The Locked Door Read online

  “I won’t,” I promise, although I’m still really excited for her. “What are you learning now in biology?”

  “We’re learning about sexual reproduction in plants,” she says. “Did you know plants have sex? And believe it or not, it’s super boring. Not fun at all. Nobody would read plant erotica.”

  I laugh. “Wait until you get to worm reproduction. It’s all downhill from here.”

  Harper’s dimples pop as she tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Unlike me, she usually wears her hair down, and the dark color complements her blue eyes. Blue eyes and dark hair. I can’t help but think that it’s the same combination my own father found especially alluring. The girl they found in our home, Mandy Johansson, had blue eyes and dark hair. So did almost all of his victims.

  Every once in a while, I look at Harper and I see Mandy Johansson. And I think I’m going to be sick.

  But there’s nothing to worry about. My father is in prison.

  “Anyway,” Harper says, “I better get going. I’m meeting Sonny for dinner tonight. We’re going to this great restaurant. I think he might… you know…”

  Her eyes are shining. She thinks he’s going to propose.

  “Oh, Harper!” I want to throw my arms around her yet again, but that would be very strange behavior for me. But this girl brings it out in me. I’ll never have children, but I feel something almost maternal towards her. “That’s incredible! I can’t wait to see the ring tomorrow!”

  “Don’t jinx it,” she giggles.

  Harper slings her purse onto her shoulder and takes off to go home and change before her fancy dinner with Sonny. I’m happy for her.

  But there’s a tiny part of me that feels a twinge of jealousy. Harper deserves every happiness in the world, but I always get that twinge when somebody I know finds their other half and ties the knot. That will never happen for me. I have an unbelievable career—everything I ever wanted—and I made the decision a long time ago that it would be all I would ever have.

  I don’t want to get greedy. Look what happened to my father.

  Chapter 6

  26 Years Earlier

  Nobody at school likes Marjorie Baker.

  I can see why. There’s just something about Marjorie that is so annoying. Like, everything she says, she sounds like she’s whining. Every time she raises her hand and asks a question, you just want to say, “Shut up, Marjorie!”

  I wouldn’t say that. But other people do.

  She always seems confused in class. Mrs. McGinley will be explaining something that isn’t even that hard, and Marjorie just doesn’t get it. I can see her screwing her face up, trying to understand. And then we all have to wait and can’t move on, because Marjorie doesn’t understand.

  Also, Marjorie isn’t pretty. If she were pretty, she could get away with more. But she’s not. First of all, her front teeth are just way too big for her mouth. They need to be shrunk by about thirty percent. Her face is too long and her forehead is gigantic. Also, she’s kind of lumpy. Like a sofa you might find out on somebody’s curb.

  “Did you ever notice,” Tiffany Kirk says during recess today, “that when Marjorie walks, she waddles?”

  We all look across the playground, to where Marjorie is walking over to sit on the far steps with her book like she does every day. And Tiffany is right. Marjorie does sort of waddle.

  “Oh my God,” Kari Smith says. “You’re right! She looks like a duck!”

  And then the other girls all start making quacking sounds. Loud enough that Marjorie turns around to look at us, and we all burst into hysterical giggles. Well, I don’t. But the rest of them do.

  Marjorie is used to it by now. Her cheeks turn pink, but she doesn’t say anything. Sometimes I wish she would fight back. Marjorie never ever fights back. If Tiffany or Kari tried to do something like that to me… well, they wouldn’t. They know better.

  The girls stand around another few minutes, trash-talking Marjorie, but then we move on to other more interesting topics. But weirdly, I’m still thinking about Marjorie. I watch her across the playground, reading her book all by herself because nobody will play with her. I can’t keep my eyes off of her.

  I usually walk home alone from school every day. But today, I find myself following Marjorie, even though it’s in the wrong direction. I stay close enough behind her that I can keep her in my sight, but far enough that she does not know I’m behind her. She is totally in her own universe. I’ve never seen anyone so unaware of the world around them. It’s dangerous. Like, somebody could attack her, and she wouldn’t even realize it until they were five inches away from her face. And then it would be too late.

  After about five minutes of walking, we come to a little patch of woods where I know some people go hiking. Marjorie walks right past it, but I slow to a stop. I look down the uneven trail, which is completely empty. People don’t hike there much, and definitely not in the middle of a weekday afternoon.

  It’s interesting, that’s all.

  Another ten minutes later, Marjorie walks into the front door of a little white house with a broken shutter on the second floor. The front lawn is totally overgrown. My parents would never let our lawn look that way—Dad would freak out. Dad is really particular about everything being clean and well groomed. He always says, Cleanliness is next to godliness. But Marjorie’s parents obviously don’t feel the same.

  Once she disappears inside, I creep closer and slip around the side of the house. Besides Marjorie, I don’t think there’s anyone else home. There’s no car parked in the driveway.

  There are a bunch of dandelions sprouting along the side of the house. My dad once explained to me that even though dandelions are yellow and pretty, they’re actually weeds and will wreck your whole garden. But even so, I’m careful not to trample them as I look through the window. Marjorie is sitting in the middle of the living room, on the sofa. She’s got a bag of potato chips in her hand, and she’s stuffing them into her mouth. She eats almost rhythmically.

  Potato chip. Chew chew chew. Potato chip. Chew chew chew.

  After watching her for about ten minutes, I’m sure there’s nobody else in the house. Marjorie is coming home to an empty house every afternoon.

  I get out of there before anyone can see me. If anyone caught me watching the house, it would be bad. Dad always says that if you’re going to do something wrong, at least be smart enough not to let anybody see you do it. He said that after I stole some cookies from the pantry. You knew we were going to notice them missing and realize you stole them. It was a stupid crime, Nora. Don’t be stupid next time.

  I head in the opposite direction back to my house. Unlike at Marjorie’s house, my mother is waiting anxiously by the front door when I come in.

  “Nora!” She plants her chubby hands on her hips. “Why are you so late? I was worried!”

  “I had a project I was working on with some friends at school.” I know from experience my mother can’t tell when I’m lying. Not anymore.

  She lets out an exasperated breath. “Well, next time could you let me know in advance if you’re going to be late?”

  “I might be late again later this week,” I tell her. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Okay.” She leans in to wrap her arms around me and kisses the top of my head. I squirm out of her grasp. “Do you want a snack, honey? I can cut up some apples for you. With peanut butter.”

  My mother always is offering me food. All she seems to think about is cooking and baking and making snacks. It’s like she’s obsessed with it.

  “That’s okay. I’m going to go up to my room and do my homework.”

  “Okay, sweetheart.”

  She attempts to kiss the top of my head again, but I manage to duck away. While she goes back to the kitchen, I head down the hallway to the stairwell, but as always, I pass the door to the basement. Dad’s been down there a lot this week. He was away on a fishing trip all weekend, and now this week he’s been in the basement nonstop. I’ve h
ardly seen him.

  I pause at the basement door, inhaling that familiar whiff of lavender. And then, while I’m standing there, I hear something.

  I frown at the door. Dad isn’t home yet, so why is there noise coming from the basement? It sounds like something banging. It’s soft, but I can definitely hear it.

  And then something else. Almost like a muffled scream.

  What’s going on down there?

  I place my hand on the doorknob. I give it a good twist, but of course, it doesn’t open. The basement door is always locked.

  “Nora, what are you doing?”

  My mother’s voice is sharp. I leap away from the door, hiding my right hand behind my back. I try my best not to look guilty.

  “I… I thought I heard a sound coming from down there,” I mumble.

  She wags a finger at me. “You know that’s your father’s private space to work. I don’t want you trying to get down there.”

  “But I heard—”

  “Maybe something fell,” she says. We both stand there, listening for a moment. But it’s become silent. “Anyway, it’s none of your concern. I thought you had work to do.”

  “I do.”

  “Then go upstairs and do it, okay?”

  “But…” I stare at the basement door and inhale deeply, the molecules of lavender filling my lungs. “Maybe if something fell, we should check on it. Maybe something is broken.”

  “If something is broken, he’ll deal with it when he gets back from work.”

  “What’s he even making anyway?” I grumble.

  My mother hesitates. “He says he’s building a bookcase. Either way, he doesn’t need your help.”

  I stomp my foot and turn away from the basement door, and go up the stairs. I don’t understand why the basement has to be so private. I’m not going to go down there and mess around with Dad’s stuff. Why can’t I at least see what he’s been working on?

  And what was that noise? It really sounded like screaming.

  But it couldn’t be.

  When I get up to my room, I plop down on the bed with my backpack next to me. I rifle around inside, searching for my composition book. I also look in the smaller pocket in the front for a pencil. I’ve got like a million pencils and pens in that pocket. I also have one other thing. A penknife—another present from my dad at Christmas last year. He told me I should carry it all the time. For protection. Not that it’s dangerous around here. We basically live in the safest and most boring neighborhood on the planet.

  Once I get out my notebook and a pencil, I’ve got to get started. My only homework is I’m supposed to write an essay about a book we were assigned. It shouldn’t take long. I already finished the book a few days ago—I’m a quick reader.

  I look across the room at the cage on top of my bookcase. Up until a week ago, that cage was occupied by the mouse that dad got me for my birthday. And then over the weekend, the mouse died. Very suddenly. Now he’s buried out in the backyard in a shoebox. We had a mouse funeral, and my mom kept talking about how sad it was that the mouse died, although it wasn’t all that sad. I mean, it was a mouse.

  I open up the composition book and turn to the first blank page. I’m supposed to be writing about Charlotte’s Web. But I can’t think of anything to say. I mean, it was a good book, I guess. What can you say about a book involving a spider and a pig?

  I stare down at the blank page. I press the lead of the pencil against the page. And I write down the name Marjorie Baker.

  And I underline it.

  Chapter 7

  Present Day

  It’s raining when I finally finish up my work and head downstairs. I stand in the lobby for a moment, watching the plump droplets of rain fall from the sky. I don’t have an umbrella. I’m not even sure I own an umbrella. Well, there’s probably one in the back of my closet somewhere, but it doesn’t do me much good right now.

  I pull up the hood on my jacket and sprint across the small parking lot to my Camry. I yank open the door and jump inside, then pause to assess the damage. My scrub pants are fairly damp, but at least my hair seems to have been spared. There are water droplets in my eyelashes.

  Considering I am wet and uncomfortable, this would probably be a good time to head home. Maybe make myself a warm beverage and watch a little television before I turn in.

  But I don’t head home. Instead, I punch an address into my GPS, one not far off the freeway. When I reach the block of my destination, I turn off my headlights. I park across the street and stare out the window.

  “You have reached your destination on the left,” Siri tells me.

  “Thanks,” I murmur.

  I stare out at the Kelloggs’ front door through my windshield as the wiper blades swish back and forth.

  I don’t entirely know why I came here. I noted his address on the billing form, and it stuck in my head. I meant to drive straight home, but instead, I got to thinking about Mrs. Kellogg’s black eye. And before I knew it, I was typing their address into my GPS. And now I’m here.

  I stare across the street, into the glowing windows of the first floor of their house. I don’t see any silhouettes in the window. They’re probably in the dining room having dinner. Or maybe watching TV on the sofa together.

  I look down at my fingers, gripping the steering wheel so hard, my knuckles are white.

  I take a shaky breath. Then another.

  Then I throw the car back into drive and get the hell out of there.

  I don’t want to go home now. The idea of coming home to my empty house makes me feel slightly ill. So instead, I find myself navigating the wet roads and heading over to Christopher’s again. I feel like having another Old Fashioned tonight. Just one.

  It occurs to me as I’m pulling into the parking lot that Henry Callahan might be here tonight again. My heart skips a beat at the thought of it.

  God, I need that drink.

  The rain is still coming down, so I put my hood back up and dash through the parking lot to get to the entrance. Fortunately, I don’t see any familiar faces when I walk into Christopher’s. Well, except for the bartender. It’s the same guy from yesterday. The one with the nondescript brown eyes and hair and the perpetual five o’clock shadow, who stood up for me when Callahan was hassling me yesterday. The one who looks strangely familiar—that feeling I’ve met him before is even stronger this time.

  I watch him as he uses his bottle opener to take the cap off a bottle of beer. He slides it onto the table for a customer then scoops up the payment and tip. I’m convinced I know this man. But from where?

  I sit down at the bar and wait for him to take notice of me. Maybe it’s my imagination, but his eyes light up slightly when he sees me. “Another Old Fashioned, Doc?” he asks me.

  That voice. His voice is familiar too. This is driving me crazy. “Yes, thanks.”

  He assembles the drink in front of me. Maybe it’s my imagination, but it looks like he’s giving me more whiskey than yesterday. When he’s finished, he slides the amber liquid across the counter in my direction. “Enjoy.”

  I wrap my fingers around the cool glass. “Wait,” I say.

  He raises his eyebrows.

  I clear my throat. “Do I know you?”

  He freezes. From the expression on his face, it’s obvious he knew exactly who I was from the moment he laid eyes on me. And he didn’t tell me.

  “Yes,” he finally says. “I… my name is Brady Mitchell.”

  And then… oh my God, it all comes back to me. “We dated!”

  One corner of his lips quirks up. “You could say that, yes.”

  Except that’s an understatement. And he knows it. We didn’t just have a few dates. He was my boyfriend… sort of. But it was ages ago. Back in college. He was, in fact, the teaching assistant for a computer science class I was taking. After the class was over and my grade was in, he asked me out, and I found him so adorably dorky, I said yes.

  But he’s not dorky anymore. He looks very different
—it’s no wonder I didn’t recognize him right away. He grew up. He used to be clean-shaven and skinny and gangly, but his face filled out and… Well, it’s hard not to notice his chest filled out too. And why is he bartending? The guy has a bachelor’s degree in computer science. He was a genius—he could do anything with a computer.

  “Why didn’t you say it was you?” I ask.

  His eyes meet mine, and he doesn’t need to answer the question. Obviously, he doesn’t feel great about where his life is right now. I don’t know how he ended up this way. Not that being a bartender is terrible, but I expected he would be the next Bill Gates by now. Something went wrong. Got caught hacking? Drugs? I have no idea.

  “Anyway,” he says, “congratulations on your career. I remember you always wanted to be a surgeon. Not that there was any doubt. I’ve never seen anyone so dedicated. You did everything except make a sacrifice to the premed gods.”

  “Thanks.” (I think.)

  I take a sip of my drink, enjoying the warm feeling that comes over me. Brady Mitchell. My God. We dated for about three months, if I’m remembering correctly. He was nice. I was the one who ended it, but I don’t think it was overly traumatic. We ended on good terms.

  The part I’m having trouble remembering is why I ended it. I must have had a reason, beyond just three months being the upper limit of how long I’m willing to date a guy (which is true). I’m sure I had a good reason for breaking up with Brady.

  But why?

  Well, I can’t exactly ask him. Even if I told him the truth at the time, which I suspect I did not.

  “You’re wondering why I’m working here,” he says.

  I blink at him. “No…”

  He makes a face at me. “Oh, come on. Look, I don’t blame you. I’d be wondering too.”

  I shrug. “Not really.”

  “Oh? Well, in that case, I’m not going to tell you.”

  “Fine,” I concede. “I’m wondering. A little.”

  He nods, satisfied. “So I came out here because I got a great job in Silicon Valley,” he says. “But dumbass that I am, I quit my awesome job to join what I thought was an incredible startup. Which then failed spectacularly. So I am currently passing my resume around, and it’s not going great.” He looks around the bar. “This is so I don’t end up living in a cardboard box, you know? Those boxes are not very comfortable to sleep in.”