Don't Be Afraid (34 page)

Louisa Grogan, sixty-five years old and feeling easily a decade older, stood at the stove in the house she wouldn’t leave, the house she’d bought with her very own hard-earned money, and stirred a pot of soup.

Time was, years and years ago, she would have made it from scratch, not poured this thin crap from a can. When Ryan was a baby she’d made soup from scratch. That was during her homemaker days, the few there’d been. A colicky baby, a husband whose eyes were already looking toward a future that didn’t include her and the child, a cheap rental home with a landlord that ogled her even as he was demanding the rent.

She’d been something to look at back then. Not like now. She’d been what they’d used to call a “looker.” So she’d tried to be a keeper, too. Tried to apologize to Frank with homemade meals for the way her body had trapped both of them with this crying, whining, demanding bundle of flesh.

So she’d made soup. And bread. And waxed the peeling linoleum floors, and lined the chipped paint cupboards with paper, and cleaned the baby’s messy diapers and wiped the snot from his nose and tried to pretend that she was just an ordinary Connecticut housewife. And then Frank left.

For three days she’d lain in bed, veering between screaming fits that she hid in her pillow and crying jags that went on for so long that she burst blood vessels in her face.

On the fourth day she went out and got a job. And because she had no one to watch Ryan, she’d left him home alone. She’d be sent to prison for that today. Even then, she’d have gotten in trouble if anyone had heard him crying, but nobody paid that much attention to crying kids in those days. And Ryan learned early that he’d better not cry if he wanted to eat.

If it was a hard life for a kid, he hadn’t complained. He was a good boy. Not as good looking as his father had been, but not as flighty either. Who knew what had happened to Frank. Probably gone out to California and changed his name. She’d given up looking for his face in those tabloids years ago.

The soup began to boil and she turned the burner off and poured it into a bowl. Her back was aching. Her feet were aching. She was paying for all those years of fast food and limited exercise. Walking up and down the stairs, showing off other people’s homes was some exercise, but not enough.

Ryan was all for her selling the house, probably thought she’d split the profits with him, but he didn’t know the first thing about real estate. This house was her biggest and best investment. Even if the real estate boom ended she could still make a killing any time she wanted to. Besides, she loved this house and they could carry her out in a box.

At one point she’d actually thought Ryan might have gone into real estate with her. She’d thought about leaving the firm in New Canaan and setting out her own shingle in Steerforth with her son as her fellow agent. But he’d always been more interested in blood and guts than money.

The soup tasted like chicken-flavored water, but she ate it along with the piece of whole-wheat toast spread ever so thinly with some soy product that pretended it came from the dairy family. She tried to imagine that all of it was what she really craved: a fat, juicy steak and a baked potato slathered in butter with a big dollop of sour cream on the side.

A knock at the back door startled her. She wasn’t expecting anybody. Ryan said he had a shift tonight, and she didn’t really have many friends in this town, what with working all the time.

She got to her feet and shuffled toward the door in her slippers, cursing the bad genes that had given her varicose veins. If he’d forgotten his key again she was going to kill him.

She switched on the porch light, but the bulb had burned out. It was too dark to see much, especially with the kitchen light on, but she pulled back the curtain and could just see the shadowy outline of a man.

“Ryan?”

The response was a muffled and impatient, “Yes.”

It wasn’t her fault he’d forgotten his key. She let the curtain drop and struggled with the lock and chain. The door opened and in walked death.

 

 

Amy stood outside the police station wondering what to do. She’d had some master plan and now it all seemed like folly. She was in shock. It couldn’t be Ryan Grogan. How was that possible? Bile rose in her throat as she thought of sleeping with him.

The only thing to do was wait for Detective Juarez to return. If it was really Ryan, then maybe they’d arrest him without using her as bait. She’d been prepared to push for her plan, but now it seemed sickening. She couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Ryan Grogan.

Chloe’s answering machine picked up after three rings. Three girls’ voices, each one identifying themselves separately, encouraged her to leave a message.

“Hey, Chloe, it’s Amy. I’m on my way. See you in a few minutes.”

The same roommate Amy had seen earlier answered the door, this time dressed in a robe, her hair damp. She smiled.

“I’ve got the bag right here. C’mon in, I’ll get it.”

Amy stepped inside, confused. “Bag?”

“Yeah. Here it is.” The roommate turned around with the bag of asthma equipment that Amy had given to Chloe. “I saw it as soon as they left and I tried to call Chloe, but she must have had her phone on vibrate or something and she didn’t pick up.”

“I don’t understand. I’m here to pick up Emma.”

It was the roommate’s turn to look confused. “But she’s with Chloe—they went to that guy’s house.”

“What guy?”

“The friend of yours who called. Sorry, but I can’t think of his name. He said that you and Emma were staying at his house tonight and asked if Chloe would bring Emma over. There was some reason.” She thought for a moment, brow furrowed. “Something with a P. Pete?”

Amy was surprised. “Paul?”

“Yeah! That’s it!”

“Oh. Well, okay, then. I guess I’ll meet them there.”

She took the bag from the roommate’s hand and started down the path. Suddenly she stopped and turned around. The door was about to close.

“Hey!” Amy called.

The roommate stopped, holding the door open, obviously shivering. “Yeah?

“What time did they leave?”

“Um, about thirty minutes ago?”

It was presumptuous, but Paul was like that. His friendliness didn’t seem to have boundaries. He probably thought she’d be grateful, but she couldn’t possibly stay overnight at his place. It sent all the wrong messages.

She felt a little uneasy when she couldn’t get Chloe on her cell phone and that only increased when she didn’t see Chloe’s car parked outside of Paul’s place.

She had to ring the doorbell twice to get any response, though she could hear what sounded like a TV drama.

When the door finally opened it was a young, pudgy woman with dirty blonde hair and a sour look on her face who answered it, jiggling Paul’s son on her hip.

“Yeah?” She gave Amy a once-over that seemed to find her lacking.

“I’m here to get Emma.”

“Who’s Emma?”

“My daughter. I’m Paul’s friend, Amy Moran.”

Something changed in her face. “So where the fuck is he?”

“I don’t understand,” Amy said. “He’s supposed to be watching my daughter, Emma, along with Brendan.”

“Who’s Brendan?”

There had to be something wrong with this woman. Amy pointed at the baby in her arms. “Paul’s son.”

The woman scowled. “This isn’t Paul’s son, it’s his nephew, and he was supposed to be babysitting him.”

“Oh.” She must have mixed them up. “Well, where’s Paul’s son?”

The woman’s laugh was a bark. “Paul doesn’t have a son.”

Amy stepped back, stunned. “What?”

“He doesn’t have a son,” the woman repeated, more slowly as if Amy was dense. “He doesn’t have any children.”

“I don’t understand,” Amy said, reeling. “His wife, who died from cancer. They had a son.”

The woman laughed again. It was a nasty sound. “He had a wife all right. But she didn’t die from cancer. She left him.”

She started to close the door and Amy hurriedly pushed against it. “So Emma isn’t here?”

“Why would she be here?”

“I told you—Paul’s supposed to be watching her.”

“Well, then I guess he’s got her at his place.”

“This is his place!”

“No, this is my house.” The woman pushed against the door, but Amy had her foot inside.

“Where does he live?”

The woman sighed. “An apartment on Emerson.”

“What’s the number?”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Wait a minute.” She disappeared for a moment and returned with a slip of paper. “Forty-two twenty Emerson. Apartment 5J. Now leave me alone.”

She drove as fast as she could, hoping that a cop would spot her reckless driving. Cars honked, someone swerved to avoid her and another driver swore out his window, but the police force of Steerforth was absent.

Digging in her purse for her cell phone while driving with one hand didn’t make for a smooth ride. She swerved to avoid hitting a parked car as she hit the speed dial. The line was busy.

“Shit!” Amy pounded the steering wheel in frustration. She knew where Emerson was, a block of less-than-desirable housing on the fringes of town. Number 4220 turned out to be an ugly red brick building with old aluminum windows and awnings. She searched for 5J on the buzzers and pushed it. Then she pushed all of them. The door buzzed open. She skipped the elevators, taking the stairs two at a time. The fifth floor was deserted, the hallway dim from dusty overhead lamps and ancient carpeting. It smelled like mold and Indian cooking.

She pounded on Apartment 5J, but nobody came to the door. “Paul? Paul, are you in there?” she called loudly.

The apartment next door opened a crack and she saw two eyes in an old face peering out at her.

“I’m looking for Paul Marsh. Is he here?”

The eyes blinked and then there was a tiny shake of the head.

“Please. I’m looking for my daughter,” Amy could hear her voice cracking. She tried to hold it together. “Paul is supposed to be watching her. I think she’s inside.”

“There’s a super,” a tremulous voice said. “First floor.”

Back down the stairs, the stairwell echoing with the sound of her foot strikes. She saw a door close to the elevator with a sign next to it that read, “John Pritchard, Super.”

Again, she pounded, pressing her other hand against the doorbell. This time the door opened almost immediately.

“Yes?” The man was huge and angry looking.

“I’m a friend of Paul Marsh. Nobody’s answering the door and I think my daughter’s in there.”

He wasn’t easily moved, but when she threw in “urgent” and “asthma,” he relented.

He insisted on taking the elevator up. “I’m not climbing five fucking flights of stairs, lady, emergency or not.”

Then he had to search the enormous key ring he’d brought along, all with identical-looking keys. “Five A, five B, five H. Here we go, Five J.”

The door swung open onto an unlit hallway. John Pritchard reached for a light switch and Amy could see a living room beyond. “Paul?” the super called. “Paul, you here? You got company.”

He turned to her with an accusatory look. “There’s no one here, lady.”

“Look, he has my daughter. I don’t know where he is but I need to find him. Maybe he left me a message.”

She started down the hall and Pritchard grabbed her arm.

“Whoa, miss. How do I know this isn’t some kind of scam?”

“Because I’m telling you it isn’t.” She shook him off and thrust her purse at him. “Here. Hold this. You can check my license. I’m Amy Moran. My daughter’s inhaler is in there. Her name is Emma.”

The apartment was small and sterile. Meticulously neat. There was no sign of Emma having been there. Completely panicked, Amy raced through the rooms. Something seemed strange about the living room and the small dining area, but she couldn’t place it until she came to the bedroom. There was an enormous, intricately carved mahogany bed taking up far too much room and she realized that all the furniture was oversized for the apartment. The large sectional sofa in the living room, the too-long table in the dining room. It had all been made for a big house, not this tiny, cramped apartment.

Positioned at the head of the vast purple comforter were two green velvet throw pillows embellished with purple rope. The center of each had a different initial embroidered in purple flowers. A large
G
and a large
V.

The small, sliding closet held neatly arranged men’s clothing. The only thing out of place in the room was the silver picture frame lying facedown on the mahogany nightstand wedged between the wall and the bed. Amy lifted it. A beautiful woman with long, black hair and deep blue eyes smiled out at her. Could this be Paul’s wife?

She let it drop and hurried out of the room, heart pounding. The second bedroom had been turned into a home office. Here was another oversized piece of furniture, a burnished cherry desk crammed into the space with a large leather desk chair. The top was empty except for a computer and a framed photo of a house under construction. The house looked vaguely familiar.

She jerked open desk drawers, looking for something, anything that would tell her where he might have gone with Emma
.
Office supplies neatly arranged in a little sliding tray. Reams of paper. A roll of stamps. Padded envelopes. In the bottom drawer she found a locked wooden box. Amy grabbed a letter opener to try and jimmy it, but a faint humming noise caught her attention.

It was coming from the closet. She pulled back the door and the noise grew louder. A small, white freezer stood on the floor, its cord running along the closet wall and out into the room to a wall socket. It was locked, too, a silver padlock dangling from the lid. Amy tried it anyway, but it wouldn’t give.

The letter opener didn’t fit the padlock. She turned to the wooden box again and managed to pry the thin metal blade of the letter opener under the lid before it abruptly snapped.

Her panic became fixed on finding out what he kept locked up. She had to know what he had in the box and even more what he had in that freezer. Why were they locked? Where were the keys?

She swept through the desk again, scattering its contents in her search. At the back of one drawer she found a strange thing for a man’s desk. A tin box filled with bottles of nail polish in different shades. As she shoved it back in place, pondering what on earth he wanted it for, she heard something rattle. She quickly pulled the tin back out and lifted away some bottles. Skating about on the bottom was a silver key.

It didn’t fit the padlock on the freezer, but it slipped easily into the keyhole on the wooden box and turned smoothly. She lifted the lid and saw women’s jewelry spread out upon a blue velvet lining. Mostly rings. Circles of gold and platinum or studded with gems. A few necklaces. A golden brooch sparkling with what looked like real emeralds. And another key.

She tried it in the freezer lock and it fit. Amy fumbled with the padlock, struggling to pull it off. The lid opened with a sucking sound and she was immediately assailed by an awful smell, like rotting fruit. She let it drop, gagging.

One hand covering her nose, she lifted the lid a second time, trying to breathe through her mouth. There were stacks of small, white cardboard boxes, all neatly labeled. They reminded her of checks boxes.

She took out the topmost box and let the lid drop back down on the noxious odor. The box felt empty. She set it down on top of the desk and lifted the lid. Then she screamed.

Lying on a bed of cotton was a human finger.