Chapter 15
It’s been three days since Ivory disappeared and my brain spends all night running through worst-case scenarios.
When my eyes finally shutter for the night due to sheer exhaustion, it’s barely a minute before I’m jolted awake to the sound of pounding.
At least it feels like a minute. The pounding stops, and at first I think it’s my heart.
But upon reaching full consciousness, it resumes as a frantic, insistent thump-thump-thump coming from downstairs.
Another slam rattles the front door and the planter falls over with a loud crack. Only now does Zoomie perk up, only casually interested in whoever is here in the middle of the night. How he manages to sleep through the knocking is a mystery.
“Luca?” I yell from my bedroom, hoping it’s just my brother coming home from a late night out.
I grab my phone and hurry down the stairs, gripping the banister with a sweaty palm.
Halfway down, I notice something off. The hallway doesn’t look right, even in the dark.
When I reach the first floor, I see what it is.
My bookshelf door is cracked open. Just an inch, but it’s enough to notice it jutting out from the wall.
My pulse spikes so hard it’s painful. I’m pretty sure I closed it earlier.
The latch clicks loudly when it catches, but I’ve been in and out of this room so much lately it’s hard to know for certain it fully closed.
As long as Luca didn’t find it and decide to check it out…
which would be the worst possible scenario short of the police discovering it.
I creep forward and nudge the bookshelf open with two fingers.
It swings silently on its oiled hinges, just enough for me to poke my head in.
I don’t need my phone’s flashlight to notice the absence of the dehumidifier’s hum.
I step inside and feel along the inside of the metal chest butted against the wall.
My grazing fingers rush frantically from edge to edge, but it’s empty.
The most important thing I was supposed to keep safe is gone.
“Shit, shit, shit.” I don’t usually swear, but this is swear-worthy bad.
There is the remote possibility that it had fallen out of the metal chest and onto the floor at some point.
I’m about to pull the lightbulb cord and search for it when another knock makes the front door tremor.
Whoever is outside isn’t going away. I wipe my palms on my pajama pants and force myself toward the foyer where the broken planter has spilled dirt all over the entry mat.
“Sharon!” a man shouts urgently.
I don’t recognize the voice, but whoever it is doesn’t quite know my name.
Then conversationally, like he’s luring a small child, he says, “I know you’re awake and I’m coming in if you don’t answer the door.”
When I flip on the porch light, a hazy circle illuminates a man on the other side. Glancing at the slightly open bookshelf, for the first time tonight I’m not sure which side of the door I should be more afraid of.
“Michael, to what do I owe the pleasure?” By now I know his name is Marshall, but if he’s going to keep calling me Sharon, I figure a little tit-for-tat with a drunk guy is good entertainment.
“My name is Marshall, bitch!” He’s swaying on his feet, one hand braced against the fissured doorframe, the sour smell of alcohol drifting off of him.
In the unsteady glow of moonlight mixed with porch light I notice his eye.
A puffy black ring around a pale gray eyeball.
“At last the queen arrives after sending her minion to do her bidding,” he slurs, pointing a finger at me like he’s delivering some kind of prophecy.
“People like you… you can’t hide forever. ”
“My minion? What are you talking about?”
He laughs, and it’s a wet, sloppy sound. “Your brother.”
Nothing this drunk man is saying makes sense, and I doubt my questions will help clarify anything, but it’s worth a try. “How do you know my brother?”
“A simple internet search of someone’s name can dig up a lot these days.
” He sways closer, and I recoil. Every word carries the scent of stale lager and garlic fries—heavy on the garlic.
“Oh, I know all about your criminal background. Husband’s suspicious death.
Prison time. And your brother’s name! Funny how your whole life is all right there for the viewing. ”
Speaking of my brother, I have no idea where he is. A rush of nausea swirls in my stomach. “Why would you look my brother up? What did he do?” This time.
He jabs a thumb toward his bruised eye. “You sent him after me!”
“What? No I didn’t.”
“Don’t play dumb.” He presses a hand to the welt. “Some guy jumped me at Dirty Dan’s and told me to stay away from you specifically. So I looked you up and found out you have a deadbeat brother. And guess what! He did time in jail just like you. Put two and two together…”
I stare at him, bewildered. “Why would my brother jump you, Marshall?”
“That’s what I want to know!”
I recall when Luca showed up three days ago, right after I found that nasty review online.
There were his split knuckles that I hadn’t given much thought to until now…
Oh. No. He. Didn’t. Luca must have saw the review, then figured out it was Marshall behind it.
In his typical hot-headed way, he believes defending his sister means using his fists.
My phone is already in hand, so I navigate to the review and click on “Sue D. Nimm’s” profile. A scroll down to some earlier posts reveals countless half-naked pictures of Marshall at the gym, him in a red Porsche, him drinking shots… lots and lots of Macho Marshall earning that nickname.
I aim my phone at Marshall’s face with the review filling up my screen. “This is why. He kicked your ass because of that cruel review you left about Shoot to Thrill. My brother can get protective.”
“It was a joke!” Marshall rolls his eyes, and it’s more of an I’m about to pass out eyeroll than an I’m teasing eyeroll. “And protective is an understatement. He almost killed me. I went to the cops, by the way, and I’ll be pressing assault charges.”
“You brought this on yourself. If you don’t want me to get a restraining order against you, stop stalking me. Stop parking in front of my house. And stop showing up in the middle of the night.”
“Parking out front?” He snorts. “Okay, for real that’s not me. My car’s right there.”
He gestures toward the curb where a flashy orange sports car is crookedly parked in my grass. Tire marks gouge two long dirt trails where he’s torn up my yard. It’s not the black Mercedes I’ve been seeing.
“Tell your brother if he comes after me again, he’ll end up like your husband!” Marshall stumbles toward his car. For a second I think he’s going to fall face-first into a tree, but he catches himself, muttering curses under his breath.
“My Sharona,” he sings over his shoulder, and it takes him three tries before his hand makes contact with his car door handle, “I warned you that you’d regret rejecting me. And it’s only just beginning!”