Chapter Eight—Julie #3
The police search every room. They check doors and windows. The security company reviews the cameras while one officer stands with us in the kitchen.
The family-room lamp is broken beside the sofa. I stare at the pieces.
The officer crouches near them. “Any pets?”
“No,” Dalen says.
“Could it have been unstable?”
“It wasn’t.” I fold my arms.
The officer looks at me. “You saw someone?”
“Yes.”
“Male or female?”
“I don’t know.”
“Height?”
I try to remember then shrug. “I don’t know. It was dark.”
“Clothing?”
“I don’t know.”
Each answer makes me sound less certain. The officer writes my answers anyway.
Dalen stands beside me without speaking.
The second officer returns from the mudroom. “No sign of forced entry.”
I close my eyes. It’s all too familiar. No sign. No camera footage or open door. Nothing except me saying it happened.
The first officer stands. “We’ll file the report. Given the previous incidents, keep the alarm on and call if anything else happens.”
“I did call, but we have no leads.” Dalen sounds frustrated.
The officer’s expression softens. “You did the right thing.”
If so, why does it feel so futile?
Dalen walks the officers out while I stay in the family room. The lamp lies in pieces near my feet. I bought it in Santa Fe four years ago. Hand-thrown ceramic, ugly enough that Dalen hated it for the first six months and then somehow became attached to it.
I crouch and pick up one broken piece.
Someone knocked this over. Something happened. Something that left no other proof. It makes no sense.
Dalen returns and stops behind the sofa. “Leave that. I’ll clean it.”
I put the piece on the coffee table and stand. “I know what I saw.”
“I know.”
I look at him. He holds my gaze. I want to ask if he believes me, but I don’t.
He gets a broom from the pantry and cleans the broken ceramic while I stand there watching him. We go upstairs after eleven.
Dalen checks every door before we do. I watch him but don’t feel any safer.
TUESDAY PASSES QUIETLY, which perversely leaves me more on edge. I jump when Laurent drops a sample book behind me. I check my phone every time it vibrates and leave the office before dark, telling myself it’s because I have work to do at home.
Dalen is already there when I arrive and doesn’t ask why I’m early. He kisses my cheek. I let him, but the exchange is stilted. Doubt festers between us. My doubt that he believes me, and probably his doubts about my mental health.
WEDNESDAY IS QUIET too. By Thursday, I can almost breathe again. Then Dalen leaves for an overnight meeting in Chicago.
He offers to cancel it while we’re eating breakfast.
I spread cream cheese on my bagel. “Go.”
“I can send Calla.”
I shake my head. “You’re the one they want.”
“She can be very charming.”
I look at him. “Calla scares grown men.”
“It’s part of her charm.” Dalen takes his coffee to the sink.
I smile, but he doesn’t look convinced.
He comes back to the island and rests his hand beside my plate. “I don’t have to go.”
“I know.” I put down the knife. “I want you to.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
“That came out wrong.” I cover his hand with mine. “I want you to go because this is your job, and I don’t want whatever is happening to start deciding where either of us can go.”
Dalen turns his hand beneath mine and links our fingers. “I can be back tonight.”
“You’ll spend six hours on a plane for a three-hour meeting?”
“I have a plane.”
I laugh, and it feels almost real. “Billionaire arguments are exhausting.”
His mouth finally curves. “I could be home by midnight.”
“I’ll be asleep.”
“I’d still be home.”
I squeeze his fingers. “Go to Chicago. Stay the night. Come home tomorrow.”
Dalen studies me for several seconds before nodding. He doesn’t ask if I’m sure. I notice and appreciate it.
At the front door, he kisses me longer than usual. “I’ll call after the meeting.”
“I’ll probably be working.”
He smiles. “Then ignore me.”
“I might.”
“You won’t.” He kisses me once more and leaves.
I ANSWER WHEN HE CALLS at six-twenty. I’m in the kitchen eating cereal because cooking for myself seems unnecessarily ambitious. “How’d it go?” I ask.
Dalen sighs into the phone. “Three hours of men saying the same four things in different orders.”
“Sounds expensive.”
“It was.”
I carry my bowl toward the family room. “Did you win?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
“That means yes.”
His laugh follows me as I sit on the sofa.
We talk for another ten minutes. He tells me he’s going to dinner with two board members. I tell him I’m watching a terrible renovation show where the designer has put carpet in a bathroom.
“Divorce her,” Dalen says.
“I don’t know her.”
“Find her husband and encourage him to do the right thing.”
I laugh. “Go to dinner.”
“I love you.”
The words squeeze my heart. “I love you too.”
I hang up and set my phone beside me. The house becomes very quiet. I leave the television on while I take my bowl to the kitchen.
At eight, I lock the doors. At eight-oh-two, I check them again.
I spend another hour working on the Hollman project at the dining-room table. By nine-thirty, my eyes hurt from the laptop.
I close it and carry my water upstairs. The new interior cameras show little green lights in the hallway and at the top of the stairs.
I hate the need for them. I also look directly at the one outside our bedroom before going inside.
My phone rings while I’m brushing my teeth. It’s Meg, so I spit, rinse, and answer. “Hey.”
“Checking on you.” Her voice is bright. “Dalen’s gone, right?”
I wipe my mouth and walk into the bedroom. “Chicago.”
“I can come over.”
“No.”
“Wow. Immediate.”
“I love you. I also love being alone sometimes.”
Meg laughs. “Since when?”
“Since my sister started volunteering as emotional support staff.”
“Ouch.”
I smile as I pull back the covers. “I’m fine.”
“You sound tired.”
The smile disappears.
“Sorry,” she says quickly. “That wasn’t a symptom thing. People get tired.”
“I know.”
“I promised.”
I sit on the edge of the bed. “I know you did.”
“Okay.” She exhales. “I’ll stop hovering.”
“Thank you.”
Meg hesitates. “Call if you need me?”
“I will.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I hang up. For a few seconds, I stare at the phone. Then I put it on the nightstand and sleep with the lamp on.
AT ONE-SEVENTEEN, A noise downstairs wakes me. I sit straight up, already on edge, like part of me has been waiting for this.
The lamp is still on. The bedroom looks exactly as it did when I fell asleep.
I listen and hear nothing.
I reach for my phone to pull up the security app that shows every exterior door is closed. The interior camera feed at the top of the stairs is live, and the hallway is empty.
I switch to the downstairs camera to check the kitchen and living room. Both are dark and empty.
I almost laugh with relief, ready to chalk this incident up to imagination. Then something knocks downstairs. Three quick sounds of wood against wood.
I freeze. The camera doesn’t cover the dining room. I get out of bed and lock the bedroom door. My hands shake as I call Dalen.
He answers on the first ring. “Hey.”
“Someone’s in the house.”
He inhales sharply. “Where are you?” His voice changes completely.
“Bedroom.”
“Door locked?”
“Yes.”
“Stay there.” I hear movement, then a door closing on his end. “I’m calling the police from the hotel phone. Keep me on.”
I walk backward until my legs hit the bed.
Another sound comes from downstairs. It’s a drawer. I know that sound. It’s the kitchen drawer sliding shut.
“Dalen.” My voice cracks. “They’re downstairs.”
“I’m here.”
“I heard a drawer.”
“Stay in the bedroom.”
I grip the phone against my ear as he breathes on the other end.
I listen to my house. There’s a soft thud, then nothing. My pulse is galloping, and my mouth is dry.
Dalen says my name. “Julie?”
“What?”
“Did you see anyone?”
I stare at the bedroom door. “What?”
“Did you actually see somebody?”
The question takes a second to reach me. “No.” My fingers tighten around the phone. “I heard them.”
Dalen is quiet. The silence hurts before he says anything. “Are you sure?”
I stop breathing.
He starts talking again immediately. “Julie, I mean are you sure the sound came from downstairs?”
I hang up. The phone rings before I can lower it. Dalen is calling again. I decline the call.
He calls again, so I turn the phone face-down on the bed. My hands are shaking so badly I have to clasp them together.
Someone may be downstairs. My husband thinks I might be imagining it.
The phone rings a third time. I ignore it and open the security app, checking every covered room again. They’re all empty. I switch back to the upstairs camera and watch the empty hall outside my bedroom.
A minute later, my phone lights with a text.
Police are coming. Stay locked in the bedroom. Please answer me.
I don’t.
Another text appears.
I am not asking you to go downstairs. Please stay where you are.
I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the door.
Five minutes later, red and blue light flashes across the bedroom ceiling, so I go to the window.
Two police cars are in the driveway.
My phone rings again. This time, the number is local, so I answer.
“Mrs. Dorsey? This is Officer Grant. We’re outside. Your husband called us.”
I close my eyes. “Okay.”
“We need you to stay upstairs while we clear the house.”
“I will.”