October 26

9 Days Before the Storm

 

 

I pick up a few things at the General Mart, Nadia’s little hand locked onto my jacket and tugging with every step I take so I know she’s there as we navigate the dimly lit narrow aisles. The new oven came and it fits perfectly, but now we need some non-microwave food to cook in it. There’s just the two of us, but I think I’ll get started on some winter cooking—food I can prepare, freeze in smaller portions, and pull out when we need it. Lasagna, casseroles. I’ll make two or three on the weekend.

We pay as usual, Dally’s traditional small talk edged with passive aggressive reminders she didn’t see me at the vigil.

“It was a difficult day for me and Dee,” I say with a sad smile barely hiding my sharp teeth. “I wanted us to be home together, remembering Nick.” Besides, how can all of you talk about me behind my back if I’m there in front of you?

I don’t say that, but I want to.

She gives Nadia a candy without asking me permission, which irritates me, and if Nick was here I’d reaffirm boundaries and say no. But I’m too tired to fight with people who already hate me.

When I step outside, I feel a chill that’s not due to the weather, which is actually warmer than usual this time of year. Nadia dutifully follows me as I walk with two bags of groceries in my arms, and I almost expect a repeat of last week, Jenni Montgomery accosting me in the parking lot.

That moment doesn’t come but I’m aware of my surroundings as I get the groceries put in the back, and remember the photo of me was one snapped unaware when I was heading to the store. I resist the urge to look around nervously but just barely, focusing on getting Nadia in her booster seat. I just see the usual people walking up and down the street, heading to the store; I get a few glances, maybe more than usual, but I remain as causal as possible as I pull out of the lot.

We met Janelle for lunch in Whitehorse and I picked up what I’d forgotten at Canadian Tire—the groceries were the last thing, and then I’m hoping to be home for a few days, to focus on things there instead of waiting for another shoe to drop with Montgomery and the Lost Ones.

With the snow melted on the roads, bright early afternoon sunlight gleaming on the SUV’s hood, it’s a quick drive to the house from town. I turn right onto our long driveway, winding the way to the dark structure waiting for us where solar panels on the roof glint in the sun.

When I stop in my usual spot, I idle the engine and stare ahead.

The front door’s open.

It’s just a few inches, but it’s enough to send ice through my veins. I know it was locked this morning. I know it. It’s not so much a mindless habit as it is something I do every single day. I check repeatedly before I drive away. I don’t step foot out the front door until I’ve checked the back door as well, and with this weather, when I’ve had some windows open, I ensure everything’s closed up before bed and before I leave for any reason. I don’t slip. I don’t forget.

But there is no denying that door isn’t only unlocked but open. That is not the wind, that is not an accident.

I stare at those few inches of darkness, the quiet rural world around me narrowing to that point. My chest fights to rise and fall faster with panicked breaths, and I shift all of my focus onto remaining calm, all the while my brain is blaring at me, Someone’s in the house.

Someone is in my house.

I reach for my cell phone to dial...

I hesitate.

I already invited a lot of scrutiny into my life by bringing the RCMP in immediately after Nick went missing. I did that because I love my husband and I wanted what was best, even if it ultimately put me in a bad position later. I got through it, I was never questioned further, and I will take the risk again for the sake of Nadia, but...

Maybe I can avoid that right now. The thought of dealing with the police has my stomach in knots and I feel like I can take just about anything but them.

I cancel that call and cycle through my contacts for another—one I’ve never called before, recently added. I don’t expect an answer, but I get it after two rings and five minutes later a dark blue Ford truck pulls up to the side of my SUV.

I’ve left the heat and radio on. Nadia protests about staying behind as I pop my seatbelt off, but I warn her to wait. I climb out of the SUV, closing the door so she’ll hear less before I head over to meet Owen.

He’s looking up at the house, gaze settling on the door. “You’re sure—”

“Very,” I say. “With everything going on, I’ve been paranoid. That woman was watching me in town, I was worried about her coming to the house.”

“You don’t want to report a break-in?”

“I’m really trying to protect Nadia’s privacy during this. If something’s been stolen, I will.” It’s probably a lie—I might not unless I suspect there’s a danger to my daughter, but he needs a plausible reason why I’d call him and not the police, and part of placating his concerns involves pretending I plan to go to the authorities if necessary.

He nods like it makes sense but doesn’t go to the house yet, still watching the door. “Do you have any guns?”

“...what?”

A sheepish glance at me. “I mean, is there something like that in the house that someone could’ve found?”

In case they’re hanging out in there with it trained on the door he means.

I shake my head. “We—Nick and I—both went for our PAL, so I’m licensed but we didn’t get as far as buying an actual gun.” It’s the Yukon and it seems like everyone is a hunter. Neither of us were—I understand it as a way of life up here, but I’m not comfortable with it personally and Nick wasn’t into it either. Still, living out here in the middle of nowhere, we figured we’d get a gun eventually.

“Okay...I’m going to circle the house, see if there’s anything. Then I’ll go through the front and check the house. Wait in your car, lock the doors?”

I nod and do so, part of me angry with myself for not doing this on my own. If it wasn’t for Nadia, I probably would have. But she has to come first, and it’s either let Owen do this or call the RCMP.

I turn the radio down, the heat off, but let the SUV idle. The doors are locked but I roll down both front windows so I can listen past the engine. Initially I can hear Owen’s steps around the side of the house but then they fade. I wonder what he’s seeing. Is the back door open? Is there any sign of someone walking around the house? The ground is still damp from the melted snow—there might be boot prints in the softer dirt where flower beds will eventually go. Maybe leading away from the house, maybe along the same path I’d walked with Nadia just days ago.

Four minutes tick by—I watch the time on the dash—when Owen comes around the other side of the house. He comes right up to the SUV, and I push the window down farther.

“Hi!” Nadia greets him brightly, oblivious to the weight of the glances between him and me.

“Hey there,” he responds, grinning at her in the back over my shoulder. His gaze slides back to me, his expression sobering. “Everything looks clear. I’m going to go in and check every room, closets. Under the beds. Ten minutes should do it—if for some reason I don’t come out, call me. If I don’t answer, phone the police and leave.”

I nod. If there’s actual danger in there, something that would keep him from returning, I’ll take the risk and get help—just as I did for Nick, to protect Nadia. “The lights are all working, it should be bright, but just in case there’s a Maglite in the downstairs closet, around the corner from the kitchen.” I haven’t moved everything from storage, but we’ve got the emergency supplies.

He nods, looks back at the house, and then at me again. “Ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes,” I confirm, and watch him walk cautiously to the front door.

He presses his palm to the door and eases it open, peering inside. Then he takes a step in and I lose sight of him.

The lights turn on as he goes, but it’s bright enough outside that the slant of sunlight prevents me from easily seeing much. I have to really look through the windows, and even then I know I won’t see every light.

I check the time. It’s only been a minute.

I drum my fingers on the steering wheel.

Another two minutes pass.

I can’t even say what I’m expecting. The most likely person would be Jenni Montgomery, sneaking in to snoop around and apparently forgetting to lock up afterward. Worst-case scenario, though, I don’t even want to contemplate—if it’s worst-case scenario, it should be me in there and not Owen.

Nadia is restless in the back. I try to occupy her attention and make a guessing game out of what animals and birds are in the forest around the house, and she indulges me. But she’s tired and I’m still watching the clock, and neither of our hearts are in it.

At minute eight, Owen comes outside.

He’s carrying the Maglite and he stops by my window, hesitating before he speaks. I know something’s wrong but he’s not telling me to leave, so I can’t guess what this is.

“Mommy I’m bored,” Nadia whines in the back.

I meet Owen’s eyes and raise my brows in question.

“It’s clear, you can come inside, but, uh...” He looks past me to Nadia. “Looks like some paint was spilled on the floor—do you want to go upstairs while I help your mom clean it up?”

She agrees to this because that’s what she was angling for anyway—playtime in her room before her nap. Her naps aren’t long now and some days she doesn’t bother at all, but I figure I’ll have a half hour today while she dozes.

I’m still wondering what he’s talking about—the paint was all stacked up in the back of the closet for touch-ups later.

I cut the engine, pocket the keys, and unlatch her. Owen’s head is swiveling to check out the surrounding forest, the house again, and he goes in ahead of us. I give the world behind me another look myself, and then follow Owen over the threshold.

 

*

 

There’s a blue tarp on the floor in the living room—I give it a glance but shift my attention to Nadia. I check the house as I go. It’s not that I don’t trust Owen, but I need to see for myself.

It helps that the downstairs is open concept and I have very little furniture moved in—I can see everywhere right away and it’s clear. I know Owen’s been in the closet, but I do glance in the open powder room, the light on and showing pale blue emptiness. The basement door is open and there’s absolutely nothing down there—there will when everything from storage is moved over, but for now I know Owen would’ve seen at first glance the space was empty.

Nadia leaves her shoes and coat downstairs, dragging her backpack with her as we head up. Owen hangs back in the kitchen and I, oddly, feel a little more secure knowing there’s someone there within shouting distance.

When I’ve cleared Nadia’s room, I leave her there with her toys and gently shut the door. I sweep the other rooms up there—Owen’s been in and has left the lights on in each. My bedskirt is ruffled and I know he’s checked under there. There’s no one hiding up here.

Downstairs I find he’s closed the front door. He sits at the kitchen island and he’s pulled his hat off, set it aside and run a hand through his hair to loosen it from being under the cap for god knows how long.

He slides off the barstool when I reach the bottom step and leads me just beyond the couch, where the tarp covers the floor. It’s haphazardly thrown down, the folds apparent, and it’s clear he found it in the closet with the others packed away. I’m not sure why it’s here until he tugs the corner and the plastic crackles.

 

KILLER

 

Right there, on the subflooring. Driftscape Tan. Written in large block letters, the discarded paintbrush to the side. It looks partially dry—maybe two hours ago or so. We’ve been gone a little over three.

Whoever did this might’ve been watching the house when we left.

Nausea rises in my stomach, bile climbing my throat with stinging claws.

I swallow it back because I don’t have time for panic. I already know I’m not going to call the police—this is bad, and Owen will probably try to push me in that direction, but it’s not enough.

It’s a gross violation, but ultimately this graffiti tells me things.

This was not planned. Whoever came in here decided to write this with what I had available. Even if he—or she—had planned it, bringing along red paint would’ve been a better choice given the word used. Something that looked like blood.

This is paint I had in the house. This is one of my paint brushes. This is someone breaking into my home and walking through the rooms, then deciding to use what was at his disposal to send a message. A threat.

Which tells me something else: this person wants me to be scared.

What I’d find much scarier is someone who didn’t announce his presence. Who would slip in and out of my home without me knowing. That kind of person is an actual threat because I’d never see them coming.

A nonspecific threat like this is intended to scare me, control me, and I find that oddly comforting. This is a literal sign telling me “I got into your home, you should be scared” and while that does concern me, it speaks to someone who will not be subtle.

I can deal with unsubtle.

So no, I am not going to call the police over this. And I won’t reveal to Owen why I’m confident enough not to do so, because it’s better if most people around me think I’m normal, think I’m not the kind of person who spends time analysing and assessing threats. I’m just a mother, a maybe-widow, a local woman trying to make her way in the Yukon like everyone else. I’m nothing more.

“This is a very unfunny prank.”

He looks sharply at me. “Prank?”

I give him an even look. “You think I don’t hear the rumours every time I’m in town? That I don’t see people staring at me? They think I killed Nick. Montgomery going around asking questions just stirred that up again.”

“I don’t think...” He shakes his head. “No one in town would do this...”

I stifle a chuckle. “Kids in town would do it for fun. Plenty of their parents would as well, especially someone out drinking. Is Montgomery still going around asking questions?”

He nods, clearly reluctant. “As of yesterday, yeah.”

So she was probably haunting the vigil for Nick. Wonderful. “And you know about the rumours.”

He holds my gaze, chewing on the question, and finally nods again. “I don’t believe them, you know.”

“I appreciate that. But it’s still true: there are rumours I killed Nick. ‘Killer’ written on my floor? This is someone in town.”

He frowns down at the floor again. “So no police, is what you’re saying.”

“Getting some local kid arrested isn’t going to win me any favours in Red Fox Lake.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess not.” He rubs at his face. “It’s a school day but I saw a lot of teens in town, maybe they have short classes for exams or something. When are the floors going in?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Easiest would just be to,” he waves at the floor, “replace the subflooring.”

“It’s not that big of a deal—”

“You really want to think about this being under your floor all the time?”

Admittedly, I do not. I’ve just been figuring out what’s it’s going to cost. “No, I’ll call—”

“I’m right here, I can do this.”

“Owen—”

He’s already walking to the kitchen island to scoop up his hat. “I’ll pick up some supplies at home and be right back.”

I’m inclined to argue but I can use the free help. I watch his truck disappear back down the driveway and then head out to retrieve the groceries.

 

*

 

Before he gets back, I check the door. No signs of forced entry. It’s a new door, new frame, new lock, nothing marring any of it to begin with. I crouch and inspect it as closely as possible but can’t find any tool marks or scratches.

Either I left it open or this was someone who knew what they were doing. Which is unlikely to be someone in Red Fox Lake, no matter what I told Owen. And I don’t believe I left this house without locking my door.

Just in case, I check the back as well, and the windows, but everything is sealed up and there are no obvious signs of tampering. I might be missing something because sunlight is bleeding away and I know Owen will be back soon, so I’m possibly not as thorough as I should be. Nadia comes downstairs and she and I figure out what to make for dinner on the new stove.

I’m slicing vegetables when a knock comes to the door. I already glimpsed his truck rolling up, and swiftly dry my hands before letting him in. He’s got plywood and power tools, and Nadia peppers him with a dozen questions while he’s getting set up. He sends her back to the kitchen with me, he says because of the saw—which is true, but he also wouldn’t want her to see the writing. She can read well for her age, and though she wouldn’t have encountered the word “killer” in any of her books, she might be able to sound it out if she has the chance.

The circular saw is loud; the smell of wood fills the air. Nadia holds back beside me, watching across the room, and I have to shuffle over the floor with her attached to my leg as I add vegetables and cubed tofu to the deep pan for stir fry. Rice noodles are ready to go but won’t take long to cook, so they sit to the side.

I haven’t asked Owen to dinner, but I intend to feed him for his work if he wants. If he doesn’t, there will be leftovers for tomorrow.

It’s weird. I won’t pretend it’s not. In fact, facing the sink where I wash my hands, I can close my eyes to the sound of the saw and it’s almost as if I’m going to turn and find Nick there. He did so much of the work on this house himself, with his own hands, like a part of him is sunk right into the beams, the foundation.

And for an instant, it’s him. It’s him at my back working while our daughter watches from afar, and I’m going to turn and he’ll be there, his face one of joy because he loves working with his hands, loves working on what will be our home.

The sawing stops and I realize then my eyes are wet. I move to the stove and steam fills my face as the vegetables cook; I stir idly, adding a pinch of spices. Oil crackles and I replace the clear glass lid to let things cook, then turn back to the room.

Owen’s adding additional framing before bringing over the plywood to replace the piece he removed. The old subflooring is set aside face down, and that he didn’t take it out to measure suggests he’d premeasured the piece at home and what he cut out was sized accordingly. And the new piece fits—it’s exact. He’s good.

He stands and looks down at his work, gives a nod more to himself than anything, and immediately starts collecting his tools, walks them out to his truck, then comes back for the vandalized piece.

When he returns a third time, he pauses by the kitchen, shoulders a little hunched and thumbs in his pockets.

I meet his eyes, about to ask if him if wants dinner, when he says, “Broom and dustpan?”

“Hmm?” I glance at the shavings on the floor. “Oh, right. I’ll get that, don’t worry—”

“Nah, I’ll be quick. I didn’t see it in the closet?”

It takes a minute to remember, then I point to the powder room. “Hanging on the back of the bathroom door right now to keep it out of the way.”

While he heads over to do that, Nadia cautiously walks over to inspect the new floor and gives it her approval. When Owen returns, he swiftly sweeps the floor clean, returns the broom, and seems to be heading for the door again.

“You want to stay for dinner?” I offer.

He stops so suddenly I think he’s going to pitch over, and freezes head to toe before turning to me. “I...”

“If you don’t want to, it’s fine, but there’s plenty here. And I would pay you for what you just did, but I suspect—”

“I can’t take money for—”

“Right, but you can eat. If you want.”

He hesitates and then nods, scoops his hat off and leaves it by his coat. As I hear water running in the bathroom sink, Nadia carefully takes the plates I set on the counter and goes about setting spots for us to eat around the kitchen island, and I start boiling water for the noodles. I add some jars of sweet and sour, soy, and plum sauces to the table—not sure what Owen eats—and plate up the food as he returns.

“It’s stir fry,” I say. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even ask if you like it.”

He’s a little surprised as he looks down at the food, and then swings his gaze up to mine with a smile. “I do. It’s been awhile but I get it sometimes in Whitehorse.”

Not like the bar in town serves it, and half these ingredients can’t be found at the General Mart. As far as stereotypes go, Owen looks like a steak and potatoes type—and maybe hold the potatoes. But he eyes the food like he’s hungry for it as he sits and reaches for the soy sauce.

 

*

 

Owen hasn’t left yet and it’s after nine.

I put Nadia to bed and she’s sound asleep before I get across the room. The blue of her nightlight glows across the floor and into the hallway past her partially closed bedroom door.

When I get back downstairs, Owen’s inspecting the windows, which is what he was doing when I went up. Checking the locks, looking in far more detail than I had time for earlier.

“Find anything?” I ask.

There isn’t a lot of light—there are two overhead ones, but no lamps yet. One over the living room area, and the brightness of the kitchen carries over. He’s softened some in the low light, and he relaxed as the evening wore on. If I walked in right now and didn’t know better, I’d’ve assumed he was an old friend who’d been in here from the beginning.

I never knew why he and Nick didn’t hang out much anymore and I’ve decided I won’t ask. Owen is helpful, useful, and I’d rather encourage another ally than scare him off.

I sit on one of the barstools with a glass of water while he finishes all the downstairs windows.

“I can’t find how anyone got in,” he says. “You’re sure you didn’t...?”

“I guess I had to have left the door unlocked—I’m the only one with a key.”

“What, uh...” He sits across from me and looks away. “What happened to Nick’s?”

“We hadn’t installed the doorknobs or locks yet. The rest of his keys were still on the keychain in the car.”

There’s silence, then. Long and awkward, filling the air and my mouth. Nick has been present and yet not all day—he’s in that silence, he’s in the space between us, in the bones of this house.

Nick is gone. But Nick is also here. Neither of us forget that.

“You’ve spent most of the day here,” I say at last. “And Red Fox Lake is a very small town.”

“I’m a nice local boy, though. If anything, it’ll reassure folks you’re one of us.”

If that didn’t work when I married Nick Sparrow, it won’t work with Owen McKenzie hanging around for a day, but I’ll take all the help I can get.

“I should get back though.” He rises and heads over to scoop up his hat, his coat, then gets his boots on. “I appreciate dinner.”

“I appreciate everything you did today.”

He pauses by the door, hand on the knob but not opening it yet. “I’ll...I’ll ask around a little. Just see if anyone’s been up here maybe causing trouble. Warn them folks are watching out for you and to cut it out.”

“Thank you.”

He eases open the door and looks back at me, and for a moment I think of Janelle claiming he liked me from when I was first with Nick. Though I’d waved it away then, now...now I wonder. Because while it’s been a very, very long time since I’ve flirted and dated—and have no plans to resume now—there’s a tingle of memory with how he’s looking at me, the way he holds my gaze and then skirts to the side again.

Owen steps out and I leave the porch light on while he heads to his truck, only turning it off when he’s heading down the long gravel driveway toward the road.

I lock the door, but I don’t stop there. Instead I get empty glass jars from the recycling and carefully angle them on the front and back doorknobs. I’ll be up at six to prepare for the floors at eight, and Nadia won’t come downstairs on her own, so I don’t worry about there being broken glass everywhere accidentally. Only if someone tries to break in.

I dig out a baby gate from my closet when I get upstairs and place it across the steps. If those bottles break, I’ll be up and locked in Nadia’s room in minutes, and that gate might slow an intruder down for precious few seconds.

But I still don’t sleep well.