The House Next Door Read online

  James sighs. “Please don’t make this harder than it has to be. Listen…”

  He reaches for one of her hands, which have involuntarily curled into fists—but Ellen angrily yanks it away.

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this. After everything we’ve been through!”

  James’s face softens. He wants to do the right thing by her. But he has hundreds of students, parents, and teachers to think of, too.

  “I’m sorry, Ellen. You know I am. But until this whole thing blows over, there’s nothing else I can do. Except wish you good luck.”

  Chapter 12

  Suspended, for nothing!

  Stumbling out of the principal’s office in a daze, Ellen truly can’t believe it. Another pillar of her life has just come tumbling down.

  She shudders to think what might be coming next.

  After the longest, most humiliating walk through the halls yet, Ellen returns to the nurse’s office and begins to gather up her belongings. Pausing briefly to eye the rows of neatly organized translucent cabinets full of medications and first-aid supplies, she gets the sudden urge to smash them all to bits in a fit of rage.

  But of course she controls herself. Ellen hopes to get her job back when all this drama blows over, and going postal is a surefire way to prevent that.

  So instead, she swallows her shock and shame, scoops up her purse and uneaten lunch, and scrams. James told her the substitute nurse who covered for her over the past week would be arriving within the hour. Part of Ellen feels a pang of guilt about leaving the nurse’s office unattended, even for such a brief time. Yet the thought of having to face her replacement is simply too much to bear.

  Ellen scurries down the hall one final time, then pushes open the school’s rear exit and steps outside. The bright midday California sun makes her squint, but its rays feel warm and soothing. Small comfort, but she’ll take it

  Ellen starts heading to her car in the faculty lot—when she sees something that stops her in her tracks. A man with curly black hair, wearing a wrinkled blue button-down, is leaning against her Camry, scanning his smartphone and smoking a cigarette.

  He looks about forty. He looks familiar, too, although Ellen can’t quite put her finger on how she knows him.

  Then it hits her. He’s a goddamn reporter, one of the many who have been knocking on her door for days. So she was followed this morning after all!

  Ellen turns back, praying he won’t notice her, but it’s too late.

  “Mrs. Pierson, wait!” the man exclaims, tossing down his cigarette and hurrying her way. “I’m Mike Curr, with the SLO Tribune. I’d just like to ask you a few—”

  “I said no!” Ellen shouts, swatting the man out of her face. “Leave me alone!”

  She nearly knocks him over as she plows past him, then slides behind the wheel, starts the engine, and screeches out of the parking lot, narrowly missing a gatepost.

  Racing down San Luis’s quiet streets toward home, Ellen feels a growing knot in her stomach, knowing she’ll have to face a phalanx of additional reporters waiting for her. It won’t take long for them to realize she was suspended, either, and plaster that across every front page in town. She just can’t handle that right now.

  So instead Ellen pulls a U-turn. She takes South Street to Madonna Road, then hooks a right into Laguna Lake Park. It’s a lush open space, one of her favorite spots in the city. The perfect place to unwind. To decompress. To think.

  Ellen turns off her cell phone, then dons a floppy beach hat and a pair of oversized sunglasses—a crude disguise, but better than nothing—and spends a few hours ambling along the scenic lakefront and the park’s gently sloping trails. She passes bikers, joggers, stroller-pushing parents, even a class of first-graders on a field trip—thankfully from a different elementary school, so she doesn’t know any of them or their teachers. It’s relaxing, but strange and painful, too, seeing all these other people carrying on with their lives while hers lies in tatters.

  Finally, with the sun edging toward the horizon, Ellen decides she’s ready to go home. All she wants to do is work on her butterfly collection for a bit, then curl up in bed—and not wake up for a very, very long time.

  As she nears her home, in addition to the cluster of reporters still camped out in front, she sees an official-looking white Chevy Impala parked in her driveway.

  And as soon as she pulls beside it, Detectives McGrath and Petrillo step out.

  McGrath has been calling her fairly regularly since last week, but he hasn’t paid a house visit since the police searched her home and dug up her backyard. So Ellen immediately knows something is afoot. She watches them order the press to back off, which she appreciates. Then she steels herself as they approach her.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Pierson,” McGrath says with a rakish but polite smile.

  Ellen struggles to keep her composure. “Hello again. Is something wrong?” Realizing the absurdity of her words, she backtracks. “I mean, something new.”

  “No, ma’am,” McGrath answers. “We just have a few more questions for you. I was going to ask you to come down to the station. But I figured you’d be more comfortable in your own home.”

  Comfortable. That’s not something Ellen has felt all week. And she probably never will again.

  “Let me ask you something, Detectives,” she says. “Do I have to answer these new questions? What would happen if I refused?”

  McGrath sighs and runs his callused hand through his thick mane of hair.

  “And here I thought we were becoming friends.”

  “Friends?” Ellen scoffs. She can’t hold back anymore; she lets him have it. “You think my husband is a killer. And you think I’m involved. You’re trying to cozy up to me so I let down my defenses. So I slip up and give you some clue or piece of evidence you can use against us. Well, if that’s what you consider friendship, you might be stranger than I thought!”

  McGrath looks irritated, but Petrillo cracks up.

  “You’re wrong about that, Mrs. Pierson,” she says. “He’s a helluva lot stranger.”

  But Ellen is in no joking mood. She promptly spins on her heel and marches into her house, slamming the door shut behind her.

  Chapter 13

  Ellen does not open that door for the next five days.

  She has become a shut-in. A hermit. Too overwhelmed to venture outside her house. Too scared to confront the growing horde of reporters out front. Too despondent to even change out of her pajamas.

  She’s been spending her days in the attic, hunched over her colorful assortment of butterflies. Sorting and cataloging, cleaning and preserving, building and polishing their glass display cases.

  She’s been spending her nights in a haze of red wine and tears.

  For food, Ellen has been subsisting on what was already in her cupboards, mostly staples like beans and pasta and cans of tuna fish.

  For company, she’s been rereading her favorite romance novels and streaming old sitcom reruns. Her friends have, by and large, abandoned her, so she’s stopped reaching out and unplugged her home phone. Her jailed husband still refuses to speak with her, and she’s begun to give up hope on that front as well.

  Tonight Ellen is curled up on the sofa, wineglass in hand, watching an ancient episode of Married…with Children, thinking about how dumb and insignificant Al and Peggy’s marital problems seem compared to her own—when her doorbell rings.

  The sound startles Ellen out of her stupor. She pauses the show and checks the clock: it’s after 10:00 p.m. She certainly isn’t expecting any visitors at this hour. A few reporters still bother her from time to time during the day, but never this late at night.

  It must be a prank, Ellen thinks. Or someone trying to mess with me.

  So Ellen ignores it. She’s about to restart the show when the doorbell rings again. It’s followed by knocking, gentle yet firm. Then a familiar man’s voice.

  “Ellen? It’s me. I know you’re in there. Can we talk? I just—I want to
know how you’re doing. Please open the door.”

  Every muscle in Ellen’s body tenses. She definitely wasn’t expecting…him.

  Ellen considers ignoring her visitor until he gives up and goes home. But it’s been days since she’s had any contact with another human being. And she’s moved that he thought to stop by and check on her, even if it’s mostly out of guilt. She decides seeing a semi-friendly face can’t hurt. Right?

  “Hi, Jim,” Ellen says, opening the door for the same person who, just a few days earlier, had summoned her to his office via text message and suspended her for something her husband had done. Tonight James’s tie is loosened. His shoulders are slumped forward. And his eyes betray a concern for her that was absent earlier in the week.

  “This is quite the surprise,” Ellen continues. Then, suddenly embarrassed by her makeup-free face and unwashed hair, she adds: “Clearly I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

  James offers a tender smile. “Could’ve fooled me. I think you look lovely.”

  He’s a terrible liar, but Ellen appreciates the sentiment.

  “I just stopped by to see how you were doing. How you were handling it all. I tried calling, but there was never any answer. Your cell, too.”

  Ellen remembers that her phone died a few days ago and she never bothered recharging it. She shrugs.

  “I’m fine, Jim. Considering.”

  “Listen. I feel awful about your job. I want you to know—”

  “If you really felt that bad, you wouldn’t have suspended me,” Ellen says, deliberately putting him on the spot.

  “That’s not fair,” James answers. “Parents, teachers, the board—you have no idea the kind of pressure I was getting. I tried to stand up for you as much as I could.”

  Ellen wants to believe him. She wants desperately to have a friend right now, an ally, when the rest of the world has turned its back on her.

  “Why are you really here, Jim?”

  “I told you. I wanted to apologize. Again. And make sure you were all right.”

  Ellen tucks a few strands of hair behind her ear. “Thank you. I appreciate that. More than you can know.” Then she adds: “Does your wife know where you are?”

  James looks down at the doorstep. He nervously shuffles his feet.

  “Now, that’s really not fair, Ellen.”

  With a coy smile, she reaches out and takes James’s hand.

  “You know I don’t always play by the rules.”

  Chapter 14

  Ellen wakes up in bed—alone. She feels a bit groggy. Her head is gently throbbing. She must have had more wine last night than she realized.

  After taking a moment to steady herself, she hobbles into the bathroom and does something she hasn’t done all week.

  Ellen takes a good, long look at her reflection in broad daylight.

  It practically makes her wince.

  Her glassy eyes have plum-colored bags under them. Her skin is splotchy. Her hair is greasy, tangled. She knew she’d let herself go these past few days, but not this far.

  Okay, she thinks. Enough. No more wallowing. Time to pull it together.

  Ellen starts by taking a scalding-hot shower for almost thirty heavenly minutes. She briefly feels guilty for wasting so much water, knowing California has been suffering a major drought. But she hasn’t bathed once in nearly a full week, so it’s a reasonable indulgence.

  Next comes vigorous brushing—both her sticky teeth and her knotty hair.

  After that, it’s makeup. Normally not a vain person at all, Ellen goes to town this morning. She dusts her cheeks with pink blush. Slathers her lips a shade of ruby red. Coats her eyelids a deep forest green, adding a Cleopatra-style flourish at the edges.

  Lastly come clothes. By habit, Ellen begins to put on a variation of her typical school-nurse attire: sensible khakis, a simple blouse, a comfy pair of Keds. But no. Today that just won’t do. After rummaging through her closet—and forcing herself to ignore her husband’s clothes at the other end—she finds an old sundress, yellow with a red floral print. She hasn’t worn it in years, and frankly, it’s a little short and a bit too low-cut for a woman her age.

  But what the hell? Ellen thinks. I’m doing this for nobody but me.

  And it works. Striking a pose in front of her bathroom mirror again, Ellen can’t believe the transformation. She looks a thousand times better. But more importantly, she feels better. She feels—almost—normal again.

  Ellen pads down the stairs into the kitchen and puts on a pot of coffee. Through a side window, she glimpses a few reporters still camped outside along the sidewalk. She starts to grumble under her breath…until she sees them all move aside to let a car pull into her driveway. It’s a white Chevy Impala, which she recognizes right away.

  Out steps Detective McGrath. By himself. And somehow, he’s gotten even better-looking since the last time she saw him—the healthy amount of salt-and-pepper scruff he’s sporting gives him an extra rugged, manly air.

  Ellen wasn’t expecting him today, but she’s not upset to see him, either. She opens the front door for McGrath before his finger can even ring the bell.

  “Mrs. Pierson, I—oh, wow,” he says, clearly caught off guard by her appearance, and fighting the urge to glance her up and down. “You going somewhere? You’re…”

  “Like a human being again?”

  McGrath smiles.

  “Do you mind if I come in?”

  “I could use the company. But I’m guessing this isn’t a social visit.”

  McGrath shakes his head. Of course it’s not. Ellen knows exactly why he’s here. To ask her more questions. To gather more evidence against her husband.

  Ellen is soon pouring two cups of piping-hot coffee. Once again they’re seated beside each other on her couch. But this time, she feels…different. She’s less shell-shocked. More comfortable.

  But more tingly, too.

  “It’s good to see you again, Detective,” she says, “but I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. As I’ve been telling you for weeks, I don’t remember anything more about—”

  “No, I get that, Mrs. Pierson. And the details you have been able to remember about the nights of the disappearances—they’ve been very helpful. But today…”

  McGrath takes a careful sip of his coffee, then gently sets it back down.

  “…with my partner working another case, I’d like you to tell me more about your husband generally. The kind of man he is. How you met. The state of your marriage. That kind of thing.”

  “How we met? Our marriage? I don’t quite see how that—”

  “I don’t mean to pry. I’m just trying to get a fuller picture of our suspect. Because to be frank with you, ma’am…”

  McGrath leans in a bit and gives Ellen a smoldering gaze.

  “…I can’t for the life of me figure out why any man would ever go after a couple girls when he’s got a woman at home like you.”

  Ellen shifts on the sofa. She tugs at the hem of her sundress. She doesn’t know if McGrath is using his sex appeal as a new tactic, or if he’s hitting on her, or both. Part of her is offended by this approach. But part of her—fine, much of her—is flattered.

  “Well, to be honest,” she says, “Michael is…a lot like you, Detective. Not on the outside. But he’s very loyal. Focused. And determined. We met about seven years ago at a California state teachers’ conference. In Sacramento. We couldn’t believe we had both been living in San Luis Obispo—and working in education—for so long and hadn’t met. He asked me out that night, but I said no. I had just gotten out of a rocky relationship and wasn’t interested in dating yet. But Michael persisted. He kept calling me and calling me. Sound familiar? Anyway. Finally, I said yes. And I’m glad I did.”

  McGrath now looks at Ellen a little icily.

  “You’re ‘glad’ you went out with, then married, a serial killer?”

  Ellen blushes. “You know what I mean.”

  “And how has your marriage been recently? S
pecifically, the past two years. Since the abductions began.”

  Ellen’s eyes fall to her mug. She stares at the milk and coffee swirling together, like mini storm clouds brewing on the horizon. She begins to choke back tears.

  “Every relationship has its ups and downs. But my husband always seemed like such a sweet, caring, wonderful man. I loved Michael. Even now, a tiny piece of me…still does. And maybe always will.”

  McGrath rubs a callused hand over his scruffy beard, thinking.

  “Has he still not talked to you since he was arrested?”

  Ellen nods, almost embarrassed.

  “In that case, I have some news about him you might want to hear.”

  Chapter 15

  I wonder sometimes what’s really going on in their heads.

  What they’re really thinking about when they look up at me with those puppy-dog eyes but are so clearly talking nonsense that I can see through it a mile away.

  “The turkey is burning!” my mother, Evelyn, is exclaiming.

  She’s rocking her ninety-five-pound, eighty-six-year-old frame back and forth in her easy chair, flailing her arms and struggling to get up.

  “Ma, shhhh, relax,” I coo as gently and sweetly as I can.

  “And the stuffing, too! And the sweet potatoes and, and—oh, Andy, Thanksgiving is ruined, and it’s all my fault!”

  I place my hands on her shoulders and guide her back into her chair. I do so as delicately as if she were an antique porcelain doll.

  “It’s all gonna be fine, Mom. I’ll take care of it, I promise. Don’t worry.”

  This seems to settle her. It usually does.

  As she and my dad have both gotten worse over the last couple years, I’ve found that responding to them with facts or logic or reason doesn’t work. The actual words I say basically don’t matter at all when either one of them gets like this. As long as my tone is tender and my energy is calm, I could recite the Gettysburg Address to my parents and it would chill them out and bring them back to reality.

  I’ve just about gotten my mom soothed when I hear the toilet flush in the bathroom down the hall. Then comes my father’s booming voice.