FORTY-THREE

That night, Jessie sat at the kitchen table and sipped her tea, trying to steady her nerves. She’d finally had to ask Aunt Paulette to leave her alone for a bit. The older woman had just kept going on about her dream and how the tall, dark man was a threat to Jessie and Abby. With everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, Jessie just couldn’t abide her aunt’s psychic babble anymore. Normally she tried to keep an open mind and not pass judgment, the way Mom used to do. But this evening Jessie just had just snapped. She was frightened. And Aunt Paulette was making it worse.

For now, there was just one thing on Jessie’s mind.

Who had been in her house? And why had they gone through her drawers and closets?

She hadn’t found anything missing. Of course, she couldn’t be exactly sure. Was all her underwear accounted for? A few pairs seemed to be missing—but who kept track of how many pairs of panties and nylons they had? And surely some intruder wasn’t going to break into the house just to steal her underwear. Rather, Jessie thought the motive had been to scare her.

If so, the intruder had been successful.

Was it the same person who’d killed Inga? Was he trying to scare her now into leaving? Or to send a message that she was next?

Emil. In her mind’s eye, she kept seeing Emil.

But Emil was dead. The police of two countries, Mexico and the United States, had confirmed it.

She thought about calling the cops, but decided against it for the moment. She couldn’t bear having any more policemen traipsing through the house.

But there was another reason she didn’t call. Deep down, Jessie worried that she was losing her mind. She had almost done so before, during those first months in New York, when she’d hallucinated all sorts of things. She had seen Emil every time she’d looked out the window. She had seen her bloodied miscarried son screaming in Abby’s crib. Might she be losing it again now, stressed out by Inga’s murder and Abby’s imaginary playmate? Might these things have sent her down crazy lane again?

Might she herself have overturned her drawers and emptied her closet—and not remembered it?

“No,” she whispered to herself, rubbing her temples. “I didn’t do it. I’m not imagining things.”

It was Abby who was imagining things. After meeting with Mrs. Whitman, Jessie had spoken with the school psychologist, Dr. Ed Bauer. He’d told Jessie that it sounded as if Jessie’s exploits the night before had been a form of sleepwalking. She may have technically been awake and aware of what she was doing, but her mind was responding to dream-like stimuli—her imaginary friend, the one she called Aaron.

But was he imaginary? Jessie couldn’t forget Gert Gorin’s absolute insistence that she had seen the boy—not once, but twice. Mrs. Whitman had said Gert wasn’t to be trusted. She was a hysteric. Maybe so. But Jessie knew that Inga had seen the boy, too, on one of the first days after they’d moved here. Inga had watched Jessie and the boy wander down to the brook. Inga wasn’t a hysteric. She was a sensible, very level-headed young woman. Inga had seen the boy, so Jessie had to believe he was real.

Then why did Mrs. Whitman describe Abby as talking to herself—to an imaginary friend—in class?

“Maybe it’s both,” Jessie said out loud, running her fingers over the sleek titanium of her laptop, which she knew wouldn’t be opened again today. “Maybe there’s a real boy that Abby has met sometimes, and liked—and when he’s not around, she talks to him, imagining he’s there.”

Yes, that had to be the answer, Jessie thought. Aaron must be a real kid. He just doesn’t go to Independent Day. Abby imagines he does because she wishes he did. She wishes her friend could be with her in school.

Jessie’s heart lifted. That had to be the answer.

So the next step was to find where this little boy lived in town.

A thought occurred to Jessie. Might Aaron have been the culprit who messed up her room? Just why a little boy would do such a thing, Jessie had no idea. But right now she was trying to force all the pieces of the puzzle together, even if they didn’t fit.

A couple of hours ago, when she’d picked Abby up after school, Jessie had made no further inquiries about Aaron. She was glad that Abby didn’t ask why she’d been by to talk to her teacher. But the little girl understood that there were repercussions for her behavior the night before. Jessie had explained that her punishment for leaving the house and going to the barn was that she had to stay in her room the whole weekend. She couldn’t go outside and play. No swinging on the swings, no walking to the brook. Abby had accepted her punishment without protest. So right after dinner, she’d gone back up to her room, where Jessie had given her a pile of books to read.

A sudden rapping on the door startled Jessie, and she looked up quickly.

In the orange backlight of the setting sun she recognized John Manning through the window, standing on her doorstep. The fading sunlight rendered him mostly a silhouette, and suddenly fear crept back up Jessie’s throat.

Aunt Paulette’s warning about a tall, dark man.

That described John Manning quite aptly.

Jessie stood and went to the door.

“Hello,” she said through the screen.

“Good evening,” her neighbor said. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“I was just having a cup of tea.”

Manning smiled. “I just wanted to make sure everything was okay. I had a visitor earlier today in the person of Mrs. Gertrude Gorin. Apparently she’s going around the neighborhood trying to locate a little boy.” He paused. “She told me all about Abby’s experience in the old barn last night.”

Jessie sighed. “Yes. It was a long night. And I think that means I’m turning in early tonight.”

“Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?”

Jessie regarded him. Even in the shadows, his eyes still burned. His voice sounded sincere, but could she trust him? “A tall, dark man is coming,” Aunt Paulette had told her, “and he is dangerous to you and Abby.” Had this tall, dark man been upstairs earlier today—going through Jessie’s lingerie?

She shuddered. “I’m fine, thank you, Mr. Manning.”

“Please call me John,” he said.

“I’m fine, John. I appreciate your concern. But right now . . . all I want to do is go to bed.”

“Of course. I just wanted to come by and offer my services. Good night, Jessie.”

Jessie closed the door. She watched until she was certain that Manning had returned to his own yard. Then she double-bolted both her back and front doors, and made sure every window was locked. Damn that security firm for being so slow.

Then she went upstairs and, even before the sun had fully set, thankfully fell into a dreamless sleep.