drops back onto the freshly made bed with a sigh. She stares up at the ceiling.

  She wishes she could call her mother. Lisette’s voice would go a long way toward cleansing some of the ugly she can feel clinging to her after her time with Alex.

  But she’s never been able to lie to her mother, even by omission, and Lisette would be horrified to learn what she’s been doing. And until Laura can exorcise the triumvirate of Graye Templeton, Grace Thacker, and Fiona Boyd from her thoughts, Lisette would be right to worry.

  She pulls the well-thumbed pages of the manuscript she printed months ago from her bag. She removes the rubber bands and sets aside the top three-quarters of the pages.

  It takes an hour to pore over the final pages of the draft, words she’s read time and again. And still, she can’t help feeling there’s something there she’s just on the verge of seeing.

  She hoped Alexis could bring whatever that might be into focus, but instead she’s left with answers to questions she didn’t want to know, nor even knew to ask.

  She sighs and rubs her eyes.

  She picks up her phone to dial Dr. Lawson and check in on Milo.

  But as she scrolls through the contacts on her phone, her thumb stops on the Bs and she stares.

  Without any real plan, she taps the name listed there. Detective Branson.

  It’s late. The detective probably won’t be at her desk. Laura is debating whether to leave a message when a familiar voice speaks in her ear.

  “Branson,” it says.

  Laura is surprised and speaks before she can think to hang up the phone.

  “Detective. Hi. This is Laura West.”

  “Mrs. West,” the woman says, with only the slightest hesitation. “What can I do for you?”

  “Detective, I know you don’t owe me anything, but I’m wondering if you could do me a favor.”

  There’s no response on the other end of the line, so Laura plunges on.

  “Can you help me find an address?”

  54

  The cinder girl has collected the items her golden sister requested. They were difficult to gather, and it had taken time, but she had the spider’s help and at last, she was successful.

  The down of a black goose, nectar from a moonflower harvested at midnight half past, a section of life cord from a girl baby.

  She delivers them all, yet still her sister has more demands.

  “My spell has reached my prince and he is on his way,” she says. “You’ll meet him at the castle gate. Bring a fool’s disguise and see him past the guards. Take this potion to keep around your neck. When the time is right, three drops in Mother’s drink is all that is required.”

  The spider scuttles up her leg and arm, then a small vial is tied around her neck. Fear flutters in the cinder girl’s heart. “Oh, Sister, I cannot.”

  “You will find a way.” Her voice brooks no argument. “Then we shall both be free.”

  And so the cinder girl watches and waits. For three days and nights, the prince does not come, but at last, she sees a dark shape on the horizon.

  “You’ve come to heed my sister’s call,” she says.

  “No,” he replies, and a new fear awakens within her.

  “But you must. She’s been locked away and you’re her only hope for escape.”

  She pleads, she begs, but the prince is not swayed.

  “Your sister cannot be trusted, child. Did you not listen when I said her heart was mine? It was banished along with me, and see how it has withered and died?”

  He opens his satchel and shows her the rotted, worm-infested remains of what was once a beating heart.

  “Take my horse and ride from this place while you still can, girl,” he says.

  “But I have nothing to give in return,” she laments.

  “That vial of death around your neck is all the payment I ask,” he says.

  She unties the ribbon and places the little stoppered bottle in his hand, then he lifts her onto the back of his black horse.

  “Go now, little cinder sister. Be gone from here, as far as you can go from this place before the sun sets.”

  “But what about you?” she asks, suddenly filled with worry for him.

  “Don’t concern yourself with me. I have monsters to slay.”

  The cinder girl is halfway up the mountain pass when night falls upon her shoulders. She stops and turns back for the first time. The castle burns bright in the distance. The barest hint of smoke tickles her nose, and the big black horse’s ear twitches once, then twice, as a faint sound finds them out.

  She begins to hum a tune, one she overheard her sister sing when she spun gold. It drowns out the night screams, and the cinder girl turns the horse away.

  LAURA

  The Wicker Park neighborhood of Chicago is a far cry from a dive bar off Interstate 35.

  Laura manages to find a vacant parking spot on the street and walks two blocks to the address Detective Branson hesitantly provided.

  The area is sophisticated and thriving, an urban blend of new embracing old. Art galleries nestle next to cafés, converted apartment buildings, and boutiques, all within sight of the elevated trains.

  Laura stops and peers up at the historic three-story red-brick building that’s her destination.

  An intercom and keypad are positioned next to the double front doors. Laura takes a deep breath and buzzes an apartment on the third floor.

  At first, no one answers. She’s taking a risk by not calling ahead, but she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to go through with this.

  Now that she’s here, though, the idea of driving home with Graye’s words playing incessantly in her mind the entire way fills her with dread.

  For better or worse, she began this journey in search of answers, and to give up without completing this loop feels like cheating herself.

  She buzzes again.

  The intercom crackles in reply. “Yes?” a man’s voice asks.

  “Nick DiMarco?”

  “Who’s asking, please?”

  “My name is Laura West. I was hoping you could spare a few minutes to speak with me.”

  Laura waits. She imagines the man she’s seen only in old photographs, video footage, and mug shots. A sixteen-year-old boy with long hair and a frown, charged with conspiracy to murder.

  She has no reason to believe he’ll talk to her, and if the silence from the intercom is any indication, neither does he. She searches for something to say that might change his mind and comes up with nothing.

  “I’ll buzz you in,” he says at last.

  She’s so surprised she barely manages to get the door open before the lock reengages.

  Laura takes the stairs, giving her time to compose herself. The meeting with Alexis has left her wary, guarded.

  But other than a shared history, the man who answers the apartment door Laura knocks lightly upon bears no resemblance to the hateful soul she recently left behind.

  The man who opens the door and welcomes her into his home is unassuming and surprisingly normal by all outward appearances.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” Laura says as he ushers her in.

  “Can I offer you something to drink?” he asks, his face a bit guarded but polite. “Coffee, water? I have a rather shocking supply of diet soda to feed my addiction, if you’d like one.”

  Laura can’t hold back a small smile. “Okay, sure, if you don’t mind.”

  He nods and walks toward the kitchen. She takes the opportunity to look around at the apartment of the man who was once the boyfriend of Alexis Thacker.

  There is a drafting table set up on one side of the large living space, and a computer with several monitors on a desk nearby. The walls are decorated with an odd combination of abstract art and oversized framed comic-book pages.

  She turns in a full circle, taking it all in. The juxtaposition works, and the result is one of casual comfort and whimsy.

  “N
ice place,” she says when he returns and hands her a glass filled with ice and soda.

  “Thank you.” He pauses and looks at her. “I’m waiting to see if you’re going to ask how an ex-con and convicted killer can afford an apartment in Wicker Park.”

  She blushes. “I don’t suppose that’s any of my business.”

  He gives her a small smile. “Then you have admirable restraint, Mrs. West.”

  He gestures for her to take a seat on the sofa and pulls out coasters for their drinks.

  “I’m a graphic designer,” he tells her. “A very successful one. It allows me to pay the rent while working from home.”

  “It couldn’t have been easy,” she says. “Building a life like this, considering the circumstances.”

  He shrugs. “You can accomplish a lot when you have nothing to lose. There were plenty of lean years full of ramen noodles and canned beans. I’ve shielded my past, for the most part, behind a company name and logo. And clients are willing to overlook all manner of sins if you work harder, cheaper, and faster than anyone else.”

  He glanced around. “I’m not the cheapest anymore, but I’m still the best.”

  Her gaze is drawn to the drafting table, where a large sheet of paper is taped to a board. It’s a sketch of a comic page in a similar style to the ones hanging on the walls.

  “Is this your work?” Laura asks, pointing to the frames.

  “A hobby,” he says with a nod. “I publish a comic through an independent press. Under a pen name, of course.”

  “It’s very good.”

  He nods. “Thank you. I enjoy it. But I don’t imagine you’ve come all this way to make small talk about art.”

  Laura runs a finger around the rim of her glass. “I have some questions,” she says at last. “Questions I haven’t been able to find very good answers to.”

  He studies her, waiting.

  “I’ve spoken with Detective Branson, both before the trial and after. We’ve become, if not exactly friends, then friendly, I suppose. We were both surprised when you weren’t called to testify at the trial.”

  He takes a deep breath. “I can’t say I’m sorry about that. The last thing I wanted was my face in the papers again. I assume I wasn’t considered an asset to either side. A risk neither was willing to take.”

  “How do you mean?” she asks.

  “The prosecution isn’t going to volunteer that there was a convicted murderer seen hanging around Port Mary in the days leading up to your husband’s death, Mrs. West. That would have given the opposing side, as well as the jury, a gift-wrapped alternative theory.”

  “But what about the defense?” she asks.

  “I was interviewed by Graye’s attorney. Once she heard what I had to say, I think she understood I wouldn’t be helpful.”

  Laura frowns. “Why is that?”

  Nick sighs and leans back against the sofa cushions. “Because Graye was acting strangely during the few interactions we had.”

  “How is a woman expected to act when confronted by the man who helped kill her mother?” Laura asks mildly.

  Nick lifts one shoulder. “A fair question. But the thing is, Graye never had any reason to be afraid of me. Not in the way you mean. I wished her no ill will. I still don’t.”

  “Then why were you there, Mr. DiMarco? That never made any sense to me.”

  “Because I was concerned,” he says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “I pled guilty to accessory to murder, Mrs. West, and took a deal. That meant I was eligible for parole long before Alex. I’ve been out of jail for almost ten years now. Twice as many as I spent locked up. Enough time to come to terms as best I could with what Alex and I did and try to get my life back on track.”

  He peered at her with a melancholy air that reminded her of a photograph the press had snapped of him as he was led out of the courtroom after his sentencing hearing.

  “Then out of a clear sky, the past crashed in on me again. I received a letter from Alex. I’m still not sure what she hoped to accomplish by contacting me. We hadn’t spoken in over fifteen years. My best guess is she wanted an audience. Alex always needed attention. Once upon a time, I was happy to provide it.”

  He rises and walks across the room to where a pack of cigarettes lies on the drafting table.

  “Do you mind?” he asks.

  She shrugs. It’s his house.

  He drags a chair to one of the windows and opens it wide, letting in the vibrant sounds of the city, then turns a fan that had been sitting next to the table toward the chair and window.

  “Terrible habit,” he says as he taps a cigarette out of the pack. “A piece of prison I can’t seem to shake.”

  He lights up and blows the smoke carefully toward the air outside.

  “I knew she’d been released, but I hoped, for her sake, she’d put it all behind her. To let go and focus on the future. But she hadn’t. Not by a long shot.”

  He takes a deep drag from the cigarette. “Alex was looking for Grace. She told me she had an idea where to start. An aunt, she said. Mrs. Thacker’s younger sister.”

  Laura hides her surprise at the respectful way Nick refers to Crystal Thacker. By all accounts, she was a horrible person, and Nick did plead guilty to the charges against him. He’s an odd bundle of contradictions, this man.

  “Alex always hated Grace,” he says. “I never understood it. She was a nice little kid. But that hatred had only grown over the years. And it didn’t sit easy.”

  He reaches over and picks up a jar half-filled with greenish-tinted water and a few paintbrushes. He sets the brushes on a rag, then taps ash from the end of his cigarette into the water.

  “Grace was the biggest victim that night. And the idea of Alex hunting her down to exact some kind of misguided revenge . . .”

  He glances over. “Like I said, I was concerned. I hired a private investigator to find Grace. I knew there was no chance she’d ever want to see me again, but I wanted to find her before Alex did. To warn her.”

  “And did you?” Laura asks.

  But frown lines deepen between his eyes. “I found her, but I screwed it up. I was trying to take it slow, deciding how to best approach her, but she saw me. Obviously, her immediate reaction was fear.”

  “I would imagine it was terrifying to see you again after all those years.”

  He nods. “It was, I’m sure. But it was more than that. Grace, or Graye, as she’d become by then, was keeping secrets of her own.”

  Of course, she was. Laura knew now.

  “I saw her puncture a tire one morning from the beach. I was considering how to approach her, then I looked up and there she was. I hung around, confused, waiting to see how it would play out. A few minutes later, she’s changing the tire she’d flattened. I won’t lie, it threw me.”

  He looks at Laura with regret in his eyes. “I realized I had no idea who that little girl had become, but there was one thing I did know. If she’d ended up as screwed up as the rest of her family, I was at least partially responsible for that.”

  “What did you do?” Laura asks.

  “I didn’t know what to do. I had to take some time and think. The look on her face when she pushed that little knife into that tire.” He shakes his head. “I had to face the fact that Graye could be dangerous.”

  Laura closes her eyes. So much might be different right now if Nick had acted on those feelings. She knows dwelling on could-have-been and should-have-been doesn’t change what is, but some days that’s a hard lesson to remember.

  “I didn’t fully understand what was going on, but it was like watching a little kid playing with matches. She was going to get hurt—or worse, hurt someone else. I tried to warn her off, but she was terrified I planned to expose her. I even considered doing just that, for a while. I should have, I know that now. But I couldn’t do that to her.”

  Laura tilts her head and gauges his words. They sound sincere.

  “But, Nick, why did you feel so . . . so
protective of her?” she can’t help but ask. “I mean, Alex isn’t the only one who ended up behind bars.”

  He chuckles without humor. “Grace didn’t put me in jail. My bad decisions did that. Beginning with getting mixed up with Alex. But I was young and dazzled, and I thought she loved me. It’s the lamest excuse in the world, isn’t it?”

  He drops the butt of the cigarette into the paint water with a hiss.

  “We weren’t supposed to kill her, you know. We were going to tie her up, scare her a little, then take the money she kept in the coffee can in the kitchen and buy bus tickets with it. Get out of there for good. At least, that’s what I thought. Alex had other plans, though. For a while after it all happened, I believed she’d changed her mind on the spur of the moment, but I don’t think that’s true anymore. I think Alex always intended for her mother to die.”

  Having met Alex, Laura isn’t surprised.

  “If I had energy to spare on hatred, it would be directed at Alex and at myself. Never at Grace. She was a sad, awkward little girl who’d had a rough time. That woman was a monster, you know. And it took me too long to realize Alex was no better.”

  He stared out at the L train rumbling past. “I found her once. Grace. She was locked in a closet with duct tape wrapped around her wrists and mouth. Tears and snot had dried on her face. Who knows how long she’d been in there in the dark. Alex said her mother had done it before she’d left Alex to babysit. ‘But why didn’t you let her out?’ I asked. Do you know what she said?”

  He glances at Laura, incomprehension in his face. “She shrugged and said she forgot.”

  Nick stands and pulls the window closed with more force than strictly necessary. The relative quiet that engulfs them seems to help settle his agitation.

  The anger she’d briefly glimpsed in him banks, replaced by a profound exhaustion.

  “Forgive me if I sound rude, Mrs. West, but why exactly are you here? I don’t have any great insight to share. The only advice I can offer is to try and move on. Be thankful for every night’s sleep that doesn’t end in a cold sweat. But somehow I doubt you came all this way for platitudes.”

  Laura doesn’t know how to explain her obsession with Graye’s past, with the manuscript written by a sad and disturbed mind, so she doesn’t even try. She’s imposed on Nick DiMarco enough, and he’s clearly ready for her to leave.