by Steve Frech
I glance at the closed door and back to her. It’s unnervingly quiet. There’s no hum of a refrigerator or rumble of central heating. There’s only the wind blowing against the side of the house.
She sits in the chair, smiling expectantly at the door.
In horror, I realize that this is what she does. She sits in this chair and waits for Laura to come home … and she does this because of me, because of the hope I left her by not telling anyone what happened to Laura. I know right away that I have to help her, and I know how, but I have to do something, first.
I calmly go over and crouch beside her. “Mrs Aisling, I need to ask you about Laura.”
Her smile widens and her eyes stay on the door. “You can ask her when she gets here.”
“But I want you to tell me, okay?” I wait to see if she’ll look at me, but she doesn’t. “Mrs Aisling, do you remember when Laura went to New Hampshire University, then transf—?”
She grimaces.
“No, no, no. That was wrong. She was wrong, but it wasn’t her fault. It was the Devil. The Devil was to blame. Not my angel. And God forgave her.”
“Mrs Aisling, what did the Devil make Laura do?”
“No. No, we don’t talk about it. God has forgiven her. He forgives all. If we confess our sins, He is faithful, and just, and will forgive us our sins and purify us in all righteousness.”
“Please, Mrs Aisling. I need to know what happened.”
“You can ask Laura when she gets here.”
My calm veneer is cracking. The smell is getting to me again. “Mrs Aisling, Laura’s not coming back.”
She slowly turns her head, and smiles at me through those sunken eyes and rotting teeth. “That’s what they said all those years ago … and they were wrong. God gave my Angel back to me. She came right through that door.”
The blood freezes in my veins.
“Laura was here?” I choke.
Her eyes glow with happiness. “Yes. Right there.”
“What did she want?”
“She wanted her music box.”
“And did you give her the music box?”
“Of course. It’s her music box. She went upstairs to her room and got it.”
I glance over to the foot of the stairs.
“When she came downstairs, she said she would come back to me very soon, but first, someone had to pay for what they had done. She said she was going to make it right. So, now, we wait for her,” she says with loving pride.
My eyes haven’t left the stairs.
She had been here. Whoever she was, she had posed as Laura to fool Mrs Aisling’s riddled mind. Immediately, I formulate a plan. I’m not happy about it, but this has to happen.
“Mrs Aisling, Laura did send me.”
She turns to me with those sparkling, sunken eyes.
“She wanted me to get something from her room and bring it to her.”
The brighter her smile grows, the worse I feel.
“Can I go up to her room, and get it?”
She eagerly nods. She tries to stand but I calmly put my hand on her shoulder to keep her in the chair.
“No, no, no. I don’t want you to hurt yourself on the stairs. I’ll get it,” I say, softly.
Tears of happiness spring from her eyes and flow down her cheeks.
“You wait here, okay?”
She nods again, but she wants nothing more than to join me.
I turn and go to the foot of the stairs.
There’s a window at the top that throws down a shaft of sunlight. Particles of dust drift in and out of the beam. I begin to climb. The wooden stairs creak under my weight. The foul smell diminishes the further up I go. At the top of the stairs, the hallway goes off to the right. There are three doors—one at the end of the hallway, leading to a bedroom, a smaller door halfway down that I assume is a bathroom, and the closed door immediately on my right. I grasp the knob and push it in.
It’s a girl’s room—Laura’s room.
There are pictures of Laura everywhere, from every stage in her life—as a baby, as a toddler, as a child, and as a young woman. There are some crucifixes, and porcelain figures of Christ, but nothing like downstairs. While the rest of the house is a shrine to Christ, this room is a shrine to Laura, just waiting for her return. The floorboards broadcast my movements as I slowly walk about the room. There are posters on the walls for movies and boy bands, and an army of stuffed animals on the bed. There’s a framed photo of her graduation from elementary school. Even as a young, awkward girl with braces, you can see the beauty that she would become. Next to that is a framed photo of her graduation from high school.
I’m suddenly consumed with guilt. I’m standing amongst the remains of a life I helped end. I had never seen this part of her. I had only caught a glimpse of it in her scrapbook, but to see the physical objects of her life, laid out before me, is crippling. Seeing these different phases of her life makes me feel like I let multiple Lauras die, not just one.
The guilt is growing but when I arrive at the bookshelves, a blank space reminds me of my purpose. There’s a rectangle in the dust. This is where the music box once sat. This is where she took it. The rest of the shelf is filled with books such as Alice in Wonderland, The Giving Tree, The Wizard of Oz, and Where the Sidewalk Ends. I go to the next shelf, and stop. Scrapbooks. Here’s the one I looked at in her dorm—the one that was filled with her childhood. I find the one that’s blue and gray and take it out. All I can think of is the blue and gray hat that Veronica described. I hold it for a moment.
“Please …” I whisper, and flip it open.
Pasted in the first page is a letter, congratulating Laura on her acceptance to New Hampshire University.
I flip another page. It’s a group photo of a bunch of girls, standing on the grass in front of a dorm. The caption reads, “Royce Hall, UNH, 2005”. I’m tempted to sit on the bed and begin reading, but I want to get out of this house.
I snap the scrapbook closed, carry it out of the room, and walk back down the stairs.
Mrs Aisling is still sitting in her chair. She tries to stand as I approach.
“I want to see Laura,” she says. “She promised she’d come back.”
I gently ease her back down with one hand, while clutching the scrapbook in the other, trying my best to keep it from her view.
“No. It’s okay,” I whisper. “Everything is going to be okay.”
Reluctantly, she allows me to help her back down.
“Now, you wait here, and Laura will be back before you know it.”
She’s about to cry, but appreciatively pats my hand.
I get up and walk to the door. I pull it open, but stop when she begins to speak.
“Thank you. Thank you for staying with my Laura. She said it was so dark in that room. Tell her to come back, and that I love her.”
My heart sinks into my stomach. “I will.”
I step outside, close the door, and walk back to the truck feeling like the disgusting, wretched human being that I know I am.
*
As soon as I’m back on the road, before I even look at the scrapbook, I find the nearest Target store, which is about ten miles away. I walk in and go straight to the electronics section. I purchase a disposable cell phone and load it with the lowest number of minutes I can. The sales clerk doesn’t even bat an eye when I pay in cash.
I drive to a bridge spanning the Crookshaw River and park. I get out and go to the guardrail. The water churns thirty feet below me. I’ve been charging the phone while driving, and it’s up to seven percent. That’s all I’ll need. I dial, and it’s answered almost immediately.
“Nine-one-one. What’s the nature of your emergency?”
“Hi, can you please send an ambulance to six-one-eight Falstaff Road in Thistleton? There’s an old woman living by herself, and she’s in bad shape.”
“Are you with her now?”
“No, but I was just there. She’s got no heating and she … she needs h
elp.”
“What was the address again?”
“Six-one-eight Falstaff.”
“Can I have your name, sir?”
“Will you send someone to check on her?”
“Yes, but I need to know—?”
I hang up the phone and glance down at the roiling water.
I cock my arm, and hurl the phone into the river.
Chapter 12
There’s something dignified about pouring your own coffee at a 7-Eleven. Cup? Pick your own cup. No one is going to ask you if you want a venti, or grande, or a supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. Cream? All the cream you want. Make it ninety percent cream, if you feel like it.
God, I’m tired.
I pay at the counter, take my coffee out to the truck, and settle in as I flip open the scrapbook.
The first page is the acceptance letter, congratulating Laura, and notifying her that she’ll be living in Royce Hall. I flip to the next page, which is the photo of the girls in front of the dorm. There are roughly fifty of them, lined up in three rows. The first row is on one knee, the second is crouching, and the last is standing upright.
There she is—back row, third from the left. My eyes are instantly drawn to the red hair and blue eyes. She looks happy and excited. Again, I could only imagine the change from living with her mother in Thistleton, to going to college and meeting so many new pe—
Laura bleeding out on the floor of the warehouse.
The image is so vivid, I take a sharp inhalation of breath. I rub my eyes, trying to banish the image from my mind, and flip the page.
It’s another group photo in front of a different dorm. There are fewer girls, so the camera is a little closer. Just as before, they’re in rows. “Wilson Hall 2006!” it says at the bottom of the picture.
There’s Laura, again, this time front and center. Her hair is shorter, and she looks slightly older. That first year of college does that to you, I guess.
I flip the page, and it’s filled with photos of the girls moving into Wilson Hall. The following pages are filled with photos of Laura and her friends hanging out and going to parties.
Wait.
I flip back to the Royce Hall group photo. Next comes the Wilson Hall photo, and then pages and pages of Laura and the other girls of Wilson Hall.
Why aren’t there any photos of Laura with the girls from Royce Hall?
I bring the scrapbook closer to my face and inspect the metal rings mounted to the spine that hold the pages. They’re bent, ever so slightly. Someone has ripped out those pages.
That’s it. Whatever I’m looking for is in those pages.
I’ve got to find someone who knew Laura at New Hampshire University.
I continue studying the photos. There are photos of Laura and her friends, and some of just Laura. I constantly go back and forth between these and the Wilson Hall photos. As I advance in the photos, I can see her circle of friends expanding. More guys start showing up, but I’m particularly drawn to one girl who begins to appear with more and more regularity. She has straight, long, brown hair and deep brown eyes. There are photos of her and Laura at parties, in addition to simple candid shots. Through the photos, I watch their friendship grow. There are movie ticket stubs pasted onto the pages, fliers for parties and concerts, and other memorabilia. They were best friends.
This is the person I need to talk to, to find out who has Murphy. All I need is her name.
I flip another page, and it brings me to an article cut from The Wildcat, New Hampshire University’s student newspaper. The headline reads, “Student Legal Society Brings Challenge to New Parking Ordinances”. Accompanying the article is a photo of a group of smartly dressed students. The girl I’m interested in is second from the end. The students’ names are captioned under the photo.
“You’re the one I have to find, Amy Winstead,” I say aloud.
I pick up my phone, and pull up the browser. I’m worried that there might be too many Amy Winsteads and, sure enough, there are a few dozen in my initial search. I add “New Hampshire University” and “lawyer” to the search, and hit enter.
It returns the address and phone number for a law office in Montpelier. I tap the phone number on the webpage and my phone automatically dials the number.
It’s getting late, so there’s no surprise when my call goes to voicemail.
“You’ve reached the offices of Amy Winstead. Please leave your message after the tone, and it will be returned as soon as possible. You can also call back between our normal business hours. Thank you and have a wonderful day.”
Beep.
“Hi, uh, my name is …” I briefly toy with giving a fake name but decide to come clean. “Listen, my name is Jacob Reese. I wanted to speak to you about a mutual acquaintance—Laura Aisling. I believe that you may have known her when you both attended New Hampshire University. If you could give me a call back, I’d really appreciate it. It’s, uh … It’s important. Thank you.”
I leave my number, hang up, sit back in my seat, and roll my neck. Deep cracks emanate from my spine. I stare out the window to the setting sun. There’s nothing more I can do today. I have to get some sleep.
I start the truck.
It’s going to be a long drive back to The Hollows.
I’m facing the heavy steel door.
The pressure on my sh—
I startle myself awake.
My hands are gripping the steering wheel. It was only for a moment, but yeah, I was falling asleep while driving. I curse, clench my teeth, dial the heat up to full blast, and turn up the radio.
There’s only twenty more miles to go, but this is the worst part of the trip. There’s no stimulus to keep me awake. It’s pitch black outside and the two-lane road just winds on and on through the unchanging forest.
“Just get home,” I tell myself.
As a way to keep myself awake, I start thinking about what I’ll say to Amy Winstead. I have the same problem that I thought I was going to have with Laura’s mom—how can I ask questions without raising suspicions? I could tell her the truth that Laura and I dated for a while, but why would I be asking about their friendship? I could tell her—
—on my shoulder.
“Jacob?” a voice whispers.
Do not turn around. Do not turn ar—
—thumpthumpthumpthumpthump.
I open my eyes, and quickly turn the wheel to get the truck back into the lane.
“Dammit!”
I slap my face, hard. The sting gives me a temporary adrenaline rush.
I’ve only got a few more minutes to go. I’m almost home, but already, the adrenaline rush has passed, and my breathing is slipping into a steady rhythm.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a light coming from the passenger seat.
It’s the burner phone.
I quickly turn down the radio. I don’t know how long the phone has been ringing. The number, like the number for the text message earlier, is blocked.
I quickly pick up the phone and answer.
All I hear from the other end is the sound of someone breathing.
I try to wait her out and make her speak first, but I can’t take it anymore.
“Who are you?”
“The one who is going to take everything from you, just like you took everything from me,” she whispers.
“What do you want?”
“I want you to understand. I want you to know what you took from me, and what I will do to make you pay. You left me in that room. You locked me in, and left me to rot.”
“You’re not her! You’re not Laura!”
She giggles. “Did you have a good talk with Mother?”
Now, I’m wide awake. “You were watching?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Listen to me,” I say. “I don’t know who you are but leave my dog alone. Give him back to me, and we’ll—”
“Not until you understand.”
“Understand what?!”
“What you
took from me.”
“You’re not Laura! She’s dead!”
She giggles, again. It’s childish, and teasing, which makes it all the more ominous.
“You should really get that fixed,” she says.
“What are you talking about? Get what fixed?”
“Your taillight.”
The phone cuts out.
Blinding high beams suddenly fill my rearview mirror. I only have a second to brace for impact before the SUV slams into my bumper. The phone and scrapbook go flying. My chest thuds against the steering wheel. The truck lurches forward, and I fight for control of the wheel. No sooner am I able to correct the truck to keep it from going into the ditch, when the SUV slams into me, again. The truck fishtails, and I struggle to keep the wheel steady. I straighten out just as the SUV charges.
I’m still fighting the side-to-side motion. If the SUV hits me now, I’ll go off the road. I stomp the gas to the floor, and the truck shoots forward. My burst of speed robs the SUV of full impact, and instead of ramming me to one side, it pushes me forward. The impact has smashed one of the headlights of the SUV, and I’m not as blinded as I was a moment ago.
I frantically glance from the road in front of me to the rearview mirror. The single fiery eye of the lone headlight begins to close the gap, setting up another impact. I’m outmatched. The SUV has more power, and a firmer center of gravity than the truck. It’s about to slam into me when I jerk the wheel to the left, into the opposite lane, and tap the brake. The SUV misses, and pulls even with the truck. I yank the wheel back to the right, and use all of the truck’s body to slam into the side of the SUV.
For a moment, I think I’ve hit her hard enough to push her off the road, but the SUV holds, and veers back in my direction. I pull the wheel hard, again, and our vehicles smash together. The sound of grinding and scraping metal fills the cabin. I glance at the SUV, but the tinted windows offer no glimpse inside. The truck is holding its own, but the SUV is going to win out.
Suddenly, the SUV brakes. I’m still accelerating and pulling right. The front half of the truck lurches out ahead of the SUV. I try to hit the brakes, but it’s too late. I shoot forward into her path. The SUV revs its engine, and clips the back of the truck as I cut across the lane.
