Chapter 2 - The House With No Witnesses
The basement had no windows large enough to escape through, but it had a furnace, a washer, and one disused coal chute behind a stack of paint cans. I knew that because I had reviewed the house survey before we bought the place. Brandon had laughed when I mentioned it.“You read property surveys for fun,” he had said.I had not told him that I read everything.The coal chute cover was secured with a rusted latch. I pulled until the metal cut my palm. Upstairs, footsteps pounded across the floor.“Search the basement,” Brandon shouted.Gertrude’s voice came sharper. “She cannot get outside. The cameras are down, but the gates are locked.”I found a screwdriver in the toolbox and attacked the latch. The first twist did nothing. The second bent the screw. On the third, the cover sprang loose, revealing a narrow passage filled with leaves and old insulation.I crawled into the chute.The brick scraped my shoulders. My injured ankle dragged uselessly behind me. I kept my face pressed to the cold ground and listened as the basement door opened.Brandon entered first.“Abby?” he called.His voice had changed. The coaxing husband was gone. What remained was flat and impatient.Gertrude followed. “Look near the furnace.”“She could be in the laundry room.”“Then look.”The beam of a flashlight moved across the basement. I saw it through a gap in the insulation. Brandon crouched beside the coal chute and touched the broken latch.“She went out,” he said.“Impossible.”“You said the fence was locked.”“It is.”“Then she’s still inside.”His hand closed around the edge of the chute cover. I slid farther into the passage, ignoring the sting in my palms. At the far end, the chute opened beneath a wooden porch. I pushed through damp leaves and rolled into the flower bed.The house rose behind me, bright and perfect. No neighbors stood outside. No one had called the police. The entire street looked asleep.I ran.The gate at the end of the driveway was closed, but I remembered the keypad code from when we moved in. Brandon had changed it after my father died. I tried the old code anyway.The gate clicked.I stopped.Why would he leave the old code active?The answer arrived with the sound of tires on gravel. A black sedan entered the driveway. I ducked behind a magnolia tree as the headlights swept over the lawn.A woman stepped from the sedan. She wore a gray suit and carried a leather case.I recognized her.Celia Voss had been my father’s estate attorney for twenty years. She had attended the funeral and spent the reception whispering with Gertrude.Celia looked toward the house. “Is she contained?”Brandon came out through the side door. “She ran.”“Ran where?”“Into the neighborhood.”Gertrude appeared behind him. “Her ankle is injured. She cannot get far.”Celia’s face hardened. “You were supposed to keep her calm.”“She discovered the transfer.”“Then you should have taken the signature before she discovered anything.”I pressed my hand over my mouth.Brandon stepped closer to Celia. “You said the doctors would support the hold.”“They will, if you give them the completed evaluation.”“The evaluation is forged.”“Only if someone examines it.”Gertrude glanced around the yard. “Enough. We need to find Abigail.”The black sedan idled beside the driveway. Its rear plate was partially covered in mud, but I memorized the first three letters: VRT.I moved behind the hedge, across the side lawn, and through a gap in the fence. A block away, I reached the service road behind the neighborhood. My ankle had swollen inside my shoe. Every step sent a sharp pulse up my leg.I called 911 from the emergency phone.“What is your emergency?” the operator asked.“I’m being held against my will by my husband and mother-in-law. They are attempting to frame me as mentally unstable and stage an accident.”“What is your location?”I gave the address.“Are you safe right now?”I looked back at the house. Celia’s sedan rolled slowly down the driveway.“No.”The operator kept me talking while I crossed the road. At the corner stood a convenience store, its fluorescent sign flickering above an empty parking lot. I ran inside.The clerk looked up. “Ma’am?”“Call the police. Tell them I’m Abigail Vale.”He reached for his phone.My regular phone rang.Brandon’s name filled the screen.I answered and put it on speaker. “What do you want?”“Where are you?”“You know where I am.”“You’re sick, Abigail. You’re frightened and confused.”“You locked me in a kitchen and turned off the water.”“I tried to protect you.”Gertrude’s voice came faintly behind him. “Abigail, come home. We can handle this privately.”The clerk stared at me.I said, “Celia was there.”Silence.Then Brandon whispered, “Who?”“Celia Voss. She said the doctors would support the hold.”The call ended.The police arrived eight minutes later. Two patrol cars pulled into the lot. The older officer introduced himself as Detective Harlan, though his uniform carried no detective insignia.“Your husband reported you missing,” he said.“I left because he locked me in the house.”“He says you became agitated after learning about financial problems.”“Which financial problems?”Harlan looked at the notes on his pad. “You allegedly threatened your husband and damaged property.”“Did he show you a recording?”“He showed us photographs.”“Photographs of what?”Harlan hesitated. “A broken kitchen camera. A cut on his hand.”“Did he mention the oil?”Harlan’s eyes shifted.The clerk came forward. “I heard her call for help.”“Thank you,” Harlan said. Then to me: “You need medical attention.”“I need an independent attorney.”“You’re not under arrest.”“That is not the same as being safe.”He sighed. “Your husband wants to take you to a private psychiatric facility.”“I refuse.”“You can refuse if you’re competent.”The sentence was carefully chosen. Someone had already placed the question in his mind.I looked at the security camera above the counter. Its red light was on.“Officer,” I said, “please preserve the store’s footage from the last hour.”Harlan’s expression sharpened. “Why?”“Because it may show the vehicle that followed me.”Outside, a gray SUV slowed beside the curb.The driver did not look at the store. He looked at me.I turned toward the clerk. “Do you have a back exit?”He pointed toward a stockroom door.Harlan grabbed my arm. “You’re not leaving.”The gray SUV accelerated.The emergency phone vibrated again. A new message appeared from the unknown number.THE POLICE REPORT IS ALREADY WRITTEN. GO TO GRANT PARK. FIND THE WOMAN WITH THE RED UMBRELLA.I looked at Harlan’s hand on my arm, then at the stockroom door.For the first time that night, I made a decision without knowing whether it was wise.I drove my elbow into his ribs.He staggered. I ran through the stockroom, shoved open the rear exit, and disappeared into the alley as sirens began to rise behind me.
