Someone We Know: A Novel

by Shari Lapena

  “Larry, what are you saying?”

  He finally looks at her in fear, imploringly, as if she can somehow help him. But she’s afraid she can’t help him.

  “Larry,” she says anxiously, “did you leave the resort?”

  “No.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “I checked in on Friday and went up to my room. I didn’t feel like seeing anybody. I—I’d had an argument with Amanda the day before—she said she didn’t want to see me anymore—and I was upset, and exhausted. So I stayed in my room and did some work and then—I fell asleep. I didn’t wake up till almost nine. I missed most of the opening reception.”

  She looks at him in disbelief and rage. Long seconds tick by, the room utterly still but for the pounding of her heart. Then she says, “Are you telling me the truth?”

  “Yes, I swear.”

  “Even I’m having a hard time believing that,” she says. She realizes he has no alibi at all. “Where did you have the argument with Amanda?” she asks, the gorge rising in her throat. “Did anyone see?”

  “It was over the phone.”

  “What phone?”

  He looks away furtively. “We used burner phones.”

  She can’t believe it—her husband, the father of her children, with a burner phone. She asks furiously, “What happened to the phone?”

  “I threw it from the bridge into the river.”

  “Which bridge? When? Fuck! They might have cameras, you know.”

  He looks up at her, ghastly pale now. “The Skyway. On Sunday, on my way home from the resort. She’d broken it off—I figured I didn’t need the phone anymore.”

  “You stupid son of a bitch,” she hisses, and walks away.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Robert Pierce sits alone in his darkened living room, sipping slowly from a glass of whiskey. He’s thinking about Detective Webb—and his sidekick, Detective Moen—and what they might think. What they might have. They can’t have anything on him. They’re fishing.

  They will certainly be looking at his next-door neighbor, Larry Harris, who was sleeping with Amanda. Robert doesn’t understand what Amanda saw in him, but she’d always been attracted to older men. Oh, he knew. He’s not stupid. He’d known about Larry for some time.

  Then he got into Amanda’s secret phone. It wasn’t that hard—he just Googled how to unlock Android lock screen without password. And once he did, how enlightening it turned out to be. Her calls, her texts, those two secret numbers. He called one of them and a man answered. As soon as he heard the man’s voice, he recognized it. Because after all, it was who he was expecting it to be. “Larry,” Robert said.

  “Who is this?” Larry asked, clearly startled.

  “It’s her husband, Robert.”

  Larry had hung up the phone in a hurry.

  There wasn’t any answer at the other number. It was this other number that concerned him more. The number that she sent those texts to, the ones sharing intimate, private details of their life together, the ones saying that her husband was a psychopath. Those texts enraged him. She must have been able to warn him that her husband had her phone.

  And there were other things on that phone, too, that she hadn’t sent to anyone, that made him angriest of all. And even afraid.

  He thinks about Becky. By now she must know about Larry and Amanda, if those detectives are any good at all. He suspects that Becky’s half in love with him. He hopes she keeps her mouth shut. It wouldn’t do for the police to think he had a motive to kill his wife. If Larry Harris tells them about that phone call, Robert will simply deny it. There’s no proof. No proof at all that Robert ever made that phone call.

  No proof that Robert knew about her affair. Her affairs. As long as Amanda’s burner phone is never found. It must never be found.

  He thinks back to when they first moved here. That insufferable party that Amanda insisted on going to. Sitting there watching her, so lovely, so unwittingly cruel. He wonders now if she’d made her selections that day, which ones she was going to screw. They’d only been married a year. How little he knew her then, her proclivities—her childish, inexplicable need to seduce older men. And how little she knew him then—the dark, cold center of his soul. But they’d gotten to know each other better.

  He knows that Becky and Larry are both home. There are lights on downstairs next door, even though it’s very late. How he’d love to be a fly on that wall.

  * * *

  —

  Raleigh waits until everyone in the house is asleep. He pulls on his jeans, a T-shirt, and his dark hoodie, and carefully opens his bedroom door. He knows his dad’s a heavy sleeper; it’s his mother he’s worried about. But he stands still outside his bedroom in the hall and he can hear each of them snoring their separate, distinct snores. Relieved, he creeps down the stairs, careful not to make a sound.

  He pulls on his sneakers in the kitchen. He doesn’t turn on any lights. He’s used to operating in the dark. Quietly, he slips out the kitchen door to the garage, where he keeps his bike. He puts on his helmet, flings his leg over the bike, and as soon as he leaves the garage, starts pedaling, fast, away from the house.

  He knows it’s bad, hacking into people’s computers. He started hacking for the challenge. How can he explain that to someone who doesn’t feel it? His parents wouldn’t get it, but any fellow hacker would know exactly why he does it. It feels great—hacking into someone else’s system makes him feel powerful, like he has control over something. He doesn’t feel like he has much control over his own life. He promised his parents—and himself—that he would stop. And he will. The risks are too great. This is his last time. He wouldn’t be doing it at all if he didn’t know for sure that the owners were away. And this time, he’s got a pair of latex gloves stuffed in his jeans pocket—he took them from the package his mom keeps in her cupboard of cleaning supplies. He’s not going to take any stupid risks, and he’s not going to leave any prints behind.

  Raleigh studies the house. It’s a dark night, and the moon is covered by cloud. The light is on at the front of the house, and there’s a light on upstairs—probably on timers. He knows this because they have a cat. And the local pet sitter, who has a sign on her car, has been stopping by and going into this house for the last few days. Raleigh’s seen her every morning on his way to school. How stupid can people be? Hiring a pet sitter with a sign on her friggin’ car? It’s like advertising that you’re out of town, for fuck’s sake.

  He’d tried to talk himself out of it. But he just couldn’t resist. He wants to break into a house where he doesn’t have to worry about the owners coming home after a dinner out. He wants to relax and take his time—dig a little deeper, try a couple of different things before he retires.

  Raleigh creeps around the back of the house. No one is watching. He studies the doors and windows carefully. No obvious sign of security. But the doors and windows are securely locked. He’s been watching videos on YouTube, just in case. It’s not as hard to break into a house as a typical homeowner might think. He reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out his bank machine card. He slides it along the edge of the door where the lock is and starts to fiddle with the catch. The guys on YouTube do this in a couple of seconds, but it takes Raleigh almost a full minute before the catch gives way with a satisfying click. And just in time—he’s sweating buckets, afraid someone might see him.

  He slips inside the door and closes it quietly behind him, his heart thumping. He puts his card back into his pocket and takes out his phone. He turns the flashlight on. The door opens directly into the kitchen. He kicks something—a dish—and sends it clattering across the floor. Shit. He points the light down. There’s kibble everywhere. He squats down, sweeps it into a pile, and picks it up with his gloved hands. Now there’s a black-and-white cat brushing against his shins. He stops to pat it for a minute.

  He doesn
’t waste time downstairs. The computers are almost always upstairs, in the bedrooms or the office.

  The house is obviously occupied by a couple with a baby—there’s a master bedroom, a baby’s room, and an office at the back. He slips into the office at the end of the hall and sets about getting into the computer. With a USB boot stick and a few keystrokes he’s created a backdoor and bypassed the passwords. After he has a quick look around, he’s going to try something new—he’s going to use this compromised computer to try to get into its owner’s employer’s network, if he’s employed anywhere halfway interesting. Raleigh’s feeling relaxed—the computer is at the back of the house, the blinds are drawn, nobody can see in—he can stay here all night if he wants to. He’s engrossed in what he’s doing when he hears a sound. Car doors slamming. He freezes. He hears voices outside. Fuck. They can’t be home. Raleigh panics. He looks out the window. There’s no way out there. No roof to climb out onto. He’s not jumping out a second-story window.

  While he dithers, the voices get louder. Now he hears a key in the front door. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He’s up out of the chair now and standing frozen in fear near the top of the stairs. Can he get down the stairs and out the back door fast enough? But the front door is opening now, and a switch is flicked on, flooding the front hallway with light. He’s so screwed. There’s no way out.

  He sees the cat enter the hall, brush against the leg of the hall table, and mew at her owners, but he can’t see them.

  “You take the baby up and put her down and I’ll bring in the gear,” he hears a man’s voice say. They still have no idea that there’s a stranger upstairs in their house.

  Raleigh ducks back into the office at the end of the hall, barely daring to breathe. The computer is still on, but it faces away from the door and it’s not making a sound. The room is dark. Maybe they won’t notice. Maybe he can hide in here until they go to bed. He feels a bead of sweat trickle down his back. He hears a woman come heavily up the stairs, cooing to the baby. Raleigh wills it to start crying, but the baby stays quiet. The floorboards creak as the woman enters the baby’s room in the middle of the hall. The husband is still outside with the car. Raleigh hears the trunk slam. Does he run for it now? Or wait? It’s the longest couple of seconds of Raleigh’s life.

  He panics. He flees down the stairs as fast as he can, not even bothering to be quiet. He makes it to the bottom of the stairs before the man is at the front door. He hears the woman’s startled cry behind him. He’s halfway to the kitchen before the front door opens. He scrambles for the door in the kitchen, making his way in the dark, and kicks the cat dish again, sending it scattering. He hears the man behind him in the front hall—“What the fuck?”—and hears him abruptly drop whatever he’s carrying and come after him. Raleigh doesn’t look back.

  He’s out the door and running as fast as he can. He runs right across the backyard, hops the fence without even thinking about it, boosted on adrenaline. He doesn’t stop until he’s far away and his lungs are bursting.

  He hides behind a bush in a park until his heart stops pounding and he gets his breath back. He still has to go back and retrieve his bike before he goes home—at least he’d had the sense not to leave it near the house. There’s no way they won’t call the police. They’ll see that the computer is on, and see what he’s done.

  * * *

  —

  Carmine can’t sleep. She’s tried reading but nothing holds her interest. It’s human company she wants. She misses her husband. He used to read in bed beside her; now he’s gone.

  She’s downstairs in the kitchen making some hot chocolate when she hears something outside, in the street. Shouting. She freezes, listening. She hears banging, more shouting. She moves quickly to the front door but doesn’t turn on the light. When she looks out, she sees a lean, dark figure, weaving on the sidewalk at the end of her driveway. He appears to be alone. He’s got something in his hand, a stick of some kind. She creeps forward, and as she gets closer she sees that it’s just a boy. A teenager, probably drunk, on a Friday night. He’s standing still now, swaying, as if he can’t remember what he was doing, and he’s got what looks like a broken hockey stick in his hand. She thinks he’s been smashing her recycling bin.

  “Hey!” Carmine says, striding down the driveway toward him in her pink bathrobe. The boy looks back at her, as if dumbfounded at the sight of her. “What are you doing?” she says crossly. She’s not afraid of him, he’s just a boy. She’s only a few feet away from him now and can see him clearly. She can also smell the booze on him. Something about him reminds her of her own son, Luke. He seems to be trying to focus, but his face is slack. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t run either. Probably because if he tried to he’d fall flat on his face.

  “You’re not old enough to drink, are you,” she says, the mother in her speaking.

  He waves her away like he’s swatting a fly and stumbles on down the street, dragging his broken hockey stick.

  Concerned, she watches him stumble down the sidewalk, until he turns into a house farther down the street. She sees lights go on in the house. At least he made it home, she thinks. His own parents can deal with him.

  * * *

  —

  The next morning, Saturday, Glenda calls Olivia and invites her to go for a walk. She wants to know what happened last night, when Olivia confronted Paul.

  Glenda puts on a jacket and her walking shoes. It’s a cold, crisp day, but at least the sun is shining again after yesterday’s dreary rain. She closes the door behind her, and begins to walk toward Olivia’s house. Her mind is full. If only she could solve everybody’s problems. If only all this—stress—would go away.

  Last night their son, Adam, had come home drunk, again. They’d given him a curfew, but he’d ignored it. They’d grounded him, and he’d snuck out of the house. Now, they don’t know what to do.

  “Maybe we just let him sow his wild oats,” Keith had said this morning. “When he’s tired of barfing in the morning, he’ll straighten out.”

  She’d glared at him angrily, with her arms folded across her chest. He hadn’t stayed awake all night keeping an eye on their son to make sure he didn’t choke to death. Keith slept just fine. Nothing seems to bother him; it’s like he’s coated with Teflon.

  Sometimes she wishes she could make her husband understand all the things she does, all the things she’s done for their family. He doesn’t appreciate her enough. He never will. He’s oblivious.

  And she’d had to clean up the mess in the bathroom.

  “Make him do it,” Keith had said unhelpfully, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

  She’d glanced in at Adam moaning in bed, realized that wasn’t going to happen, and did it herself. Now all she wants is to get out of the house, away from her husband and her son and the smell of barf and talk to someone reasonable. Someone who understands.

  She sees Olivia approaching her on the sidewalk and waves. Soon they are face-to-face, and fall into step together. “Let’s head for the park,” Glenda suggests. On the way, she tells Olivia about the latest problem with Adam. As they walk together along the edge of the pond, Glenda says, “Sorry to vent. So, what happened last night? Did you talk to Paul?” She turns to look at Olivia and notices that she seems much less tense than she had the day before.

  Olivia nods. “I did.” She lets out a big exhale and stops, looking out over the water toward the trees beyond. “He wasn’t seeing Amanda. He caught her giving Larry a blow job in the office and warned her off so that Larry wouldn’t lose his job.”

  “Wow,” Glenda says.

  Olivia turns to her and laughs suddenly. “It’s crazy, isn’t it?”

  Glenda shakes her head. “The things people do.”

  “I don’t think Paul and I have anything to worry about. But Becky—I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes.” Olivia’s expression sobers. “If anyone was having an affair
with Amanda, it’s most likely to be Larry, don’t you think?”

  Glenda feels herself relaxing. The walk outside, airing her own complaints, and hearing Olivia’s news have all done Glenda good. She doesn’t know what she’d do if she didn’t have Olivia to talk to. Glenda says, “I don’t imagine that marriage is going to last much longer.” They stand side by side, watching the swans. Finally Glenda asks, her voice hesitant, “Do you think Larry could have killed Amanda?”

  “No,” Olivia says, shaking her head. “No way. Paul doesn’t think so either. My money’s on Robert Pierce.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Olivia leaves Glenda at the corner and heads back home, head lowered. Glenda seems very distressed lately. She’s obviously worried sick about Adam. Olivia knows Keith isn’t a very proactive parent, or even a particularly supportive one. He seems to be leaving all the parenting to Glenda, and it’s a heavy weight to bear. Olivia is grateful that Paul isn’t like that. They make decisions together and they usually see things the same way—except for sending Raleigh for therapy, of course. And the apology letters.

  As she approaches her own house, she sees a sedan parked out in front. Her eyes go to her front door and she sees two people standing there, their backs to the street. Her heart begins to beat faster.

  She hurries up the driveway as Paul opens the door. She sees the startled look on his face. Then his eyes meet hers, and it seems to ground him.

  The man on the front step turns around and sees her. “Good morning,” he says, as she approaches. He shows her his badge. “I’m Detective Webb, this is Detective Moen. Sorry to bother you on Saturday, but may we come in? We won’t be long.”

  Olivia nods. “I’m Olivia,” she says.

  “Come in,” Paul says, and pulls the door open wide.

  “I was just out for a walk,” Olivia says, taking their coats. “Can I get you anything? Coffee?”