Tim Meyer - The Switch House

Just then, a warm breeze flew in through the open window, brushing Angela’s hair against her cheek. Whoever had savagely butchered the old woman had escaped through the window, dove out onto the roof, jumped down to the patio, and was halfway to the state border by now.

She glanced over at the phone stationed on the dresser. Next to the cradle, an orange light blinked, glowing and fading. She hustled over to the piece of ornate furniture, her first thought to call 911 and get them over here as quickly as possible. That time was of the essence when it came to catching murderers. The more she delayed the less chance they had of tracking down the bastard. Hot trails get awfully cold, awfully quickly, or so those true crime shows always said.

As she snatched up the phone, her thoughts swam. Too many ideas and opinions populated at once. For one thing, why had someone killed Rosalyn? It was too much of a coincidence to be a simple robbery. Besides, judging from the condition of the room, it didn’t look like they had taken anything. Her jewelry box remained where it had been, next to the pile of dead chickens. No, this was an execution, plain and simple. A deliberate act which raised many questions. Another thought: why didn’t they kill me too? Whoever had committed the crime had to know the woman wasn’t alone, that Angela was there, present within the house; her car wasn’t exactly hidden being on the street corner. Furthermore, whatever secrets Rosalyn knew, she had relayed some of them to Angela. Did she not tell her enough? What else did the woman know? What was it that had gotten her killed?

Rosalyn, what else did you need to tell me?

The room spun as her brain fabricated endless possible answers. All at once, things suddenly became very real, very dark. Shadows crawled across the room, draping darkness over the walls, and Angela could feel them slipping inside her soul, poisoning her spirits, sullying her composure. The phone trembled in her hand and the fringes of her vision blurred.

The orange light winked: 1 NEW MESSAGE.

Curiosity bested her, and she pressed play.

“This is 911 services, we received your call. We will be sending help—”

She didn’t remember calling. Had she called? And forgotten about it? No, that seemed like a conversation she’d remember, though her mind had been so scattered lately she thought it was possible. She had called and forgotten in what? The span of five minutes? No, that didn’t seem right. She checked the “placed calls” log and saw the three digit number had been dialed eight minutes ago, well before she’d crossed the bedroom’s threshold.

Then it clicked.

Fuck.

She immediately rushed down the stairs, stampeding down them as if whoever had killed Rosalyn Jeffries was right behind her. She rushed across the foyer, ripped open the door, and expected to see the entire cul-de-sac packed with police vehicles and cops, special task force personnel with their weapons drawn and ready to fire on the old woman’s murderer.

But there was no one. The street was as empty as it had been when she’d arrived. Birds whistled. Wind rustled the tree branches. Scattered leaves scuttled across the asphalt.

And, in the distance, she heard sirens, a consistent wail that always sounded farther than it actually was.

She doubled back for her purse, which she had left in the kitchen; made sure her pills were inside and bolted for the front door. Sprinting down the street, she fumbled around for her keys, locating them in the bottom of her bag. A long stream of curses spilled past her lips, and she continued scolding herself for being so stupid, for parking so far away. She knew she couldn’t have predicted this outcome, but still, prepping for an emergency getaway would have been smart, something she would have thought about had her head not been clouded by recent events.

As the sirens grew louder, she reached the car. They still hadn’t pulled into the cul-de-sac when she peeled out of there, searching the neighborhood windows for prying eyes. There were none that she could see, and she turned back to the road, focusing on her escape, putting weight on the gas pedal, pressing it to the floor.

Speeding down the highway, she passed several emergency response units heading in the opposite direction. None of them paid her any attention, yet she drove all the way back to Red River feeling like there was a bomb in place of her heart, ready to detonate at any moment.

The second she stepped foot inside her own home, she closed the door, clutched her aching chest, leaned against the door, slid to the floor, and began shaking with the onset of crippling sadness. The tears came fast, too quickly for her to prepare, and the heaving sobs attacked just as abruptly. Her whole body quaked as she purged the overflowing emotions inhibiting her to think clearly. After a few minutes of self-loathing and wondering where it had all gone wrong—where she had gone wrong—she glanced up. Through blurred vision, she made out her husband leaning against the door jamb between the foyer and the kitchen. He was watching her with his arms folded across his chest.

“I thought you were spending the night at your mom’s?” he asked.

No ‘Hey, babe! How are you? Is everything okay?’ The way he spoke made her feel like she’d done something wrong.

“I was. I was, but…”

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice lacking concern. He acted like he couldn’t see the evidence of her grief streaming down her face. “Everything okay?”

“No…” she said, shaking her head. “No, everything is most certainly not.”

“What’s wrong?”

To answer the question honestly would bring forth an admission of lies. She opted for the safe way out. “I just… couldn’t sleep there. I wanted to be here. Home. With you.”

“I thought this house was the reason you left.” He sighed. “And… I thought maybe you were mad at me.”

“I did want to get away from this house. This place is draining me dry, Terry. You have no idea.” Using her sleeve, she brushed away a cheek’s worth of tears. “But it doesn’t matter. As long as I have you. You make it bearable.”

He smiled genuinely. “Aw. Babe, come here.” He strolled over to her, extending his arms. She took his hands and he yanked her to her feet. “Give me a hug.”

She squeezed him tightly and things had never felt so good.

A shadow appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Hello, Angela.”

She jumped out of her husband’s arms, her heart hurtling. “What… what are you doing here?”

Before the figure in the doorway could answer, Terry put his hand on his wife’s back and said, “Doctor Wilson dropped by. She figured we should talk. That my inclusion in your therapy might be healthy.”

Abbie Wilson smiled and nodded. “I know in our therapy sessions you often mentioned how you wish Terry could join us, and how you were against approaching him.”

Angela cleared her throat. “It’s fine. He knows.”

Abbie’s smile widened. “I know. It’s wonderful.” She crossed the foyer and snatched her coat off the hook on the pantry door. “Well, I must be going. I have important plans tonight. I just wanted to drop by and introduce myself to Terry, try to convince him. Looks like I didn’t need to.” She made her way to the door. “Goodnight, you two. I’ll have my secretary schedule our first couple’s session.”

After she left, Terry said, “She seems nice.”

“Yeah, real nice.”

“What’s the matter? I thought this is what you wanted?”

“I did. I do. I just…”

“What?

“I feel weird.”