The Stranger Inside

by Lisa Unger

  You got lucky, said the ER nurse. She’d heard that phrase too many times. Lily had a large local reaction to the sting. But it wasn’t life-threatening.

  The older woman had dropped a hand on Rain’s shoulder.

  “Take it easy on yourself,” she advised. Rain looked up into a set of velvety eyes, the kind gaze of a woman who’d seen it all. “You can’t be watching every second.”

  Can’t you, though? Rain wondered. Shouldn’t you be watching every single fucking second? Because that’s all it takes. One second.

  She heard a rustling on the monitor, something strange that caused her to sit up, then a soft cough.

  “Good morning, sunshine.” Greg. “Let’s see that boo-boo.”

  Lily’s voice was soft, an inquiring coo.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” he said, indulgent, sweet. “You’re a tough girl, just like your mommy. Let Daddy get your diaper and your breakfast. Mommy could use a little rest. And look outside—the sun’s not even up. You’re such an early bird, aren’t you?”

  He was talking to Rain, she could tell. He knew she was listening. Encouraging her to chill a minute. Thank you, she thought, lying back down.

  Rain listened to him talking to the baby softly, sweet nonsense, the zip of the diaper tabs, the whump of a diaper falling into the empty bin. “Oh, how nice, the wipes warmer! Back in the day, our wipes were cold! Ice-cold! I remember—what a shock it was.”

  The baby issued a fascinated coo.

  Then they were gone, walking down the steps, the floorboards creaking. Rain lay a moment, then grabbed her phone from the drawer by her bed, started scanning the news sites.

  The FBI press conference was just a regurgitation of things Rain already knew; Gillian had attended. There were still no leads on the Markham murder—no physical evidence, no witnesses, investigation ongoing. No mention of a possible connection to Smith and Kreskey. The story was already going cold in the media. Markham’s death was a pointless coda to a sad, tragic, unfair story. His death changed nothing, and no one wept for him.

  Christopher and Gillian had both returned her calls late yesterday, neither with anything new to report—except that they were meeting for a drink last night. How did that go? she wondered. There was about an eighty percent chance that they’d slept together. She’d hear all about it tonight when Aunty Gillian came to babysit for Lily. Her heart lifted at the thought of seeing her friend. She’d lay it all out, they’d talk it all through.

  After trying and failing to fall back asleep, Rain pulled on a robe over her pajamas, pulled a brush through her hair. In the mirror, she barely recognized herself. Would she ever look like a normal person again, someone not frazzled, puffy and sleep-deprived?

  Downstairs, Greg and Lily were at the table. Greg with the newspaper open, Lily surrounded by cereal and cut-up bits of strawberry.

  “Hello, munchkin,” she said, pouring herself a cup of coffee, then leaning in to kiss Lily on the head. He handed her the arts section without a word.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. She wasn’t even sure what thing she was apologizing for—the letters she’d kept from him, breaking the contract of the stay-at-home mom, neglecting their child. For everything.

  He blew out a breath, rubbed at the bridge of his nose.

  “No, I am,” he said, folding up the paper. She sat beside him, looped a hand through his. “I know who you are, Rain. I know what drives you. And, you know what, it’s part of the reason I fell in love with you. I’ve always admired the passion you bring to your work. If you need this, for whatever reason, let’s make it work, okay? It’s great that they are interested in the project at NNR. We could use the money. But when the story is done, let’s move on—from it, from him.”

  She nodded, then looked at Lily, who was delicately placing one Cheerio in her perfect pink mouth.

  She didn’t know if she could do both things. Or if she wanted to. Maybe it was another one of those lies they sold you, another one of those brass rings. Maybe they wanted you always overextended in the reaching, always face-planting. You can have it all! If you just try hard enough. But what if you couldn’t?

  “What about Mitzi?” asked Greg. “She’s offered. We both like her, former kindergarten teacher, beloved grandmother. And right across the street. Probably not an ax-murderer, right?”

  She was way ahead of him, planned on giving her a call when Greg left for work. “I’ll talk to her today.”

  The knock at the door startled them both. Lily’s happy face fell into a frown.

  “It’s 6 a.m.,” said Greg. “Who could that be?”

  Rain’s whole body went stiff; she couldn’t even say why. As he got up for the door, she reached for him. Don’t answer it, she wanted to say. Which was crazy—of course he had to answer the door. He patted her hand and she got up after him.

  There was a young woman at the door, a big man behind her, both unmistakably law enforcement—conservative, hard-bodied, serious. Rain stood right behind Greg, who kept a hand on the door, an arm between Rain and the people on the porch.

  “Laraine Winter?” The woman stared right at her, held out her identification. FBI.

  “I’m Agent Stephanie Brower. This is my partner, Agent Brian Shultz. Can we come in?”

  “What’s this about?” asked Greg, moving his body now in front of Rain’s.

  “This is about the murder of Steve Markham,” she said. “We have some questions. Ms. Winter, you covered the Laney Markham murder trial as a journalist. We’re hoping you can help us.”

  But there was more. Rain could tell by the intent way the agent stared at her. She had watery blue-green eyes, strawberry blond hair pulled back tight from her forehead. She knew. Rain could always tell when someone knew her history. There was a certain wondering, watchfulness. She pulled her robe tighter. She wasn’t going to feel bad about being in her pajamas at 6 a.m., but she wished she was dressed.

  When Greg didn’t move, Rain put a hand on his arm. “It’s okay,” she said. “Come on in.”

  “Sorry for the early hour,” Agent Brower said, stepping inside. Her partner was like a hulking shadow, silent.

  “Can we get you some coffee?” offered Greg, stiffly polite.

  “No, thank you.” Her partner also lifted his hand to decline. Agent Brower smiled and waved to Lily, who bounced enthusiastically in greeting. That kid. Was there anyone she didn’t like?

  “Let’s sit in here,” said Rain, motioning to the living room.

  They all sat, and Agent Brower launched into her questions right away: Was there anything about the investigation that she hadn’t reported? Had she received any threats, or been witness to any threats against Markham?

  “It was long-form journalism,” Rain said. “So we had the luxury of in-depth reporting over a long period of time. We didn’t have to cut anything important, or relevant. We didn’t receive any threats, but I’m sure Markham had plenty, including those issued publicly by Laney’s family.”

  “Was there anyone suspicious in the courtroom?” the agent asked. “Someone who was there daily? Someone who caught your notice.”

  “There must be surveillance footage, right?” If Agent Brower noticed her deflection, she didn’t show it. “The room was full of reporters, cameras, as well.”

  “We’re sifting through all of that now,” she said. “But I was wondering if you observed anyone, or anything odd.”

  “No,” she lied. “I didn’t note anyone unsettling, suspicious.”

  Why would she lie? When it came to Hank, it was second nature, some deep desire to protect him. He’d been in the courtroom a number of times; another thing about Hank she’d kept from Greg. It had come as a shock to see him, so many years after their last encounter—both of them adults with careers, ostensibly having moved past the horror movie of their past. He was there when the verdict was handed down. She supposed
it had something to do with his work. Certainly, he wasn’t suspicious; he was a psychiatrist, an expert witness who’d testified at numerous trials. They’d avoided each other, never spoke. Their last encounter had been an ugly one. She didn’t want to talk to him again. Ever.

  The letters had started shortly after the Markham trial ended. The first one was an apology for the way things had gone between them, for the things he said.

  The agent watched her a moment, then: “You were one of Eugene Kreskey’s victims.”

  “One of the lucky ones,” Rain said. There was that word again.

  “You’re aware, of course, that someone killed him,” said the agent. She’d leaned forward a little; Rain had shifted back in her seat, closer to Greg, who took her hand. “Like Steve Markham, he was killed the way he killed.”

  “I did take note of that,” she said. Her voice sounded thin, too soft. She cleared her throat and deepened it. “In fact, I am considering writing a story.”

  “Have you started your investigation?” Agent Brower asked, her eyebrows raised.

  “I’ve done some early research,” said Rain. “Do you think there’s a connection?”

  “Do you?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” she said. “Seems possible.”

  Agent Shultz still hadn’t said a word. He stood and walked over to their bookshelves, lifted one from its place, then turned back to Rain.

  “Are you still in touch with Dr. Hank Reams?”

  He held one of Hank’s books in his hand: Surviving Trauma. “We correspond occasionally,” she said. “We’re not close.”

  This was as near to the truth as she could get. She wondered if Greg would chime in. He’s obsessed with her. She had an affair with him, before we were married but while we were dating. I asked her to choose and she chose me. And yet. And yet. He sends her letter after letter. We suspect that sometimes he watches her, though we’ve never been able to prove it.

  But Greg stayed silent, his eyes on Rain.

  Lily yelled, testing her voice from the high chair. In the open-plan room, they could see her from her seat, still happily playing with her breakfast. Clunk. Her sippy cup tossed. A happy shout, loosely translated to: See what I did! Greg got up to retrieve it.

  “He’s agreed to help us with this case,” Agent Shultz said. His voice was deep, almost gravelly.

  Rain battled that scattered feeling she had too often—trying to pay attention to what was going on, one eye on Lily, one part of her brain worried about Greg, another part wrestling with the bad memories, fears, regrets, that thoughts of Hank always stirred up.

  “It’s his area,” Rain said carefully. “I’m sure he’ll have a good deal of insight.”

  “He’s helped us quite a bit already.”

  As a journalist, Rain thought she was pretty good at reading people. She listened—to what was said, and what wasn’t. She watched bodies, posture, eyes. She caught the microexpressions, the ticks, the uncommon phrase. But Agent Brower was a tough customer—face still, gaze intense, seeing, but eyes revealing nothing. Her body was relaxed, but she moved quickly with deliberation.

  “You didn’t say if you thought the two cases were connected,” pressed Rain.

  “Like you say,” she said. “It seems possible.”

  “Do you have any physical evidence linking the two crimes?”

  A slight smile, the upturning of one corner of her mouth. “Now you sound like a journalist.”

  Rain matched her smile. “I am that, I suppose. Among other things.”

  “Dr. Reams says that a serial killer—not that I’m saying that’s what we have—is most often motivated by deeply personal drives. Compulsions he can’t control. This type of crime would be unprecedented.”

  “A killer who hunts killers.”

  She shrugged. “That sounds like a headline.”

  “What are they calling him at the bureau?” When Agent Brower didn’t answer, “Come on, they always have a name.”

  “I call him the Nightjar.”

  Because of the mask, Rain thought. The hawk mask. A bird that eats insects. That hunts at night. Nice.

  “Did you have any suspicions when Kreskey was killed?” asked Agent Shultz. “Any thoughts on who might have done it?”

  “To be honest—no,” said Rain. Another lie. “I was just glad he was dead.”

  “A journalist without questions, without theories. I’ve never met one.”

  “Trauma.” Rain pointed to the book still in Agent Shultz’s hand. “It can get its hooks in. It takes time to find wholeness again. I was still running away from Kreskey, trying to forget him and everything about him. When he was killed, I only felt relief that I didn’t have to share the planet with him anymore. And I only recently started asking questions. About a lot of things.”

  There was more truth to that than she’d intended.

  Agent Brower looked chastened. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be flip.”

  “If I think of anything that helps,” Rain said, “or if I come across anything in my investigation, you’ll be the first person I call.”

  Agent Brower held Rain’s eyes a moment, then nodded lightly. “Thank you for your time.”

  Agent Shultz carefully replaced the book. Agent Brower handed her a card. And then they were gone. Rain sank into the couch as the door closed, drained, mind racing.

  Greg stood holding Lily, looking out the window as the agents in their black sedan pulled away through the overcast morning.

  “Are you ever going to be free of this?” he said softly, half to himself.

  She looked at them, her beloveds. They were good—solid and innocent, the foundation of the life she’d built. She felt separated from them, on a raft floating out to a treacherous, stormy sea.

  No, she thought. I don’t think I am.

  TWENTY-ONE

  He was so thin. Wolf. All bones and teeth. Starved. Beaten. Locked up in the dark. Just like Kreskey, he’d been made vicious by neglect and abuse. When I looked into his soulless gray eyes, I swear I saw it. All the layers of his pain and fear and sadness. I know you remember him. He wanted to be good, don’t you think? Deep inside, he wished he was a good dog. But he wasn’t. He was a beast.

  We stood a moment, the cluttered filthy hall between us, his eyes shining in the dim. I was aware of the rise and fall of my chest, air coming in through my throat constricted with fear. Then he charged, his nails scrabbling on the hard wood.

  I fought him, Lara, with every ounce of strength and will I had left in my skinny, broken little body. I punched him, bit him, screamed at him. I felt chunks of his fur come off in my hands, his teeth on my legs, my arms. He yelped with pain, more than once. You know, I don’t think his heart was in it; he grew weak quickly.

  When I finally got my hand around the hammer I took from the basement, I raised it up high. Then I brought it down hard so that it connected with his skull. That was an ugly sound, metal on bone. I think he was glad. He shuddered with relief as life left him, and then his big body sagged on top of mine, both of us bloody and spent.

  I felt the second he stopped breathing. I think I freed him from a life of suffering. Silence. I shoved his body off mine and pulled myself up—which, looking back, was a small miracle. I must have been running on adrenaline and pure mortal terror—the breakfast of champions. I reached for the front door and twisted the knob.

  Can you believe it? It was open, unlocked. I swung it wide, blinded by the white of the shining sun, by the wide expanse of green that lay out before me.

  This is what I think.

  Within us, there are layers of self. If things go well, the whole and healthy self, the flawed but basically decent self emerges, grows, is nurtured and heads out into the world. If things go badly, other selves, the shadow selves that might have remained dormant, emerge instead. Sometim
es we need them, those dark ones within. We can’t survive certain circumstances without them. It’s just that once they’re out, you can’t always get them to retreat.

  I could have run in that moment. I should have. Looking back, that would have been the right thing—to go for help. I think Tess might be alive if I had. Instead. Instead—I turned around, that hammer still in my hand and I went back to try to save Tess. I wasn’t going to leave her there. Not the way you left us. I see that as the last moment I might have survived undamaged. Injured, traumatized, changed even, yes. But not split.

  From somewhere above I heard a rhythmic banging.

  I climbed the stairs and moved toward the sound, which I soon discovered was coming from behind a closed door at the end of the hallway. I still dream about that hallway sometimes, the filthy floor, grit crunching beneath my sneakers, the dingy walls. I put my hand on the knob, my breathing ragged, my whole body shaking with fear, pain, exhaustion.

  When I look back, I remember as I pulled the door open a bright light pouring out of the room. A liquid gold. There is some type of sound—a siren. But there’s nothing else there. What I saw, what followed in the hours before the police finally found us. It’s not accessible as a linear memory. Sometimes there are flashes—in that hypnagogic space right before I fall asleep. I see a floor covered with blood. I hear my own terrified screams. I have scars. I know you do, too. Sometimes my hand finds them—on my arms, my neck, my legs. It’s a blessing, that blank place. I tell my patients who don’t remember the details of their trauma that they are the lucky ones. As a doctor, I do not push into memory, or recommend hypnosis. If your mind has created a blank space for you, it’s because you can’t handle what’s there. Be grateful. I’m sure he remembers, but I don’t.

  The next thing I recall is the police breaking down the door.