Before He Finds Her Read online

“Do you love me?” He didn’t answer. “Coward.”

  She ran her hands roughly through her hair, pulling at the roots.

  “I’m not a coward, Allie,” he said.

  “Yes, you fucking are. When you use people to get ahead and ignore the chance to be with your soul mate? What do you think it makes you?”

  “We aren’t soul mates, Allie. You’re only saying that now because...” He shook his head. “Look, we’re two people who meet for breakfast a few times a month. I keep you company sometimes when you’re alone with Meg, because—”

  “Because I’m so desperate, is that it?”

  “No. But I do think you’re lonely.”

  I don’t want to hear this, she thought. He was twisting what the two of them had. Making himself feel better. He was being cold because that was easier than dealing with the truth.

  “We’re neighbors,” he concluded, and the words were like a knife.

  “We’re a lot more than that, and you know it,” she seethed. But were they? She considered, in horror, that maybe she had it all wrong. What she saw as friendship, as intimacy, maybe he saw as nothing more than a charity case. And now she was here, and her daughter was alone back in the house with no adults to hear her if she was crying for something.

  Allie thought that nothing David could say could possibly be worse than what he’d already said. “Listen, Al, I’m not going to leave my wife. That just can’t happen.” He took a breath. “But if you have... what’s the right way to say this?—needs that aren’t being met...” He looked away. “We’d have to be very discreet.”

  It took a moment for his words to make sense. When they did, she shot up from the couch and rushed to the door, sobbing.

  “Okay, forget I ever said it. I’m sorry. Allie? Come on, Allie. Come back.”

  But she was already out the door.

  The Sandy Oaks section of town was almost completely residential, though one bar, Jackrabbits, was only a couple of blocks away. It probably predated the neighborhood itself. It had a decent jukebox, and when she and Ramsey first moved into the house, they went there sometimes for a beer and a few games of pool. She considered going there now, she could walk it, but her head was already swimmy from the beer and the Scotch, and she didn’t want anyone, even in a dark bar, seeing her like this. So with nowhere to go, she went home, walking the too-bright streets of her neighborhood. So many damn light posts. Safety, safety. How about a little darkness at night? Why must a person always be on display?

  At least the music had stopped, though she wasn’t sure why. When she crested the small hill on her street, her own house became visible. Two police cars were parked out front.

  She quickened her pace, and by the time she reached her driveway she was breathing heavier. She went around to the side yard and through the gate in the privacy fence.

  A dozen or so guests lingered. The fire pit coughed up smoke, and picked-over food sat out on tables. Near the stage, the band huddled with two police officers. When she approached, Ramsey glanced up at her and, taking little notice, continued talking to the officers. “What does ten p.m. even mean if we can’t play till ten p.m.? I mean, you tell me.” She could tell she’d walked into a conversation that’d been going on like this awhile.

  “Can’t allow it,” the officer said. “Not with the complaints we’ve gotten.”

  “Who’s complaining?” Ramsey asked. “Everyone was here. It’s for them.”

  “What about two more songs?” Eric asked, looking at his watch. “We’ll be done by nine thirty.”

  “Two songs, nothing,” Ramsey said. “I know the ordinance, and it’s ten p.m.”

  “Can’t allow it,” the larger officer said. “This is a quiet—”

  “Yeah, a quiet neighborhood. I get it,” Ramsey said. “That doesn’t change the goddamn ordinance.”

  “Sir...”

  “Oh, don’t ‘sir’ me.”

  “Ramsey,” Allie said, before either of the officers had a chance to reply, before this escalated further.

  “Why, yes, Allie, what is it?” He spoke slowly, his tone mocking and loud, intended for all to hear. “Has my wife returned from one last roll in the hay with the great weatherman to offer us her words of wisdom?”

  “What?” She glanced around. “How dare you... that’s not what I...”

  He leaned in closer and fake-whispered: “So how was his lightning rod?”

  She glared at him. “You fucking—”

  “Cool it, Ramsey!” Paul moved between the couple, the first responder springing to action. “Whatever’s going on, you need to calm it down.”

  The air was oppressive. Allie’s head spun. She thought she might become sick.

  “Your friend is right,” said the officer. “You need to calm it way down. Because I’ll haul you in for drunk and disorderly. I’ll be glad to do it. So take a deep breath and count to ten. Because this party’s over. And you can either be cool about it, or you can come with us. And I’m this close to making that decision for you. Am I being clear?”

  “Officer,” Eric began, but his younger brother laid a hand on his shoulder, silencing him.

  “Yeah,” Ramsey said through gritted teeth. “You’re clear.”

  “That’s right—I am.” The officer stood almost a head taller than Ramsey and stared him down another few seconds. “I know it’s been a while since you’ve seen the inside of our drunk tank, Mr. Miller. But I promise it’s ready and waiting.”

  Ramsey’s face took on a wounded look. “Man, why’d you have to go and say that?”

  The officer’s expression stayed rock hard. “Why? Because I’ve been a police officer long enough to know that some things never change.”

  “That’s not true,” Ramsey muttered under his breath, like a child protesting to himself on the way to the principal’s office.

  “We won’t have to come back here, will we?” asked the officer.

  Ramsey shook his head, still looking deflated. “Nah. It’s like you said. The party’s over.”

  Halfway to the gate, the younger, shorter officer turned around. “Since you’re so concerned about ordinances, you should know your fire pit’s too large and too close to the trees. We could ticket you for that.”

  They left, shutting the gate behind them.

  “I want you all out of here,” Allie said, loud enough for everyone in the yard to hear. “Get out of here this second.”

  “There’s all this gear,” Paul said apologetically. “It all has to be—”

  “Fine. Pack up your gear and leave.”

  “Allie,” said Eric, who stood beside Ramsey, “maybe the three of us should—”

  “I really don’t want to hear it, Eric. I want you and everyone else gone.” She walked toward the house. “You, too, Ramsey,” she said without bothering to turn around.

  20

  September 28, 2006

  Such a strange mix of assertiveness and nervousness, Melanie thought while fishing through her purse for change in the Sandpiper’s lobby. All of David’s fake charm masking his actual charm. And such a large and lonely house. Or maybe she was merely detecting her own loneliness now that the evening’s excitement was over.

  She perused the vending machine’s sad offerings and wondered if she could have a pizza delivered to her room.

  She missed Aunt Kendra’s garlic cheese toast. She missed Uncle Wayne’s Western omelets, which usually ended up being scrambled eggs after the flip had failed. It’d been three days since leaving home. She missed Phillip. How comforting, that lone night spent in his bed. Alone in her hotel room with the too-large bed and the smell of industrial cleaning products, it was easy to feel lost and hopeless.

  She was exhausted, and pizza would take too long, so she settled for a bag of corn chips and a Snickers bar.

  Back in her room, she opened the chips, which were stale. It felt like a personal insult. She dropped the bag into the trash can, and before allowing herself any time for second-guessing, she picked u
p the phone in her room and dialed Phillip’s cell. She didn’t know if he’d pick up, seeing the unfamiliar number, but he did.

  “It’s me,” she said nervously. “Melanie.” He might not want to talk to her, she now realized. She’d walked out on him, hadn’t she?

  “Melanie—where are you? Are you all right?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m fine,” she said, because now she was.

  She told him the truth: She’d returned to Silver Bay to find her father. She refused to live in hiding any longer, and she absolutely refused to raise a child in hiding.

  She told some half-truths: She was gathering leads, making progress.

  She told an outright lie: No, I don’t want you coming here. I want to do this alone.

  They talked for thirty minutes—about what? She had no idea. The point was to hear his voice, bridge the distance. Before hanging up, she demanded that he keep her whereabouts a secret, and after a brief debate (Your aunt and uncle, Melanie. They must be going crazy) he relented.

  She had lied and half-lied to Phillip, but she couldn’t lie to herself, and when she hung up the phone (both of them having said I miss you but lacking the guts to say any more) she felt lonelier than before. What was she actually accomplishing, being here? David had agreed to help find her father, but what did that mean, exactly? How would he go about it? And how assertively, given how little he wanted to be reminded of the past?

  But these were tomorrow’s problems. She still hadn’t eaten. She should have ordered the damn pizza. She ate the Snickers bar, brushed her teeth, and went to sleep.

  She’d forgotten to draw the hotel room’s heavy shades before going to bed and woke up at 6:30 a.m. to soft natural light and the awareness that her anxieties had eased overnight. Phillip had been relieved, even happy, to hear from her. And David knowing her secret, even that felt okay. Pretty good, actually. Melanie felt lighter. Someone else just knowing she was alive made her feel more alive. Not only someone else—a man with connections. A man who could get things done, if he had a mind to.

  Anyway, there was no choice now but to trust him.

  Her plan for the morning was to visit Arthur, see about Eric’s statement that he knew why her father had thrown the party. Maybe look into why Eric no longer worked outdoors as a lineman—whether it was his health or his proselytizing or something else. Also, she wanted to learn what Arthur knew about the Monmouth Truck Lot. That was where her father had sold his truck just two days before the murder. She found that fact especially chilling. No one had been able to make a connection between the truck sale on Friday and the murder on Sunday, but surely it meant that he knew he wouldn’t be returning to work. She wanted to see if anyone from the truck lot was still around. If they remembered her father. After a good night’s sleep, she was feeling more optimistic. She was feeling more sleuth-y. More Nancy Drew-y.

  But before any of that, before Arthur or the truck lot, she’d have an actual breakfast. She wanted bacon and eggs. (Why all the bacon suddenly? she wondered. Pregnancy was weird.) And if they had them, grits. A tall glass of orange juice. And she was willing to brave the smell of coffee to get it.

  And that’s what was on her mind—bacon, eggs—when she walked out of her room a few minutes after 7 a.m. and pulled the door closed. It had just clicked shut when she felt herself being grabbed from behind and mashed against the door, hard enough for her head to thud loudly and for the wind to get knocked out of her.

  “Not a fucking word,” came a man’s voice behind her, low and breathy.

  Her wrists were suddenly clamped in his hands, and his body—it was definitely a he—pressed against her from behind, crushing her against the door, against the sharp doorknob. She couldn’t move and didn’t dare to, couldn’t see anything besides the white door in front of her.

  She tried to catch her breath but could only gasp.

  “Drop all this.” So softly, his voice, lips grazing her ear. “Go away and never come back—or you’re so fucking dead.” He pressed her even harder into the door—forcing a grunt from her. “Now count to fifty before turning around. And don’t rush it.”

  She felt her wrists being released. The weight against her body removed. She wanted to drop down to the carpet but willed her legs to keep supporting her. She heard the man running toward the end of the building, toward the exit.

  Pain in her stomach, from the doorknob.

  Bruised, for sure. She wasn’t counting to fifty. She was thinking: My baby. And as the man neared the exit, she turned her head. She had to. It might be the only time she ever saw her father.

  There wasn’t much to see. Long gray coat with the collar turned up and a baseball cap. From behind, he could have been any tall man at all who kept his black shoes freshly polished.

  In the hotel bathroom’s mirror, shirt lifted, she was horrified by the wide purple bruise from the doorknob. She touched several spots on her side and abdomen, wincing.

  Then she was in her car, driving fast.

  Then she was in the elevator, then hurrying to Arthur Good-ale’s room, a nurse she didn’t recognize trailing her, saying, “You can’t just... excuse me, you have to let me...”

  His door was open, and she barged in. The room was empty.

  When she spun around, the nurse was right behind her.

  “Where is he?” Melanie heard the panic in her own voice. She already knew the answer. “Where’s Arthur?”

  “Miss, are you all right?” The nurse went to take Melanie’s arm, but Melanie yanked it away.

  “Tell me where he is!” But she knew.

  “Let’s just calm down a minute. Catch your breath, and tell me who you are.”

  “I’m Arthur’s friend,” Melanie said, “and I want to know where the hell he is.”

  The nurse sighed and pursed her narrow lips, as if Melanie’s directness were the problem.

  “Downstairs,” the nurse said.

  “No,” Melanie said. “I’m not going anywhere until—”

  “Mr. Goodale is downstairs. He didn’t need to be in critical care any longer. You can check with the front desk for his room number. But your head is contused—what happened?”

  “You mean he’s okay?”

  “Mr. Goodale? Yeah, he’s okay.”

  And then Melanie ignored some words the nurse had to say about her needing medical attention. She hurried back to the ele-vator, which couldn’t arrive fast enough.

  More concern in the face of the woman working the hospital front desk, but she gave Melanie Arthur’s room and instructions for finding it. Melanie rushed down the hallway, nearly slipping once. The door to Arthur’s door was partly open. She rushed in and, seeing him there, felt such relief that she wanted to throw her arms around him.

  “Alice!” He looked up from a magazine and smiled as if they were old friends reunited. Then: “My God, what happened?”

  Seeing his face and hearing the worry in his voice made her start to cry. The room was larger than the one upstairs, or maybe it only looked that way because there was less equipment filling it up. Outside the window was blue sky, rather than a brick wall, but the sunlight streaming into the room felt oppressive and blinding. She spotted the chair near his bed and slumped into it.

  “Alice,” he said, “your head...”

  Why was everyone carrying on about her head? In the hotel mirror, she’d looked nowhere but her stomach. Why in the world would she look anywhere but her stomach? She touched her forehead now and winced at the sting and by the size of the lump. The room started to spin around her. She gripped the chair’s arms for support.

  “Alice?”

  Her heart raced. The room spun harder: the window, the walls, the ceiling, the bed. She sought and found Arthur’s eyes, and stayed locked on them.

  “Alice, please—”

  The churning in her gut frightened her—it wasn’t morning sickness, she felt sure of it—and she remained focused on Arthur’s blue eyes as she blurted out, “David Magruder’s driver attacked me
, and my baby might be dead, and my boyfriend doesn’t know about any of it, and I miss my aunt and uncle, and I want to go home, and I’m Meg Miller.”

  She had never enjoyed food as much as she was enjoying the sandwich that had been delivered on a green plastic tray, placed on a table that rolled right up to her hospital bed. Chicken salad, fresh romaine lettuce, slices of summer tomato, not too much mayonnaise, soft potato bread.

  “You need to eat better,” the doctor told Melanie when all the scans and tests were done, and she had heard a sampling of Melanie’s meals over the past week. The doctor, a middle-aged woman wearing green scrubs, no-nonsense glasses, and a stethoscope around her neck like a scarf, sat on a stool beside Melanie’s raised hospital bed while Melanie felt vaguely annoyed at the doctor for pestering her with questions when there was this amazing sandwich to be eaten. “I’m talking about actual meals, not junk from vending machines. The way you’ve been eating, you easily could have ended up here even if you hadn’t been attacked.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Melanie said, and took another bite.

  “Before you’re discharged, we’ll give you some pamphlets about nutrition for pregnant women.”

  “But the baby is okay?”

  “Yes—but you have to take care of yourself. Just because you’re young doesn’t mean you’re invincible.” She kept looking at Melanie for a moment, letting the words settle. “Speaking of which, a police officer will be coming by your room shortly.”

  She imagined her statement: I got shoved up against a door by a man who might have been David Magruder’s driver. It would lead to nothing and only make her presence in this town more public. The police have never been helpful, she reminded herself.

  “I don’t want to talk to any police.”

  The doctor sighed. “Why not take a few minutes to think about it.”

  “I don’t need a few minutes.”

  The doctor shook her head. “This is very frustrating—it happens too often.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “A young woman gets beaten up and feels she has to defend her attacker. Especially when it’s a boyfriend or a—”