Page 16

16

SHELBY

A howling wind rattles the windowpanes in their frames as I sit on the living room floor with my laptop perched on the coffee table, looking at new security systems online. Pops and June are eating waffles at the kitchen counter. Clay lets them make smiley faces on top with blueberries and M&M’s because it’s Sunday, and because Poppy can have whatever she wants after what she’s been through, and that’s fine by me.

Yesterday Clay said he’d take the day off and stay with me, but we really can’t afford to close the bait shop for a day. And, more importantly, I refuse to let this monster make me feel afraid in my own home. Then he wins. At least that’s what I keep repeating to myself and everyone else, but of course I’m terrified. Maybe you do let the monster win. Maybe that’s why there are panic rooms and restraining orders and pepper spray self-defense classes, and keep-your-eyes-on-your-drink rules, and walk-home-with-a-buddy advice, and Tasers, and house alarms. We are always fighting against the fear, and maybe at this point I should just run to Mexico, buy a beach condo, change all of our names, and let him win.

But here I still am. After the attack, life went on, and we are pretending the best we can that life is not crumbling around us. Sometimes I do think more realistically about running. I think about actually taking the girls and driving south until I feel the sun on my face and we land somewhere warm and safe and far away. And sure, maybe I would commit to running if I could afford to—if the girls weren’t in school and we didn’t have a business to run and if we had any savings, maybe. But even if I did run, if someone is really after me, deeply and personally gunning for me , of all the damn people in the world, and for whatever insane reason, wouldn’t they follow? Would I really be safe anywhere?

It’s Sunday now, so we’ll open the shop for half a day. But since Poppy is probably too traumatized to go back there, I don’t know what to do with the hours in front of me when Clay is gone. The security cameras around the house were cut—the wires clipped in two, the cameras removed completely. The power to the house was shut off by the breaker in the garage just like at the Oleander’s, but this wasn’t torched. The garage was unlocked so the psychopath just got in and turned it off. I imagine so that there would be no security footage of them to recover.

I can still set the alarm to sound off without the cameras, but that does little to persuade me to stay here alone with the girls all day—not unless I can see what’s outside. I’m looking at motion sensor–activated floodlights online and doubling the cameras and learning about tamper alarms and backup power devices and all sorts of things you don’t imagine needing to know when you settle your life into the middle of safe, small-town nowheresville.

“Billy can install it,” Clay says, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel and picking up his coffee mug from the side table next to his recliner.

“What?” I ask, wondering where Billy’s name sprang from.

“He’s been a contractor and does electrical and plumbing stuff. I’m just saying, to save money, we can see if he’ll install whatever you get,” he says, and there is something I don’t like about the way he says “whatever you get,” like it’s my sole decision to waste our money on security equipment we can’t afford, rather than a life and death necessity, even though I’m sure that’s not how he meant it to come off.

“There are instructions,” I say. “I can do it.” He raises his eyebrows at this, but knows it’s not the time to argue with me.

“You sure you don’t want to come with to the bait shop? Maybe it’ll be good for Poppy to have us not make a big thing about going back—just act like it’s fine,” he says, and he has a point. Maybe I’m the one who can’t stand the thought of it right now, and maybe she won’t associate the warm shop that holds half her childhood memories with what happened outside of it on that dark ice, but today is not the day to test that. My nerves are frayed and my heart pounds from the constant anxiety of it all as it is.

“Actually, can you just drop us at the Ole today? The girls want to play with Gus and I have some paperwork to catch up on,” I say, because of course the girls will always say yes to a puppy and all the Sour Patch Kids Herb can stuff them with, and I’ll feel safer with everyone around. Clay seems relieved at the idea of this too, because he kisses me on the top of the head and tells me he’ll pack lunches for the girls before he goes.

By 10:00 a.m., Poppy and June are at the card table in the rec room where a new jigsaw has been started—it’s E.T. and has Elliot bicycling in front of the moon, and they quietly push pieces together and eat from the plastic candy canes filled with Skittles that Herb gave them while Gus chews a bully stick under Poppy’s chair, but I don’t see any sign of the regular gang this morning. Oliver from room 16 is mixing himself a Swiss Miss hot chocolate packet by the coffee station, and Wendy from room 11 is watching Ancient Aliens on the television and playing solitaire on the coffee table.

I ask if Heather has been in this morning and Wendy says “beats me,” so I make my way down the hall and peer in to open residents’ doors. I only see Ed in his Viking jersey watching pregame coverage and already arguing with the sportscasters on his TV, and Kitty, who hides her vape pen when she sees me, and who is talking very loudly on the phone to her sister about how Rodney’s only using her for her pension, and does she want her to sign up on Match.com and try to catfish him to prove it?

I keep walking down to Herb’s room and try to think of which Rodney she might be talking about. It must be Rodney Galindo, because I heard Rodney Moyer moved to Ann Arbor and nobody calls him Rodney, just Rod. I stop and take a long breath when I hear voices coming from inside Mort’s room.

The door is cracked, so I tap on it with my knuckle and push it open. I’m taken aback to see not only Herb, Flor, and Millie there, but also Evan, who isn’t even scheduled to work today, and Heather of all people, all huddled together, with low voices and concerned looks about their faces.

“Am I interrupting something?” I ask, and Millie yelps. Everyone else whips around, startled.

“It’s Sunday,” Florence says factually.

“The girls wanted to play with Gus,” I say, but I know they can see through that. They exchange strange looks I can’t decipher, and Heather says she was just about to go make the rounds, but before she can even stand, I point at the computer table next to Mort and gasp.

“That’s my phone!”

“But it’s Sunday, and you’re not supposed to be here, so we haven’t figured out how to tell you about this yet,” Herb says. I pick up the phone and hold it to my chest, looking at everyone defensively. They all look back at me with sympathy in their eyes, and Flor pats the spot on Mort’s bed next to her. I just stand, hand on hip, not sure who to aim my glare at.

“What they hell, guys?” I say, and Mort motions again for me to sit, so I do.

“We interviewed Detective Chipped Beef last night, and Herb found this in the butt crack of the man’s couch,” Millie says from her spot in Mort’s window seat. She picks her teeth with a toothpick and shrugs.

Herb explains the interview idea for the podcast and how they recorded some generic statements from Riley and didn’t expect much until he found this.

“In his couch?” I ask again.

“I told them they should put it back,” Millie says. “I’ve seen one too many horror movies to know that if Riley’s a murderer and he notices his trophy is missing…who knows which one of us is next? Probably Herb, though.”

“Trophy?” Evan asks.

“Serial killers keep trophies after they kill people.”

“She’s not dead, Millie! She’s sitting right here,” Herb yells, gesturing to me. “So how can it be a trophy?”

“Anyway, we called Evan this morning to see if he could bring the recordings in from last night so we didn’t waste any time,” Mort says.

“How about calling me?” I say, holding up my phone with a curled lip and “what the hell” look on my face.

“Well, you don’t know how to sync the audio, do you?” Mort asks, and I sigh. I can see from the computer screen behind him that these sneaks have already recorded a whole podcast episode about it this morning.

“What if someone turned this phone in? Found it some where and turned it into the police, and Riley is not, in fact, a murderer?” I ask.

“I did think of that,” Mort says.

“Yeah, but then why didn’t he return it to you?” Herb asks.

“I had it locked down when I called the phone company. Maybe he gets a turned-in phone that’s shut down and it’s not a priority to find the owner because he has a psychopath on the loose? I don’t know!” I say and I’m raising my voice now, so I take a breath and try to keep it together.

“So Riley takes home lost and found items from the department and sticks them down his couch cushions?” Florence asks.

“Did you ask him why he has it?” I retort.

“Oh, God no,” Herb says. “We’re not crazy. This is evidence now. He would just deny it—say he doesn’t know how it got there. We need to get to the bottom of it.”

“So,” I continue. “This phone is the most boring phone on earth. Pictures of the kids, calls to school, and Pizza Central. Maybe some Pinterest and Amazon. No porn, no scandal, no unknown numbers, no blackmail. What in the world would Riley want it for? What would anyone want with this?”

“Maybe he’s still in love with you and was hoping for some nudies,” Millie says, and Florence spits out her sip of tea. Evan blushes, and Heather finally speaks up.

“Or…what if it’s his wife?” she asks. Everyone turns to look at her.

“Belinda?” Millie sits up and looks around to see if anyone else thinks this is preposterous.

“Well, think about it. Everyone knows Belinda hates Shelby, and she bought that bait shop with her brother out of spite. The stories of Clay throwing up on the Riley’s car and Belinda retaliating by telling everyone at Cut & Curl that Shelby has an STD? I mean, she’d do anything to throw Shelby under the bus,” she says. And everyone does know these rumors, but I am surprised Heather pays attention to anything besides her false eyelashes and hair extensions, not to mention absorbing these sorts of details.

“That still doesn’t make her a murderer,” Mort says.

“Just sayin’.” She shrugs. “Women are cunning.”

“You know, she’s not totally off track,” Evan says, picking up a steaming mug of coffee from the computer table he’s sitting in front of. Heather beams.

“I don’t know about Belinda, but…what if we’re all going down the wrong track and it is a woman?”

“Women don’t murder people, men do. Come on!” Millie says, exasperated.

“I mean, have you seen Snapped ? If there are enough women murdering people to create a whole multiseason show about it, then it’s not totally out of the question,” he says. “It’s something to consider. Does anyone know Belinda, like actually know her well ?”

“We all do,” Millie argues.

“Outside of church, kids’ ball games, PTA, and fundraisers, has anyone spent one-on-one time with her? Enough to know if she’s a psychopath?” Florence asks. “Because I know that we all know everyone, but besides knowing that the woman has bad taste in haircuts and brings mint chip cookies to the potluck every year, I can’t tell you I know much about her at all, really.

“So she goes on our list,” Florence says, scribbling something onto a legal pad. I take it from her.

“What list? You have a list? Of suspects?” I look at it and all that’s written is “Riley” with a question mark that’s scratched out, and now “Belinda.” I shake my head and hand it back to her, mumbling “Jesus” under my breath.

“Okay, I’m gonna go catch up on some paperwork,” I say, but before I can go, Florence shocks me when she blurts out “Or Mack!”

I stare at her from the door frame and take a few steps back in. “I’m sorry?”

“I just want us to at least be open to the fact that Leo’s disappearance and what happened to you are more than a coincidence. And what if she is helping hide him? What if she knew they owe people all over town money, and…”

“No,” I say firmly, ending the conversation, and everyone is quiet. I turn and walk away.

I sit with the girls and we eat peanut butter sandwiches at the card table at lunchtime while Herb watches the football game. Mort is still editing the podcast they recorded, and Millie is asleep with her mouth hanging open, an empty mini bottle of Baileys next to her coffee cup on the side table. I let Evan go for the day since he wasn’t scheduled and told Heather to take the day off since I would be here anyway.

Once the girls are in the craft room gluing cotton balls onto paper plates, I sit in the front office, and my blood boils at the thought of them pointing the finger at Mack. It’s preposterous. I stare at my lost phone on the desktop in front of me and wonder, of course, how it got in Riley’s house. They’re right about one thing. If I confront Riley about this, he’ll deny it. Obviously. It won’t help me gain one bit of information, and it will only serve to make him weirder and more defensive than he already is. There is nothing to gain by accusing him of taking it. I just need to find out for myself what the hell is really going on, and if he is somehow involved.

When the sun starts to set and the girls have fallen asleep on the rec room sofa in front of the Cartoon Network after an hour of video games with Herb, I hear a small tap on the open office door. It’s Florence and Herb. I think they might be here to apologize for going behind my back with the Riley interview or what they said about Mack, but their faces are grave, and I instantly know something is wrong.

“What?” I snap.

“Well, maybe nothing,” Flor says. “It’s just that Bernie said that his church lunch thingy ended at 1:00 p.m. today and he’d be back in time to watch the end of the game and now it’s 5:30 and he isn’t back. I called Ginny and she said that he said something about him having to leave early, so she thought we picked him up, but we didn’t and nobody has heard from him since. His phone goes right to voicemail.”

“Well, who else would he have left with?” I ask.

“That’s the thing,” Herb says. “Ginny said she drove back to the church after we called her and she saw his phone sitting on a folding chair by the dessert table. He left his phone behind and just got up and left. We can’t imagine with who and it’s fourteen degrees outside, so he didn’t get far on his own two feet, that’s for sure.”

“Well, shit,” I say. “There has to be an explanation.”

“Ginny said his phone’s not locked and she could see an incoming call—a restricted number around twelve forty, and that’s about when he said he had to go all of a sudden. She’s beside herself.”

“Well then, maybe…he must be with someone he knows,” I say, but Bernie only really talks to a handful of people outside of his family and the folks at the Ole. Who the hell would be calling him on a restricted or unknown number?

“Okay. Herb, you call the police. Officer Harris is on duty Sunday, so we’ll talk to her before Riley can get involved. I’ll call Ginny again and see what we can do to help,” I say in a hushed voice so as not to upset the girls.

Then a flurry of phone calls are made and, within an hour, after calling everyone in town we can think of who knows Bernie, Officer Harris is sitting in the rec room with us, taking a report, because it appears as though Bernie has vanished into thin air.

I hear Clay’s pickup truck pull in front of the glass doors and the girls, who are already bundled up, run outside as I yell “put your hats on” after them. Clay is taking them to Chuck E. Cheese for dinner and Skee-Ball for a couple of hours be cause I don’t want them around this. Even though everyone has been quiet and subtle, there is an energy that’s palpable and they’re smart, and I can’t expose them to anymore fucking trauma, Lord help me. I wave at Clay as he lifts them into the truck and buckles them in. I go back in and sit on the sofa next to Millie. Everyone has a distant, glassy-eyed look, and I keep wracking my brain for an explanation because there must be one. A man doesn’t disappear from a church potluck with two dozen people around in broad daylight. Where would he have gone? Who the hell called him?

By 9:30, nobody has heard a thing and half the town is looking for him. The temperature has dropped down to nine degrees and he has no phone and his wallet is on his dresser in his room, so he has no money except maybe the twenty he keeps in his pocket in a money clip for a rainy day.

Millie is hunched over the jigsaw puzzle with a box of Kleenex, crying, and the rest of the gang sit on the sofa, silently waiting for any news. Some of the other residents who are close to Bernie are hanging out in the rec room too, and the only sound is the canned laughter from an old All in the Family episode playing on the community television.

Everyone jolts when Clay and the girls come through the front doors. June runs over to pet Gus, and Poppy pauses and hugs my legs when she notices all the sad faces.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Nothing, sweetie. It’s time to get you guys home to bed,” I say.

“Did they find him?” Clay whispers, and I shake my head and give him a look that he understands, and we begin to shuffle the girls back out the door. I hesitate to leave. I feel like we should be doing something more, but what? I guess we let the search party do their job for now.

“I’ll be right by my phone,” I tell the gang as we head out and into the pickup coughing out exhaust, idling in front of the glass doors.

As I’m buckling June into her seat, I notice something in the bed of the truck. It’s the flapping sound of plastic against the frigid wind that catches my attention, and I can see it’s a black garbage bag.

I go to tuck the loose plastic under so whatever he has in it doesn’t blow out, and then I see that it’s a pile of plastic and wires, and when I flash my phone flashlight on it, I gasp at what I’m looking at. It’s our missing equipment. It’s all of our security cameras with the wires cut clean, dumped into a garbage bag…in Clay’s truck.