Not a Sound

by Heather Gudenkauf

  I need to keep moving and just to be safe I cross over into a neighbor’s backyard. Using the overgrown forsythia bushes as cover, I pause when an interior light pops on and someone looks out the window. I hold my breath, not daring to move. Even though I can’t hear, I sometimes forget that I’m capable of making plenty of noise and clearly I’ve garnered some attention. The figure behind the window scans the yard and even comes out to the backyard to get a closer look.

  Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the homeowner goes back inside and the lights are extinguished. I scurry through the remainder of the yard, around the corner and onto the sidewalk. I try to steady my breathing as I pull the hood of my coat up around my ears as if to ward off the cold. I hold Stitch’s leash loosely at my side.

  Stitch trots toward me from the other direction just like I knew he would. I try to keep my attention on him and not look toward the McNaughton house. “Bad boy,” I say in what I think is a loud, stern voice.

  I try to keep my movements casual and measured but my hands are shaking as I try to clip the leash to his collar. It takes me three tries, but I finally succeed and load Stitch into the Jeep. Once inside, doors locked and engine started, I allow myself to look up at the house. Peter has come down to the bottom of his driveway, not fifty feet away, and is just standing there, watching me. His eyes flick toward the garage and then back, boring into me. He knows I was in his garage and he knows what I’ve found. I throw the Jeep into gear and with my heart slamming into my chest I speed away.

  13

  I crank up the heat in the Jeep but it’s not until I reach the outskirts of Mathias that my hands stop shaking. What was I thinking? Now Peter McNaughton knows I’ve been snooping around his house and he obviously has something to hide. Why else would he try to conceal a scrapbook filled with pictures and news articles about a woman with whom he attended high school? Maybe Peter never fully got over Gwen. What if he tried to rekindle whatever it was he thought the two of them had together from high school and Gwen, married and with a child, told him to get lost? Maybe the rejection sent Peter over the edge and he killed her. People have murdered for less.

  A deserted country road at night when there is no moon, no stars, is exceptionally dark. The only light comes from my headlights. I turn on my high beams but even that seems inadequate. I keep glancing in my rearview mirror expecting Peter’s BMW to come barreling up behind me. I press down on the gas, urging the Jeep forward. I can’t wait to get home. I want to lock myself inside with Stitch and build a fire. And if I’m honest with myself I want a drink. Badly.

  I turn down my lane and when I reach the house I’m met with complete darkness. When I left this morning I didn’t bother to turn on the porch lights. I park as close to the door as possible and look at Stitch to see if he is as nervous as I am. He’s not. Though he paces the backseat, it’s not out of any sense of danger, he’s just anxious to get out of the car and to his supper. With phone and keys in hand, I slide from the Jeep, let Stitch out and hurry to the front door.

  Stitch gets there first and is snuffling at the ground when I join him. He’s found something.

  I shine the light from my cell toward the front step and see an envelope lying there. I pause to look around the yard to see if whoever delivered the note is still around. I pick up the envelope, unlock and open the door, pull Stitch in with me and then quickly lock myself inside.

  I turn on the lights, pull all the blinds and then sit down at the kitchen counter and examine the envelope. My name is written in an unfamiliar scrawl across the front of the white envelope. There is no postage or postmark so the mail carrier didn’t deliver it. What if it’s from Peter McNaughton? What if it’s a warning to back off and stay away from him? I know I’m being ridiculous. There’s no way that Peter would know where I live. As far as I know he doesn’t even know my name and besides, my address and phone number are unlisted.

  Disgusted with my skittishness, I rip open the envelope. Inside is a thick piece of stationery with the letter O in large, ornate, script. I sigh. It’s from Evan Okada thanking me for the cookies and accepting my apology for the misunderstanding. He goes on to say that I should feel free to call on him if I need anything at all. I peek out my window and up at Evan’s house on the bluff. No lights shine from the windows. Now, that’s a nice guy, I think. Someone who is able to let go of the fact that I got him arrested for simply coming down the bluff in a rainstorm to make sure that I was okay.

  I set the note aside and look at my phone. I am all set to call Jake with all that I learned about Peter McNaughton, but what do I really know? He’s a high school friend of Gwen’s. He brought flowers to the place where she died. He clipped out a few news articles about her. He attended her funeral. Not one of these facts is alarming on its own. Jake is going to think I’ve been drinking again if I come to him with this. And what if I’m completely off base? What if I call the cops and an innocent man gets in trouble? No, I can’t call Jake just yet. I need more proof.

  I go to my computer and log on to Facebook and scan Gwen’s page for any more comments from Peter. Nothing. In fact, all of his earlier posts to her page have been deleted. Peter’s worried. He’s starting to cover his tracks. Maybe at this moment he’s finding a new hiding place for his scrapbook. Maybe he’s destroying evidence and any other connections to Gwen. Instead of calling Jake and having to endure a lecture about leaving well enough alone, I decide to send him an email.

  Jake, I know you think I’m overreacting but you really need to check out Peter McNaughton. I think he knows more than he’s letting on. Please trust me on this. At least look into where he was the night Gwen died.

  Amelia

  I reread what I’ve written. Great. That’s not conspiracy theory-ish at all. I hit Send anyway. My inbox is overflowing with about two years’ worth of neglected and unanswered emails. Most are junk mail or spam and I delete these without opening them. There are a few from old acquaintances that I haven’t talked to since before the accident. I delete these also. There’s one from a college friend that I haven’t been in contact with since well before the accident. While she’s someone I’d like to reconnect with, I don’t have the energy to write some huge explanation of what has happened to me in the last two decades. I decide to come back to that one later.

  Blindly, I hit Delete over and over again until an email catches my eye. It’s from Gwen dated about a month ago with a subject line that reads Happy Birthday. Why would Gwen email me after so long? Why would she bother to offer me any good wishes after I completely cut her out of my life, refused to see her, refused to let her be my friend?

  I open the email and see that along with the lengthy letter Gwen has included an attachment. I click and a picture of Gwen and her daughter, Lane, appears. Lane is sitting on Gwen’s lap and they are both smiling into the camera blissfully unaware of how terribly things are going to change in a matter of a few short weeks. Tears swell in my eyes and a wave of regret washes over me.

  Dear Amelia,

  Hello, old friend, and I do mean old—you are five years older than me. Happy birthday! I hope you are doing something special for yourself. Cake, ice cream, the works!

  All is well in the Locke household. Marty really likes his new job at Deere and Lane has been busy all summer with swim lessons and day camp. Lane is loving second grade. She asks after Nora once in a while and asks when they can get together and play.

  I ran into Terry from our nurse examiner training and she said she heard that you were doing really well. I’m glad to hear it. I would love to get together sometime and catch up. I miss our talks. In fact, I could really use your advice. I think something very strange is going on at work and I need to run it by someone so they can tell me I’m crazy. Just let me know what works for you and let’s make it happen. It’s been way too long, Amelia.

  Hugs,

  Gwen

&n
bsp; I’ve been so self-absorbed, so selfish. How hard would it have been to send a response back to Gwen? A simple thank-you for thinking of me. Not only did I ruin my friendship, but I ended Lane’s and Nora’s, as well.

  I also can’t help thinking about what Gwen wrote about a problem at work and wonder if it may have had anything to do with her death. Most likely someone was stealing her lunch out of the refrigerator in the staff lounge, but what if it was something more serious? But then my entire theory about Peter McNaughton flies out the window.

  I wonder if I should forward her email on to Jake but decide against it. I’ll see what he has to say about Peter McNaughton first. I close my laptop.

  I’m too keyed up to relax. This is when I’m my own worst enemy, when I can’t keep my mind from spinning and I get the urge to drink. I go into the laundry room to change into running clothes and when I come back out Stitch is standing by the door. I don’t want to go outside. An evil man may be out there waiting for me but it’s even scarier to be in here alone with the devil sitting beneath my kitchen sink. Stitch does his little dance of excitement when he sees my running shoes. I open the door and together we step out into the cold, dark night, then start running.

  Once we get to the main road I run facing traffic so I can see what might be coming. We only encounter two cars and neither of them appears to be an old BMW. Unless Peter decides to come up the old mud road to get to my house it doesn’t look like I’ll have to worry about him. At least tonight anyway. The cold air feels good against my face and once my muscles warm up I can feel the tension leach from my body, the need for a drink eases. After two and a half miles I feel like I’m going to be okay. I turn around to make the trek back home when my cell phone vibrates against my hip and I find a text message from Jake.

  Marty Locke’s alibi has checked out. He’s in the clear.

  I send him a quick thank-you for the info, put my phone away, and Stitch and I start running again. Jake’s text should make me feel better and it does in the sense that at least Gwen wasn’t killed by the man who was supposed to love her most in the world. At least Lane won’t lose her father too.

  But too many questions still swirl around in my head. Peter knows that I’ve been snooping around his house. He clearly knew Gwen. What if he’s the killer? What if he somehow found a way to get into my house? I scan the darkened countryside for any hint that someone might be lurking nearby, but the road is deserted. There are no houses, no cars and despite my need to get out of the house I understand just how foolish it is to be out here all by myself. If Peter came after me right now no one would hear me call for help. No one would hear me scream. I pick up my pace. Now I really have to fill Jake in on my suspicions about Peter. I just have to think of a way to tell him without letting on that I trespassed on the McNaughton property.

  And then there’s Gwen’s email. It seems like such a small thing—a conflict at work—but when it comes to murder everything is important. I wonder if Gwen talked to Marty about any problems at work. Really it could range from a coworker not pulling their weight to sexual harassment. All possibilities. But enough to kill over? I doubt it.

  By the time we reach the house I’m still thoroughly confused about Gwen’s murder and am beginning to think that the most likely scenario is that she was in the wrong place at the wrong time and was randomly grabbed by a stranger. This makes my decision to go out for a late-night run all by myself all the more questionable. I pull my house key from my pocket and unlock the door and Stitch runs in search of his water dish while I unzip my jacket and head back to take a shower.

  I step into the kitchen area and my blood runs cold. An open bottle of wine and a glass, half-filled with ruby-red liquid right next to it. I didn’t pour that glass. I know I didn’t.

  I lunge for my phone, ready to dial 9-1-1 but then stop. If someone were in the house with me right now Stitch would be going berserk. But he’s not. He’s settled on the love seat and is scratching his ear with a back paw. Whoever was here is long gone. Just like the other night.

  I check the other door and it’s latched; the broomstick is in place. I look back at the wineglass. I’ve been on binges when I drank until I blacked out, woke up in places that I didn’t remember going to, but that was when I consumed a hell of a lot of alcohol. I know I was tempted, but I haven’t had a drink in eighteen months. I go from window to window and they’re all locked up tight. I move through each room, looking for any other signs that someone was in the house. Nothing else seems out of the ordinary except that a framed picture of Nora and me that I have sitting next to my bed has been turned facedown. I could very easily have knocked the picture frame over, but I don’t think so. Could someone have broken into the cabin, poured a glass of wine and then come up to my bedroom and moved the picture? I return the picture to the correct position and head back downstairs.

  I’m just being paranoid. But how would someone have gotten in without breaking a window or a door? There’s only one possibility. The extra key that I have hidden outside. But no one could know where it is. I don’t keep it beneath a welcome mat—I don’t even have one—and I don’t keep it hidden beneath a flowerpot. I keep my extra key in a small magnetic box that I tuck behind my front license plate.

  Taking Stitch with me, we go outside and I run my fingers behind the license plate. The metal box is right where I left it. I pull it free and slide the cover open. The house key is there but that doesn’t mean someone couldn’t have used the key and then put it back. I should call the police, call Jake, but what am I going to say? Someone broke into my house and poured me a glass of wine? My credibility with Jake right now is shaky at best.

  Besides, no one knows about my hidden key. But that’s not exactly true. David knows I keep a house key hidden on my car. He’s the one who gave me the idea for it years ago. But of all people, why in the world would David come into my house and drink a half a glass of wine? It’s just crazy.

  I look up at Evan’s house on the bluff. But he doesn’t make sense, either. I know for a fact I haven’t had to use the extra key since I’ve moved in here so there’s no way he could have seen me use it. I slide the cover back into place and clutch the case in my hand and bring it back inside with me.

  I look at the nearly full bottle of wine still sitting on the counter and try to decide what to do. I could just pour the remaining liquid down the drain and throw the bottle in the garbage can. But what if whoever did this left fingerprints behind? Someone is messing with my head. I pull a clean dishrag from a drawer and use it as I gingerly pick up the wineglass and dump the contents into the sink and then transfer the glass and bottle to the cupboard beneath the sink, behind a bottle of dish soap and next to my own bottle of wine that I secreted away. If I don’t have to look at it, maybe I won’t be tempted to take a drink.

  I stand upright and double-check the windows and doors one more time. Everything is locked up tight. Even still, first thing in the morning, I’m going to call and make an appointment to get my locks changed. Just to be safe.

  14

  I spend half the night thinking about the bottle of wine left on my counter. Maybe I should have called the police—but what would they do? I’ve already called them once to the house and it was a false alarm. They’d probably just chalk it up to the hysterical lady who’s too spooked to stay at her house all alone. But I know someone is messing with my head and the only person I can think of who would do this is David. But why? He’s actually been kind of nice to me as of late. Is it all an act? And what does he have to gain? I have no legal rights when it comes to Nora and I haven’t asked him for any money. It doesn’t make sense.

  Before I leave for work in the morning I call the locksmith and they tell me they can’t come out to change all the locks until Saturday morning. Still two days away but then there will be no way David or anyone else will be able to get into the house. I’ll find a new hiding pl
ace for the extra key.

  As I drive to the clinic I decide that I’m going to invest in a security camera so I can nail David for screwing with me. In the meantime, I’ve removed my extra key from its hiding place behind the bumper of my Jeep.

  The minute Stitch and I walk into the waiting room I can tell I’m not going to get much filing done today. The patients are all instantly enthralled by Stitch. They take turns petting him and Stitch is basking in all the attention.

  When I finally get to my desk and start my data entry it’s nearly nine o’clock. Each file that I open tells a story and today I learn about a sixty-three-year-old woman named Sharon Quigley who has small cell lung cancer, and Mitchell Rivera, a forty-eight-year-old man from a nearby town who has a diagnosis of myelodysplastic syndrome. Simply explained, it’s a type of cancer where the bone marrow doesn’t make enough healthy blood cells.

  Again, there appears to be missing paperwork in the file including initial lab work and the results of a bone marrow aspiration and biopsy. Because Barb is the office manager, I should probably go to her and tell her about the misplaced reports, but I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. It’s not that missing paperwork is an unusual occurrence. It happened when I was in the ER too. We tried to be very careful, but once in a while a report or two would go rogue.

  I decide to just make a mental note of the missing information when Dr. Huntley peeks his head in the door. “How are you getting along?” he asks as Stitch gets up to greet him.

  “Fine, thanks,” I say and then decide to mention the documents. “I did notice that in some of the files it looks like there are some lab reports missing.” I hand him Mitchell’s file. “See, his initial CBC and biopsy paperwork aren’t in here.”