by A. J. Aalto
“You guys are sick,” Bruce joked as he passed them.
“Hey, the dead guy doesn’t mind, why should we?” one of the older workers said. He wiped mustard off his hand on the back of his bright orange safety vest and indicated behind them to the parking lot. “Someone’s waving at you, Gillian.”
She looked toward the lot by the funeral home, thinking it might be Frankie wanting to talk some more. What she saw was a familiar black truck, big wheels, chrome extensions on his mufflers, chick silhouettes on his mud flaps. Travis. Here. He was leaning against the truck, arms crossed, one leg crossed in front of the other at the ankle. Jeans. Baseball hat. She couldn’t see his expression from where she stood, but she felt like he might be smirking at her.
Bruce was reading her face. “Friend of yours?”
“No,” Gillian said.
“He’s looking over here.”
“Let him.” She checked off a row on the list on her clipboard. “Doesn’t bother me.”
Bruce puffed up his chest and chewed the inside of his mouth. “Want me to speak to him? He doesn’t need to be here.”
“Absolutely not,” Gillian said, imagining what Travis might tell her coworker, what things he had read in Frankie’s diary, what secrets he might spill just to torture her. “He’s not important. Don’t make him feel important. Please.”
“If you need backup,” Bruce said, lowering his voice, “you know I’m here, right?”
“Thank you,” Gillian said quietly, meaning it.
“Hey,” Bruce said with a chuckle, “what are future husbands for?”
She pointed her pencil scoldingly at him but had to smile. “Scoring points, eh?”
Bruce laughed, a warm, booming laugh through a gruff voice, reminding Gillian of cigars and rotgut whiskey and nights by a campfire. They moved deeper into the cemetery, ignoring their guest; after an hour or so, he drove away.
There was a note on Gillian’s windshield when she left work that day. She didn’t read it. She didn’t even touch it. It sat there for a day and half until the wind snatched it away.
She refused to think anything of it.
Chapter Sixteen
Tuesday, October 28. 9:00 P.M.
October was finally submitting to winter’s heavy hand, and while Gillian would have preferred to have the sweet warm air blowing through the screens, she’d put the heat on to take the edge off the cold damp of the evening instead, leaving the windows locked tight. Now the furnace at the Red Maple Drive house clicked off. It was only after the white noise from the vents dissipated that she heard the low rumble of thunder outside. It was a lure she couldn't resist.
Turning off all the lights as she left each room, she checked the locks on the doors then moved to the back of the house, pausing at the dark en suite bathroom to start drawing a bath. She lit a single candle on the rim of the tub and sprinkled a bit of Epsom salts, and sweet basil and peppermint essential oils into the steaming water, then went to turn back her duvet and pull her nightgown from under her pillow.
Greg’s pillow was knocked off center and she adjusted it, giving it a pat; the pillow case didn’t match her current set of sheets, because she’d never changed it. After his death, she would often seek comfort in the smell of his hair, his cologne, in his pillow. His scent had long since disappeared, but she couldn’t bring herself to remove the case yet. Someday, she thought, but not yet. Having already donated his clothing, shoes, and most of his tools, taking that pillow case would mean saying good-bye to the last thing she had of him, and she wasn’t ready. She’d take it with her to the new house, and keep it on her new bed until she felt she could sleep without it. She cracked the bedroom window, and when the crisp smell of the oncoming storm reached her, the knot in her gut relaxed.
Greg always loved a good storm. He’d been the ultimate storm prepper, setting unscented candles and lighters in the kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom, and flashlights in the drawers. When a strong thunderstorm hit, he’d sit on the back porch with a coffee and watch it roll in over the lake. Gillian was momentarily certain that if she went out behind the house, Greg would be sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs, one ankle propped on his knee, elbows on the armrests, coffee mug cupped in his big, strong hands, his eyes on the distant cloud cover, as though he could keep danger away from his home and family simply by watching it. She had teased him about that often enough. They’d be out on the town and he’d get this look in his eye, an all-seeing and protective gaze.
That protective gaze is gone, the cruel corner of her mind taunted, and you’re all alone, now.
“And that’s the reason you’re overreacting,” she told herself quietly in the dark bedroom, feeling suddenly exhausted by her paranoia about Travis Freeman. It’s just a note. A couple of texts. It’s a far cry from a direct threat. He’s just a man. He’s not a monster. Besides… “I can take care of myself.”
A soft scuffle alerted Gillian to activity on the back porch. Before Monday, before the note on her car, she might not have noticed the noise, or could have passed it off as a raccoon checking out her garbage can. Now, on high alert, she heard every sound and attributed it to danger.
She slipped into the bathroom, leaving the overhead light off, locked the door, and turned off the bathtub. Moving to crouch beside the window, she peeked through the blinds.
The back yard was full of shadows that swayed and danced in the rising wind. She studied the familiar shape of him standing under the Japanese maple, shifting from one foot to the other. He hadn’t knocked. He just stood there. Travis is finally here, what’s he going to do? Gillian pushed away from the window, pressed her back against the bathroom wall and slid down further until she was sitting on her heels. Trying to relax, she slowed her breathing, in through the nose, holding it for a four-count, exhaling through the mouth. When she felt a bit calmer, she peeked again, holding the bottom-most blind slats open with trembling fingertips. He was standing close enough to the back door to have his nose and toes touching the door itself, and Gillian wondered what he could be doing. Was he trying to look past the blinds and curtains on the little window in the door? Was he trying the doorknob? Neither of those will do him any good, she told herself.
He wasn’t there long. Before he left, he bent and picked up something near the garden. His figure moved into deeper shadow and she lost sight of him.
She couldn’t get to the bedroom window fast enough. She quietly slid it shut and locked it tight, checking it several times before slipping into the hallway and pausing to listen for noises. All she could hear was the rising wind whistling through the trees and pushing on the tiny house. She hurried from one window to the next, double-checking the locks and the security of the doors. Peeking out the front door, she waited to see if she could pick him out of the gloom. Nothing moved except the rhythmic swaying of tree and bush and shadow. For the first time since Greg died, Gillian set the house alarm and flipped on the security cameras.
Her plans for the evening seemed derailed. Bath, TV, relaxing? How could she? So you’re going to let him change your life? It was her Big Sister voice, the exact thing she’d tell Frankie, and she was using it on her own self. Determined not to be shifted by his behavior, she went back to her bathroom, locking the bedroom door as an extra precaution. She considered having a weapon next to the tub and then considered it ridiculous. Maybe it wasn’t even him. She hadn’t seen his face. Had she really recognized his shape? She didn’t know him well enough to be sure it was him without a clearer view. Maybe it was a thief. Just some young punk looking to steal her electronics. But in her gut, she knew it was Travis. With that, the anger returned. Stop thinking about him!
Her enjoyment of her hot bath was more stubborn than soothing, and lasted half as long as her usual soaks. Climbing into bed afterward, bath-warmed and still damp, she switched on an old sitcom and tried to put him out of her mind. It was a difficult task, and she needed to text Frankie first, just to make sure she was okay. Frankie texted back that she
had friends from poetry class over, and that a couple were sleeping there. Her younger sister had no reason to ask if Gillian was okay; why would Travis come to Gillian’s house?
Why indeed? What was he trying to accomplish?
Stop thinking about him! She clenched a fist and demanded of herself that she would think about anything else. The hollow behind her right eye gave a warning, sickening throb, and she whispered a curse, and by the flickering blue light of her small TV, she opened her night stand and sought her Vicodin, shaking a few into her palm.
The pills would make her sleepy.
Is that smart? Is that what was best right now?
Stop thinking about him! Feeling obsessed and disgusted, she put the pills back in the bottle and slammed the drawer. The rest of the night, she tossed and turned, slipping in and out of a restless sleep. The sound of late night TV kept her company in her dark, sweaty bedroom with the laughter of live and canned audiences.
***
It was that same night that Frankie made the mistake of answering her phone without checking the caller ID first. Having passed out from a good amount of wine, her friends Nina and Amy were tucked on the couches with blankets and pillows Frankie had fetched from the kids’ rooms, and she had just crawled into her most comfortable pajamas, her mind completely off her problems. Now, the sound of his voice made something low in her belly flop over and turn to ice.
“Hey, baby, listen.” His tone was soft, tentative. “I wanna apologize. I’ve been missing you so hard. I just wanna hear your voice so I know you’re okay.”
Frankie glared at her own reflection in the vanity mirror, applying cream to the spots on her skin where she’d nervously picked.
“I’ve apologized so many times,” Travis insisted. “Punishing me with silence is immature. You’ve become vindictive and unfair.”
Frankie opened her vanity dresser drawer and pulled out her retainer, toying with the blue container.
Travis purred, “I just need to hear you. I gotta hear your sweet voice, baby.”
He always said her voice was like music to him. The memory of him saying that triggered something in her, and a jolt of fear went through her. He wouldn’t. That doesn’t really happen. How could he have? She cursed herself, wondering if it was natural to start suspecting the worst.
Frankie stood quietly and began a slow, methodical search of her bedroom, under and behind every piece of furniture, listening to him ramble on about how wonderful she sounded to him; she found the little extra wire beside the networking cable behind her TV and what she assumed was a listening device stuck to the back of her BluRay player. She stared at it while Travis breathed on the other end of the phone.
“This isn’t the sweet Frankie I know and love,” Travis said. “She’s hardened you and you know it. Everything would be fine between us if you would stop listening to that cunt sister of yours. We’d still be together if it wasn’t for her.”
That’s probably true, Frankie thought, but it sure as hell isn’t a good thing. Thank the Sweet Lord for Gillian and her tenacity, her good, solid head.
Travis didn’t seem to like the silence stretching between them. He was starting to breathe heavily and Frankie could sense he was on the verge of blowing up again. She grabbed the listening device and pulled hard until it came away from the wire, then tossed it on the floor and stomped it hard under her heel, feeling plastic crack and pieces grind into the carpet.
Travis bellowed in her ear, “You don’t tell me when it’s over. I tell you, you no-good whore. I tell you!”
Frankie inhaled deeply, held her breath for a long beat then let it slowly out, letting her stress drain away with it.
“I don’t want you,” she said quietly, and in the stunned silence, she added, “Nobody wants you. Drop dead.”
She hung up feeling shaky and panicking over what she’d just said, knowing she’d pay for it, not knowing how but not really caring; it felt like victory, a terrifying sort of victory snatched from thin air at the final moment. Her mouth was dry and when she tried to swallow, her throat clicked but her heart soared.
She tiptoed back out of her bedroom and past her sleepy guests to double-check the locks on every door in the house, and then almost called Paul Langerbeins. Remembering that he’d told her not to speak to Travis at all, and he’d told her to change all her phone numbers, and realizing she hadn’t obeyed either suggestion, she did not call.
Frankie checked her texts, ignoring the ones from Travis, reading Bobby’s Please answer me, Honey, but not replying, and resolving that first thing in the morning, she would change her locks and phone numbers.
Chapter Seventeen
Wednesday, October 29. 7:00 A.M.
I’m not touching that, Gillian thought, staring in disgusted disbelief at her back door, the door where the man’s shadow had been last night. Travis did this. She grimaced. I’m not cleaning that up.
Her mind whirled with doubts. Maybe it’s not what I think it is, she told herself, but she knew very well what it was. In case he was watching, she locked up the house on Red Maple Drive quickly, pretending she hadn’t seen the creamy splatter glistening by the door knob, and continued to her Jeep, pondering her next move.
Would he come back to check if she’d cleaned it? Would that satisfy him to know she’d had to do that, that he’d forced her to touch his semen? Should she report this? A wash of embarrassment rushed through her. She couldn’t go into Greg’s precinct and report that she’d had that pervert jack off on her back door. They’d think I encouraged him. They’d think I’d invited this… that Greg’s widow is out rutting like a pig all over town with the kind of guy who would do this. She knew that she was blaming herself, now, but that didn’t squelch the shame. Following close on the heels of that was a jolt of rage; how dare he make her feel like this. A second, more dangerous urge to lash back at him rolled through her as she aimed the key fob at her car, turning off the alarm and unlocking the door.
She noticed a clump of dirt and greenery at the end of her driveway that she didn’t immediately understand. Yellow petals, mashed against the bricks under someone’s boot. Her step did not pause, even as it registered in her mind that those were the chrysanthemums she had planted two days ago, sickly-looking leftovers from her autumn cemetery plantings that were going to be thrown out if she hadn’t brought them home. Now they were crushed on her driveway. She turned the car on and backed over their remains, not reacting outwardly. Plants are replaceable. They’d been free. She breathed in deeply through her nose, filled her lungs with sweet peace, exhaled stress and anger until she felt better. It was fine. Everything was going to be just fine.
**
Dean Jagger hit the stairs leading up to Paul Langerbeins’ office at a run, eager to find out just what he knew regarding the Hearth sisters. Unlikely suspects, a landscape designer and a stained glass artist, both with clean records. Mike Deacon, on the other hand, had a long history of drug dealing and violence; it was far more likely that he’d met his end near the canal with a shot to the back of the head as a result to a deal gone sour. Jagger had been poring over his case files and kept coming back to a couple of tiny discrepancies that bothered him.
An interview after the disappearance of Mike Deacon. The older sister, Gillian Hearth. When asked what she thought of her sister’s missing fiancé, she’d admitted she wasn’t too fond of him, thought he smelled like trouble, and was worried he might have opened his stupid mouth to the wrong person and that’s why he was missing. She was a cop’s wife at the time, married to Greg Ellis. Ray Sauffs, the detective who had taken down her words at the time, added that he thought Gillian had good instincts. When they’d interviewed the fiancée, Frankie Farmer, she’d said the exact opposite: that Gillian had been very close with Mike, that they’d had lots in common, that they would have gotten along great once they were all family. Gillian spoke of Mike in the present tense, like he was going to show up any second. Frankie did not.
It was a small thin
g, Dean admitted. But it stuck in his mind like a seed in a molar, and he kept picking away at it.
Frankie Farmer fully admitted she’d been the last to see Mike. The day of the disappearance, June twenty-first, he’d come over to drop off some flowers. Carnations. She’d confessed that she did not like carnations.
But a few days later, when Sauffs interviewed a Hearth family friend, Bobby McIntyre, she’d said that she’d brought Frankie the flowers the morning of the disappearance because Frankie and Mike had been arguing all week, and she wanted to cheer her up. Light red carnations, Bobby had said, because they represent admiration and affection.
After reading the case file, Jagger got the impression that it had seemed to Sauffs that the relationship between Ms. Farmer and Ms. McIntyre was hazy at best. Bobby claimed they were intimate. Frankie thought that idea was strange, when asked, and said that Bobby was a dear friend and a fellow artist whose talents she deeply admired and respected. He noted that McIntyre clung to her best friend far tighter, and that Farmer was less attached.
When asked about that, Gillian Hearth-Ellis had scoffed and rolled her eyes, and informed Sauffs that Bobby McIntyre was “mildly delusional” and her words should be taken with a grain of salt. She hurried to add that it would be unwise to repeat that opinion, because Bobby McIntyre was “mentally fragile” at the best of times, and speaking to police had her wound tighter than a spring.
Jagger opened the door to Paul Langerbeins’ office and was met with a secretarial desk but no attendant. He waited there for a moment before moving to the inside door and giving it a few sharp raps.
Langerbeins opened the door and did a good job of hiding his surprise; Dean introduced himself and gave him one of his cards.
