Lisa Unger - The Stranger Inside

The sound of it sliced her, every time.

There weren’t many people who remembered Rain’s ugly history. It was big news once, but it had faded in the bubbling morass of horrific crimes since then. Greg and, of course, her father knew. Gillian. And somehow, years ago, Henry had unearthed the horrible thing that happened to her when she was a kid. Not that it happened to her, exactly. It should have but it didn’t.

“Is there a connection?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level.

“Feds think so,” he said. “That’s what my guy said.”

“Between all three?”

“There might be others, too,” he said. “Two others, to be precise, that fit the parameters—someone got away with something vile. Then didn’t.”

“A vigilante.”

“Yeah,” said Henry, voice gone soft with admiration. “Exactly.”

“Do you have files?” she asked.

Another pause, that tap, tap, tap again.

“What are you working on, Rain Winter?”

It didn’t do any good to bullshit guys like Henry. They knew the truth when they heard it.

Lies had a vibration, they tingled in the air, electric. A certain kind of person—Rain thought she was one of them—could feel it. That’s why she liked Henry. He might be a little crazy, sometimes wrong, but he was no liar. And he knew how to follow the questionable channels you sometimes had to take to the truth.

“I don’t know yet,” she admitted.

A pause, more tapping. “I’ll send you what I have.”

Lily’s tower of blocks fell, and the baby issued a little cry of frustration, her face crumbling into a comical frown.

“That’s not a monitor, is it?” said Henry. “Tell me you’re not using one of those things. You know anyone can hack into those, right? The audio and the video feed? And those home security cameras. Oh, my god. I’ll send you my blog.”

“Thanks, Henry,” she said. “I’ll look forward to those files.”

“They’re watching,” he said ominously. “Never forget that.”

She sat a moment after ending the call, Henry’s words bouncing around her head. A text from Greg startled her back to the present.

Sorry, babe. I’m running late. Don’t hold dinner.

The words pulsed on the screen in front of her. She wasn’t surprised, of course. But there was a flutter of disappointment; the house felt eerily quiet.

Rain and Lily ate together, Lily’s version of the meal cut into small bites and spread over her tray. The baby had a little plastic fork and spoon, neither of which she could be bothered to use unless to toss one onto the table, or the floor, or, fascinatingly, as a brush for her hair.

“Maybe we’ll go for a ride in the car tomorrow,” she told Lily, wiping the baby’s mouth.

Lily banged her spoon, sending some food flying. “Car! Car!”

Rain was going to take that as a yes.

After dinner, still no sign of Greg. So, she gave Lily a bath, the things Henry said swirling, the story already taking shape the way stories did, arranging themselves into a digestible narrative. Where did she need to go first? Who did she need to see?

As she changed Lily’s diaper, dressed her for bed, she felt the eye of the baby monitor on her and glanced back to look at its glowing red light. She reached over and turned it away.

Once Lily was down, Rain texted Gillian. She hesitated, fingers hovering over the little keyboard. Then, Feel like taking a little road trip?

If she knew Gillian, her friend was on the treadmill in front of the television.

Hmm. What did you have in mind?

What did she have in mind? This story would have to begin at the end. Steve Markham’s end.

She typed: Let’s pay our final respects.

Rain didn’t have to wait long.

Ha. I knew it. She’s baa-aack!

The flames in the fireplace licked and danced, crackling. Rain had made it not for warmth but just to look at it, stare into the flames and sip on the glass of white she’d poured herself while she waited for Greg.

Rectangles of light slid across the wall. Someone in the driveway. She stood and went to the window, watched her husband emerge from the SUV.

The slouch to his shoulders, the slow way he moved, standing a second to rub at his temples before retrieving his bags from the back seat—he seemed so tired, run-down by work, by new parenthood. From a distance, for a moment, the shadow of his form was unfamiliar, as if she were seeing him for the first time. She wanted to run to him. Instead, she opened the door and went to stand on the porch.

He paused at the bottom step, looked up at her. The cool of the day had turned downright chilly, a light wind tossing his hair.

“Sorry,” he said. “I tried to get home earlier.”

It was his default greeting lately. Rain felt a wash of compassion. He was working all day, and she was here in their safe, happy home with the baby. Yeah, it was hectic, all-consuming, a bit thankless. But it could also be peaceful, joyful, quiet—just the two of them. He might have a freedom that she no longer had—the freedom to come and go as he chose. But he faced different challenges—deadlines, the endless pressure to be right, to be first, an asshole boss, slackers on his team.

All the things she thought she wanted to leave behind.

She walked down the steps, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him long on the mouth. He dropped his bag, and wrapped her up, lifting her a little off the ground.

“How was your day?” Rain asked, pulling back a little.

He kissed her again, soft, sweet, that familiar heat rising between them.

“Better now.”

The day, the things she’d learned and done, buzzed around her head. She led him inside. It was late, after nine, his dinner warming in the oven. She’d taken a shower, dressed, done her makeup. Usually, by the time he came home she was in loungewear, hair up, contacts out and glasses on.

“Did I miss date night?” he asked in the kitchen, grabbing her from behind as she took the food from the oven. “You’re beautiful.”

“I just thought you deserved to remember what I look like in something other than my pajamas,” she said, plating his food.

“You’re beautiful in pajamas, too.”

He took a seat at the kitchen bar and she poured him a glass of wine.

“How was your day?” he asked. “How’s our girl?”

She ran down the day—the jog in the park, the mundane tasks, activities, how much Lily was talking. He ran through his—a clash with the on-air talent, technical issues, still no word on the promotion he was sure to get.

It was their agreement, that someone be home. Home and kids had to be someone’s primary job; it was a job. They’d chosen this and neither of them was supposed to complain. (Of course, they both did, all the time.) But they’d agreed to an audit at the end of the first year. How was everybody doing? How was the money situation? Was everybody happy? That conversation was overdue. She put his plate in front of him.

“Hear anything today about Markham?” she asked, trying to segue toward that topic. She felt a flutter of nerves. She wasn’t sure why.

“I heard the Feds took over—which I thought was a little odd,” he said, watching her. “We sent a crew over this afternoon, but no one’s talking. We were only able to run a small segment. You?”

“I made a few calls, did a little research.”

“What did you find out?”

She told him what Christopher had told her, about her chat with Henry, about the press conference tomorrow. He nodded, rubbed at the stubble on his chin. Of course, he knew it all. He was downplaying. He’d lived the Markham case with her. He knew it had its hooks in her for all kinds of reasons.