by Mark Lukens
She was driving herself crazy with these thoughts. Megan was out of the house now, Detective Grady was here—parked beside the garage, and she had already compared Phil’s handwriting to the words on the painting . . . it was time to confront Phil now. Maybe she’d been hesitating for the last hour, afraid of finding out a terrible secret, afraid of everything in her marriage and her life changing in an instant. But it was time to do it.
First she would go and check on Detective Grady. She’d made some coffee and she filled one of Phil’s thermoses with it. She peeked in the bedroom at Phil; he was working on his laptop at the desk in the corner, looking something up. He had a spiral notebook and a pen on the desk in front of him. He seemed fidgety and agitated as he worked.
She didn’t say anything to him, but then he turned around as if he knew she was watching him.
“I’m going to take some coffee to Detective Grady,” she said, raising the thermos in her hand a little.
“Okay.”
Phil seemed like he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t. He turned back to his computer.
“I’ll be right back,” she told him.
Cathy left the bedroom and walked through the living room to the front door. She turned off the alarm system and opened the front door. She went out onto the porch and closed the front door almost all the way to keep the bugs out. The sun hadn’t set yet, and it was still light enough to see, but the approaching thunderstorm made it seem like night. The woods in the distance beyond the acres of house plots were just a black silhouette against the gray sky of churning clouds. Mosquitos and gnats swarmed around the front porch. Crickets and bullfrogs were already singing their night songs in the tall grasses.
She walked down the path through the front yard to the driveway, getting blasted by the wind. She hurried past the three garage doors to the corner. Grady had parked his dark sedan right next to the house in their grass, taking advantage of the house’s shadow when night came.
Detective Grady was behind the wheel of his car, his face lit up from his phone as he played with it. He looked up when Cathy was at the front of the car. He rolled down the window.
“You going to be okay out here?” She looked up at the sky. “There’s a bad storm coming.”
“I’ll be fine. At least it’s not that hot now.” He showed her a tight smile.
“Why don’t you come inside and wait?”
He seemed to consider the idea for a moment, but then he shook his head. “I need to be out here and ready if he comes by tonight.” He paused for a moment, smiling at her. “I’ll be okay. I swear.”
“I brought you some coffee,” she said. “If you don’t like coffee, I could bring you something else.”
“A cop never turns down coffee. I think I could use the jolt of caffeine.”
She thought the detective looked tired, or bored, or maybe even aggravated that he had to sit here for hours in his car instead of being home. She wondered if he was married or had any kids. She wondered if there was anyone waiting for him at home. He didn’t wear a wedding ring, but a lot of people didn’t wear wedding rings nowadays. She thought about asking about his life, maybe making some small talk. But maybe it would come across as prying. Instead, she said nothing as she handed him the thermos.
“Thank you,” he said as he set the thermos on the passenger seat.
“You want anything to eat?” Cathy asked.
“No thanks. It’ll just make me tired.”
Cathy looked away, down the street towards the lights of Barbara’s home in the distance. “I hope Megan’s alright.”
Detective Grady didn’t say anything.
Cathy looked back at him. “So, you think this Carlos guy is really going to come back tonight?”
He shrugged, but he was staring intently at her.
“I just don’t understand how he got into our house without tripping the alarm.”
The detective shrugged again. “Might be a burglar alarm specialist. Might have even worked for a security company. Maybe he used an alarm jammer.”
“They have those?”
“You’d be surprised what they’ve got these days.” He stared at her hard, suddenly a little suspicious. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
For a moment she almost unleashed her suspicions about Phil onto Detective Grady—it would be so good to get those internalized ramblings out. But she decided not to. There might be plenty of time for that later. No, she needed to talk to Phil first, give him a chance to explain himself. She wanted to hear his side of the story first; he was her husband and she owed him that.
“I’ll leave you alone,” she finally said.
He just nodded. Maybe it was his way of saying: Thank God.
She went back to the corner of the garage and then around to the front of it, out of the detective’s sight now. She was about to walk back to the front door, but she stopped again and looked down the street at Barbara’s house in the distance, at the lights shining in the oncoming darkness. She thought about calling Megan’s cell phone, but she decided against it—she needed to talk to Phil first. No more distractions, no more hesitating, no more procrastinating.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Cathy
Cathy hurried back inside the house and shut the door. She turned the alarm system back on. The wind was really kicking up now, and lightning was flashing, but it hadn’t started raining yet. The house was dark even with a few of the kitchen lights on.
Phil wasn’t in the living room. He wasn’t in the kitchen, either. He must still be in the bedroom working on his laptop. She went to the kitchen and opened a drawer where she had stashed the calendar book and the notecard earlier. She took them with her to the bedroom.
She hesitated at the bedroom door. She could hear Phil doing something in the bedroom. It sounded like he was moving things around. She entered the room, but she didn’t see him. His laptop was still on the desk, the screen lit up, but he wasn’t there.
He was in their walk-in closet.
The door to their closet was closed almost all the way, but the light was on. She approached the closet door, listening for a moment. Phil was moving stuff around in there, and she thought she heard him whispering to himself.
“Phil,” she said.
“Yeah,” he called out.
“What are you doing in there?” She opened the door and saw Phil at the other end of the closet. He had some boxes and plastic tubs all over the floor, lids off, papers and envelopes everywhere. “What are you doing?”
“I’m looking for something. I . . . I need to find something.”
He looked at her and saw the calendar book and notecard in her hand. But he didn’t look surprised or shocked. There almost seemed to be a look of relief on his face.
“We need to talk about this,” she told him.
“Cathy, I can explain things.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I want, an explanation.”
“I’ve been wondering how to tell you about everything.”
She thought he was going to walk towards her, but he remained by his piles of papers and manila envelopes.
“Did Carlos give you this note?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“And he painted these same words on my painting?”
“Yes,” Phil answered again.
“But you know something about this, don’t you? You know what happened to this girl.”
A long moment, and then: “Yes.”
“Who’s Dolores?”
Phil didn’t answer, but she could see the recognition of the name in his eyes.
“You’ve been saying her name in your sleep the last few nights. You said something about blood, about her being hurt.”
“I can explain everything—”
“Did you do something to a girl?” Cathy blurted out. She could feel her body trembling now. “Did you do something to a girl named Dolores?”
“Yes.”
Cathy felt like she’d been punched i
n the stomach. Tears blurred her vision and she wiped at them.
Phil took a step towards her. She took a step backwards out of the closet doorway.
“Cathy, wait. Let me explain.”
She waited, clutching the calendar book and the notecard in her hand.
“I need to find something in here first,” Phil said. “And then I will explain everything. I promise.”
She felt sick to her stomach, and suddenly she didn’t want to know anything else. She didn’t want to know the details of whatever Phil had done. “There is no Carlos, is there?” she said more to herself than to Phil. Her worst fears were coming true now. “You’ve been doing all of this the whole time.”
“Cathy, wait. Let me find what I need, and then I’ll tell you everything. There’s just something . . . something I need to do first. I need to find a phone number and make a call.”
She shook her head no, backing up towards the bedroom door.
Phil had a strange and desperate look in his eyes, a look she’d never seen before. Who was this man? What was he trying to find in their closet? Was it something he’d hidden in there a long time ago? Something related to what had happened to Dolores? A piece of evidence? A weapon? Some kind of sick souvenir?
“What did you do?” she asked, her voice getting louder. It felt like she was getting light-headed and dizzy. “What did you do to Dolores?”
“I wanted to tell you so many times,” Phil said.
“Is . . . is she dead?”
Phil nodded. “Yes.”
Everything seemed like it was suddenly spinning. She wasn’t going to listen to this anymore. How could Phil have hurt some girl? She couldn’t stay there a second longer. She couldn’t listen to Phil anymore; she couldn’t even look at him.
She rushed out the bedroom door.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Phil
Phil almost chased after Cathy when she ran out of the bedroom. He figured she was running outside to tell Detective Grady that her husband was some kind of sick murderer.
And wasn’t it true . . . in a way?
He kept looking through the boxes and plastic tubs in the closet; he needed to find an old address book with a phone number in it, something he’d saved for decades. Someone he’d promised himself he would never call again—Travis.
He unstacked some more plastic tubs and cardboard boxes until he got down to the bottom one that was marked: Work Records. He opened this plastic tub and pulled out manila envelopes and folders, sifting through the papers until he found the right envelope. He opened it, dumped out the contents, and there it was—the old address book. There was also some old newspaper clippings in the manila envelope that the address book had been in, but he didn’t want to see those again.
He went out to the bedroom with the address book. He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked up Travis’ numbers: a home number and a cell phone number. The odds that either of these numbers was still in service weren’t very good, but he had to try.
Earlier he’d been scouring the internet and social media sites, trying to find a trace of Travis. He should’ve done this days ago, but he hadn’t wanted to face it yet. He didn’t want to believe that it was true. But he didn’t have much luck finding information on his old friend—Travis Baker was a pretty common name. One thing he found though was a news article from Portland, Oregon about a man identified as Travis Baker who had been murdered a few months ago.
Could it be true? Had Travis been killed? There wasn’t a photo of the victim, but the age was right. The coincidence seemed too great right now for it not to be Travis. His childhood friend had been murdered, and Carlos was the killer. And now Carlos had traveled down here to Florida to do the same thing to him.
Phil tried the two phone numbers he had for Travis. One was disconnected and the other one was answered by an older lady who’d never heard of a man named Travis Baker.
He had one last chance; he had the phone number for Travis’ parents in the address book. He dialed the number for Ted and Sandra Baker.
Outside, thunder rumbled. He remembered vaguely hearing something on the radio about a bad thunderstorm moving through tonight. Maybe a storm would deter Carlos from coming tonight. Or maybe a storm would provide the perfect cover.
“Hello?” a woman said into the phone.
“Hi,” Phil said. “Is this Mrs. Baker?”
Hesitation on the other end for a split second.
Phil thought she’d hung up, but then the woman spoke, and he recognized her voice. And Phil swore that she recognized his voice as well. “Yes, this is Mrs. Baker. Who’s this?”
“It’s Phil. Phil Stanton. I don’t know if you remember me, but—”
“I remember you, Phil,” she said in an icy voice.
TWENTY-NINE
Cathy
Cathy hurried through the dark living room. Her mind was reeling. She was sick to her stomach.
She stopped and looked at the front door, then at the windows where the wood blinds were open. Even with the porch light on outside, she saw the flash of lightning in the night sky. And then ten seconds later thunder rumbled, shaking the house.
Her husband was a murderer. He’d murdered a girl named Dolores. He’d as much as admitted it. This was her worst fear come true, and now she didn’t know what to do. She’d been on her way to the front door, intending to march out there and tell Detective Grady what Phil had just confessed to.
Could she really do this? Could she turn her husband in to the cops?
The more she thought about it, the more she realized that Phil needed help. He’d done something terrible in his past . . . maybe more than once. And now he was having a breakdown, inventing these stories about someone named Carlos. Cathy wished now that she would’ve called Phil’s receptionist, Renee, and asked her if Phil had really seen a patient named Carlos. But of course Renee wouldn’t have given out confidential information like that, not even to her.
She didn’t want to get Phil into trouble, but he needed help. It was ironic—he was a psychologist who had helped so many people, but he wasn’t able to help himself. She really didn’t have a choice. She needed to get the police involved, get Detective Grady involved—it would help Phil in the long run.
And you’re scared of him now, her mind whispered.
It was true. Phil was different now, not the man she’d known and loved all these years. She remembered Emma telling her how she’d felt when she’d found out about her own husband’s dark secrets.
But Cathy’s husband’s secrets were darker . . . much darker.
Emma had said that her world had spun out of control after she’d found her husband cheating on her, she’d said that nothing felt real anymore to her. And that’s exactly how Cathy felt right now, like all of this was some kind of bad dream that she couldn’t wake up from. Phil, her husband all these years, was not the man she thought he was. What else had he been hiding?
No, she needed to do the right thing—she needed to help Phil.
She went to the front door and punched the four digit code into the keypad, and then opened the door and went outside. She expected Phil to storm outside after her, beg her not to tell Detective Grady.
But Phil wasn’t chasing after her.
She hurried through the wind with the calendar book (and the notecard stuffed inside) clutched in her hand. The smell of rain and ozone danced on the air.
She didn’t want to tell Detective Grady, but she had to. She couldn’t let him keep wasting his time here if there was no such person as Carlos. She would tell the detective everything, show him the proof she had, and then they would all talk. Phil would have to come clean about everything, and then they could figure things out from there. She swore to herself that she would find some way to help Phil.
Lightning flashed across the night sky, revealing nasty-looking thunderheads. The wind was blowing even harder now, the tall grasses in the vacant lots across the street whipping around wildly, all of them leaning the same wa
y, like some Kansas prairie right before a tornado.
Thunder rumbled as Cathy hurried across the driveway to the corner of the house, and then around the garage to Detective Grady’s car.
His car was hidden in the shadow of the house, but there was enough light for her to see that the detective was slumped over behind the steering wheel.
“Detective Grady?” she said as she walked closer to the front of the car.
No answer. No movement.
Oh God, was he dead?
But how? When?
And then a chilling thought came to her. What if Carlos was real? What if he knew about Phil’s past and had been blackmailing him about it? What if he was already here?
She took another step towards the detective’s car. “Detective Grady,” she called out.
He still didn’t move.
She heard a noise from behind her. She turned around and saw a splash of light from the street. But the light wasn’t from the lightning in the sky, and the rumbling sound wasn’t from thunder. This light and noise were coming from the white pickup truck in the street.
THIRTY
Phil
Phil gripped the cordless phone harder in his hand, trying to keep his voice soft and conversational. “I know it’s been a long time, Mrs. Baker. I was trying to reach Travis. I have two phone numbers for him, but neither one is the right number.”
He heard a choked sob from Mrs. Baker and his stomach sank.
“Travis is . . . he’s dead,” Mrs. Baker finally said.
So the murdered man in the article he’d found on the internet had been the Travis Baker he knew, the Travis Baker that he’d grown up with in Oregon . . . his friend.
“Mrs. Baker, I’m so sorry,” Phil said.
There was a jostling noise on the phone and Phil thought she might be hanging up, maybe even throwing the phone across the room, but then a man’s voice came on the line. “Phil, it’s Ted.”
“Mr. Baker. I’m so sorry to hear about Travis.”
“We should’ve called you,” Mr. Baker said in a clipped and polite tone. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t have your phone number, but . . . we should’ve tried a little harder to find you.”
