Faraday had refused to discuss the particulars, and now here they were, missing from the notes. I wondered if it was more than a coincidence.
And there was something else he hadn’t told me:
Aurora had been kind enough to include the visitation logs for Jean’s stays at Glenview. I looked them over. Dennis Kingsley came to see his wife religiously, usually twice daily. He often arrived around seven-thirty a.m., probably before work, then returned around six p.m., most likely after finishing his day. I saw some other names sprinkled throughout the logs but not many, and none stayed for more than a few minutes. Few returned. She’d probably scared the hell out of them.
Except, that is, for one.
Michael Samuels. Three visits. Always late at night.
Sam I am?
I searched for the guest log on the day Jean died: missing. Every date accounted for except that one.
Flipped back to the night before the abrasion was discovered on Jean’s cheek. That log was still there: Samuels had paid her a visit around 11:30 p.m.
Looked back at the doctor’s notes a few days after the abrasion appeared:
Bad night, indeed. The woman was terrified. It was also around the same time she began talking about Sam I am.
Apparently, he’d had the presence of mind to dispose of the records documenting his final visit the night Jean Kingsley died, but not enough to cover all his tracks.
I dialed Glenview and asked for Aurora Penfield.
“What is it?” she said, her voice edgy and tight.
“I need to see you.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“No,” she said again, this time with more annoyance.
“But I need more information.”
In a hasty whisper, “You’re going to have to get it without me. I gave you what I could. Now leave me out of it!”
“Too late for that. I need to talk to—”
She hung up.
I stared at my phone for a long moment. The woman was scared; it seemed obvious.
I began gathering up the notes. A sheet slid from the loose pile to the floor. As I leaned over to pick it up, I saw an envelope halfway under the door.
I looked through the peephole. Nobody there. Opened the door, glanced both ways. Picked up the letter, flipped it over: standard business size, white, plain, nothing written on it.
I tore it open, pulled out the sheet of paper, unfolded it.
And nearly lost my breath.
Scrawled across the page in large letters, barely legible handwriting:
My mouth went dry, my body numb. I placed the note on the nightstand and stared at it for a long time
Next question: who wanted me out of town? Pretty much everyone, so far. But to go to this length? It had to be someone desperate enough. I considered the people I’d spoken to so far: CJ Norris, Dennis Kingsley, Jerry Lindsay, and Doctor Faraday. Norris was fine. Kingsley was standoffish in the beginning but warmed up once the conversation started. The guy seemed genuine; I liked him—Doctor Faraday, not so much, and Lindsay, not at all. I still couldn’t decide if he was hiding something or just your standard macho shithead—either way, I didn’t trust the old bastard. And if he had sent me this warning, I had to wonder why he’d want to keep me from digging, and even more, what exactly he didn’t want me to find out.
I walked over to the window and pulled the curtains closer together.
Thought about calling someone—but who? That would draw even more attention to me, something I could hardly afford right now. Nope, wasn’t going to do that.
I wiped my sweaty palms on my pant legs, went to the desk, found some motel stationary and a pen.
Wrote
Noticed my handwriting looked uncharacteristically shaky.
Decided to lie down for just a few minutes…
Chapter Seventeen
Things weren’t all bad all the time. I had glimpses of what happiness might have felt like. I called them “almost moments.” Times in my life when I almost got what I needed, almost made a connection, almost figured things out.
Autumn in Black Lake, a time of year I loved, the sweltering summer heat making its downward slide from miserable to mild, the leaves showing the latest in fall color, the winter months riding just above the horizon. School had just started, and I was busy at work on my first project for the year: constructing a family tree using photographs that went as far back as I could find. Warren brought a boxful over for me to pick through. He placed them on the counter, then silently migrated into the living room to watch the football game on TV.
I remember sitting at the kitchen table and sorting through photos, surrounded by the delicious smell of pumpkin pie. It was my mother’s only indulgence to the holidays. Warren loved her pies, and what Warren wanted, he usually got.
Maybe it was a combination of the photos, of us all being together, the smell of fresh pies baking in the oven. Maybe it was because my mother appeared to be relaxed and in a decent mood for a change. I don’t know—maybe it was all of those things. Whatever the reason, for a brief moment we almost felt like a real family. And that
Sorting through photos, I came across one that made me curious. Mother was standing right behind me, and I held it up so she could see it. “Is this you?”
She leaned in for a better look, then smiled and nodded. “With my father.”
“My grandfather?” I asked, now more interested. I’d never had the chance to know him; he’d died before I was born. I raised the photo for a better look, barely recognizing the girl in the picture as the woman I knew. Young, happy, and beautiful, it was such a sharp contrast. I wondered where along the way she’d left that girl, whether she ever missed her, if she’d even noticed—and what might have turned her so angry at life.
She took the photo from my hand and gazed at it. With the slightest hint of a smile and with an
