Chapter 11 - The Woman of the House

I spend the night tossing and turning, my mind racing with thoughts of Charles Schwartz, Margo Williams, and Angela Walsh. Before the sun has a chance to seep through the new linen curtains hanging over our bedroom windows, I kick my feet out from under the covers and decide to go for a run.

Outside, the crisp early-morning air pinches my cheeks as I try to find my rhythm. I haven’t run since Brian and I started dating. Meeting him distracted me from all the things running helped me escape, but now that I’m not working, I have more time on my hands. More time to think.

As I run along the winding road behind our house, I feel my feet situate themselves beneath me. I take a deep breath and let my shoulders relax into my stride. It’s still dark out, so I can’t see the water behind the thicket of trees and houses I’m running alongside, but I can smell it. The air is thick with a mix of seaweed and fish that makes me feel like I’m breathing in the lake itself.

I think of Margo Williams. Was this the last thing she smelled before her head smashed against the sharp rocks underneath the boathouse? I pick up my pace. There wasn’t much information about Charles Schwartz and the “mysterious circumstances” surrounding his death. Did he drop dead from a stroke in the middle of the yard or fall down the stairs? Maybe it was an accident. Or maybe it wasn’t. My breathing intensifies as I swing my arms harder and will my feet to go faster. Then there’s Angela Walsh. Her toothy grin flashes in my mind. Did she leave on her own, or was she forced? What would compel a happy wife and mother to leave her family behind? Soon, I’m sprinting. My chest tightens as the muscles in my calves strain, but I don’t stop. I won’t. I run until I stop thinking about Margo, Charles, and Angela. I run until the soles of my feet are twisted into cramped knots and I’m doubled over trying to catch my breath. And even then, I still feel like their ghosts are right on my heels.

By the time I get home the sun is up and Vick is shoveling some mulch from the bed of his truck onto a tarp on the driveway.

“Hey, Vick. Got a second to talk?” There’s no use inviting him to come inside for some coffee; I already know what his answer will be. Instead, we walk along the lawn, and for the first time I’m the one who wants to make small talk.

“Making good progress here,” I say.

“Getting there, getting there.”

“How’s your wife feeling?”

“She’s doing all right, thanks.” His answer seems rehearsed, robotic even, and I wonder if it’s his go-to response whenever someone in town asks him that question. He must get it a lot. “How are you liking the house?” he asks, changing the subject. I notice he’s angled himself so he doesn’t have to look at it while we talk.

“We love it. Actually, I have a question I was hoping you could answer since you’ve lived in town so long.”

He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of freshly cut grass behind. He smells like sweat and dirt. “I’m not sure how much help I’ll be, but go ahead. Shoot.”

“What do you know about Charles Schwartz and Margo Williams?”

The question makes him adjust the baseball cap on his head. “Oh, I haven’t heard those names in a while.”

“Is it true they died here?”

“Well, that was a long time ago,” Vick says as he looks out on the water. “I don’t think they ever figured out how Charles died. Rumor was he drowned, but I think Margo fell from the cliff. Terrible accidents, the both of them. But like I said, that was a long time ago.”

“What about Angela Walsh?” I watch his face change when I say Angela’s name. His eyes widen and his lips part. Does the color in his cheeks fade, or is it just my imagination? Somewhere in the distance, a crow caws.

“What about her?” he asks after a moment.

“Do you know her?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager.

“Sure, I mean, of course I did. It’s a small town.”

“I heard she’s missing?”

“Missing. Ran off. No one knows, really.” He takes his cap in his hand and runs his fingers through the few strands of hair he has left. “I’ve known her and Jonathan since they were kids. They’re locals, like me and my wife. They were high school sweethearts, or whatever you call it nowadays. Good kids, not like the ones running around today with their phones.” A smile starts at the corners of his mouth, and I laugh only to encourage him to continue. “She owned a boutique in town. You know, decorations and stuff for the house. He works in town too. Accounting, I think. They must have bought this place for nothing, but they wanted a nice place to raise their kids, so they fixed it up. Took some time, but, well, you’ve seen it.”

His eyes are still looking past me toward the water. I look out in the direction of his gaze, but there are only waves clambering over each other in a race to the shore.

Ask him.

I inhale sharply.

Go on, do it. Ask him.

“What happened to her?”

Vick is quiet. He twists his cap in his hands, and for a moment I don’t think he’s going to reply, but then his eyes drift back to the water. “She disappeared. Jonathan was crushed. The town turned itself inside out looking for her, but…” Vick shakes his head as his voice trails off.

“But what?”

“But we all knew we wouldn’t find her.” With that, he puts his cap on and heads up the lawn back toward the house.

“What do you mean? Why didn’t you think you’d find her—”

“What kind of stone are you thinking for the retaining wall in the back?” There’s a sternness in his voice, like a father scolding a child.

“I’m sorry, I just—”

“Because I was thinking dry stacks might look nice.”

His mouth is in a straight line, letting me know the conversation is over.