The Neighbor (16 page)

“How lucky for her,” he murmured.

“In a way, it is. Now we can open an active case file, and bring more resources to bear. Including which, we will be holding a press conference at nine
A.M.
to announce your wife’s disappearance.”

He stiffened. Felt her words hit him between the eyes, a sharp, stinging blow. He opened his mouth to protest, then caught himself. He clutched the bridge of his nose and pretended the stinging in his eyes was something other than tears. “All right,” he said quietly. He needed to start making phone calls, he realized. Get a lawyer. Start planning for Ree. He tucked the cordless phone more tightly between his shoulder and ear and headed into the kitchen, away from his child’s acute hearing.

He opened the refrigerator door, found himself staring at Sandra’s precious Dr Pepper, and closed the door again.

“Of course,” Sergeant Warren was saying, “it would be excellent if you were available to make your own appeal to the public. Personalize the case and all that. We could hold the conference in your front yard. You and Ree could both be present,” she concluded pleasantly.

“No thank you.”

“No thank you?” She sounded stunned, but they both knew she was faking it.

“My primary concern is for my daughter. I don’t think involving
her in a media circus is to her benefit. I also think having reporters traipse across our yard and intrude in our private lives would be very traumatizing for her. Therefore, I think it’s best if I stay home, preparing her for what will come next.”

“And what do you think will come next?” Sergeant Warren asked, clearly baiting him.

“You will broadcast my wife’s photo on the TV and the newspaper. Copies will be made. It will be distributed and stapled up all over the city. Search parties will be organized. People from Sandy’s school will volunteer. The neighbors will stop by with offers of casseroles and hopes for the inside scoop. You will request clothing for canine teams. You will request hair for DNA tests, should you discover human remains. You will request a family photo, because the media will like that better than a lone shot of Sandy. Then the media vans will park outside my house with klieg lights that will power on every morning at four
A.M.
And you will have to assign uniforms simply to hold the hordes at the perimeter of my property line, where they will stand eighteen out of every twenty-four hours, screaming questions they hope I will magically appear to answer. If I serve as my own spokesman, everything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law. On the other hand, if I hire an attorney to serve as a spokesperson, I will look like I’m hiding something.

“A memorial will start to form on my front yard. People dropping off flowers, notes, teddy bears, all intended for Sandy. Then there will be the candlelight vigils, where good-intentioned souls will pray for Sandra’s safe return. More likely than not, a few psychics will also volunteer their services. Then there will be the young ladies who will start sending me condolence notes because they find the allure of a single father to be strangely seductive, particularly if I may or may not have harmed my wife. Of course, I will decline their offers of free babysitting.”

There was a long pause. “You seem to know the process very well,” D. D. said.

“I’m a member of the media. Of course I know this process well.”

We’re dancing
, he thought idly. It made him picture Sergeant D.D. Warren, whirling around him in some hot pink flamenco dress,
while he stood there in solid black, trying to look strong and stoic, when really, he just didn’t know the moves.

“Of course, now that the investigation is ramping up,” the detective was saying, “it’s important that we get as much information to the taskforce team as fast as possible. You understand that with every hour that passes, the odds of successfully finding your wife diminish significantly.”

“I understand that not finding her yesterday means that most likely we won’t find her at all.”

“Got anything you want to add to that?” Sergeant Warren asked it quietly.

“No ma’am,” he said, then immediately wished he hadn’t. He caught the Southern drawl that crept into the words, as it always did when he used phrases from home.

Sergeant Warren was quiet for a bit. He wondered if that meant she caught the Southern-fried inflection, as well.

“I’m going to be honest,” she said abruptly.

He doubted that very much, but didn’t feel the need to say so.

“It’s extremely important that we interview Ree. The clock is ticking, Jason, and it’s possible that your daughter is the only witness to what happened to your wife.”

“I know.”

“Then of course you’ll agree to a ten
A.M.
appointment with a forensic interviewer. Her name is Marianne Jackson and she is excellent.”

“All right.”

Now there was dead silence. “You agree?”

“Yes.”

He heard a long sigh, then, almost as if the sergeant couldn’t help herself: “Jason, we asked you this yesterday, and you refused. Why the change of heart?”

“Because I’m worried about her.”

“Your wife?”

“No. My daughter. I don’t think she’s doing very well. Perhaps talking to a professional will help her. I’m not really a monster, Sergeant. And I do have my daughter’s best interests at heart.”

“Then ten
A.M.
it is. At our offices. Neutral territory is better.”

“Daddy?”

“You don’t have to convince me,” he said into the phone, then turned to find Ree standing in the entryway staring at him with that unerring instinct children had when they knew you were talking about them.

“We’re going to talk to a nice lady this morning,” he said, holding the receiver away from his mouth. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, it’ll be okay.”

“There’s a sound at the door, Daddy.”

“What?”

“There’s a sound. At the door. Can’t you hear it?”

Then he did. The sound of shuffling, scratching, as if someone were trying to get in.

“I have to go,” he told the detective. Then, without waiting for D.D.’s response, he slammed down the receiver. “Into the family room. Now, sweetheart. I mean it.”

He motioned Ree down onto the floor by the love seat, while placing his body between hers and the massive steel weight of the front door. He heard more scratching, and flattened himself against the wall next to the window, trying not to look alarmed when every nerve in his body was jangling with panic. First thing he noticed when he peered outside was that the unmarked police car remained at the curb; the watch officer appeared to be sitting placidly, still sipping his morning coffee. Next thing Jason noticed was that he didn’t see any sign of a human being outside the window at all.

But he heard the sound again. Shuffling, scratching, and then …

“Meow.”

Ree sprang to her feet.

“Meow …”

Ree raced to the door. She moved faster than he could imagine, grabbing at the doorknob with frantic little fingers, and tugging, tugging, tugging while he belatedly worked the locks. Together they got it undone.

Ree threw open the door, and Mr. Smith came sailing into the house.
“Mrrrow!”

“Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith!” Ree flung her arms around the copper-orange beast, squeezing so hard, Mr. Smith howled in protest.

Then, just as quickly, she let him go, threw herself to the floor and burst into tears. “But I want Mommy!” she wailed plaintively. “I want
Mama
!”

Jason lowered himself to the floor. He pulled his daughter onto his lap. He stroked her dark curly hair and held her while she wept.

| CHAPTER THIRTEEN |

I cheated on Jason for the first time when Ree was eleven months old. I couldn’t take it anymore. The sleepless nights, the exhausting ritual of feeding, tending, diapering, feeding, tending, diapering. I’d already registered for online college courses and it seemed any minute I wasn’t tending a baby, I was writing a paper, researching a subject, trying to recall high school math.

I felt both incredibly drained and unbelievably tense. Edgy, like my skin was on too tight, or my scalp was squeezing my brain. I found myself noticing everything from the silky feel of Ree’s pink baby blanket to the needle-sharp pain of hot shower spray stinging my breasts.

Worse, I could feel the darkness growing inside my head. Until I could smell the cloying scent of decaying roses in every corner of my own home, and I dreaded falling asleep because I knew I’d only bolt awake to the sound of my mother’s voice warbling down the hall
, “I know something you don’t know. I know something you don’t know….”

One day, I caught myself at the kitchen sink, scrubbing my hands with a wire-bristled brush. I was trying to erase my own fingerprints, trying to scour the DNA right out of my skin. And it occurred to me that’s what the darkness was—my mother, my own mother, taking root inside my head.

There are some people that just killing once will never be enough.

I told Jason I needed to get away. Twenty-four hours. Maybe a hotel where I could crash for a bit, order room service, catch my breath. I produced a brochure for a downtown spa by the Four Seasons and its menu of treatments. Everything was ridiculously expensive, but I knew Jason wouldn’t deny me, and he didn’t.

He took a Friday and Saturday off, to be with Clarissa.

“Don’t rush home,” he told me. “Take your time. Relax. I understand, Sandy. I do.”

So I went off to a four-hundred-a-night hotel room, where I used my spa money to hit Newbury Street and buy one micro mini suede skirt, black Kate Spade stiletto heels, and a silver sequined halter top that did not permit one to wear a bra. Then I hit the Armani Bar, and worked my way from there.

Remember, I was still only nineteen years old. I recalled all the tricks, and believe me, I know a lot of tricks. Girl like me, in a halter top and stiletto heels. I started the night popular and stayed that way until two in the morning, tossing back shots of Grey Goose in between lap dancing dirty old men and fresh-faced boys from BU.

My skin itched. I could feel it starting to catch fire, the more I drank, the more I danced, the more I wiggled my hips with some stranger’s hands palming my ass, pressing his groin into my strategically spread legs. I wanted to drink all night. I wanted to dance all night.

I wanted to fuck until I couldn’t remember my own name, until I screamed with rage and need. I wanted to fuck until my own head exploded and the darkness finally went away.

I took my time making my final choice for the evening. Not one of the old guys. They were good for buying drinks, but would probably drop dead of a heart attack trying to keep up with a girl like me. I went with one of the young college studs. All hard muscle and raging testosterone and silly, I-can’t-believe-she’s-really-leaving-with-me grin.

I let him take me back to his dorm, where I showed him things you could do while hanging from the underside of a bunk bed. When I was done with him, I fucked his roommate, too. Bachelor number one was too far gone to complain, and his roommate, a geeky nerd with no muscle tone at all, was extremely grateful and useful in his own way.

I left shortly after dawn. I hung my hot pink thong on the doorknob
as a little souvenir, then walked to the T stop and caught the subway back to my hotel. Doorman ’bout had a fit when he saw me. Probably thought I was a hooker—or, excuse me, a high-class call girl, which now that I think about it, would’ve been a decent line of work for me. But I already had my room key, so he had no choice but to let me in.

I went up to my room, brushed my teeth, showered, brushed my teeth again, and fell onto the bed. I slept for five hours without moving a muscle. I slept like the dead. And when I woke up, I felt sane for the first time in months.

So I did the sensible thing. I balled up the skirt, the heels, the halter top, and threw them away. I showered yet again, scrubbing at my hands, which smelled of semen and sweat and lime-twisted vodka. Then I smoothed orange-scented lotion over my bruised ribs, my whisker-burned thighs, my bite-marked shoulder. And I dressed back into my gray cords and lavender turtleneck and headed home to my husband.

I’ll be good,
I told myself, all the way back to Southie.
I’ll be good from now on.

But I already knew that I’d do it again.

The truth is, it’s not so hard to live a lie.

I greeted my husband with a kiss on the cheek. Jason returned the peck and inquired politely about my weekend.

“I feel much better now,” I told him honestly.

“I’m glad,” he said, and I understood, just by looking into his dark eyes, that he knew exactly what I had done. But I didn’t say another word, and neither did he. That is all part of how you live a lie—you don’t acknowledge it. You let it remain like an elephant, standing in the middle of the room.

I went upstairs. Unpacked my bag. Picked up my daughter and rocked with her tucked against my chest. And I discovered, whore or no whore, adulteress or not an adulteress, my daughter felt exactly the same, smelled exactly the same, loved me exactly the same, as I sat there, reading her
Runaway Bunny
and kissing her softly on top of the head.

I spent the next week dressing and undressing only when I was alone, as a form of courtesy. Jason spent the next week hunched over the computer until the odd hours of the morning, obviously avoiding me.

Sometime around the seventh or eighth night, once the bite marks had healed and I was still waking up to an empty bed, I decided this had gone on long enough. I loved Jason. I really did. And I believed he loved me. He really did. He was just never going to have sex with me. The irony of all ironies. The one man who finally showed me respect, compassion, and understanding was the one man who didn’t want my body at all. But love is still love, right? And according to The Beatles, isn’t that all we’ll ever need
?