Lisa Gardner - The Neighbor

“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.

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.