What She Doesn't Know: A Psychological Thriller

by Andrew E. Kaufman

  Riley tries to come up with an answer that won’t make it sound as if she’s turned into a stalker. She fibs. “I thought I saw someone trying to break into my car the other night.”

  “And were they?” She’s entered into cross-examination.

  “No. It was a false alarm.”

  Erin nods and says, “I see. And did it take a long time? This false alarm?”

  “It happened very quickly. In less than a minute.”

  “Then tell me, why did you need to pull that chair up to the window?”

  Busted.

  “Okay, Erin. You’ve got me. I didn’t want to tell you, but I’ve taken up bird watching.”

  “Don’t toy with me. You know I don’t like it. This isn’t funny.”

  “What’s not funny is you treating me like one of your courtroom witnesses instead of your sister.”

  “Riley, you’ve been laying out your murdered daughter’s clothes on the bed each day, and except for putting bars on the windows, you’ve got this place locked down like a prison. Now binoculars and a chair? What do you expect me to say? I mean, what comes next? The thirty cats?”

  Riley looks at Erin, dumbfounded, and with a slow, disbelieving headshake, feels her eyes well up.

  The familiar silence is back.

  “You don’t have to be funny all the time,” Riley says, her self-esteem fractured by heartbreak, by a wound that’s been ripped open too many times. A tear drips from her nose. Then softer, “Damn it, Erin. Sometimes funny hurts.”

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry,” Erin jumps in. “I—That remark was way out of line. I didn’t mean to—”

  But it’s too late. The cruel remark has already been made. And in that moment, it feels to Riley as though the wall between them has become thicker and taller.

  54

  Riley is rinsing off dishes after her lunch, but when she hears someone knocking on the door, everything tumbles into the sink.

  For a few moments she freezes and wonders what to do. Feeling a sharp pang of fear, she carefully pads into the living room, careful not to step across the peephole’s light.

  It sure isn’t Wendy.

  She checks the security bar, then decides to put an ear to the door but hears nothing.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  She jumps back and in the process collides with the umbrella stand. She fumbles for balance.

  “Riley? Was that just you?”

  What in the—? Samantha? Really? She’s got to be kidding me.

  “Riley? Was that just you?” she repeats.

  Riley darts into the living room to once again remove the chair and binoculars. Back at the door, she lifts the security bar and unlocks the dead bolt. As soon as the door opens wide enough, Samantha allows herself in.

  “What the hell, Samantha?” Riley says, placing a hand against her chest, heart still thrashing. “Have you ever heard of calling first?”

  “I know, and I’m really sorry, but I got so excited I just had to come over. Riley”—she takes Riley’s hands in hers—“I found her!”

  “Found who?”

  “Rose!”

  Riley braces her body.

  Samantha whips out her phone, punches in the security code. “I know you weren’t crazy about the idea. But I’ve felt so bad for what you’ve gone through, and I really didn’t expect to find anything on the internet, but here it is.” She holds up the screen and aims it at Riley. Riley squints, then takes the phone. With shaky hands, she zeros in on the picture. It’s a young woman who looks as if she’s accepting some award. The date says it’s from about six years ago.

  “Well?”

  She looks up at Samantha, hands the phone back, and unsteadily says, “It’s her.”

  “I know! Name’s right under the picture. It didn’t even take that long. I was able to narrow it down super fast. So check this out. It says here she’s in San Diego. I don’t know if she’s still there, but I’ve got friends in the area who could investigate and hopefully track her down, then we can—”

  “Samantha, do you remember what I told you? I don’t think this will do any good. Nobody believed me then, and they won’t now. Besides, I’m not sure I’m emotionally prepared to deal with Rose all over again. Just the idea of it makes me nervous.”

  “And I told you life is different because you have me, and I meant it.”

  Riley doesn’t speak.

  “Besides,” Samantha goes on, “what’s the harm in taking this as far as we can? If we don’t find her, then we don’t find her.”

  “And if we do?”

  “If we do, this time we’ll put the bitch behind bars. I’m very good at getting what I want done.”

  No lie.

  “And I know a lot of people. So what do you say? Let’s do this?”

  Riley looks at the phone in Samantha’s hand for a few seconds, then up at her. Samantha raises both brows.

  Riley pokes her tongue into her cheek, then says, “Fine.”

  “Great!”

  “I’m just warning you in advance, the cops won’t be helpful, and the woman is as slippery as they come.”

  “Let me be the optimistic one, and then you’ll see, and you’ll finally find the justice you wanted. How do you like that?”

  “Okay . . . I guess.”

  “Awesome. I’ll put my friends on it. I’m telling you, Rose Hopkins has just met her match.”

  55

  Two days pass, and Riley’s avoided reaching out to Samantha. No matter how much she steels herself, she’s not sure she wants to hear her talk about Rose or see how this plays out.

  The sign on Patricia’s door says she’s having a session. But according to her watch, Riley’s is supposed to start right now. She sidles up to the door and hears voices inside. She stares at her watch, stares at the door. Patricia must be running a little late. So she waits.

  But after about ten minutes, the door is still closed, and the people inside are still talking.

  This is getting ridiculous.

  She walks up to the door again and gives it two solid raps. She waits. It opens, then Patricia appears and says, “I’m very sorry, Riley, but I’m running a few minutes late.”

  At first, Riley can’t believe what she sees through the doorway. She rubs her eyes with the hope that doing so might, in some way, change the picture.

  It doesn’t.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Riley shoves the door open wider, then pushes past Patricia. “Samantha?”

  Patricia’s gaze ping-pongs between the two women, and her face blanches.

  Riley can’t work past her dismay—but that doesn’t seem to be the case for Samantha. Lounging comfortably on the couch, she looks up at Riley with bright eyes, almost as if an old friend has surprised her by stopping by for a visit.

  Riley doesn’t feel the joy, and Patricia’s still not looking so great, either. Is this some sort of payback because she hasn’t called Samantha for a couple of days?

  “I’ll just go ahead and wait out in the car,” Samantha says, transparent in her attempt to escape the tension in a room where, all of a sudden, everyone but her is dumbstruck.

  Samantha jumps off the couch and exits the room, leaving behind a trail of repressive silence. Patricia seems to be coming down from her discomposure, but something weird is going on here. Riley hasn’t a clue what it is, but it’s bristling her already inflamed nerves. Without another word, she bolts from the office in pursuit of Samantha.

  “Riley! Wait!” she hears Patricia say from inside, but Riley is already marching toward Samantha’s car in the parking lot.

  When Riley arrives, Samantha is singing along with the radio as if nothing ever happened.

  “Samantha,” she says through the passenger’s window, trying to control her outrage, “what was that about?”

  “I know, right? Super awkward.”

  Riley looks over her shoulder at Patricia’s building, then back at Samantha. “Why are you seeing my therapist?”

&
nbsp; “I just thought it might be fun for us to—”

  “No,” Riley cuts in.

  “Huh?” Samantha scratches her cheek, and with a perplexed smile, leans in toward Riley.

  “No, this isn’t about what you want to do, and no, you don’t get to start seeing my therapist. It’s invasive and weird, so, no, just plain no.”

  “But I was—”

  “Please don’t tell me you’re not understanding this. Please tell me you aren’t that stupid!”

  “Wow,” Samantha says, overenunciating the word. She looks away, then through an indignant laugh adds, “Just wow. I do everything for you, and this is what I get?” Samantha’s eyes start to glisten. Her chin quivers. “Scorn? Name calling?”

  Riley doesn’t back down. She tightens the grip on her keys, and with a glare, firm and unwavering, holds Samantha responsible for her actions.

  Samantha says, “You really need to settle down about all this. You’re acting completely paranoid.”

  “No . . . unh-uh. Don’t throw that word at me. And I need to settle down? You’re the one acting rude and inconsiderate!”

  “Again with the name calling?” Samantha crosses her arms. She’s tearful. “Why do you hate me so much?”

  “I don’t hate—”

  “Oh yes! Yes, you do! You hate me, and you act like it all the time. I went through all this trouble to help you find Rose, to show I care, and here you go again, abandoning me.”

  “What? How did I abandon you?” Riley finds herself staring at Samantha’s burned fingertips, still in the process of healing.

  “The way you’re yelling at me now, and like the time when we were at the salon. And you said you hated my hair!”

  “This is crazy! We already worked that out!”

  “Then . . . then, I spent a fortune buying you new clothes.” Samantha’s voice is ramping up, her face turning blotchy with anger. “And all you did was complain!”

  “How did I complain?”

  “About the stupid money. And what about the job I got you when nobody else was the least bit interested? How about that? Your thanks was to call me a liar? For real?”

  “Why are you blowing that out of proportion? I only wondered if—”

  “Wondered what? How cruel you could be?” Samantha isn’t just loud anymore—she’s practically screaming. People in the lot are staring. “I keep trying to be close to you. I keep trying to be the new daughter you want, but I can’t. You know why? Because you’re a horrible mother!”

  Riley rounds her eyes at Samantha.

  Samantha adds, “You’re awful! No wonder Clarissa died!”

  Now her temples burn with anger, nails biting into palms. Through a venomous growl, deep, scornful, and gritty, she says, “You will never be half the daughter Clarissa was. NEVER! You’re a hundred steps down from her. No, you’re worse than that. I told you how horrible Rose was, and here you are, acting crazy just like her!”

  “I’m crazy? Take a look at yourself.” Samantha cocks her brow, and through a bare-toothed smile, she says, “Guess I missed the part when you were rude to the waiter.”

  Patricia’s warning about Samantha. Now spoken by Samantha.

  Riley’s stomach turns.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  Through her fright, her insurmountable shock, Riley says, “I think we’re done.”

  “No! Stop! Don’t! I didn’t mean it!”

  But Riley is already walking away at a fast clip.

  “I’m sorry!” Samantha yells, shredding under the pressure of torment. “Please! Don’t walk away from me! Don’t destroy me the way my mother did! I’ll die if I lose you!”

  Riley keeps walking, and in the distance hears Samantha say through heaving sobs, “Come back! You need me!”

  56

  Riley passes through the hallway, body still shaking from her encounter with Samantha, when Wendy pokes her head out the door.

  “Holy . . . ,” Riley says. “You scared the daylights out of me!”

  “I’m sorry.” Wendy surreptitiously looks up and down the hall. “I need to talk to you about something.”

  Riley comes closer.

  Wendy says, “That woman. The one who was here the other night?”

  “Samantha.”

  Wendy says, “I don’t like her.”

  More abdominal discomfort strikes Riley. She holds in a breath for a few seconds, tries to conceal the pain burning through her, and says, “I know. She’s an extremely troubled young woman.”

  “It’s worse than that. She’s dangerous.”

  They lock gazes. Wendy’s jaw clenches and her temples hollow.

  “Where are you getting this?” Riley asks.

  “I’ve learned to trust my instincts. That woman is bad news. Be very cautious around her.”

  Riley takes a step back, and Wendy nods with grim certitude, then shuts her door.

  At her apartment, Riley puts a hand on the keys in her purse and notices the phone is displaying a notification alert. After going inside, she finds a message from Patricia. She lifts the phone, listens to it.

  “Hi, Riley,” Patricia says in an unfamiliar tenor. “There’s something I need to discuss with you. Please, give me a call, but if I don’t hear back, I’ll try later . . . It’s extremely import—”

  Riley pulls the phone away to examine the screen. There must have been a bad connection. She dials Patricia, but the phone rings and rings, then goes to voice mail. She leaves a message.

  Two hours pass, and still nothing from Patricia, even after Riley tries several times to call her. She thinks about why she might have phoned. Was it to smooth the rough edges and explain herself after that awkward meeting with Samantha?

  She reconsiders Wendy’s warning.

  Or was this about Samantha?

  57

  Nearly fifteen hours have passed since Patricia’s call yesterday afternoon, and she still hasn’t phoned back.

  No longer is Riley just curious—she’s concerned. Patricia said it was important they speak, so why wouldn’t she respond to Riley’s calls?

  Something about this feels terribly wrong.

  She decides to swing by Patricia’s office on her way to work.

  Patricia’s car sits in its usual place, another parked a few spaces down, probably a patient’s. She pulls into a parking spot for a look inside Patricia’s car. She cups a hand over the side window. A nearly empty coffee mug sits in the holder. On the passenger’s seat are a few issues of Psychology Today.

  So far everything appears normal.

  But it still doesn’t explain why Patricia hasn’t called back—in fact, this makes the situation more confusing. Maybe even irritating. So Riley walks up to the entrance. She looks at the closed blinds and a sign on the window that reads, SHHHH! IN SESSION. PLEASE, NO DISTURBANCES! She looks at both cars in the lot, and her worry cycles into disgruntlement. Patricia failed to return Riley’s calls, but she obviously has time for other patients.

  She takes out a notepad and pen from her purse, angrily rips off a sheet, and writes:

  Patricia,

  What’s going on? Stop ignoring me!

  Riley

  She slides the paper under the door. She marches off.

  Leaving work, Riley feels another unforgiving shock of pain to her stomach, this time fiercer than the others. She grimaces and pulls open her car door, but stops when she sees a small gift-wrapped box in the center of the driver’s seat. She checks her surroundings, then studies the box. Someone has been inside her car, and she has a good idea who it was. Guilt gifts seem to be Samantha’s typical response to disagreements. She takes the box and gently removes the wrapping to expose a blue, velvety box that feels lush in her hands. She flips it open, and her jaw does the same. Inside is a beautiful gold chain and solitaire diamond pendant. But not any diamond. It’s at least a carat with stunning color and clarity. She shakes her head with stupefaction. This must have set Samantha back about six grand. The woman is out of
her damned mind.

  The phone goes off and spooks her. A text from Samantha.

  Gorgeous, right? Do you love it?

  She reels around and scans the immediate area to see if Samantha is nearby and watching. No sign of her, but that doesn’t resolve Riley’s annoyance. She hops into her car, peels out of the lot, and blasts up the road toward Samantha’s studio.

  58

  Samantha’s Mercedes is parked in the building’s lot.

  Inside, she finds Samantha on the studio floor, leaning against the leg of a table, an empty wine bottle dangling from one hand. She looks up, sees Riley, and for no apparent reason bursts into laughter, then follows it up with a lion-size belch.

  That’s when Riley sees another empty wine bottle under the table.

  “Hey!” Samantha says, lurching to stand. “Get in here and drink with me!”

  Riley stays put.

  After sloppily heaving herself up, Samantha makes a drunken attempt to navigate the studio’s floor plan, then loses her equilibrium about halfway across and starts to stumble. She manages to catch herself, but not before dribbling wine onto the floor in the process. Samantha lets out a ham-fisted guffaw, which mutates into another ferocious belch. She covers her mouth with a hand and shakes her head, trying to gain control over her silent but intense laughter.

  “Samantha,” Riley says, “you should sit down.”

  “I’m fine. I do this all the time.” She tries to walk, loses her balance again, then says, “Okay . . . I’ve got this.” She staggers to the cabinet and pulls out another bottle of wine. She holds it up and says, “Want some?”

  “No, and I think you’ve had enough.”

  Samantha shrugs and opens the bottle but ends up spilling some wine onto her shirt. She looks down and says, “Oh well. Men will leave, but red wine never does,” then lets out another bellyful of laughter.

  All Riley can do is shake her head.

  “Well? Don’t just stand there!” Samantha’s words sound as if they’ve been dragged through a bowl of oatmeal. She looks down, drizzles some wine into a glass, and says, “C’mere and lemme see that one fuck of a necklace on you.”