After a few minutes of trying to slow my breathing on the hallway floor, a dog comes bounding down the corridor and starts to force his nose under my chin to lift my head. I look up and see Marty running after him, leash in hand.
“Sorry,” he hollers before he gets to me. Then he sees the state I’m in. “Oh my God, are you okay? What’s the matter?” I can’t answer. It takes me a second before I can catch my breath.
“Sss...sorry,” I manage to say. “I’m okay.” I try hard to speak. I’m so embarrassed.
“Christ. You’re not okay. Can I help you inside?” He crouches next to me, offering to help me up. I go through my four breaths in my head one more time. I force myself to gain control. I dig in my purse, scrambling for a Klonopin. I find one and put it under my tongue.
“I can’t. I don’t want to go in,” I say, pulling away as he offers a hand. He doesn’t know what to do, I can tell. He probably wishes to God he didn’t stumble upon me and now he feels stuck, but I really just want him to go.
“I’ll be fine. Sorry. Thanks,” I say, but he sits next to me and waits for me to calm down. Once I can speak normally, I apologize ten more times.
“I need to call the cops before I go in.”
“Cops? Did something happen? What—did someone hurt you?” he asks, confused.
“No. I just—I’ve been getting some threats, and I found another one just now. I need to call... I don’t know if it’s safe to go in.”
“Okay, I’ll call. Don’t worry.” He stands and calls. After a minute of listening to him try to explain what he doesn’t really understand, he hands the phone to me.
“They want to talk to you.” As I walk them through the history, they put me through to Detective Sterling, and I’m sure Marty heard me explain the whole story, although he’d walked away down the hall to politely give me my space. When I hang up, he and Figgy come back over.
“They on their way?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I am still shaking. “Thanks.” We stand there awkwardly. He tries to fill the silence, which, from the little I know, doesn’t seem like his quiet nature. He’s obviously uncomfortable.
“You don’t have to wait. It could take forever.” I say this, but to my surprise, I don’t want him to go.
“I don’t mind. You don’t really look like you should be alone.”
“I look a mess. God, I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be,” he says, then silence again. “Sorry about Figgy. He won’t take his walk in this sleet, so we were making our rounds down the halls. I should have had him on the leash.”
“Oh, he’s fine.” I pat Figgy’s head. “Helpful actually. Is he trained to help people...like a therapy dog or something?”
“Kind of, I guess. My wife brought him to some kind of training like that. Not sure exactly what it was called, but yeah, he’s good like that.” He leashes Figgy and looks around. I peer at my watch, wondering how long I’ll have to wait.
“I need a drink,” I say.
“Why don’t you let me go in and check it out? If anyone were inside, the door would probably show signs of someone prying it, right?”
“Oh my God, you don’t have to do that,” I say, but I really want to be inside. I’m cold and so tired.
“Figgy can go in first. He’ll freak if anyone’s in there,” he says. I look at him a moment, contemplating this, then hand him my key.
“Thank you.” I stuff the note from the door in my purse and peek in behind him as he and Figgy go in. I don’t hear barking. After a few minutes, he resurfaces.
“All clear. Nothing gets by this little guy.” He pats Figgy and makes a gesture for me to come inside. “Do you want me to wait with you?” he asks, and I really do, but I try not to let on.
“Oh. I’m sure you have things to do.”
“It’s okay.” He smiles so kindly.
“Well, can I pour you a drink then?” I ask.
“Absolutely,” he says. I invite him to sit at the kitchen counter and I open a red blend that’s sitting out and pour us both a glass. He sees me shivering.
“Do you want me to light a fire? The heat in this building sucks.”
“Old and drafty,” I say in agreement. “Sure. Thanks.” The Klonopin is kicking in, but I still need to warm up and calm down. I go and sit on the couch while he arranges wood in the fireplace. Figgy curls up next to me.
“Oh my God,” I say, startling him. “It’s Wednesday.”
“It is,” he confirms, puzzled.
“You said you have your support group Wednesdays. Were you headed to that? Did I make you miss it? I feel terrible.” I’m not sure it’s possible for me to feel worse, but I do.
“It’ll be there next week. Please. Really. It’s okay,” he says. He’s turned back to his task, striking a match and lighting the fire. He sits opposite me and picks up his glass.
“I’m glad it’s something that you...found comfort in. I hate the idea of taking you away from that.” I’m hoping he tells me more about the group. Maybe I just want to know there’s hope to feel better at some point, but he doesn’t offer much.
“I was looking for a reason to skip it tonight so I didn’t have to go out in this crappy weather. A fire and a drink is better therapy at the moment.”
“Well. Good,” is all I can think to say. I hold my glass up in a toast, and smile at him. He smiles back warmly, and we drink. Figgy nestles into my hip, and I ache to stay right here and fall asleep, safe with someone else watching out for me, but there is a hard knock at the door.
“Faith! Hello!” It’s Sterling, calling through the door. I leap up, and go to open it. He comes in and looks at Marty suspiciously.
“Is everything okay here?” he asks.
“Besides this? Yes.” I hand him the letter. “This is Marty Nash, my neighbor. He helped me out,” I say as Sterling eyes the note I gave him.
“You didn’t see anything, anyone lurking around who may have left this?” he asks Marty pointedly.
“No, I didn’t even see the note, just what Faith told me.”
“He was coming by with his dog after I found it,” I say.
“Sorry. I wish I could be of more help,” Marty says, holding Figgy by the collar so he doesn’t pounce on Sterling. “The security in the building is pretty abysmal,” he adds. “Anyone could catch the front door if someone else held it for them. The cameras at the gate are always out of service, same in the halls. There’s always a sign pinned up, ‘sorry for the inconvenience.’”
“Yeah,” I agree. “They call it ‘gated’ and we sure pay for that perk, but there’s just an iron gate in front. It’s like never monitored or anything.”
“Ultimately—” Sterling looks to me “—you should really think about staying elsewhere for a while. A friend?” He looks at Marty when he says this. I didn’t know Marty could look more uncomfortable, but he does. His eyes flit around, looking for an out.
“I’ll work on it,” I say. “How are you going to find who’s sending these?”
“Since the probability is high that it could be linked to the homicide investigation, it will be sent out for DNA, fingerprints. We’ll keep working the leads we have for any more information. We’ll try to get some more patrols on your block. Have you talked to the building’s management company about security cameras?”
“A few times, actually, over the years. A whole HOA board has to approve it. It’s not a quick thing if it ever happens. And they don’t think it’s necessary,” I say.
“You can’t put one up yourself?” Sterling asks. Marty snickers, because if you live here, you know how strict the rules are.
“You have to get permission to put a poinsettia on your fire escape,” Marty says.
“It’s a historic building,” I agree. “So, no is the short answer.”
“Do you have your own security system?” Sterling asks.
“I do,” I say, still feeling shaky and disoriented.
“I’ll need to keep this.” Sterling indicates the note. “You sure you’re okay tonight?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll check in with you tomorrow. If anything happens, you find anything else like this, even if it seems insignificant, call me.” He opens the door. I nod in agreement and show him out.
“Thanks,” I say, and Sterling disappears down the hall as he pulls out his phone and answers a call. Marty has Figgy ready to go and holds the open door.
“You’re positive you’ll be okay?” he asks.
“Yes. Thank you so much for staying. I still feel like an idiot, but I appreciate it. Maybe you can still make your group.”
“Well, listen, you know where I live. Just call if you need anything.”
“That’s really nice of you. Thanks.” I pat Figgy’s head and close the door behind them.
The silence they leave behind makes my ears ring and gives me a hollow chill. I bring my drink to the bedroom, undress in the dim light, and slip on a robe, then wrap myself in the comforter to try to get warm. I lie on the bed, looking at the ceiling, thinking about what could make a person go this far. All the Datelines and 20/20s seem to have two scenarios: heat of passion murder by a jealous lover, or murder for insurance money. The spouse always kills for the life insurance. Of course they’re looking at me, but whoever this is, whoever wants me hurt this badly, it’s calculated and personal, and the cops have no clue where to start looking beyond me. I can tell by the way Sterling avoids my eyes and gives me sterile answers.
I pull out my phone, and still squashed in the blanket, I poke one hand out and hold my phone over my head, typing with my thumb. I look up Rebecca Lang again. I try “Becky Lang” now. There’s just not much no matter how far I dig. I even tried one of those internet background companies for $19.99 that are supposed to pull up arrest records and any dirt in general. She was arrested twice for shoplifting, once at a Walmart and once at a Kohl’s. Not much help. What had Liam wanted with her?
Did he just need to get back at me because I’d inadvertently ruined our lives? Did he have feelings for her—this young girl with a kid and a boyfriend, or maybe husband? Did he have a one-night stand, drunk after he closed down her bar, and she wanted more? I have to force myself to stop thinking about it. The stress is making my hair thin. When I looked in the mirror after my shower this morning, my ribs were visible through the pale skin stretched over my bones, tight as a drum. The makeup that I’m applying heavier these days only emphasized my watery skin tone and gaunt eyes. I officially am starting to look like hell. I need to sleep, but the Klonopin isn’t as effective anymore. It takes two just to relax. I sit up and reach for my glass on the nightstand; I take a few gulps of wine and decide to look up Marty Nash.
Google provides many Marty Nashes. There are pages of them, but none that look like a match, no Twitter, no Facebook. That doesn’t surprise me. I find a Marty Nash in Chicago with a Linkedin profile. He’s a computer programmer, which matches, but no photo. I add +computer +Chicago to my search and scroll. I come across a church website, of all things, dated a few years ago. It’s a public monthly newsletter.
Our thoughts and prayers are with a cherished member of our community today, Marty Nash, as we all mourn the terrible loss of his wife, Violet Marie Nash. Please sign up for the prayer chain, and give Marty and his family your love and support.
That must be him. I Google Violet Marie Nash. There’s not as many results, but I come across an obituary for June 2016.
Violet Marie Nash will always be remembered for her courage during difficult times, and even though she took her life, we know she is at rest without pain now.
I immediately feel like going over to Marty’s door and just embracing him, as trivial as it sounds. I know what it’s like to think your spouse would rather escape than be with you. I know what it’s like to have them gone. I feel sick for him. I’m relieved I didn’t make the mistake of asking him how she died that night on the fire escape.
After a few more swills of wine, I decide to look up Hilly Lancaster while I’m at it. I don’t know that I’ve ever Googled anyone before. Maybe a restaurant owner for Liam now and again. It feels so invasive, but now, it’s imperative.
It’s not a super common name, so she pops up quickly. When I go to images, she’s there in a knitting circle. Shocker. There are a few photos of her posed next to a tray of baked goods and one of her bakery’s grand opening. When I scroll through articles, I see Liam’s review and read it. It’s everything she described. He did have a hard time tearing down someone’s dream, but he felt like he had a duty to be truthful above all. The review was not kind. One of the harshest ones I remember reading, actually.
A few clicks more and I see a local news article. It outlines all the problems with pop-up bakeries and the god-awful redundancy of cupcake shops. The writer is pretty brutal when he bids Hilly’s Honey a good riddance, and says that although he’s sad to see it go bankrupt a few months after opening, he’s glad the city is rejecting these wannabe home bakers ruining pastry for the rest of us. He ends by thanking Liam Finley for the review that swatted this bakery fly and flicked it off the Chicago culinary landscape.
I sit up at the realization that she moved in the same day I moved back. Not only does she have motive, but she was there when I got the first note.