The Last Day of Emily Lindsey

by Nic Joseph

  As I sat there in the passenger seat, I felt the familiar crawling feeling in my limbs, and the urge to scream was overwhelming. I took a deep breath. I needed to get back to the hospital, alone, and find a way to talk to Emily when her husband wasn’t around. That wouldn’t be easy, but I’d have to find a way.

  Did she dream about it, too?

  Was it just the symbol or the prison, too?

  What about the smell? Did she dream about that awful smell?

  “Don’t you think?” Gayla asked.

  I sat up straight. I was being the car bitch. I blinked, looking over at her.

  “Think what?”

  “That he was hiding something from us,” she said. “That he was more concerned about getting us to leave than he should have been.”

  “Maybe he knows more about what happened than he’s letting on,” I said.

  She nodded, glancing at me for a second before turning back to the road.

  “Maybe he had more to do with what happened than he’s letting on,” she said.

  “Yeah, but the fact of the matter is that there wasn’t so much as a scratch on her. So whatever happened, it didn’t exactly happen to Emily.”

  “Something happened to that woman,” Gayla said. “Whether there’s a scratch on her or not.”

  We turned onto the block of the Lindsey home just after 11:00 p.m. Gayla and I both squinted as we drove toward the barrage of police cars that lit up the night sky, bringing chaos to the otherwise serene suburban street.

  The Lindseys lived at the end of a block filled with modest two-story homes. Its position made the home feel rather private, since there was a house on only one side of it. The other side was flanked by large trees and opened into a sprawling park and golf course.

  The home was a redbrick structure with a large wraparound porch and red painted door. In the dark and under the glow of the police lights, it seemed that the home was covered in blood, marred by whatever it was that had happened inside earlier that night.

  Gayla swerved next to the clustering of police cars and stopped the car.

  We both stepped out, and I took a deep drag of the clean, cool air, thankful for its calming effect, however temporary.

  Think, think, think.

  I needed to clear my head and focus on the rest of the case. Maybe the symbol was just an odd coincidence.

  But she’d had my name in her pocket…

  Nothing about this was a coincidence.

  And I wasn’t going to find out anything if I couldn’t get past the first hospital visit.

  Gayla and I stepped closer to the home, navigating the police cars and people. The scene was filled with quiet activity—about a dozen or so people moved around, focused on their tasks, not speaking to each other. There were a couple of neighbors milling around, and a few standing on their front porches, but not many. Most people had retreated to their homes, closing their doors—and their minds—to whatever horror was going on next door. They’d read about it in the news later or hear slightly embellished details from a friend, but for now, they crouched behind closed doors, praying that they wouldn’t be dragged into it.

  Gayla and I walked through the grass toward the front door. A tall man was standing at the top of the steps facing the street, surveying the scene in front of him. We’d ascended the steps and were only a few inches from his face before he blinked and turned to us, as if seeing us for the first time.

  “Detective King?” Gayla asked.

  “Derrick,” he said and nodded. He held out his hand, and we both shook it. He turned to me. “You Detective Steven Paul?”

  I nodded. “What else can you tell us about what’s going on here?”

  He shook his head. “Not too much. We’re glad you’re here to help us out. When we found the Post-it in her pocket with your name, we knew we had to bring you in. What about Max Smith? The other person she wrote down. You heard of him?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t think so. Any chance there’s another Detective Steven Paul out there somewhere?”

  “There are two,” he said. “One in Camarillo, California, and another who died three years ago in a shootout. We’re looking into both of those, but the fact that you are alive and well and only thirty minutes out of Emily’s district seems to say a lot.”

  “So she was found here, by her husband?” Gayla asked.

  “Yep. He got home and found her sitting there. Her laptop is missing from her office. There are old files and articles all over the place but no laptop.”

  “Is that how you knew she was the Carmen Street woman?”

  “Yeah, one of the detectives put two and two together, and her husband confirmed it.” Derrick shook his head. “Our own little celebrity. I always knew that Emily of Carmen Street had to be right here in our own community.”

  Gayla’s eyebrows shot up, and the man shrugged. “What? My wife reads it.”

  We followed him across the porch and toward the door.

  “Any news from the hospital?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “She’s not saying a word, and she howls whenever anyone gets close to her. We’re going back there in the morning.”

  Derrick nodded. “Before we go inside, do you see what’s missing here?”

  Gayla and I both scanned the outside of the house—the driveway, the street in front of the house, and the open garage where two officers were standing, talking to one another.

  The empty garage.

  “No cars,” I said. “How did she get home?”

  “We don’t know,” Derrick said. “Mr. Lindsey drove himself to the hospital. That’s why his car isn’t here. But that still doesn’t explain where Emily’s car is or how she got home tonight from Madison.”

  “What does she drive?” I asked.

  “Black SUV,” he said. “Dent on left side of back bumper, according to the neighbors.”

  “Nobody saw her get dropped off?” Gayla asked.

  “Nobody seems to have seen anything,” he said. “Except for the neighbor who came over when Dan found her. We’ve already taken her statement, but you probably want to go over there.”

  “What neighbor?” Gayla said.

  “Jane Paxton,” Derrick said. “Right next door. She stopped by to see Emily and saw what was going on. She was the one who called the police. She was pretty hysterical when we first got here, and I think she’s smoked an entire pack of cigarettes in the last hour. I already got her statement, but feel free to drop by if you think it will be helpful.”

  We nodded and followed Derrick into the house. The first thing I noticed was the smell. The home smelled clean enough, but there was a tinny undertone, a metallic, biting scent that made me wrinkle my nose as we stepped through the threshold and into the narrow foyer.

  All of the lights were on in the house, and there were a few police officers and crime scene detectives milling about. The Lindseys were obviously doing pretty well—the home was tastefully decorated, with ivory walls, a plush floor runner, and expensive-looking art on the walls.

  It was obvious that, on most days, the Lindseys’ home was well kept, well designed, and impressively put together.

  Today, the sight was stomach turning.

  Everything in the foyer—the rug, the walls, the light switch—was covered in thick swipes of crusty, dark-brown blood.

  “Careful,” Derrick said as we navigated the evidence.

  Gayla didn’t get upset easily, but she was dead silent as we walked through the house.

  “What the hell happened here?” I muttered. There was a lamp toppled over in front of a broken mirror, and shards of glass were everywhere.

  “Something really, really bad,” Gayla said quietly, navigating through the hall as we moved toward the living room.

  And that’s when we learned that the hallway was just the
beginning.

  We both actually gasped out loud as we turned the corner into the living area. The pale-green couch was covered in the same deep-brown stains, the cushions soaked through with the blood. It was smeared on the armrests and the carpet right in front of the couch.

  I let my eyes roam the rest of the room, and it took me a moment to realize what was wrong with it. “There’s no more blood,” I muttered, looking at the pristine dining room table on the far side of the room. The rest of the space was remarkably clean. Gayla’s gaze followed me around the room. “It’s all so…contained.”

  “You’re right,” she said as she breathed out. “There’s blood in the foyer, leading up to the couch, and on the couch itself. Does that mean that she walked in and—”

  “And went straight for the couch,” Derrick said, walking up behind us. “There’s no sign of blood anywhere else in the entire house. Given the amount of blood on her when we found her, we’d know if she’d gone somewhere else.”

  “Why would she come and just sit down?” Gayla asked. “I mean, she had to know that her husband was going to find her like that. Maybe that’s what she wanted?”

  “Doesn’t look like she was doing too much intentionally,” I said.

  “Putting the on-the-scene report together with what the husband told us, it looks like she got home, stumbled to the couch, knocking a ton of stuff over on the way, and sat there until he got home,” Derrick said.

  “No clues about where she got the knife from?” Gayla asked.

  “None. Husband said he’d never seen it before. Not much reason for either of them to have a clip point, that’s for sure.”

  “What is it for, anyway?” I asked, and I saw Derrick hesitate.

  “It’s, uh…”

  “It refers to the edge of the blade,” Gayla cut in. “Clip point blades are usually thinner at the end, which makes it easier to stab and remove from game. That’s compared to other types of hunting blades that are thicker and made for setting up your camp, cutting wood, and things like that.”

  We both stared at her, and she shrugged. “What? Kevin and I go camping three times a year.”

  “I’m going to look around upstairs,” I said.

  Gayla and Derrick nodded.

  As I climbed the steps, I frowned as a familiar sensation flooded over my body.

  Shit.

  Not here. Not now.

  My vision became blurry, and I wrinkled my nose as the smell—the rotting, decaying smell of my nightmares—washed over me. I paused, my heart speeding up, my hands clenching at my sides.

  That smell.

  I swallowed and kept going.

  The walls of the stairwell were lined with art, which lent a certain modern beauty to the house. But it was noticeably absent of any of the things that made a house feel like a home—group photos, shot glasses from vacation, books with a piece of mail stuck in them to save the page. The Lindseys had only lived there a few months, and it showed.

  I reached the landing on the second floor and paused, trying to ignore the tightening in my chest and breathing shallowly out of my mouth. The smell seemed stronger now, and even though I knew it was all in my mind, I looked around for the source.

  Ignore it.

  But the symbol was clouding my vision now, the tornado-wrapped cross, plastered all over Emily’s skin. I swallowed and walked into the master bedroom and took a look around. It looked as though it hadn’t been touched since Dan Lindsey left for work that morning. I stood in front of the bed, examining it.

  The dark-green comforter was pulled up to the top of the bed. On one side of the bed, the nightstand held an alarm clock, a half-empty glass of water, and a pair of reading glasses.

  On the other side of the bed, there was a matching nightstand, and it held—

  A lamp.

  And nothing else.

  I stepped closer and drew my finger across the base of the lamp, leaving a streak in the dust.

  I had an inkling of what it might mean, and I walked quickly over to the master bathroom to test it.

  If my theory was correct, there’d only be…

  One toothbrush.

  I picked it up and stared at it for a moment.

  It wasn’t much, but it was something. I walked quickly out of the bathroom and then out of the master bedroom. There was a spare bedroom across the small hallway, along with an office and another bathroom. I stepped into the bedroom and frowned at the piles of boxes on the bed. It was obviously being used for storage at the moment. I walked back into the hallway and into the office. It contained a desk and chair, along with a couch. I walked over to the couch and looked around.

  Bingo.

  Sitting on the carpet halfway under the couch was an alarm clock. And it was still plugged in.

  Emily and Dan weren’t sleeping in the same room.

  I walked into the guest bathroom and turned on the light.

  I stopped abruptly, the smell suddenly making me queasy. I blinked a few times, the pictures of the cell, the steel bars, hovering in front of my eyes, and I stumbled backward. I took a deep breath and stepped farther into the room. For a house that was relatively clean, the spare bathroom was not—it was obviously the most used. The white porcelain sink was covered in dirt, used makeup wipes, and black smudges that looked like spilled eyeshadow. It was also covered with products—combs, makeup, moisturizers.

  And, just like I’d expected, another toothbrush.

  The smell was too overpowering, and I stepped out of the bathroom. I turned to head back downstairs. I needed some air. As I reached the bottom of the steps, Gayla and Derrick were talking about something near the patio door. I headed toward them but stopped as I looked over at the living room couch again.

  As I stared at the bloodstains that covered it, I felt the telltale dryness in my throat that let me know that something bad was about to happen.

  “Do you smell that?” I asked.

  They looked at each other and then back at me before responding.

  “Smell what?” they asked at the same time.

  Shit.

  Not here.

  I blinked a few times as the couch began to swell in size. I swallowed.

  Not now.

  Derrick and Gayla were only inches from me, and they were still talking, but slowly, their voices began to fade away.

  I kept staring at the couch, and I clenched my hands into fists at my side. The cushions continued to expand, right in front of my eyes.

  Puffy and blood-filled, the mattress stretched and distended, and I fought the urge to turn and run out the room.

  Fight it.

  But it was too late. The vision was taking over, and I knew that I was going to have to flee. I took a step back and choked on my breath. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see both Derrick and Gayla looking up at me, expressions of concern on their faces.

  “Steve?” Gayla asked.

  Breathe.

  It’s not real.

  But the couch continued to swell, pulsing with each of my heartbeats.

  “Steve,” she said again. “Are you okay?”

  I looked at her and nodded, but the couch was still morphing behind her head. I fumbled in my mind for the checklist.

  One: Can anyone else see it?

  A resounding no. There was a massive, blood-filled couch expanding right behind them, but neither Derrick nor Gayla seemed to notice it.

  Two. Can you touch it?

  Even though I knew they were watching me, I reached a hand out, because I had to be sure. The couch was expanding quickly, and now it was only inches from me. I reached out to touch it but connected with air.

  Of course you can’t touch it.

  “Steve?”

  I didn’t need part three of the test to know that it was time to get out of there. My
chest tight and tongue chalky, I looked over at Gayla’s and Derrick’s worried faces.

  “Is everything okay?” Derrick was asking me, stepping forward, now shoulder to shoulder with Gayla.

  “Yeah, sure,” I said, and my voice didn’t sound like my own. “I just need a moment. Got to…got to step out and make a call.”

  They stood there, frozen, as I turned and stumbled back through the hallway and out the front door.

  Once I was outside, I gulped in the fresh, clean air. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a tin of mints from my jeans pocket. It was a trick I’d learned a while back—the cool sensation helped to relax me. I popped a couple in my mouth and let them sit there a moment. I stared at the people milling about on the front lawn; none of them were looking at me, but I still felt exposed, bare. I turned around and saw Gayla walking down the front steps alone.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey,” I responded, and even though I knew it didn’t make any sense, I swallowed the mints quickly. “Sorry about that.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “It was nothing, really.”

  She stared at me for a moment and then pointed to the house next door. “You ready?”

  “Yeah.” I nodded, not returning her eye contact. “Of course. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Seven

  As we walked across the lawn toward Emily’s neighbor’s house, Gayla watched me the way you watch a group of kids playing too close to the street. You drive by slowly, just waiting for the ball to roll out in front of your car and for one of the kids to dart off after it.

  “You sure you’re all right?” Gayla asked slowly, squinting as if that would help her see inside my head and catch me before I ran into traffic.

  I plastered on the most convincing smile I could muster and nodded. The crawling feeling in my arms and legs continued, and I used my right hand to gently rub my left forearm. Sometimes, the tingling was so intense, I could barely focus. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I said. “Just needed some air.”

  “Was it—” She lowered her voice. “Was it one of the blackouts?”

  I took a long, slow breath, my jaw clenched, and shook my head.