The House Next Door

by James Patterson

  Garcia leads us into the main vault room, a claustrophobic space lined with metal boxes from floor to ceiling. She inserts her manager’s key into one slot, I put Ellen’s into the other, and the shoebox-sized steel container slides right out.

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” she says, and does just that.

  Snapping on a pair of latex evidence gloves, I consider asking Ellen to scram as well. But I can see she’s just as eager to see what’s inside as I am.

  Carefully I lift up and remove the top.

  Inside is an old cigar box, the kind I used to keep my baseball-card collection in when I was a kid. But the lid is sealed shut with duct tape. Great. Using a different key from my own keychain—the house key to my parents’ place—I slice through the tape.

  And I open the cigar box.

  “Oh, my God!” Ellen gasps. “No, no…no!” She covers her face with her hands and crumples to the floor in sobs. “I didn’t want to believe it. It can’t be true!”

  My reaction is far more controlled, but I’m just as stunned as she is.

  Inside the box is a small stack of pictures. They look like they were taken on a cell phone or digital camera but printed out on typing paper from a personal printer.

  I sift through them, delicately, almost numbly.

  The terrified, bloodied faces of those four missing girls—Claire, Samantha, Maria, and Patty—are staring back up at me.

  Chapter 30

  Keep it. Maybe I’ll take another drive tonight.

  Those are the words Ellen leaned over and sensually whispered to me as I dropped her at home and tried to give her back her motel-room key a few hours after the bombshell discovery at the bank.

  As Gina and I continue dealing with the pictures’ fallout all afternoon, they’re the words that keep echoing inside my head. “Hey, Andy, focus here,” my partner snaps at me as we comb through old security footage in the bank manager’s office. Eventually we find a tape showing Pierson entering the vault and presumably accessing his safe-deposit box, just two days after Patty Blum, the most recent victim, went missing.

  Oh, Ellen. How could you not have known you were sharing your bed with a monster? And are you really inviting me to share it again? Are you actually going to show up tonight? Am I? I swore I wouldn’t go near this mess a second time, but—

  “Sorry, uh, say that last part again?” I have to ask Dr. Hyong as he shares his lab’s analysis of the photos of Patty and the other four young women. I want nothing more in the world than to find these girls and punish the bastard who did this…but all I can think about right now is the bastard’s irresistible wife.

  Hyong clears his throat. “What I said was, it’s impossible from a few grainy photographs to know any of the victims’ past or present conditions for certain. The images could have been altered. The victims themselves could have been altered—their appearances degraded, for instance, with makeup or fake blood to make us think they were killed and discourage us from actively searching for them. However…”

  Hyong removes his tortoiseshell glasses and lets out a sad sigh.

  “If the photos are real, I believe the four victims…are long since deceased.”

  That statement literally knocks the wind right out of me. It’s all I can do to whisper “Thanks, Doc” as Gina and I leave his cluttered office.

  “Just got a message from the District Attorney,” my partner says, lowering her cell phone from her ear as we climb back into my Impala. “If there’s any silver lining in all this, the DA is going to refile the abduction and murder charges against Pierson. The photos plus the bank security tape—they’re confident they can make a case now.”

  “That’s great news,” I say. “Will Ellen have to testify?”

  “Shit, I hope not. No way a jury buys a word she says. I haven’t trusted that bitch since the moment we met her.”

  I feel the urge to push back. To defend Ellen. To explain to Gina that she has it all wrong. That the woman I’ve been getting to know all these weeks is kind and decent and gentle and good. Instead, I keep my mouth shut. At least for now.

  After a few more hours back at the station, Gina decides to head home. “My mom’s taking the twins,” she explains, “and me and Zoe have date night. I’m not feeling too frisky after the day we just had, but hey.”

  If my partner knew I also might have a date tonight—and with whom—she’d blow a gasket. Disown me. And I can’t say I’d blame her.

  I hang around the station for another few hours, catching up on paperwork, dodging calls from the press asking me to comment. But mostly I stare at those grisly photos, which are now all over the news. I keep scanning them for clues. Praying that Dr. Hyong is wrong. Wishing I had the willpower to not do what I’m considering.

  It’s after nine o’clock when I finally leave the station. I swing by Noah’s Bar & Grill, a quiet neighborhood spot with the best burgers in town. I wash one down with an ice-cold beer. Then a second beer. Then a third.

  It’s half past ten when I pay the bill. Okay, decision time. I sit behind the wheel for a good ten or fifteen agonizing minutes, twirling the cool metal motel key in my hand. My brain is screaming Go home, you moron! But I can’t. I just can’t.

  Soon I’m pulling into the shadowy El Toro parking lot, scanning for Ellen’s car—but I don’t see it. I shut off my engine, get out, and approach room 4. The front window’s curtains are drawn, but the inside looks completely dark. Before I can change my mind, I give the door a quick knock. I wait. I listen.

  No response. I guess Ellen must not be here yet. It’s only eleven, still fairly early. After glancing around to make sure the coast is clear, I unlock the door and enter, shutting it quickly behind me.

  I flip on the lights—and there she is.

  Ellen is lying on the bed, wearing nothing but a sheer black bra and red lace panties. The sight stops me in my tracks. I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out.

  “Hello, Andy,” she says. “I’m glad you came. You look a little nervous. Why?”

  Gee, maybe because I’m alone in a motel room with the killer’s half-naked wife?

  “To be honest, I’m nervous, too,” she continues. “Because the truth is…I’m falling in love with you, Andy. But I’m afraid. That you’re just using me. The way my husband did.”

  Ellen looks so vulnerable right now. So innocent. And yes, so unbelievably sexy. Her pouty lips, her porcelain skin, her firm breasts. It’s all making my head spin.

  “Of course I’m not using you,” I answer. “I would never. That’s not who I am. I really care about you, Ellen. I think I…I think I’m falling in love with you, too.”

  Ellen smiles and slowly sits up. “Then what are you waiting for?”

  I approach the bed—and we pounce on each other. Kissing ferociously. Pawing at each other’s clothes. Releasing weeks of pent-up tension. Ellen is soon moaning and trembling in my arms, digging her nails into my back, drawing blood.

  I know this is so, so wrong…but it feels so, so good.

  Chapter 31

  We make love that night for hours. We’re both so drained afterward, we can barely speak. We just lie there, holding each other, exhausted but exhilarated. Then we get dressed and, without exchanging a word, part ways.

  It’s almost 3:00 a.m. when I finally get back home. Nearly dawn. I stumble into my bedroom to try to steal a few winks of sleep before heading in to work.

  But then my cell phone starts ringing. My head’s barely touched the pillow, so I let it go to voicemail. It rings again. I roll over and check the ID. It’s the San Luis Obispo area code—805—but I don’t recognize the number. I decide I should probably answer it.

  “Detective McGrath? This is Sergeant Matt Kerr with the SLO County Sheriff’s Office. I’m calling regarding an inmate in our custody, Michael F. Pierson…”

  The news makes me leap right out of bed.

  No…I can’t believe it…those fools—how could they let this happen?

  After I
hang up with the sergeant, feeling a little dazed and hoping it was just a bad dream, I dial Gina. But my partner says she just got a similar call from the jail. Next I phone the county lockup myself and confirm the news a second time.

  So much for getting any sleep tonight.

  I throw some clothes on and speed to the station. I request urgent copies of the correctional officers’ incident reports and the deputy warden’s preliminary assessment. When they arrive, I read the few dozen pages of documents as fast as I can. Soon my desk phone starts ringing with reporters asking for comment—until I literally yank it from the wall. When bleary-eyed, Red Bull–chugging Gina arrives an hour later, I tell her to hold down the fort for me here while I step out for a little while.

  There’s something I have to do.

  I turn onto Ellen’s street and see that the reporters camped outside her home have been whipped into a frenzy. I’m not surprised. As I pull into the driveway and get out, they swarm my car, shoving their cameras in my face, shouting questions like:

  “Detective McGrath, how will this impact the search for the missing girls?”

  “Do you believe it was triggered by the discovery of those photos?”

  “Was justice done today—or now can it never be done?”

  “Jesus Christ, you people are vultures!” I exclaim as I march up the path to Ellen’s house. I pound the door, calling out her name. No answer. I keep knocking, louder, rattling the doorknob. Maybe she’s not here. But finally, she opens it.

  “Sorry, Andy,” she says, quickly ushering me inside. She’s wearing a simple tank top and baggy sweatpants, but still looks incredible. The tension between us is suddenly so charged, I half expect her to push me against the door and kiss me.

  Instead, Ellen holds up a pair of tweezers and a magnifying loupe.

  “I was in the attic, working on my butterfly collection.”

  “I wish I had a hobby like that to distract me at times like this,” I answer. “I’m not sure if you heard the news, but—”

  “Of course I did. In the middle of the night, while you and I were at that motel together…while I was cheating on him…Michael hanged himself inside his cell.”

  Ellen’s bottom lip begins to quiver, and she starts fighting off tears.

  “I know you used to love him,” I say tenderly. “You have every right to be upset.”

  But Ellen shakes her head. “The case is closed now. Those girls are dead, and so is their killer. You don’t need me anymore.” Then she adds, softer, “I lost two men I cared about today, didn’t I?”

  It’s breaking my heart how sad and helpless Ellen looks. I know the decent thing to do would be to take her in my arms and try to comfort her. Tell her it will all be okay. That maybe we can still be together.

  But we both know that’s a big, fat lie.

  Chapter 32

  Ellen turns away from McGrath. She has to. It’s simply too painful to look him in the eye. She’s hoping against hope that he’ll step up and embrace her, or fight with her—fight for her—but she isn’t surprised when all he says, weakly, is “Oh, Ellen.”

  She hears him place something small and metallic on the entry table as he leaves: her motel-room key, no doubt.

  And just like that, the dreamy detective is gone.

  From her house. From her life.

  Forever, Ellen thinks.

  She listens to the legion of reporters outside shout another round of questions at McGrath as he exits and heads to his car. But once he drives away and the journalists stop yelling, Ellen’s home falls instantly, eerily quiet.

  Ellen looks down at her hands, still holding the tweezers and magnifying loupe. Her husband is dead, and she has a million things to take care of. Forms to fill out, calls to place, arrangements to make. And yet, in this moment, there is nothing in the world Ellen wants to do except get back to her beautiful butterflies. Tinkering with her collection has always helped soothe her. And right now, a little comfort is what she craves most. So she heads back up to the attic to get to work.

  Many hours later, in the middle of the night, Ellen wakes up slumped forward across her worktable. She was up until God-knows-when arranging a display box with some of her newest specimens and must have dozed off.

  To her great horror, she sees she fell asleep directly on top of an uncovered case—crushing the butterflies’ delicate bodies and wings.

  “Oh, no…no, please…” Ellen mutters, frantically inspecting the damage in a state of disbelief. She might be able to fix a few of them with glue and patience, but most of the butterflies are mangled beyond repair.

  “No, no!” she exclaims, louder now.

  Ellen did not cry when she heard her husband had taken his life. Or when McGrath silently confirmed that their relationship was over.

  But now the sobs come heavy and ugly.

  When she finally calms down, Ellen blots her puffy eyes. She blows her runny nose. Then she stands and heads downstairs. She knows what she has to do.

  Dreading it, she approaches her front bay window and pulls back the curtains just a hair to check the size of the mob of reporters camped outside.

  Ellen is stunned. She can’t believe it.

  Every last one of them—they’re gone!

  True, it’s almost one o’clock in the morning, but they’ve been spending nights out front for weeks now. With Michael dead, apparently they’ve abandoned her, too.

  Just like McGrath.

  It feels a little strange to Ellen to be able to walk calmly out her front door and down her driveway without two dozen rabid journalists clamoring at her and recording her every move. She gets in her car, slowly pulls out, and heads down her quiet street, bound for her destination. She checks her mirrors multiple times as she drives. It feels even stranger not to be followed.

  Ellen takes a spot in the El Toro Motel parking lot. Not one near room 4, but the closest available to the front desk. She leaves her engine running; she won’t be long.

  Pushing open the lobby door, she hears that jangle of the sleigh bells hung from the handle again, followed by “Hey there, Mrs. Hayes.”

  It’s Carson, the stoner twenty-something who works the night shift, who knows Ellen only by her alias. “Is everything, like, cool with your room?” he asks.

  “Yes, yes,” Ellen assures him. “And I know I’ve prepaid for it for a few more days, but I won’t be needing it any longer.”

  Before she can change her mind, she places her room key down on the desk.

  “Uh, okay, sure,” Carson replies. “You’re all set, then, Mrs. H. Hope you’ll stay with us again soon.”

  Ellen smiles, a little sadly.

  “I’d like that. Very much. But, Carson? I wouldn’t count on it.”

  Chapter 33

  Back in her car. Back on the road.

  Ellen heads along Santa Rosa Street, then takes the on-ramp for the 101, the same freeway she sped down the wrong way just a few days ago, which feels like another lifetime ago.

  Merging into the middle lane, she settles in for a long drive.

  Again, this late at night, the freeway is nearly deserted, and the hum of the road is almost hypnotic. Most people driving at this hour on so little sleep might worry about nodding off, but Ellen is wide awake. Jittery with nerves. Jumpy with anticipation.

  The minutes tick by, turning into hours. Ellen finally exits the freeway at about half past two. She’s soon cruising through the sleepy town of Landor, California, such a dusty, tiny speck of a place that it makes San Luis Obispo look like San Francisco.

  Ellen turns left off the main drag and onto Sheridan Road, which leads out of the town proper and up into the adjacent hills. Knowing there will be no streetlights for miles, she flips on her high beams, but the winding road is still dark and treacherous.

  After a good fifteen minutes of careful driving, Ellen makes another left turn, onto a hidden dirt path that leads even deeper into the rolling woods.

  At last, she arrives—at an old cabin. An o
ld abandoned shack, more accurately.

  With so many dense trees and overgrown shrubs around it, it’s extremely well camouflaged, practically invisible. Using her cell phone as a flashlight to help guide her way, Ellen gets out of her car and approaches.

  But instead of going to the front door, she walks toward one of the trees, a leafy oak. On one of the lower branches hangs a plastic bird feeder, filled about a quarter of the way with stale seeds. Ellen unhooks it from the tree, unscrews the top, and dumps the birdseed into her open palm. She spreads her fingers and shakes, until all that remains in her hand is a rusty metal key.

  Now Ellen goes to the front door. She unlocks and opens it. The hinges creak, like in a classic horror movie, but there aren’t any cobwebs or cloth-draped furniture inside this cabin. The outside might look decrepit, but its interior is clean and cozy—if small and sparsely furnished.

  Ellen turns on the lights, illuminating display case after display case of colorful butterflies, hung on virtually every square inch of wall. There are hundreds of specimens in total, outnumbering her home collection many times over.

  And in the corner sits a small drafting desk, identical to the workstation in Ellen’s attic. On it rests a glass display case that’s still a work in progress, only partially filled with freshly pinned butterflies, all in perfect condition.

  Ellen walks over and takes a seat, excited to get to work—when she hears something outside.

  Chapter 34

  The crunching of tires. The slamming of a car door.

  Someone’s here, now? Ellen thinks. Impossible!

  She’s in the middle of nowhere, a hundred miles from home, at three o’clock in the morning. She came here to be alone, to escape—and now she has a visitor?

  Ellen returns to the front door and looks through the peephole.

  Parked beside her Camry is a vehicle she’s seen dozens of times: a white Impala. And walking toward the cabin—slowly, cautiously—is Detective McGrath.