by Lisa Unger
I think she would have wanted one of us to die instead at the hands of a monster. Personally—and I know you’ll find this hurtful—I think it should have been you.
He came for you, Lara. Not her. And if it hadn’t been for me, he would have gotten you.
Don’t bother to thank me. It’s far too late for that.
I key in the code to my gate and pull up the long drive. My own house is empty. There’s no one waiting for me at home, no one to hold me when the ghosts come to call. I sit in the car for a while. I can still hear the sound of you humming to your daughter—did you even know you were humming? I let the sound of your voice fill my mind.
NINE
Rain saw the dog first, a German shepherd that sat still and stiff as a sentry beside the big man. Large, mostly black but with tawny fur on the legs, belly and around the eyes. She’d seen the man before. Somewhere. Where? She felt a flutter of unease in her belly.
“Good morning,” he said.
He seemed nice enough, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He pushed his thick black glasses up his nose, stayed where he was beside the creek. Just sitting. He wore a black jacket, too hot for a summer day. His hair was long, pulled into a loose ponytail, his beard thick and long. He was heavy, very overweight.
“Good morning,” said Tess sweetly.
Rain didn’t say anything, just moved quickly toward Tess and grabbed her hand, started pulling her away.
“We’re late,” she said.
“Didn’t your mom teach you to be nice?” asked the man.
She bristled, annoyed. In fact, her mother had not taught her to be nice, and neither had her father.
“My mom,” she snapped, “told me not to talk to strange men in the woods.”
She got in trouble sometimes at school, for speaking out, for talking back. That’s your father in you, said her mother, not angrily. She didn’t get in trouble at home for that sort of thing. She could say what she wanted to her parents, speak her mind, give her opinion. She was allowed to get angry, to yell even. She was allowed to be sad, frustrated, to cry. Her mom was a big believer in letting it out and talking it through. Rain’s mother taught her that even though the world always wants girls to be nice and sweet, quiet, hold it all in, you don’t always have to be that. Own your feelings. Speak your mind. Know your boundaries. Protect them.
The big man stared, displeased she could tell, though she couldn’t say how since his face didn’t change. Then he released a low whistle and that big dog trotted over to block their path to Hank’s. Rain tugged Tess closer.
The beast stood panting in front of them, legs wide, head low. He wasn’t big. He was huge. His eyes were black, his tawny chest wide and muscular.
“Don’t worry,” said the man, not moving. “He’s friendly.”
The dog bared his teeth and started to growl.
It was a bright golden morning, sun washing in through the gauzy drapes, painting the room. Lily cooed happily on the monitor. The tendrils of the nightmare clung, pulling Rain back into the gloom.
She took a few breaths to calm herself. That place. That dog. Why was she back there? Never mind, scratch that. She knew why.
The bed beside her was cold and empty. Greg had left a note: “Thought it was better for you two to sleep. Rough night.”
It was nearly 9 a.m., an epic sleep-in by current standards. It had been a rough night, Lily waking twice, emitting suddenly and inexplicably that high-pitched wail perfected by babies everywhere to fry each nerve ending in their exhausted mothers’ bodies. Rain had nursed Lily back to sleep once, then paced the hallway for what seemed like hours after the baby woke a second time. Teething? Who knew? There’d been some late-night (or was it early morning) lovemaking—or was it just a dream? Did women dream about making love to their husbands? Maybe not. Her head throbbed.
“Maamaa,” Lily sang over the monitor. “Ahhh. Ohhh.”
It took an hour to get herself together, about fifty-six minutes longer than it used to take. She showered with Lily in the bouncy seat, found a pair of jeans she could squeeze into, a button-down shirt that didn’t gape over her boobs, dressed, dug out the messenger bag she used to carry with her everywhere, packed the camera and the portable digital recorder, a fresh Moleskine and package of Pilot V5 pens. Ready. Then Lily—fed, changed, diaper bag stocked, snacks, toys, strapped into her car seat. Okay.
Sitting in the driver’s seat and looking at Lily, red hair glinting gold in the morning light, Rain briefly wondered about the wisdom of bringing a baby to a crime scene. A crime scene that, with the help of Henry, and her willingness to break rules and sometimes laws, she and Gillian planned to enter.
But what else was she going to do? She hadn’t left Lily with a sitter yet, though Mitzi kept offering. She wasn’t about to start on a whim. This was a whim, wasn’t it? The beginning of a story no one had asked her to cover? She’d just have to make it all work, right? When the road isn’t laid clear before you, her mother always said, forge your own path.
Admittedly, this probably wasn’t what she had in mind.
The drive went quickly, traffic light, the day clear. She knew the way. She’d been where she was going before, too many times.
She and Gillian had stood among the throng of reporters always gathered outside the Markham house during Laney’s disappearance, then when she was found. Sweltering afternoons, and long nights, emotions high. She remembered so clearly the feel of it—the dread, the fatigue, the intensity of every new piece of information, the tragic unfolding of the story. They’d lived it—barely going home, eating and sometimes sleeping in the news van. Her life, Greg especially, sorely neglected.
No crowds today as she approached; the Markham house had an air of desertion and the street was quiet, the overgrown and neglected yard edged with black-and-yellow crime scene tape. An empty squad car sat in the driveway, and a dark sedan blocked the property from street access. The message was clear: stay away.
Halloween decorations abounded on neighboring houses—striking a different tenor than those on her own street. Here, lawns had been turned into graveyards, skeletons hung from trees. As she pulled up the block, a grim reaper stood sentry by a tilting mailbox, a giant inflatable spider dominated another small yard.
Rain parked past the house, something tingling. A strange déjà vu, as if she’d played this scene out already, an odd sense of unease. She went around to the back to unpack Lily and put her in the sling.
Diaper bag over one shoulder, work satchel over the other, she approached the familiar white van. Gillian and their longtime driver, Josh, were in the cab, bent over something Rain couldn’t see, Gillian talking, Josh nodding. They looked up as she approached, and both started waving.
Gillian emerged, svelte in a white pencil skirt, and blue silk blouse, heels. She tossed her honey hair, gazed at herself in the side mirror, leaning in close to examine her skin. Gillian out in front, Rain behind the scenes. That’s how it had always been, and how they both liked it.
“Oh, wow,” Gillian said, eyes falling on Lily. “You brought Lily.”
Rain shrugged, looking at Lily, who gazed up at the falling leaves, pointing. “I don’t have a sitter.”
“Of course,” said Gillian, giving her a serious, thoughtful frown. “Right.”
How was this going to work? She hadn’t exactly thought it through.
But Gillian was already cooing, lifting the baby from the sling, Lily kicking her legs with happiness. And Rain was greeting Josh, a big man with a full, prematurely white beard and glittery blue eyes. Jeans, flannel shirt, faded denims—he was rough and ready just like always.
“I had a feeling you’d be back sooner rather than later.”
Why did everyone keep saying that? He pulled her into a bear hug, which she gratefully returned. This was one of the things she missed most about work—her friends.
“I’m not back,” she said. “I’m just along for the ride.”
“Oh, sure.”
“So how are we going to do this?” asked Gillian, balancing Lily on her slender hip. She and Rain locked eyes, mind-melded, then looked at Josh.
He raised his eyebrows. Late forties, father of three, the man you called in any crisis, always awake, always at the wheel and ready to go before anyone else.
“Toys, books, snacks?” he asked, regarding the baby. Rain handed over the diaper bag, which he easily slung over his shoulder.
“All right, Miss Lily,” he said. “Let’s do this.”
And of course, Lily, the effortlessly friendly little spirit that she was, happily went to her new friend, grabbing ahold of his beard. Hard.
“They always do that,” said Josh, wincing and carrying her to the cab.
Gil ducked under the tape and Rain followed, moving quickly, with purpose, as if they belonged there. That was key, always look like you knew where you were going—even when you were essentially breaking and entering. Good girls don’t get answers.
Gillian knocked on the door, just to be sure the house was empty. And it was, just as Henry had promised.
“Crime scene techs are done,” he’d told her. “According to my source, FBI left this morning. They’ll have a patrol car there tonight, just to keep away any lookie-loos. My guy can leave the side door open for you.”
“Thanks, Henry.”
“Don’t get caught,” he warned. “And if you do, don’t mention me.”
“Come on.”
“What are you looking for? Do you even know?”
“I’ll know it when I see it.”
Gillian and Rain walked over to the side of the house, Rain faster in her jeans and sneakers than Gillian was in her heels. She always dressed as if she was about to go on camera. Rain, on the other hand, would be in her pajamas everywhere she went if it were socially acceptable.
“This is where the second part of our story begins,” Rain said, standing at a paint-splattered door with a rickety knob and a small glass-paned window covered with grime. She had the portable digital recorder in her hand.
“In the early hours of October 2, an unknown assailant broke into the house at 238 Pine Drive and killed Steve Markham.”
Rain felt her heart race, wondering if this was how the killer got in. They pushed inside to a musty garage, moved past a parked silver Mercedes-Benz, some stacks of boxes, a humming furnace.
“When he was acquitted of the murder of his wife, we thought that was the conclusion of the story,” said Gillian. This is how they did it: investigated together, took pictures, wrote notes, made snippet recordings. Later, Rain would weave together the full piece, write it, Gillian doing the reporting.
“I guess someone wanted to revise the ending,” said Rain.
They found the interior door unlocked, pushed it open and stepped into a small laundry room. There was a strong odor in the house—mold, garbage, something else—a chemical edge, something that tickled the inside of Rain’s nose.
She already had her camera out, stuck the recorder in her pocket, started snapping pictures.
A small house, tastefully decorated with budget items from Target—that kind of pretty, faux-distressed, almost modern look that was so in style. Laney Markham was a nice girl, and her house reflected that—a worn teddy bear on the couch, photographs of her family, a pretty collection of shells and candles on the dining room table, pretty dishes all in a row. They were always careful to keep her top of mind in their reporting, never wanting her life to be overshadowed by how she died, or by the man who killed her.
Gillian took the camera from her. Rain scribbled notes. Their work together was silent and quick. They wouldn’t need pictures for the broadcast—if there was one—but it would help Rain when she was writing.
“In here.” Rain walked into the living room. “Henry said he was killed in here.”
There should be some electricity on the air, shouldn’t there? Some energy that set their skin to tingling. But it was just a quiet living room, some furniture clearly removed. The only evidence that someone had died was a thin spray of blood on the carpet that had been taped off in black, a chunky geometric outline around an organic splatter, like a macabre modern art installation.
“What are we doing here?” asked Gillian. She looked pale suddenly. It wasn’t like her to get squeamish. They’d seen so much. The horrors people do. They knew it too well.
“We’re documenting,” said Rain. “Like we always do.”
“For what?”
“For the rest of the story.”
“Are you back?” asked Gillian, letting the camera dangle from the strap around her neck. “You know Andrew wants you to come back.”
Andrew Thompson, executive producer of National News Radio Morning Edition, a bespectacled salt-and-pepper hottie who was equal parts ambition and brilliance. Rain had loved working with him, even though he was a major pain in the ass—an exacting editor, a ruthless fact-checker, a steely perfectionist.
He’d tried to talk her out of quitting, dropped the occasional email asking how was the life of the stay-at-home mom. Her job was waiting for her; she knew that.
“I want you to come back,” Gillian said.
Before Rain could answer, Gillian’s phone pinged. She glanced at it, then back to Rain, frowning.
“Someone’s coming. We have to go.”
Rain glanced out the window; a black sedan was pulling up behind the news van. Gillian headed for the door, but Rain grabbed the camera and took one more look around—a quick loop through the bedrooms, the kitchen. She snapped more photos.
What was she looking for?
They’d start the feature here, in the house, the day after. They’d work their way back. She could already feel it—the pace, the tendrils that reached into the past, the big questions at its center. She took a photo of the blood splatter.
She was about to follow Gillian when she saw it, a red glitter out of the corner of her eye by the window, under the curtain.
“Let’s go,” said Gillian from the laundry room. “We’re going to get arrested—again.”
They couldn’t get arrested, not with Lily here. Greg would kill her.
She pulled back the curtain. There in the mesh of the carpet was a bright red crystal heart about the size of a quarter. The blood started rushing in her ears, the room tilting a little. No. It wasn’t possible.
“Rain!”
She grabbed it and shoved it in her pocket, chasing after Gillian.
“What were you looking at?” asked Gillian as they exited into the yard. “You’re white. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just thought—Nothing.”
“Hey.” Gillian stopped her, her bright blue eyes turning on Rain like interrogation lamps. “What’s going on?”
“I’m—not sure.”
The fine lines around Gillian’s eyes deepened, her brow furrowing with worry.
“Rain, what aren’t you telling me?”
But then another ping on her phone had Gillian pulling her toward the street. The sedan, which had been moving slowly up the street, sped up and disappeared from view.
“Sorry,” said Josh as they approached. “False alarm, I guess.”
“That’s okay,” said Gillian. “Not much to see after all.”
There were things that no one knew about her. Not Gillian, not Greg. Not even her father. In fact, there was only one person who knew her completely. That secret self, that stranger inside, hid the crystal heart in her palm, clenched her fist around it so tightly it started to hurt.
TEN
“Didn’t your mom teach you to be nice?”
“My mom told me not to talk to strange men in the woods,” she said.
She wasn’t scared yet. But Te
ss was; she took hold of Rain’s arm. But really, she was still Lara then, Laraine Winter. Laraine was a name her father made up, part Lawrence, part Lorraine, his parents. He’d insist always to people, continuously annoyed by their failure to do so, that it be pronounced LAH-raine. Not LOR-raine, which is how people always said it. He was annoyed when she started calling herself Lara.
It’s common, he’d sniff.
That’s the point, she said. I just want to be like everyone else.
The name wasn’t exotic or cool the way he imagined it. It was just—awkward. She hated it. But her father didn’t like to be edited.
Her mother spoke up. Let her call herself what she wants to, she said. Not everything is about you.
“Lara,” whispered Tess, pulling her close.
The dog blocked their path from the bridge. And as he stood there, panting, with a thin line of drool trailing from the curl of his lips, she felt the first lick of fear, a desire deep and primal to run for home.
“Call your dog off,” she said.
Tess was making a small sound. The three of them joked that Tess was Piglet, and Lara was Tigger. And Hank, of course, was Eeyore, sometimes Pooh. At another moment, she would have laughed about that sound Tess was making. Except it wasn’t funny.
“He won’t hurt you,” said the man.
He was disgusting. Big and slovenly, dressed all in black, with a bushy, unkempt beard and thick black-rimmed glasses. With effort, he’d pulled himself from his crouch. He was enormous, too, well over six feet tall.
“Call him back,” she said, this time making her voice deeper and louder, the way her mother had told her. Say no like you mean it, Mom had taught her. A certain kind of man doesn’t hear any other tone. “No” shouldn’t ask for permission to exist. There’s no question mark after it.
