Home Before Dark

by Riley Sager

  Yet I retain hope, my beloved, for there is another way in which we can become man and wife, although it is one I wished with all my heart to avoid. Since your father has made it abundantly clear his opinion won’t be swayed, I boldly suggest we defy his wishes. I know of a reverend in Montpelier who has agreed to join us in marriage without the consent of your family. I know full well that elopement is a drastic undertaking, but if your love for me is as strong as you claim, then I beseech you to consider it. Please reply immediately, telling me of your decision. Even if it is no, I assure you I will remain, always and forever—

  Your faithfully devoted,

  Callum

  I lowered the letter, my gaze moving to the painting above the fireplace. Hibbs had told me the story about Indigo’s failed attempt to run off with the man who’d lovingly created that portrait, and I wondered if he and the letter writer were one and the same.

  Standing, I approached the painting, once again amazed at the amount of detail on display. The joyful spark in Indigo’s eyes. The hint of a smile in her ruby lips. The individual strands of fur on the rabbit she was holding. Other than the cracked paint around the rabbit’s eyes, the work was flawless. I wasn’t surprised one bit when I looked to the bottom right corner and found the artist’s name.

  Callum Auguste.

  “It was him,” Petra said, suddenly beside me. “He’s the dude who wrote the letters.”

  “Yes,” I said, chuckling at her word choice. “The very same dude.”

  We returned to the letters on the floor, where I proceeded to read the rest, beginning with one dated three days after the first.

  July 6, 1889

  My darling Indigo,

  My heart has been singing with joy since receiving your reply, and will continue to rejoice for the rest of my days. Thank you, my dearest one, for agreeing to my plan, despite how much it pains you to disobey your father’s wishes. I know the bond between you is stronger than what most fathers and daughters share. You are the apple of his eye, and one cannot blame him for wanting only the best for you. It is my greatest hope that he will soon come to understand and accept what we already know—that all you and I require is our undying love.

  I have spoken again with the reverend who has agreed to marry us in secret. He would like to perform the ceremony within the next two weeks. While I’m aware that doesn’t provide you with ample time to prepare for such a life-changing event, it’s better to do this sooner than later. To delay our nuptials any longer would be to risk your father discovering what we are planning. I have already made arrangements to have a carriage waiting outside Baneberry Hall’s gate at the stroke of midnight in nine days’ time. At the reins will be a trusted friend of mine who has already agreed to take you to the place where we will exchange vows. A place that I am reluctant to disclose in this letter, for fear it will somehow get into the wrong hands. Prepare as much as you are able as discreetly as possible. When the clock strikes midnight, make your escape, hoping that someday your father’s opinion of our marriage will have changed and you will be allowed to return to the home you so love, this time as my wife.

  Forever yours,

  Callum

  July 10, 1889

  My beloved Indigo,

  Your most recent letter has me concerned, more than I care to admit. Do you suspect your father has somehow received word of our plan? If so, what reason do you have to believe he knows? I pray this suspicion is merely the result of nervousness about what we are about to do, for no good can result from your father’s knowledge. I urge you once again to go about this with the utmost secrecy.

  Yours in devotion,

  Callum

  July 15, 1889

  Fear grips me as I write these words—a deep, bone-rattling fear that your father plans to stop our impending marriage by any means necessary. I gather from your last letter than he does indeed know what we have planned, even though he has yet to admit as much. Do not trust him, my dearest. The only thing preventing me from storming the doors of Baneberry Hall and stealing you away is the knowledge that mere hours stand between now and the stroke of midnight. Remain strong and safe until then, my love.

  Yours for eternity,

  Callum

  I lowered the last letter in a state of sadness, knowing that Indigo never did join poor, besotted Callum at the altar. Petra, sensing my grief, said, “She never married him, did she?”

  “No,” I said. “The story I heard is that her father found out, stopped her from eloping, and forbade her from ever seeing Callum again.”

  Petra let out a low whistle. “Damn. What did Indigo do?”

  “She killed herself.”

  “Damn.” Her expression grew pensive. “Indigo was how old when she died?”

  “Sixteen,” I said.

  “So am I. And trust me, if I was in love with someone, nothing would stop me from seeing him. Not even my mother. And I definitely wouldn’t kill myself.”

  She sorted through the letters, ignoring their delicate state. When she stabbed at one with an index finger, tiny chips fell from the page.

  “Right here,” she said, reading aloud. “‘Your father plans to stop our impending marriage by any means necessary.’”

  She passed the letter to me, and I read it again, paying close attention to Callum’s warning about William Garson.

  Do not trust him, my dearest.

  “What if—” Petra stopped herself, her cheeks flushing again, as if she knew what she was about to say was stupid. “What if Indigo Garson didn’t commit suicide? What if she was murdered by her father?”

  I was thinking the same thing. I’d always thought the official story I got from Hibbs was missing a key element that tied it all together. This, I realized, could be it.

  “I think you might be onto something,” I said. “The question is, what can we do about it?”

  Petra arched a brow, as if the answer was obvious.

  “We do some research,” she said. “And see if we can prove that William Garson was a killer.”

  Thirteen

  In the morning, I spend an hour blow-drying my still-damp clothes before checking out of the motel. It says a lot about the accommodations in Bartleby that I’d rather return to an allegedly haunted house that had a skeleton in the ceiling than spend another night at the Two Pines.

  But it’s more than just the sad state of the motel that brings me back to Baneberry Hall. I return because I need to. The truth—about why we left, about why my father kept coming back, about what happened to poor Petra—is getting closer. Now it’s just a matter of finding it.

  I even get a police escort, courtesy of Chief Alcott, who stops by the motel as I’m checking out to give me the all-clear to return home. She insists on steering her battered Dodge Charger ahead of me the whole way home. When we reach Baneberry Hall, I understand why.

  The front gate is blocked by reporters from both print and television. Several news vans have set up camp on the side of the road, their back doors open and beefy cameramen waiting inside like bored children. They leap from their vans when we pull up to the gate, cameras swinging my way. The reporters crush around my truck, including Brian Prince, his bow tie giving his I-told-you-so expression an extra veneer of smugness.

  “Maggie!” he shouts. “Do you think your father murdered Petra Ditmer?”

  I keep driving, inching the truck forward until I’m at the gate. Chief Alcott climbs out of her cruiser, armed with the keys I handed to her before we left the Two Pines. She ambles through the crowd and unlocks the gate.

  “Come on now,” she says to the scrum of reporters, clearing them with several sweeps of her arms. “Let her through.”

  Brian Prince is the last to move. He raps on the truck’s window, begging me for a quote.

  “Talk to me, Maggie. Tell me your side of the story.”

 
I pound the gas pedal and the truck surges forward, leaving Brian flailing in a cloud of dust. I don’t slow until I’m up the hill and in front of Baneberry Hall. It looks more sinister now than it did this time yesterday, even though I know that’s impossible. The only things that have changed are what I now know about the place and the length of broken police tape dangling from the front door.

  Chief Alcott pulls into the driveway behind me. She gets out of her Charger, and I hop out of the truck. We stand at a distance, facing each other like movie cowboys before a gunfight, both of us fully aware that we might not be on the same side. It all depends on how guilty I think my father is, something that changes by the minute.

  “I was hoping we could talk,” she says. “The folks in Waterbury did a preliminary examination of the remains last night.”

  “It’s Petra, isn’t it?”

  “Not officially. They still need to check dental records. But the bones belonged to a female in her late teens. So, it’s looking pretty likely that it’s her.”

  Even though I’m not surprised, the news leaves me feeling unmoored. I go to the porch and sit on the steps, my damp jeans chafing my thighs. I’d feel more comfortable in a change of clothes, but I’m not quite ready to enter Baneberry Hall.

  “Do they know her cause of death?”

  “Not definitively,” Chief Alcott says. “Her skull was fractured. That’s the only damage they could positively identify. They can’t conclude that’s what killed her. That’ll be hard to do, considering the condition those bones were in.”

  “Why did you think Petra ran away all those years ago?” I say.

  “Who says I did?”

  “Brian Prince.”

  “Figures,” she mutters. “The truth is that I did suspect something might have happened to Petra.”

  “Why didn’t you do anything about it?”

  “I wasn’t in charge, so I didn’t call the shots. That was three chiefs ago. No one else on the force gave two shits about a teenage girl. I did, but I stayed quiet anyway, which is something I’ve regretted every damn day for the past twenty-five years.” Chief Alcott takes a deep breath to collect herself. “But now I do get to call the shots. And I want to know what happened to that poor girl. So, let’s talk suspects. Other than your father, who else do you think could have put that body under your floorboards?”

  “I should be asking you that,” I say. “Come to think of it, should we be discussing this at all?”

  The chief removes her hat and runs a hand through her short silver hair. “I don’t see any harm in us talking. I’m just trying to cover all the bases. You shouldn’t consider me the enemy, Maggie.”

  “You think my father murdered someone.”

  “You haven’t given me any reason to think otherwise.”

  Had my mother called me back, I might be better equipped for this conversation. But she didn’t, even after I called her again this morning. Now I can only blindly toss theories like darts in a dive bar.

  “I know my father looks guilty,” I say. “And, for all I know, he might have done it. But if he did, then it doesn’t make sense why he mentioned Petra so much in his book. If he had some kind of affair with her, like Brian Prince thinks, or he killed her, like probably everyone thinks, it would have made more sense not to mention her at all.”

  “Maybe that’s what he was hoping we’d think,” Chief Alcott suggests.

  “Or maybe someone else did it.”

  The chief jerks her head in the direction of the front door. “There wasn’t a whole lot of people with access to that house.”

  “Walt Hibbets,” I say. “He had keys to the place.”

  “True,” Chief Alcott says. “But what would his motive have been? Petra lived across the road from him all her life. He would have had plenty of chances to kill her. Not that old Walt was the killing type. But if he was, why wait until then?”

  “Maybe he knew Baneberry Hall was empty,” I say, grasping. “And he put the body there to frame my father.”

  “Hiding a body isn’t the best way to frame someone. But it’s interesting you mentioned someone from the Hibbets family.” The chief’s tone is loaded, making me squirm in discomfort. My jeans squeak on the steps. “I was surprised to see Dane here yesterday.”

  “He’s helping me work on the house,” I say. “Why is that a surprise? He’s a contractor, after all, although he said business was light.”

  “Did you ever stop to wonder why?”

  I hadn’t. I didn’t give it any thought whatsoever. I needed help, Dane was there, we made a deal.

  “What are you getting at?” I ask.

  “I’m saying that most folks here aren’t too keen on hiring an ex-con,” the chief says.

  My breath catches in my throat. This bit of news isn’t quite as shocking as yesterday’s events, but few things are.

  “What did he do?”

  “Aggravated assault,” the chief says. “This was in Burlington. About eight years back. There was a bar fight. Dane got overzealous and beat the other guy until he was unconscious. Cut him up real bad, to boot. His victim spent a month in the hospital, and Dane spent a year in prison.”

  My mind seizes on an image of Dane in a dive bar, slamming his fist repeatedly into a stranger’s dazed, bloody face. I want to think he isn’t capable of such violence, but I’m unsure of everything, at least when it comes to the men in my life.

  Chief Alcott senses this and says, “I wouldn’t fret over it, if I were you.” She stands, but not before giving my knee a friendly pat. “You have bigger things to worry about.”

  She puts her hat back on, returns to her cruiser, and drives away, leaving me alone on the steps to consider three things. One, that Dane—the man I came this close to sleeping with last night—has a violent streak. Two, that I never did come up with a good reason as to why Chief Alcott shouldn’t suspect my father. And three, that it’s possible she brought up the former to prevent me from doing the latter.

  This prompts one last thought—that despite her assurances to the contrary, maybe Chief Tess Alcott has her own agenda.

  * * *

  —

  I don’t enter the house until thirty minutes after Chief Alcott departs. Part of that time is spent talking to an understandably pissed-off Allie.

  “Why didn’t you tell me a dead girl was found inside Baneberry Hall?” she says as soon as I answer the phone.

  “I didn’t want you to worry.”

  “Well, I am,” she says. “Especially because I had to see it on Twitter. ‘Body found in House of Horrors mansion.’ That’s what the headline said. And for a second, I thought it was you.”

  My heart sinks, for multiple reasons. I hate the fact that Allie, even for a moment, thought something bad had happened to me. Then there’s the matter of Baneberry Hall once again being national news. Because if Allie saw it, lots of people have as well.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I should have told you.”

  “Damn right, you should have.”

  “But everything is crazy right now. I found the body of that poor girl, and the police think my father did it, and someone broke into the house.”

  “There was an intruder?” Allie says, unable to conceal her alarm. “When?”

  “Two nights ago. They didn’t do anything. Just roamed through the house a little.”

  “That sounds like something,” Allie says.

  “I’m not in any danger.”

  “Yet.” Allie pauses to take a calming breath I can hear through the phone. “Maggie, I get that you need answers. I really do. But this isn’t worth it.”

  “It will be,” I say. “Something happened in that house the night we left. And I’ve spent most of my life wondering what it was. I can’t leave now. I have to see this through.”

  Allie says she understands, even though
it’s clear she doesn’t. I don’t expect her to. Most people faced with such a fucked-up situation would be content to go home, let the police handle it, and wait for answers. But cut-and-dried answers about how Petra died will tell me only half the story.

  I need context.

  I need details.

  I need truth.

  If my father killed Petra, I want to know about it, mostly because then I’ll know how to feel about him.

  I came here hoping to forgive my father.

  I won’t be able to forgive a murderer.

  Which is why I also can’t let go of the idea that he’s innocent. I am my father’s daughter. We chose different paths and we had our share of disagreements, but I had more in common with him than I do with my mother. He and I were far more alike than we were different. If he’s a killer, what does that make me?

  After ending the call with Allie, it takes me ten more minutes before I get the courage to enter Baneberry Hall. On my way in, I yank off the remnant of police tape, which flutters away like a windblown leaf. I pause in the vestibule, tentative. A replay of my arrival. The only difference is that now Baneberry Hall actually feels haunted.

  I tread quietly deeper into the house. Out of respect to Petra, I suppose. Or maybe a subconscious fear that her spirit still lingers. In the Indigo Room, the area rug’s been rolled against the wall. The police took the floorboards that used to lie under it as evidence. Now there’s a hole in the floor roughly the same size and shape as a child’s coffin.

  I peer through it to the kitchen below, which has been cleared of all ceiling debris. That’s likely also evidence now, swept into cardboard boxes and carried out of the house.

  I go to the parlor next. Sitting on the hulking secretary desk is the photo of my family in its gold frame. I turn it around and face the image of us together and happy and completely oblivious about what was to come. My handsome, charming father. My smiling mother. Gap-toothed me. All of them strangers to me now.