Someone We Know

by Shari Lapena

THREE

  It’s early in the morning on Monday, October 16; the light in the sky has been growing steadily stronger. The air is chilly. Detective Webb stands perfectly still, watching the mist rise off the lake, holding a paper cup of coffee that has long since gone cold. The surface of the lake, farther out, is perfectly still. He hears a bird cry in the distance. It reminds him of camping as a boy. It would be a peaceful scene if it weren’t for the crew of divers and the various vehicles, equipment, and personnel nearby.

  The area outside of Aylesford is a lovely place for a vacation. He’s been out here before with his wife. But it’s first thing on a Monday morning, and he’s not here to enjoy himself.

  “You still drinking that?” Detective Moen asks, looking sideways at him.

  She’s his partner; a head shorter and a decade younger, late twenties to his late thirties, and sharp as a tack. He likes working with her. She has short brown hair and perceptive blue eyes. He looks at her and shakes his head, dumps the cold coffee out on the ground.

  A local retired man by the name of Bryan Roth had been along here in his rowboat at dawn, fishing for bass. He thought he saw something beneath his boat, something that looked like a car, not far from shore. He called the police. The County Sheriff’s Office Regional Underwater Search and Recovery Team had come out. They could see there was a car down there; now they need to find out what else might be under the water.

  The divers have just gone down to take a look. Webb stands and watches the water, Moen beside him, waiting for the divers to surface. He wants to know if there’s a body in the car. Or worse, more than one. Odds are, there is. In the meantime, he thinks about the logistics of it. There’s a road behind them, a lonely road. A suicide spot, maybe? The car isn’t far from shore, but the water in this particular spot gets deep quickly. There’s a strip of beach, and then the edge of the lake. He turns and looks back again at the road behind him. The road curves here—if someone was driving too fast, or was drunk or high, could the car have missed the curve and gone down the slight incline into the water? There’s no guardrail to prevent it.

  He wonders how long the car’s been there. It’s an out-of-the-way spot. A car that went into the water here might stay unnoticed for a long time.

  His attention shifts to the man standing at the edge of the road. The older man waves a nervous hello.

  Webb and Moen walk over to him.

  “You the one who spotted it?” Webb asks.

  The man nods. “Yes. I’m Bryan Roth.”

  “I’m Detective Webb and this is Detective Moen from Aylesford Police,” he says, showing the man his badge. “You fish along here regularly?” Webb asks.

  The man shakes his head. “No, I don’t generally come down here. Never fished along this bit before. I was just floating along here”—he points out at the water with a finger—“with my line in the water, and I felt it snag. I bent over to have a look and started pulling on it, and I saw a car.”

  “It’s good that you called it in,” Moen says.

  The man nods, laughs nervously. “It really freaked me out. You don’t expect to see a car under the water.” He looks at them uneasily. “Do you think there’s someone in it?”

  “That’s what we’re here to find out,” Webb says.

  He turns away from the man and looks back at the lake. At that moment a diver breaks through the surface and looks toward the shore. He shakes his head firmly, no.

  Webb says, “There’s your answer.”

  But it’s not the answer he was expecting. If there’s no body in the car, how did the car get into the water? Who was driving it? Maybe somebody pushed it in.

  Moen, beside him, looks just as surprised.

  Could be all sorts of reasons there’s nobody in that car. Maybe whoever was driving managed to get out and didn’t report it because they’d been drinking. Maybe the car had been stolen. They’ll get it out of the water and get the license plate and then they’ll have somewhere to start.

  Moen stands beside him, silently going over the possibilities, just as he is.

  “Thanks for your help,” Webb says to Roth, and then turns abruptly and walks toward the lake, Moen falling into step beside him. The man stands uncertainly, left behind.

  The diver is coming up to the shore now. The marine officers stand by; it’s their job to get the car out of the water. They’ve done this countless times. A second diver is still down there, getting things ready to lift the vehicle out.

  The diver lifts up his mask. “It’s a four-door sedan. All the windows are wide open.” He pauses and adds, “Might have been sunk deliberately.”

  Webb bites his lower lip. “Any idea how long it’s been in the water?”

  “I’d guess a couple of weeks, give or take.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Let’s bring her up,” he says.

  They step back again and let the experts do their work. Webb and Moen stand in silence and watch.

  Finally there’s a loud swooshing sound and the car breaks through the water. It’s raised a few feet above the surface when they see it for the first time. Water streams from the windows and out the cracks in the doors. It hangs there suspended from cables in the air for a minute, resurrected.

  The car swings slowly over and onto the shore. It lands on the ground with a bounce and then settles, still leaking fluids. Careful about his shoes, Webb approaches the vehicle. It’s a fairly new Toyota Camry, and just as the diver said, all four windows are open. Webb looks in the front seat and sees a woman’s purse peeking out from beneath the seat. He looks into the backseat and sees an overnight case on the floor. The car smells of stagnant lake water and rot. He pulls his head out and walks around to the back of the vehicle. New York plates. He turns to Moen. “Call it in,” he says. She gives a curt nod and calls in the plate number while the two of them walk around the vehicle. Finally they’ve come full circle and stop at the back of the car again. It’s time to open the trunk. Webb has a bad feeling. He turns and looks back at the man who first saw the car in the water. He doesn’t come closer. He looks as apprehensive as Webb feels, but the detective knows better than to show it.

  “Let’s get this open,” he directs.

  A member of the team approaches with a crow bar. He’s obviously done this before—the trunk pops open. They all look inside.

  There’s a woman there. She’s lying on her back with her legs folded up to one side, fully clothed, in jeans and a sweater. She’s white, probably late twenties, long brown hair. Webb notes the wedding ring and the diamond engagement ring on her finger. He can see that she has been savagely beaten. Her skin is pale and waxy and her one remaining eye is wide open. She looks up at him as if she’s asking for help. He can tell that she was beautiful.

  “Christ,” Webb says under his breath.

  FOUR

  Carmine Torres rises early Monday morning. Sunlight is beginning to filter through the front windows and into the entryway as she makes her way down the stairs, anticipating her first cup of coffee. She’s halfway down when she sees it. A white envelope lying all by itself on the dark hardwood floor just inside the front door. How odd. It wasn’t there last night when she went up to bed. Must be junk mail, she thinks, in spite of the NO JUNK MAIL sign she has displayed outside. But junk mail doesn’t usually get delivered late at night.

  She walks over to the envelope and picks it up. There’s nothing written on it. She considers tossing it into the recycle bin without opening it, but she’s curious, and tears it open casually as she walks into the kitchen.

  But as soon as her eyes fall on the letter inside, she stops and stands completely still. She reads:

  This is a very difficult letter to write. I hope you will not hate us too much. There is no easy way to say this, so I will just spell it out.

  My son broke into your home recently while you were out. Yours was not the only home he snuck
into. I know that’s not much comfort. He swears he didn’t steal anything. I’ve searched his room very thoroughly and I’m pretty sure he’s telling the truth about that. He says he just looked around. He was very careful and didn’t break or damage anything. You probably don’t even know he was there. But I feel I have to let you know that he snooped in your computer—he’s very good with computers—and admits that he wrote some prank emails from someone’s account. He wouldn’t tell me the content of those emails—I think he is too embarrassed—but I feel that you should know. I would hate for them to cause you any trouble.

  I am mortified by his behavior. I’m sorry that he can’t apologize to you in person. I can’t tell you my name, or his name, because his father is worried that it will leave our son open to criminal charges. But please believe me when I tell you that we are all deeply sorry and ashamed of his behavior. Teenage boys can be a handful.

  Please accept this apology and I assure you that it will never happen again. My son has faced serious consequences for his actions at home.

  I just wanted you to know that it happened, and that we are deeply sorry.

  Carmine lifts her eyes from the page, appalled. Someone broke into her house? What an introduction to the neighborhood. She’s only lived here for a couple of months; she’s still getting used to the place, trying to make friends.

  She’s not happy about the letter. It makes her feel unsettled. It’s awful to think that someone was inside her house creeping around, going through her things, getting into her computer, without her even knowing. She’ll look around and make sure nothing’s missing—she’s not going to take this woman’s word for it. And she’d better check her computer for any sent emails that she didn’t write herself. The more she thinks about it the more upset she gets. She feels invaded.

  Carmine wanders into the kitchen and starts making coffee. As upset as she is, she can’t help feeling sorry for the woman who wrote the letter. How awful for her, she thinks. But she’d love to know who it was.

  * * *

  —

  Robert Pierce stops at the bottom of his stairs, staring at the plain white envelope on the floor in his front hall. Someone must have pushed it through the slot while he was upstairs in bed last night.

  He steps forward slowly, his bare feet making no sound on the hardwood floor. He reaches down and picks up the envelope, turning it over. There’s nothing written on it at all.

  He opens the envelope and pulls out the single sheet of paper, then reads the letter in disbelief. It’s unsigned. Reaching the end of it, he looks up, seeing nothing. Someone has been inside his house.

  Sinking down onto the bottom stair, he reads the letter again. Some teenager, messing about. He can’t believe it.

  He sits for a long time, thinking he might have a problem.

  * * *

  —

  Raleigh goes to school on Monday morning, relieved to get out of the house.

  He’s also feeling completely disconnected—he hasn’t been online all weekend. He feels almost blind without his cell phone. He has no way to reach anyone, to make plans, to know what’s going on. He feels like a bat without radar. Or sonar. Or whatever. He has to hope he runs into Mark in the hall or in the cafeteria, because they don’t have any classes together today.

  But then he finds Mark waiting for him by his locker. Of course Mark will have figured it out.

  “Parents take your phone?” Mark asks, as Raleigh opens his locker.

  “Yeah.” His anger at his friend’s stupidity had subsided as he recalled that he’d probably sent equally stupid texts to him. Plus, he needs a friend right now.

  “Why? What’d you do?”

  Raleigh leans in closer. “Those texts you sent—my mom saw them. They know.”

  Mark looks alarmed. “Shit! Sorry.”

  Raleigh is very sorry now that he ever, in a moment of bravado, told Mark what he was doing. He’d been showing off. But now he wishes he’d kept his mouth shut.

  Raleigh glances over his shoulder to see if anyone can hear them. He lowers his voice. “Now they’re taking me to see a lawyer to decide what to do. My own parents are considering turning me in!”

  “No way. They wouldn’t do that. They’re your parents.”

  “Yeah, well, they’re pretty pissed.” Raleigh shrugs off his backpack.

  “See you after school?” Mark asks, obviously worried.

  “Sure. Meet me here after last class.” He grabs his books. “I fucking hate not having a phone.”

  * * *

  —

  Olivia has work to do, but she can’t focus. She works from home as a copy editor of educational textbooks. She has enough work to keep her moderately busy, but not overly so, so that she can manage the house and family. It’s a satisfactory, but not particularly fulfilling, arrangement. Sometimes she daydreams about doing something completely different. Maybe she’ll become a real estate agent, or work in a gardening shop. She has no idea, but the thought of change is appealing.

  Olivia had been too distracted to work, waiting for Paul to call her about when they’re meeting the lawyer. And now that she’s learned that it will be today she can’t think about anything else. She hesitates, but then picks up her phone and calls Glenda Newell.

  Glenda picks up on the second ring. She works from home, too, putting together fancy gift baskets for a local business a few hours a week. She’s usually up for coffee if Olivia calls. “Do you want to meet at the Bean for coffee?” Olivia asks. She can hear the tension in her own voice, although she’s trying to keep it light. “I could use a talk.”

  “Sure, I’d love to,” Glenda says. “Everything all right?”

  Olivia hasn’t decided how much she’s going to tell Glenda. “Yup. Fifteen minutes?”

  “Perfect.”

  When Olivia arrives at the local coffee shop, Glenda is already there. The Bean is a comfortable place, with an old-fashioned coffee bar and mismatched tables and chairs and walls covered in funky, thrift-shop art. Not a chain, and very popular with the locals, in an area where many people seem to work from home. Glenda has found a table at the back, where they can have some privacy. Olivia orders a decaf Americano at the counter and joins Glenda at the table.

  “What’s up?” Glenda asks. “You don’t look that great.”

  “I haven’t been sleeping well the last couple of nights,” Olivia admits, looking at Glenda. She really needs to confide in someone. She and Glenda have been close for sixteen years—they met in a moms’ group when Raleigh and Glenda’s son, Adam, were infants. Their husbands have become fast friends as well. They socialize together frequently; it was Glenda and her husband, Keith, who had been over for dinner on Friday night when Raleigh was out getting into trouble.

  She can tell Glenda. Glenda will understand. Mothers can be awfully competitive these days, but she and Glenda have never been that way. They’ve always been honest and supportive with each other about the kids. Olivia knows that Adam has had his problems. Twice now, at sixteen, he’s come home so drunk that he’s spent the night hovering over the toilet or collapsed on the bathroom floor. Glenda has had to stay awake watching over him to make sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit. Parenting is hard; Olivia doesn’t know what she’d do without Glenda to help her through it. And she knows Glenda is grateful for her, too.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” Olivia says, leaning forward and speaking quietly.

  “What?” Glenda asks.

  Olivia glances around to make sure they can’t be overheard and says, lowering her voice even further, “Raleigh’s been breaking into people’s houses.”

  The shock on Glenda’s face says it all. Suddenly tears are brimming in Olivia’s eyes and she’s afraid she’s going to have a full-blown meltdown right there in the coffee shop. Glenda leans in and puts a comforting hand on her shoulder while Olivia scrabbl
es for a paper napkin and holds it to her eyes.

  The girl picks that moment to bring Olivia’s coffee over, sets it down, and moves swiftly away, pretending not to notice that Olivia is crying.

  “Oh, Olivia,” Glenda says, her face shifting from shock to sympathy. “What happened? Did he get caught by the police?”

  Olivia shakes her head and tries to recover her composure. “It was Friday night, when you guys were over for dinner.” She’d thought about asking Raleigh to stay home for the dinner party. He’d already made plans with a friend to go see a movie—or so he’d said. She could have insisted he stay home. He and Adam used to be friends, but had drifted apart that spring, when Adam started drinking. But part of her didn’t really want Raleigh around Adam. She was afraid he would be a bad influence; she didn’t want Raleigh to start drinking. Of course, she couldn’t tell Glenda that. Instead she’d told Glenda that Raleigh had already made plans and Glenda had been fine with it. Adam found something else to do. And now it turns out that her own son had found something else to do, too. Olivia tells Glenda the whole mortifying story. Except for the part about the apology letters; she keeps that to herself.

  “Why would Raleigh do something like that?” Glenda asks in genuine bewilderment. “He’s always been such a good kid.”

  “I don’t know,” Olivia admits. “It seems—” She can’t continue. She doesn’t want to put it into words, to make her concerns real.

  “It seems what?”

  “Odd. Why would he want to snoop around people’s houses like that? It’s abnormal! Is he some kind of—voyeur? Do you think I should get him some help?”

  Glenda sits back and bites her lip. “I don’t think you should get carried away here. He’s a teenager. They’re stupid. They don’t think. They do whatever seems like a good idea at any given moment. Kids do this kind of thing all the time.”

  “Do they?” Olivia says anxiously. “But don’t they usually steal something? He didn’t take anything.”