The Night Before(76)

A quick pull—it opened easily, but then I jerked my hands away and stared at the contents as the sides fell apart. It took a moment to understand what I saw, and every possible thought rushed in to make it not be what it was. A doll. A mannequin. A Halloween prop.

No. There were toes and feet and two grayish-white calves. The toes were painted red from a pedicure. Human toes. Human feet. Human legs.

I couldn’t scream. My chest wouldn’t move, wouldn’t draw air. I pulled the zipper farther, knowing what I was about to find but still needing to see it with my eyes. As I unzipped the bag and the sides fell fully open, each part of her was revealed—feet, calves, thighs, folded up to her chest. Her side, an arm and then, at the top fold of the bag, Melissa’s long black hair.

I did not see any blood. I did not know how long she had been there, but her limbs were stiff and cold. I zipped the bag up and pushed it back into the crawl space.

I was not able to escape. I was not able to break the chains with the hockey skate or the bat or the golf club. I was not able to break down the door.

So I did the only thing I could do.



* * *



Hours have passed again as I stand now behind the door at the top of the stairs. Waiting for my best friend. Waiting for my captor. This time, waiting to kill someone.





FORTY-FIVE


Rosie. Present Day. Saturday, 4 p.m. Branston, CT.

Joe didn’t answer, so she left him a message. The same message she’d left for Gabe back at the police station. Call me as soon as you get this.…

She drove north, away from downtown, but now she didn’t know where she was going. Home? The police would be there, going through Laura’s things. Joe said he would go to the house to relieve the sitter, to be with Mason. God, what must he be thinking? Aunt Lala gone, his parents coming and going, on edge. Frantic. Maybe she should go there too. She also had to call her mother, tell her to get on the next plane. Yes, she thought. Home was where she should go, but something was tugging at her, a thought. A question.

How did they get so far afield? Chasing a man who had no connection to Laura? She’d been so certain. Gabe had been so certain. Laura’s phone had died at the harbor—only it hadn’t. And Edward Rittle had fit the profile of Jonathan Fields—only he was a different man. Yet Edward Rittle was at the bar by the harbor. He went there every Thursday night with a different woman. And—the biggest coincidence, though not really given the abundance of apartments—both men lived in apartments near Richmond Street.

Rosie pulled the car off to the side of the road. She grabbed her phone and tried Joe again. Still, no answer. She tried Gabe. No answer. She left a message for Laura’s roommate in New York, though she couldn’t imagine Laura would have gone there after so much time had passed.

Then she decided. It was Gabe who would know how all of this happened. Gabe could call the woman at the phone company and ask why she’d told them the wrong information. And … Gabe said he was going home to look into Jonathan Fielding, so maybe he would have something the police didn’t. Something lurid or criminal. Something on another dating website, maybe with another woman. Maybe they could expose him as well—the way they’d exposed Edward Rittle. And maybe he was even worse. Maybe it would help Laura if they found out. God help me! These thoughts were terrible. The man had been assaulted and was in a coma—but maybe he did something and Laura had to defend herself. Or maybe it had nothing to do with Laura at all! Yes—that could be it. Maybe someone else attacked him and Laura had run for her life.

Raw, nervous energy surged through her as she thought her way out of that horrible box where her sister had committed this violent act. Yes! she thought. There were other possibilities. And as horrible as they were, they left a strange kind of hope that only one person would understand.

Rosie pulled back onto the road and headed toward Gabe’s house.





FORTY-SIX


Laura. Present Day. Saturday, 4:15 p.m. Branston, CT.

I hear his car pull into the driveway. I hear the garage door open, a silent hum that vibrates through the walls. I hear it close.

Footsteps now, across the floor in his kitchen. They are light and deliberate so as not to alarm me and make me run for the Bilco hatch to make my escape. How clever he was to tell me that—to make me believe the doors would open by repeating it over and over. I didn’t even think to check, to doubt him, until I saw the change in his face and his voice.

It occurs to me now that I was right this time. That the broken reasoning inside my head worked. I had sensed something amiss, and for once in my life, I’d been right about it.

I squeeze the bat in my hands, but the tightening of my fingers does not soothe me. My fists for hands—they bring no comfort.

I want to turn back time and be in Rosie’s attic, under the covers. Safe. Loved. It would be enough now. That would be enough.

The footsteps grow louder, the click of his heels against the wood, the floorboards creaking.

He’s outside the door, just on the other side. I hold my breath for fear he can hear me. The air going in and out, heavy, and the pounding in my chest. He is so quiet. I can feel him, mere inches away now. My head grows light, dizzy. I wait for the sound of the dead bolt. I stare at the doorknob, waiting for it to turn.

But then another sound. Another car, pulling up the driveway. His feet move away. Two steps back. Then he is quiet. Listening the way I am. A car door opens and closes. And then the doorbell rings.