CHICAGO
August 1979
ANGELA’S BIRTHDAY FELL ON TUESDAY, TWO DAYS AFTER CATHERINE had rejected her, the way everyone from Angela’s adolescence had done. Two days after she saw Bill Blackwell’s neck, and the ugly red gouges he hid with a bandana. Two days since Angela had put all the haunting pieces to this summer together. Two full days, and she had done nothing. It had been two days of very little sleep, her mind allowing only thoughts about the missing women, and questioning her belief that Bill Blackwell was part of it all. That the peculiar practice of dual hanging was the method he had used to kill the women. Two days of questioning her theory that the disappearances were part of a much broader string of homicides, which dated back an entire decade. Two days of panic and doubt. And if Angela doubted herself, she couldn’t blame Catherine for rebuking her.
“Is the wine okay?” Thomas asked, bringing Angela back from her thoughts.
Knowing she didn’t like crowds, Thomas made early dinner reservations. Now, on her birthday, they sat at a candlelit table, sipping red wine, while the restaurant was only sparsely occupied. Angela did her best with the acidic cabernet that was upsetting her frail stomach.
She smiled. “It’s good.”
She had been close to confessing everything to Thomas when he arrived home on Sunday night. But instead, she kept things bottled up, allowing her mind to run wild. She had, Angela knew, lost all control of her thoughts. Not even the Valium was able to corral her psyche. The lack of sleep had her ragged and on edge.
She wrestled with her uneasy stomach through dinner, and then declined dessert.
“You don’t want dessert on your birthday?” Thomas asked.
“I’m not in the mood for sweets. But you go ahead.”
“No, we’ll skip it tonight. I have something for you,” Thomas said, producing a small wrapped present from the breast pocket of his jacket.
Everything that had transpired since that day in the garage when Angela had attempted to move the old couch out to the alley for trash pickup—her encounter with Leonard Williams, her overwhelming bout of obsessive compulsion that had stolen an entire week, the forming of her theory about the missing women dating back for a decade, the report of Samantha Rodgers’s body being found, and, most recently, her bizarre discovery in the warehouse, her research about the disturbing practice of dual asphyxiation and thoughts of Bill Blackwell being involved in all of it—had caused Angela to forget about the necklace she found in the old picnic basket.
The events of the past week had nearly caused her to forget her birthday altogether. Now, as she sat with the gift in front of her, she was grateful for having forgotten about the necklace. Had it been present in her mind, she wouldn’t have been able to play off being surprised.
“Can I open it?” she asked.
“Of course,” Thomas said.
Angela pulled the wrapped box in front of her. She carefully tore away the paper and opened the top of the small box. She squinted her eyes at the diamond earrings that rested on the felt interior, with no attempt to hide her confusion.
“You don’t like them?” Thomas asked.
She looked up at her husband, who was staring with a confused look on his face that matched Angela’s.
“No, no,” she quickly said. “I love them. I just . . .” She shook her head. “They’re beautiful.”
“We can exchange them if they’re not what you like. You pointed them out a few months ago when we were shopping. I thought they’d make the perfect surprise.”
Angela nodded. “They do. They’re perfect.”
As she slipped the diamonds through the piercings in her earlobes, her mind could think of nothing but the necklace she had found hidden at the bottom of the picnic basket in her garage.
* * *
Angela lay in bed pretending to enjoy her husband’s attention. Although their sex life had never been passionate, she and Thomas shared chemistry in the bedroom and their lovemaking had always been enjoyable. But tonight, her mind was elsewhere. When he rolled off her, she lay with her head on his shoulder until she was certain he was sleeping. Then, to the sounds of his rhythmic breathing, Angela slipped out of bed. She pulled on her robe and sunk her feet into stockings. It was just past eleven, a time of night she would never typically consider venturing outside. The thought of making the journey to the garage in the dead of night had her fingertips tingling and the scabs on her shoulders begging to be ruptured. But another urge overshadowed her fear and trumped even the strongest pull from the self-destructive parts of her mind—curiosity.
She knew sleep would never come, even with the liberal use of Valium, until she understood the mystery of the necklace. Angela avoided the light switches until she made it to the kitchen, where she turned on the dim light over the stove. She felt the flush in her cheeks and the familiar queasiness in her stomach as she looked through the kitchen window to the garage. Her pounding pulse and the audible rush of blood through the vessels of her head were her body’s way of begging Angela to wait until morning, but she could not.
Unlatching the back door, she stepped out into the night. The sweltering summer heat relinquished none of its power even this late, and Angela felt the humid air dampen her face. The neighborhood was quiet. She kept the patio light extinguished and carried a small flashlight with her. An impending panic attack made her breathing shallow. She hurried to the utility door at the back of the garage and ducked inside, bringing the interior to life with her flashlight.
The dirty couch was still against the wall. She turned her attention to the cluttered shelves and found the picnic basket. Pulling it from its spot, she opened the top and shined her light inside. The thin necklace box remained just where she had left it. Angela reached into the basket and pulled it out. Opening the box, she found the necklace as it reflected the flashlight’s brightness.
In the darkened garage, she reached up to pinch the dangling earrings that hung from her lobes. She swallowed a sudden bolus of saliva that had formed in the back of her throat as she contemplated what it could mean. Thomas had been working late this summer, at least two or three nights a week. She remembered a string of phone calls last month when no one spoke after Angela had answered. A few times the caller had hung up just after Angela had uttered the word “hello.” She knew he’d hired a new secretary that summer. Now, as Angela stood in the darkened garage, she fought against the screams of her mind that told her Thomas was having an affair. The nausea returned and her stomach rolled. She retched once, then quickly dropped the necklace back into the basket and replaced it on the shelf. She raced through the utility door and vomited onto a small patch of grass in the backyard.
Breathing heavily, she gulped the sticky summer air until a second wave of nausea passed. Then she hustled back into the house. She closed and locked the kitchen door just as the lights flashed on. When Angela turned around, Thomas stood in the kitchen, wearing only his boxer shorts.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Angela patted her nightgown, a nervous reaction to hide her confusion. It did just the opposite. “I thought I heard the trashcans rattling again. The top had fallen off,” she said, immediately judging her lie to be somewhere between awful and completely unbelievable.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” he asked.
“I just . . . didn’t want the neighbors to hear it. Mr. Peterson has been edgy since I blocked the driveway with the couch.”
Thomas walked to the back door and pulled the curtains to the side.
“The utility door to the garage is open,” he said, looking at her.
“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.” Angela felt her stomach roiling again.
Thomas unlocked the kitchen door and walked out to the garage. The sticky night air drifted into the house as Angela watched him enter the garage and turn on the lights. He disappeared out of sight for a full minute, during which the knot in her stomach tightened and pulled her to the washroom. She vomited again before steadying herself against the wall and resting her forehead on the back of her hand. She heard the floorboards squeak and, through watery eyes, saw Thomas standing in the bathroom doorway.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Not feeling well again.”
“This is why you should have woken me,” he said, taking her under the arm and leading her back upstairs. She allowed him to guide her into bed.
“I saw that you vomited outside,” he said as he pulled the covers over her. “I’m calling the doctor in the morning. I know you’ve been resisting, Angela. But it’s time to see the psychiatrist. Someone has to help you through this, and I don’t know what else to do for you.”
Angela had nearly run through her Valium. She’d need more, so she didn’t protest. As Thomas climbed into bed next to her, Angela closed her eyes, but never slept.