Райли Сейгер - Home Before Dark - A Novel

For the first time in my life, I need her opinion.

Which is why my heart sinks when the call again goes straight to voicemail.

“Hi, Mom. It’s me. I’m still in Vermont, doing work at Baneberry Hall. And, um, we found something.” I pause, struck by the awfulness of the euphemism. Petra wasn’t a mere something. She was a person. A vibrant young woman. “We need to talk about it. As soon as possible. Call me back. Please.”

I end the call and survey the room.

It’s a dump.

The wood-paneled wall opposite the room’s sole window has been faded by the sun. A ceiling tile in the corner bears a stain worse than the one that was in Baneberry Hall’s kitchen, which doesn’t engender good thoughts. I look at the carpet. Orange shag.

There’s a knock on the door. Two tentative raps that make me think it’s the desk clerk coming to tell me the state of Vermont has deemed the place a health hazard and ordered the premises vacated. Instead, I open the door to find Dane standing outside.

“I’m sorry I broke your ceiling,” he says sheepishly. “To make up for it, I brought apology gifts.”

He lifts his hands, revealing a bottle of bourbon in one and a six-pack of beer in the other.

“I didn’t know how drunk you needed to get,” he explains.

I grab the bourbon. “Very.”

Dane correctly takes it as an invitation to join me. He steps inside and closes the door behind him. The presence of the alcohol momentarily masked just how damn good he looks. He’s in jeans and a threadbare Rolling Stones T-shirt that fits tight across his chest. There’s a hole in the shirt, right where his heart is located, revealing a patch of tanned skin.

“Nice shirt,” I say when Dane catches me staring.

“I’ve had it since I was a teenager.”

“It shows.”

“Nice blanket,” Dane says.

I twirl a corner of the comforter. “I’m pretending it’s a caftan.”

Dane uncaps a beer. I open the bourbon. There aren’t any glasses in the room—it’s not that kind of hotel—so I swig directly from the bottle. The first swallow does nothing but burn the back of my throat. The second proves to be a repeat of the first. The third gulp is the charm. Only then do I start to feel that welcome numbness creep over me.

“How did you find me?” I say.

“Process of elimination.” Dane takes a sip of beer. “I went to the house first. The police were still there, which meant you were staying somewhere else. Which in Bartleby means here.”

“Lucky me,” I say before two more swigs of bourbon.

The two of us fall into a comfortable silence, Dane on one bed, me on the other, content with simply drinking and staring at the Red Sox game flickering on the twenty-year-old television.

“Do you really think it was Petra Ditmer in the ceiling?” Dane eventually says.

“Yeah, I do.”

“God, her poor mother.”

“Did you know her?” I ask.

“I might have met her one of the times I was here visiting my grandparents. But if I did, I don’t remember it.”

“You said you talked to my father when he came to the house each year,” I say. “What did you talk about?”

Dane sips his beer a moment, thinking. “The house. The grounds. If anything had needed fixing.”

“That’s all? Basic maintenance stuff?”

“Pretty much,” Dane says. “Sometimes we’d talk about the Red Sox or the weather.”

“Did he ever mention Petra Ditmer?”

“He asked me about Elsa and Hannah. How they were doing. If they needed money.”

An odd question to ask someone. I want to think it was my father being charitable. But I suspect it might have been something else—like a guilt-prompted desire to pay them off.

I gulp down more bourbon, hoping it will stop me from thinking this way. I should be certain of my father’s innocence. Instead, I’m the opposite. Waffling and unsure.

“Do you think it’s possible to believe two things at once?” I ask Dane.

“It depends on if those things cancel each other out,” he says. “For example, I believe Tom Brady is the greatest quarterback to ever play the game. I also believe he’s an asshole. One belief does not negate the other. They can exist at the same time.”

“I was talking about something more personal.”

“You’re in New England. The Patriots are personal.”

On one hand, I’m grateful for the way Dane is trying to take my mind off things with the booze and the banter, but it’s also frustrating—the same kind of avoidance tactics my parents used.

“You know what I’m talking about,” I say. “I truly believe my father wasn’t capable of killing anyone, let alone a sixteen-year-old girl. He was never violent. Never raised a hand to hurt me. Plus, I knew him. He was doting and decent and kind.”

“You also think he was a liar,” Dane says, as if I need reminding.

“He was,” I say. “Which is why I can’t stop thinking that maybe he did do something. That if the Book was a lie, then maybe everything about him was. The things he said. The way he acted. His entire life. Maybe no one really knew him. Not even me.”

“You really think he killed Petra?”

“No,” I say.

“Then you think he’s innocent.”

“I didn’t say that, either.”

The truth is that I don’t know what I think. Even though all signs point to his being involved in Petra’s death, I’m having a hard time seeing my father as a killer. Equally difficult is thinking he’s completely innocent. He lied to me literally until the end of his life. And people don’t lie unless they’re hiding something.

Or want to spare someone the truth.

Whatever that truth is, I know Petra’s death was part of it.

“One thing is clear,” Dane says, interrupting my thoughts. “Your reason for coming here has changed. Big-time.”

My plans for the house have, that’s for certain. Even if the police let me back into Baneberry Hall to renovate it, I’m not sure I still want to. From a brutally practical standpoint, it’s foolish. That house will sell for a wisp of what it’s worth, if it can be sold at all after this new tragic development.

But I look at the project through a more human lens. Petra Ditmer had spent more than two decades rotting inside Baneberry Hall. A horrible fate. When I think about it that way, it’s easy to agree with Chief Alcott. Baneberry Hall should be reduced to rubble.

“I came here to learn the truth,” I tell Dane. “That’s still my goal. Even if I might not like what that truth turns out to be.”

“And the house?”

“I’ll be back there tomorrow.” I throw my arms open, gesturing to the sun-bleached wall and stained ceiling and shag carpet that smells of mildew. “But tonight, I get to live in the lap of luxury.”

Dane shifts on the edge of his bed until we’re facing each other, our knees almost touching. The mood in the room has changed. An electricity passes between us, tinged with heat. Only then do I realize my arms-wide gesture has thrown the blanket from my shoulders, leaving me sitting in just a towel.

“I can stay here with you,” Dane says, his voice husky. “If you want me to.”

God, it’s tempting. Especially with a quarter bottle of bourbon in me and Dane looking the way he does. My gaze keeps returning to that hole in his shirt and its tantalizing glimpse of flesh. It makes me want to see what he looks like without the shirt. It would be easy to make that happen. One tug of this towel is all it would take.

And then what? All my conflicting emotions and confusion will still be there in the morning, this time complicated further by the mixing of work and pleasure. Once you tie the two of them together, it’s nearly impossible to untangle them again.