Chapter 14
1178 Words
ELENA
The envelope arrived with no return address.
My name on the front in printed type. It was not handwritten and the deliberate anonymity of something that had been thought about before it was sent was clear. It had come through the gallery's general mail, which meant whoever sent it knew where I worked and had chosen not to send it to the apartment.
That choice alone told me something.
Petra brought it in with the morning post, unremarkable in the stack, and I didn't open it until after my ten o'clock. I sat at my desk with the door closed. I slid my finger under the seal.
Inside was a single photograph.
Printed on plain paper. No note. No explanation.
A bakehouse made with timber and glass. There's a wide porch stretching toward dark water.
I recognized it a few seconds later. I know the particular angle of the roofline, the way the porch light fell across the gravel drive, the tree line at the edge of the property where the dark began.
I had been there once.
Our anniversary trip.
The night I had felt the world tilt and the men had stepped out from the trees. I had run barefoot across gravel with a cut on my palm that I had made myself to stay awake.
Someone had sent me a photograph of that place.
Just that and nothing more.
I turned it over. Blank. I checked the envelope again. There's nothing but the printed label, a midtown postmark and a stamp.
I did not call anyone, including Sophia or Isla.
Whoever sent the mail to me knew that I would see it without Liam seeing them first. Otherwise, they wouldn't send it to my work place.
Does that mean someone saw me that night?
Did someone know about the plan for our anniversary?
Liam made all the arrangements, so that meant it was someone who knew him... or us both.
Someone had kept this photograph for a reason and had decided now was the moment to send it.
I thought about who that could be.
From what little I can remember that night, those men who tried to hurt me made it look like a job. Like someone hired them.
My gut was telling me it was not a random attack.
But then again, the wine made me dizzy, so what did I really see?
They were too deliberate in their approach. Unhurried too, like they all had the time in the world. They weren't even worried that my husband was there and could call the cops.
They were men who knew how the night was supposed to end.
But Liam disappeared even when I... something does not add up.
Is my mind playing tricks on me?
When I saw Liam the next morning at home, he looked terrified and his hands were shaking.
He had an injury. Was it real? Was he faking it? I didn't see the wound. I didn't see him clean it either.
Now that I think about it, I'm asking myself why didn't he call the cops? He was hurt and I have gone missing.
I put the photograph in my bag.
I finished my afternoon. I approved the condition report on the Brennan acquisition and took a call from a collector in Paris. I answered two emails and drafted a response to an artist whose work I had been considering for the spring programme.
At six, I walked to the pharmacy and bought a small manila envelope. I walked back to the gallery. I put the photograph inside the envelope and sealed it.
I wrote one word on the front.
Evidence.
I put it in my desk drawer and locked it.
Then I went home.
**
Liam was home when I arrived.
He was in the kitchen with his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up. There's something on the stove that smelled of garlic and white wine. The parenting book was open on the counter beside him with a bookmark pressed into the middle.
He looked up when I came in and smiled.
"Twenty minutes," he said.
I set my bag down.
I looked at him and tried to find a reason why I am getting these emotions. His actions and my thoughts are contradicting each other, and it's increasing my stress level.
"How was your day?" he said.
"Good," I said. "Busy."
"Sit down. You look tired."
I sat at the kitchen table and watched him stir, but my mind went back to the photo of the lakehouse sent to me.
"Elena."
I looked up.
He was watching me from across the kitchen with warmth.
"You're somewhere else tonight," he said.
"Sorry." I made myself smile. "Just thinking about the spring programme."
He nodded, satisfied, and turned back to the stove.
"It smells wonderful," I said.
"New recipe," he said. "I found it in the book."
"You've been busy."
"I want to take care of you," he said simply, without looking up from the stove. "Both of you."
I looked at his back.
At the set of his shoulders.
Both of you, he said.
I pressed my hand flat against my stomach under the table and said nothing and kept my face exactly where it was.
But something had changed today.
Something small and irreversible.
"Liam, can I ask you something?"
"Yes, sure. What is it?" He continued to stir. His back facing me.
"I was wondering about that night... at the lake house."
"What about it?" he asked too casually.
"Well, I just... I had a dream the other night." It was a lie. I didn't have a dream.
"Sweetheart, it's just a dream." He turned to me quickly and smiled, then went back to cooking.
"It seemed so real. While you were getting the bags, men came to attack me and I ran. I looked for you, and you weren't anywhere near the car. So I kept running until I got away and passed out somewhere. Then the next morning, I came through the front door and saw you with a bandage on your head, but there was no wound."
I saw him stiffened. I continued.
"Why didn't you call the cops? You were hurt and I was missing. You should have called them."
He put the ladle down and faced me.
"Sweetie, it was just a dream. I did have a wound on my head and I had it checked at the clinic. You know me and blood. Anyway, as for calling the cops, I know I should have done that. But you know how my family is. Mom would not like it if we were on the front page. Nicholas would throw a fit if the Carter family name were dragged into the mess. I'm sorry, but I had to make a hard decision. I tried to find you though and when I couldn't, I thought it would be best to wait for you here at home."
I nodded and smiled.
I wanted to believe him, I really do.
But I can't.
- Writer
