Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

Then at last, he saw it — a gray marker, a bit newer than the others. Chris stopped in his tracks and stared down at it. His throat started to tighten.

IAN HAMPTON SCHOLL

1994–2010 Beloved Son — Rest with the Angels

As he gazed down at the marker, warm tears mingled with the cold rain on his face. “I’m sorry,” Chris said. He shook his head over and over. “God, I’m so sorry. . ”

“Why are you doing this to us?” she heard her friend, Leslie, cry out.

Marianne Bowles sat up in bed for a moment. She was thirty-two and single, with blond hair, blue eyes, and a lovely figure — though Marianne felt she stood to lose about ten pounds. She was in from Boston on business with Microsoft, and decided to spend the weekend with her old college roommate, Leslie and her husband, Kurt.

At the moment, it sounded like the two of them might be having a fight. In a weird way, it was kind of a relief to know Leslie and Kurt Fontaine weren’t so damn perfect after all. Marianne envied her old college pal. Leslie was still a knockout. She and Kurt seemed terribly happy. They lived in a gorgeous little English cottage — style house at the end of a cul-de-sac in the Madrona neighborhood. It had a sweet English garden with a stone pathway to the garage, which Kurt had converted into an office for Leslie and her thriving website-design business. It made ideal guest quarters — with its full bath, mini-fridge, microwave, and comfortable sofa bed, on which Marianne now slept. At least she’d been sleeping — until the voices from the house woke her up.

They’d dined out at Cactus in Madison Park and had a few too many margaritas. But it had been a wonderful time, with lots of laughs and old college stories. Marianne had staggered down the stone pathway to her guest quarters at around 11:30, and she’d been asleep by midnight.

She squinted at the clock on the end table: 1:55 A.M. She couldn’t believe Leslie and Kurt were still awake — and arguing, no less. Maybe they’d hit that wall some people hit after a certain amount of happy drinking — and then they become angry-drunk.

“Oh, God, no!” Kurt yelled. “Wait, wait!”

Marianne slumped back down in the bed and put her hands over her ears. She didn’t want to hear their private discussion, which sounded almost violent. She could still detect some muffled yelling from Kurt. So Marianne rolled over on her side and pressed the extra pillow to the side of her head. That seemed to block it out.

She must have drifted off, because then she heard a tapping noise and glanced at the clock again: 3:17 A.M. It took her a moment to realize someone was knocking on her door. She’d locked it earlier. There was just enough light in the room for her to see the knob turning back and forth a bit.

Pulling back the bedcovers, Marianne was about to climb out of bed. She hesitated — she wasn’t sure why. She already had a bit of a hangover, and didn’t want to have to listen to Leslie’s version of what they’d been arguing about. Marianne was just too tired.

There were a few more taps on the door.

She figured if Leslie wanted to talk that badly, she’d go fetch the key and let herself in. Marianne fell back into bed. After a few moments, she saw a shadow in the window — moving back toward the house.

Her eyelids grew heavy and she felt herself drifting off to sleep again. Marianne’s last thought was about the light coming through the window. Strange, how bright it seemed outside. It was as if every light was on inside the charming English cottage — style home.

* * *

“Chris? Erin?” Molly called from the bottom of the stairs. They were both in their respective bedrooms. Erin had a ballet recital at 2 P.M. Chris was getting together with Elvis this afternoon. Molly had emerged from the shower an hour ago and was still in her bathrobe. She’d promised to drive Erin to her recital and attend the show.

That had been two weeks ago — before she’d found out Angela would be there, too.

Perhaps that was why Molly had been on edge most of the morning. It was Saturday, and the ballet show was in an hour.

“Did either of you take the MapQuest directions from the basket on the kitchen counter?” she called upstairs to them.

No response.

“Erin? Chris?” she yelled.

“I didn’t take’m!” Chris yelled back, his voice muffled by the closed door.

“Me neither, and please, I’m trying to get dressed!” Erin screamed, very much the prima donna ballerina.

Molly checked her purse for the directions. The night before last, she’d printed the MapQuest directions and set the printout by the phone on the kitchen counter. Now it wasn’t there. All she could remember was the recital hall was someplace where God lost his shoes in Mountlake Terrace.

The printout wasn’t in her purse, either.

She didn’t even want to go to this stupid thing. Why the hell couldn’t Angela drive Erin? Wouldn’t a mother want to spend that time with her daughter? What an incredible jerk. Molly really didn’t want to see her today. Angela was probably ready to dole out some more Don’t Trust Jeff advice, too.

It had been a little over a week since Molly had spoken with Angela at the Neighborhood Watch potluck. They’d learned about Ray Corson’s murder that same morning.

The police still hadn’t found his killer yet. Molly heard they’d interviewed Ian Scholl’s parents. They’d even spoken with Jeff at his office that day. They didn’t dare let on that he was a suspect, or even a person of interest. But he must have been — for a brief while anyway.

From what Molly had read, the police figured Corson’s death was the result of a random robbery that had gotten out of hand. The Arboretum was close enough to the University District, where there had been a rash of armed robberies lately.

Chris had told his dad he wanted to attend Mr. Corson’s wake this weekend. He wanted to pay his respects, and maybe even apologize to Mrs. Corson for that whole mess back in December. But Jeff insisted it was a private service, and Chris wouldn’t be welcome there. Besides he didn’t need to apologize to anybody for anything.

In the end, Chris had ceded to his father’s ruling and sulked about it for the better part of an evening.

Jeff had spent the last four nights in Denver. He was coming back in time for dinner tonight — if his flight wasn’t delayed.

Molly had endured the last few nerve-wracking nights without him. The Cul-de-sac Killer had struck again last weekend, slaying a Madrona couple. An old college friend visiting from Boston had been asleep in a guesthouse behind the residence. She hadn’t heard about the Cul-de-sac Killer, so she hadn’t been alarmed when she noticed nearly every light on inside her friends’ house when she awoke Sunday morning. She found her friend’s husband in a coat closet on the first floor. His hands were tied behind him, and he’d been stabbed repeatedly. The wife was in the master bedroom closet with her throat slit. The woman from Boston told police that she’d heard them in the middle of the night — and thought they were arguing. And later, someone had tapped on her door, but she hadn’t answered it.

Of course, Molly read every article she could about the murders — and then she wasn’t able to sleep at night.

Last night had been the worst. Chris had gone out for a movie and pizza with Elvis. Molly had let him take her car. But when Chris still hadn’t come home by midnight, she grew more and more anxious — not only about her stepson but also for Erin and herself. After tucking Erin in bed, she’d been reluctant to go up to her studio and work. If someone broke in, she might not hear anything until it was too late. She imagined coming down from her studio to discover Erin’s empty bed — and her body in the closet.