The Night in Question

by Nic Joseph

  I lay back down and tried to count to one hundred.

  I made it there easily and started another hundred after that.

  I heard a tapping sound at the door and then the jingle of Shelby’s dog collar. I sat up in the bed and looked as the door slowly swung inward. Shelby never came into our room, and I was surprised to see her trot up alongside the bed and stand there.

  In the moonlight, I could see her eyes clearly, and we watched each other. She looked concerned, and I felt a lump rise in my throat.

  In all the months of my insomnia, she hadn’t once acknowledged that I was having a problem, and now here she was, her big brown eyes glistening. And all it had taken was me taking her to the park, for reasons she knew nothing about. As she stood there watching me, I put out a hand and rubbed her head.

  “We don’t deserve you, you know that,” I said, the tears welling up in my eyes. She didn’t move, and finally, I rolled over and patted the bed. She hesitated only a second before hopping up into the bed beside me. She held herself up for a few moments, but as I settled in, she let her body drop down beside me, her head on her paws.

  We lay there like that for a few moments, and then, out of nowhere, with her right there beside me, I felt a wave of sleep wash over me. I knew it wasn’t actually tiredness; it was security. I was so grateful, I wanted to cry, but instead, I let myself fall under the spell of sleep, the softness of her fur the last thing I remember.

  • • •

  When I woke up again, it was still dark, and Shelby had gone back into the living room.

  Or so I thought.

  I was in that barely lucid state, halfway between sleep and being awake, where I knew that I was in bed, knew I was sleeping or dreaming, but couldn’t bring myself to break out of it. My grandmother always said that moment, that feeling of being trapped, awake, in a sleeping body, only happened when there was another spirit in the room with you, holding you down. She also still displays all her children’s baby teeth in glass jars on her mantel. I wasn’t sure what I believed, but as I lay there, I could hear Shelby moving around in the living room, and I knew I needed to get up and make sure she was okay.

  But I was just so tired…

  Shelby made another noise, this one much louder than the rest, and I knew she needed to go to the bathroom. I finally broke through the sleep and pulled myself up onto one arm, coughing as I plunged face-first into a pile of fur.

  Shelby.

  She’d moved in the middle of the night and was no longer on the side of the bed where she’d leapt up earlier. She was on the other side, sprawled out asleep where Keith usually lay. As I sat up, she sat up too, and we both blinked in the moonlight.

  Shelby was still here…

  Wait. Shelby is still here?

  I heard another crashing sound out in the living room, which made my heart nearly fall out of my chest, and Shelby jump straight up on the bed, her teeth bared and eyes alert as she breathed heavily into the dark.

  Chapter 26

  The fear that flooded through my body was unlike anything I’d ever felt before, and I lurched up in the bed, scrambling back against the headboard. I’m not sure why that was my first reaction, but it was the most distance I could put between myself and the bedroom door.

  There was someone—or something—out there.

  I thought about calling out to see if it was Keith—maybe he’d come home for some reason—but I knew it couldn’t be him. He’d left hours ago.

  I could hear the person moving around, but there was another noise drowning it out.

  The ceiling fan.

  With shaking legs, I pulled myself up and reached high, my fingers connecting with the cord that would turn it off. I pulled it twice, and the fan began to slow down. Once it was off, the silence seemed to be magnified, every creak clattering loudly in my head. I waited, my throat dry, and I suddenly tasted blood. It took me a moment to realize that I’d bitten my tongue.

  Shelby was next to me, still on all fours, her eyes on the bedroom door. We couldn’t both be wrong. We’d heard something. A moment later, we heard it again. Loud, rustling, deliberate movement, things being shifted around. There was someone out there, and I didn’t have…

  My phone.

  It was on the coffee table, on top of the latest set of lottery tickets, where I always left it. We had never owned a landline, and for the first time, I wondered why we thought it was okay to give up on that small, simple standard of living. It could be burglars, of course, which meant that my best option was to burrow in the bedroom until they left—they wanted stuff, not people, right?—but the events of the past few days made me pause.

  It could be a burglar.

  But what if it wasn’t?

  I thought about Hooks’s face as he sat in my car. Had Keith told him that he’d be in Indianapolis today?

  Was it possible…?

  Shelby jumped down and walked over to the door. I could see that her entire body was shaking as she stood there, snarling. I looked over to the small window, which faced the brick wall of the house next door and was covered by junk: an old massage cushion that didn’t work, a box full of batteries, some books. We rarely used that window; in the summer, we either turned on the AC or the fan. I knew that chances of someone hearing me if I opened it were slim, and it would alert the burglars that I was awake.

  If that’s who they were…

  The rustling started up again, and I walked close to the door. Shutting my eyes, I pushed as quietly as I could until the door was closed completely. It didn’t lock, and I looked around the room to see what I could push up against it to barricade myself in.

  Shelby remained next to the door, and I didn’t realize what she was about to do until a minute too late. She growled lightly and then suddenly opened her mouth and barked, an angry, loud warning, which made my blood run cold with fear.

  “No, Shel—”

  She barked again, this one even louder, and then she let loose, a barrage of yelps exploding from her small body.

  “Shel!” I hissed, trying to calm her down, but when I touched her, she flinched and kept her eyes trained on the door. She barked again, a loud, forceful sound, and I knew the person—or people—in my house had heard her.

  Which meant they knew she was in the bedroom and anyone with her was awake.

  She stopped, and then I heard a loud crashing noise in the living room. I swallowed, the blood pumping through my body furiously, and I felt both incredibly alert and dangerously close to losing consciousness.

  Suddenly, I heard the sound of footsteps moving quickly toward the bedroom, quick and assertive, and I gasped.

  Someone was coming for me.

  Shelby barked again, and I stood by the door, ready to hold it back with all the strength I could muster, when it was suddenly flung open, the wood connecting—painfully—with my face.

  The intruder had pushed hard, and the impact was enough to knock me straight onto my back. I moaned as my head connected with the floor. The person stopped at the door, but I could only see the ceiling right above my head. I heard Shelby barking loudly and frantically, and then I heard the sound of footsteps moving away from me and back into the living room. Shelby followed for a moment and then came back, and I was grateful to see her feet, just a few inches away from my face, as I lay there, stunned. She barked again, then spun around to look at the door, her tail hitting me in the face, as I struggled to find the energy to pull myself up.

  But as I did, I felt a pain shoot through my head where the door had struck me, and that—combined with the fear that rushed through my veins—caused me to fall back. My eyelids fluttered a few times before drifting shut.

  • • •

  “You’re a pretty lucky woman to have such a sweet and protective pooch,” the cop was saying as she stood over me in the living room a few hours later, the morning ligh
t streaming through the window. “What’s her name?”

  I glanced up at her as I held the ice pack up to my head. “Shelby,” I said, looking over at her. She was sitting on her mattress, and she snarled as she watched every person who walked past us.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital, Mrs. Wileson?” the cop asked. “It wouldn’t be a bad idea just to go and get checked out, especially with a head injury like that.”

  “No, I’m okay,” I said. “I think I passed out. I really just want to get some rest.”

  She stared at me. “Okay, but if you start feeling anything, you should go get it checked out.”

  I nodded.

  My mind was still racing from what had happened a few hours ago. I’d come to on the floor in the bedroom with Shelby still standing next to the door. I’d been scared to go out, but I knew I couldn’t stay in my room forever, and my cell phone was on the living room table. I’d opened the door slowly and had inched out with Shelby. She’d been quieter, which made me think the place was empty, but you could never be too sure. I had walked into the living room and grabbed my phone before darting back into the bedroom with Shelby right on my heels. I had shut the door and breathed heavily, my back against the door.

  It was a silly move. I knew I should’ve left the house, gone anywhere else, but I didn’t know where he was. He could still be inside or somewhere on the property. He could be anywhere.

  I needed to call the cops and get someone there, fast.

  They’d arrived less than five minutes later and combed the house from top to bottom while I called Keith to let him know what happened. He’d been completely silent when I spoke and then he’d said quietly, “I’m so sorry I’m not there.”

  “Is anything missing?”

  “Hmm?” I looked up at the cop standing in front of me. They’d been asking me that question over and over, and I’d told them the same thing each time. “No, nothing is missing.”

  But that wasn’t true at all.

  The place had been ransacked—drawers turned over, couch turned inside out—and in the bathroom, all the bottles had been dragged out and scattered across the floor.

  Behind them…

  There was nothing.

  No duffel bag.

  No money.

  And all I could think of was Hooks’s face in the car.

  You really don’t know what you’re doing.

  But trust me, you’ll learn.

  “Mrs. Wileson?”

  “Oh, yes?” I said, looking up at the cop who was staring at me.

  “I said was it possible that you left the front door unlocked when you came inside?”

  I racked my brain for what I’d done when I had gotten home from Vanessa’s. I’d been tired and more than a little drunk, but I’d locked the door, hadn’t I?

  Had I?

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I mean, I think I did, but I don’t really remember, to be honest.”

  “Okay. Did you see the intruder at all when he came into your bedroom? Anything you can tell us that might make it easier to identify him?”

  “No,” I said. “I didn’t see anything. When he opened the door, I was standing right there, and it hit me in the face. I fell on my back, and then all I remember was being so thankful that Shelby was there.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Well, we’ll do another walk around the house, but he’s gone now. So lock up tight, and then give us a call later this morning so we can finish up this paperwork.”

  “Okay, I will. Thanks.”

  After they all left, I went back into the bedroom with Shelby and closed the door.

  This time, I had my cell phone with me, along with a heavy kitchen knife on the nightstand beside me. Shelby lay in the bed beside me, but her eyes were wide open, and she kept her eyes trained on the door.

  “It’s okay, girl,” I said, stroking her head. “You need to get some sleep too.”

  But sleep wasn’t going to come for either of us.

  As I lay there, I couldn’t help but wonder.

  Had Hooks had a change of heart?

  Was he the one who did this?

  And most important of all, was he just after the money?

  Or had he been after me too?

  I crept out of bed and walked to the kitchen to grab a bottle of red wine and a glass.

  When I woke up again, it was nighttime, and the wineglass was tipped on its side in the bed next to me, a single droplet staining the sheets near the rim.

  Chapter 27

  Claire

  Three days after

  Claire was sitting at her desk on Tuesday night when the woman came in. Later, Greg would say that it was their lucky day, but Claire didn’t feel like it was luck at all.

  The woman was about five foot seven, with dark hair.

  And she was drunk as a skunk.

  “Hi, Detective Puhl,” the woman said quietly, her hands clasped in front of her. She was shaking like a leaf, but she spoke assertively, as if she was trying to show that she wasn’t nervous.

  “My name is Paula Wileson. I saw you on television. I need to talk to you about the Beverly Brighton murder. I think I know who did it.”

  Claire blinked a few times and then let out a small gasp when the woman stepped forward and Claire saw that she had the most striking eyes she’d ever seen.

  One brown and one blue.

  “Okay, uh, yes, let’s go find a room, and we can talk.”

  • • •

  Claire tapped her pen against the desk in front of her and listened as the woman detailed the most ludicrous story she’d ever heard in her life. She tried to keep a straight face while Paula—or Chris—went through her story.

  She wanted to get as much as she could out of the woman before she let her know that the jig was up. With an amused Greg sitting beside her, Claire let the woman talk before probing for details.

  “Thanks for seeing me,” the woman said, her words slurring. “I hope you’ll forgive me. After the break-in, I had a couple glasses of wine to fall asleep, and when I woke up, I came straight here, so I’ll admit, I’m a little bit…”

  Claire held up a hand. “What, exactly, can we help you with?”

  The woman took a long, slow breath. “I left a tip about, um, Ryan Hooks, in relation to the murder that took place on Oak Street on Saturday. I have reason to think that he might be involved.”

  “Why do you say that?” Claire asked.

  “Because I actually dropped him off there about a week ago. I drive for DAC, and I picked him up at the Renouvelle Hotel before dropping him at that same apartment.” The woman shook her head. “But let me back up.”

  She launched into a long, drawn-out story about the elderly couple she had dropped off at Lurie Children’s; her husband, whom she was taking care of; Ryan Hooks, whom she claimed to drop off at the Oak Street apartment without recognizing him; and a break-in at her apartment earlier that morning. When she was done, Claire leaned forward.

  “Ms. Wilson—” she said.

  “Mrs.,” the woman said with a small shrug.

  It was the fourth time she’d mentioned her husband since she’d arrived, and Claire made a note of it on the paper in front of her.

  “Okay, Mrs. Wilson,” Claire said, sneaking a glance at Greg. “Is there anything else you can tell us about what happened on the night you dropped him off? You said you thought Mr. Hooks seemed nervous when he got into your car. Do you still feel that way?”

  The woman made a face, but she covered it quickly. “Yes, he was so…” She paused. “Fidgety. I guess you could describe it as nervous. I can’t really explain it, but I could tell something was wrong.”

  Claire felt her anger rise as the woman stared at them innocently. She wanted to reach across the table to shake her, to demand that she t
ell the truth, but she also knew they had the upper hand by not letting on that they knew who she was. Not yet, at least.

  They’d take their time, confirm she was who they thought she was, and get as much information out of her as they could.

  “I really wish you could explain it.”

  Claire watched as the woman froze.

  “So why exactly are you sharing this information with us?” Claire asked. “If you’re insinuating that Mr. Hooks had something to do with the incident on Oak Street this past weekend, you must realize how serious of an accusation that is.”

  The woman still did not say anything; she just sat there frozen, looking back and forth between Claire and Greg.

  “Are you okay?” Claire asked.

  Still no response.

  “Mrs. Wilson? Are you all right?”

  Nothing.

  “Mrs. Wilson?”

  “Yes,” Paula said, shifting in her seat. She cleared her throat. “Look, I think maybe we got off to a bad start. I’m not…”

  “Not what?” Claire asked, leaning forward, and she watched as the woman flinched.

  “I didn’t…”

  “Didn’t what?” Claire said again, and she heard Greg chuckle, just slightly, under his breath.

  “No, you don’t understand,” Paula said. “It’s not what it seems like. I have a—”

  “Husband?” Claire asked, and she watched all the blood drain from the woman’s face. “I know you do, Mrs. Wilson,” Claire said. “You’ve been saying that since you arrived.”

  The woman swallowed, a slow, nervous motion, and then her eyes darted up quickly to the clock.

  “That’s the reason we’re supposed to believe everything you’re saying, right?” Claire asked, and she couldn’t help smiling a bit. “We should believe you because you have a husband, and let me guess—you love him very much?”