It Ends Here Page 5

  "How's Sune doing?" I asked. "Did he remember to make your lunches this morning?"

  "He did. They were actually pretty good. He made a pasta dish for me and some fruit in a small container. I also got a small piece of chocolate for dessert."

  "That sounds great," I said, feeling impressed. "Maybe we should have him make all our lunches from now on, huh?"

  "But she's here too, Mom," Julie said. "She's here all the time now."

  "Kim?" I said. I felt a shiver run down my spine when thinking about the woman who had ruined everything, the woman who had stolen Sune from me. They'd had an affair while he was in recovery after being shot, and she was his nurse. I had been taking care of him, taking care of the kids and everything else, being the only one making money, while they were just sharing secret kisses at the clinic. It still enraged me when thinking about it. I was done with Sune, but it was hard to be completely separate when you had built a family together. Thinking of her being with my children, with my boyfriend, made me want to scream. I was so angry with Sune for throwing everything we had out like that. How could he do that to us? How could he do it to the children? I knew things hadn't been easy lately; it hadn't been easy for any of us, and, no, I probably hadn't been as attentive to him as he needed me to be, especially not physically. But he was the one who had pushed me away, not the other way around. And now he had found someone else.

  "Yes, and she’s cooking dinner. Some Asian dish, Thai, I think it is. With chicken. It smells awful. I don't think I can eat any of it."

  I sighed. Julie had recently become a vegan, and that didn't exactly make any of our lives easier. I had hoped it was just a phase, but so far, it had lasted for two entire months. She refused to eat anything that wasn't plant-based. At first, I had indulged myself in cooking for her, trying out all these new recipes and found it to be quite fun, but as time passed, it was becoming a nuisance. It was simply too demanding.

  "Then you'll just have to cook something for yourself," I said. "Listen, Julie, I need to write this article. Can we talk later?"

  There was a pause.

  "Oh, okay."

  "I’m sorry, sweetie. It's just…I really need to write this thing. I'll call you before bedtime, okay?"

  Another pause.

  "Okay."

  I hung up, feeling guilty. I could tell that Julie wanted to talk longer, but I didn't have the time for that. Not tonight. This article had to be in my editor's inbox first thing in the morning. If I didn't start writing now, I'd have to stay up all night and finish it.

  15

  It was past midnight before I finished it. I stared at the screen, wondering if my editor would be pleased. I had a feeling she wouldn't. She had probably expected something a little more exciting, but this was what she would get. It was all I had…all the woman would give me.

  I realized I hadn't had anything to eat, so I left the room and got into my car. Nothing was open at this hour except for the Circle-K right outside of town. I drove down there and bought myself a hotdog and a polar-pop. A raccoon stared at me from behind the car as I walked back out. Its glistening eyes reminded me of our neighbor's dog that William was so fond of. Sune and I had always thought that dog looked like a raccoon. I took a picture of it with my phone and was about to send it to Sune when I remembered he was no longer my boyfriend.

  I stared at the screen, then shook my head, feeling my eyes grow moist. I shook it off. It was no use feeling sorry for myself.

  The raccoon ran off, and I got back into my car, then drove back. A dead skunk was lying on the side of the road as I drove back onto Market Boulevard. It was bloated from the heat.

  I drove down Second Street and then passed the abandoned house. It was still blocked off with police tape, but all the techs had gone home. Their work there was done. In the newspaper, I had read that it was an accident. The boy had played in there, then fallen. It was tragic, but nothing but an accident, the local Sheriff Travers was quoted saying.

  I rolled past the old house slowly, unable to take my eyes off it. The entire yard was overgrown. A huge tree in the backyard had branches that looked like they reached for me. Ms. Adeline from my motel had told me they used to hang slaves from that tree, back over a hundred years ago when there had been a riot. It was said that the slaves still haunted the place.

  I stopped the car in front of the old house and ate the rest of my hot dog while staring at it behind the yellow police tape. I had seen the boy's picture in the paper, and I kept imagining him walking in there. Why did he do that? What had drawn him to this place? Just curiosity? Probably.

  I was about to start the car up again when I saw something that made me pause. I looked closer. If I wasn't much mistaken, then someone had come out of the back of the house, then took off running across the yard. I watched as this person reached the end of the property, and then disappeared over the fence.

  I kept staring, not quite able to figure out if I had actually seen this person or if it was just the Spanish moss dangling from the big tree that had been playing tricks on me.

  I decided to go look for myself. I jumped out of the car, then walked up to the old house. I snuck under the police tape and opened the creaking door. I walked inside into the darkness, using my phone to light my way. Two rats ran away from my light in the corner. Leaves were blown around as I opened the door and dust whirled into the air. I was careful not to touch anything as I walked into the living room of the old house. It was obvious there had been a lot of people there recently. I remembered the article I had read about the boy. He was the son of the local Cucumber King, one of the big shots in the community. He had lain in the middle of the floor, arms stretched to the sides, shaping a cross. I looked around me, wondering how he had managed to get himself killed. There wasn't really anything near where he was found that he could have crawled up onto and fallen. There were piles of wooden planks that had been broken apart from the floors, but those were at the end of the room, far from where the boy was found. There was half of a tree that had crashed into the side of the house, and the branches were reaching through the ceiling. Had he climbed a branch and then fallen? I asked myself, then kneeled. It didn't seem possible for him to kill himself by falling from there. A broken arm, maybe, or a leg. But death? It wasn't that great of a fall. There were toddlers who fell from skyscrapers and survived. The article hadn't said anything about what the cause of death was. Had he hurt his head? If so, there'd have to at least be blood, right? There didn't seem to be any blood anywhere.

  It puzzled me.

  I stared at the floor, searching for any signs of an accident when suddenly my light fell on something on the wall in front of me. Someone had written something on it.

  I kill so that I may be eternal.

  I shook my head, not remembering reading about any writing on the wall in any of the articles. I reached out and touched the last letter. My finger came back with red paint on it.

  It was still fresh.

  16

  I stayed until the sheriff arrived. I had called the station, but the deputy insisted they wake up the sheriff for this. Half an hour later, Sheriff Travers drove up slowly in front of the house and parked.

  He got out of the car with much trouble, grunted and pulled up his pants, then staggered toward me. I had read in this morning's paper that Sheriff Travers was the long-time champion of the local pie-eating contest and that he was the man to beat again this year. It was obvious he trained for it all year round.

  Sheriff Travers came up toward me, grumbling. "This better be good if you're dragging me out of bed. You the one who called it in?"

  I nodded. "The name is Rebekka Franck. I’m a reporter."

  Sheriff Travers lifted his eyebrows. "Reporter, huh? What are you snooping around here for? Didn't you see the Do Not Cross tape?"

  "I wasn't snooping around. I saw someone run out the back of the house while driving by. I went inside to check it out, and that's when I found it."

  The sheriff stared
at me, both eyebrows lifted. "That's called snooping where I come from, lady. Now, show me what you found. Some type of writing, you say?"

  I nodded and walked ahead of the sheriff inside. I held the door for him, and he came in too. Still panting from the steps, he used his flashlight to shine on the wall. The letters had been running, and some of the paint had dripped onto the floor.

  "Well, I'll be…" he said.

  "I take it that wasn't there earlier. The paint is still wet."

  "I see that," he said and approached it. He looked at it from top to bottom, then touched it with his finger. "Yup. Still as wet as a drowned rat."

  Sheriff Travers pulled up his pants once again with a deep exhale.

  "So, what do you make of it, Sheriff?" I asked.

  He shook his head while letting his flashlight run over the letters once again. Then he sniffled.

  "Nothin' but kids being kids," he said. "Childish pranks. I'll have someone wash it down in the morning."

  With a grunt, he turned around.

  "Are you sure about that?" I asked. "It seems like quite a disturbing prank. A little too much for kids, don't you think? I mean, what kind of a child would do that? Who would say that Alexander Cunningham was killed and didn't die accidentally?"

  "Kids 'round here don't have much to do," Sheriff Travers said with a sly smile. "What ya gonna do, right?"

  We left the house, and he closed the door behind him, putting a crime scene sticker on the door.

  "There. That will hopefully keep the kids out of this place. I don't want anyone else to get hurt."

  A sticker on the door? I was about to scream. How was a sticker supposed to keep the children out? If anything, it only filled them with more curiosity. Didn't the sheriff know anything about children?

  He lifted his hat politely. "Now, if you'll excuse me, ma'am. It's gettin' late. I'd like to head back to my bed now. I imagine you'd like to see yours too. Good night."

  I walked back to my car, feeling a little lost. I couldn't escape the thought that something was going on here that ran a little deeper than just children's pranks. Yet there was no way this sheriff would ever see that. And if he refused to, then who would?

  17

  Margot sat in her living room. The clock next to her blinked three a.m. She was sweating and couldn't find rest. A tightness in her chest refused to let go, and she could hardly breathe.

  The light flickered on, and her husband stood in front of her in his jammies. He looked concerned.

  "Margot? What are you doing down here in the middle of the night? Are you okay? You don't look well. Are you sick?"

  Her hands were shaking. She hid them and forced a smile. "I’m okay. I just couldn't sleep. I have so much on my mind lately; that's all. I'll be up again soon."

  He approached her, then knelt in front of her, taking her hands in his. As he did, he realized how badly they were shaking.

  "You're trembling. What's going on, Margot?" he asked. His kind blue eyes looked up at her, scrutinizing her. "You haven't been yourself lately. Is it that silly interview? Is that what's been messing with your head?"

  She forced a smile. "Maybe. You know how I don't like these types of things. I get anxious. Now, I’m nervous about the article coming out and what they'll write about me. I don't like it, Theodore."

  He smiled understandingly. "Foolish me. I shouldn't have pushed this when I know about your anxieties. I promise I’ll never do it again, my love. I'll call Edward tomorrow and let him know this is the end of it. No more interviews. Now, it’s time for the great Margot Addington to write and not do publicity. If the publishing house doesn’t think that's enough, then so be it."

  A tear escaped her eye and rolled across Margot's cheek. He wiped it away using his thumb.

  "Don't cry, honey. You know you suffer from Social Anxiety Disorder. It's perfectly normal the way you feel right now. The heavy sweating, the difficulty breathing, it's all part of it. As your doctor, I should have known this. It's over now. You won't have to do any more interviews."

  "Thanks, honey," she whispered with an exhale.

  He rose to his feet and stretched out his hand. "Are you coming back to bed? You know how your anxieties get worse if you don't get a proper night's sleep."

  As she took his hand and let him pull her up from the chair, he glared at her shoes. "Say, how did you get so dirty? Have you been outside?"

  Margot felt her chest grow tight again, then looked away, nodding. "I wasn't feeling well, so I went to see the horses. You know how being with them always calms me down."

  He stared at her, then down at her muddy shoes again. He lifted his gaze and smiled as he saw the jacket she was wearing on top of her nightgown. "Maybe you should leave the jacket and shoes down here."

  She chuckled. "Of course."

  Once she had taken both off, she walked up the stairs, holding his hand in hers. They snuck past Minna's door, and Margot peeked inside to make sure their loud talking hadn't woken their daughter.

  Her daughter was still in her bed, lying on her side, snoring lightly. Margot stared at her sweet child, suddenly breathing easier. She had a good life. She had made a good life for herself. She had everything she could ever have dreamt of, everything she had ever wanted. There was nothing to be afraid of. No one could ever take this away from her.

  No one.

  18

  I didn't sleep much. After getting back from the abandoned house, I jumped into bed, but lay awake for hours afterward, wondering about what I had seen. As I realized I wasn't going to get much sleep, I grabbed my laptop instead and started a search.

  As daybreak came, I had gone through a lot of old articles from forty years ago. Without eating breakfast, I rushed to the library and went to their archives as well. There, I found the rest of what I was looking for. I took photos of it all with my phone, then rushed to the Farmer's Market and had a country style breakfast. Feeling heavy after chicken and waffles, which the lady serving them said would surely stick to my ribs, I left the restaurant and walked back to my motel. Adeline was standing outside the front entrance and greeted me with a smile as I walked past her toward my room. I looked at my laptop and opened the email from my editor that I had received, holding my breath, praying that she would be satisfied with my article.

  She wasn't.

  Of course not. I knew she wouldn't be. She told me to call her, so I did.

  "Was that really all you could get?" she asked. "I knew Margot Addington liked to keep her private life to herself, but still? Didn't you get anything else but this?"

  I rubbed my forehead. "I’m afraid not. She was very reluctant even to talk to me, and the little she did say wasn't very impressive, to put it mildly. I just don't think she's a very interesting person with a lot to say."

  "Hm, very well. The photographer will be heading over later today," she said with a sigh. "Maybe the pictures can make for an interesting feature and then we can cut the text down to a minimum. I must say, I’m not really impressed here, Rebekka."

  "Neither am I," I said. I wanted to scream. I had been a journalist for all my adult life and never had I written such a terrible article. It was way below my usual standards. I so desperately wanted to prove my worth. This just wasn't my type of stuff.

  "All right. I'll edit it, and then we'll run it. I’ve already made room for it, so there's no way around it. I sold the idea to my bosses, and they were so excited to finally hear from the mysterious Margot Addington. They're going to be very disappointed."

  And I was never going to work for them again. She didn't have to say it. I knew that's what she meant.

  "As I said, she wasn't very informative on anything. I got the feeling she didn't want me there at all," I said.

  "I don't have to tell you that a good reporter, such as yourself, should have found an angle and kept going at it until she gave up a little something, right?"

  I sighed. I just wanted to go home. "Of course."

  We hung up. I wanted to throw
my phone across the room and scream. Instead, I walked to my window and stared toward the abandoned house. I could see it from its back side a couple of streets down. It was a windy day, and the Spanish moss outside was fluttering in the wind. The old tree in the backyard was moving, looking like an old man trying to dance. I wondered how old that tree really was, how old the house was, and then about the story I had caught up on the night before.

  A young boy had been found dead inside of that very same house, in a way eerily similar to the way Alexander Cunningham had been found. His arms were stretched out to the sides, like Jesus on the cross. And there had been writing on the wall back then too. Not when they found the body, but later on. Someone had written on the walls of the pre-school where the boy went.

  I kill so that I may be eternal, it had said, just like it had the night before. And just like last night, it was believed back then to be nothing but children's pranks.

  19

  Webster, Florida 1979

  Leanne Peterson looked at her dress in the mirror in the hallway. She never looked good in black, she believed, and her pale face didn't make it better. Neither did the black circles under her eyes from the lack of sleep.

  She sighed and looked at the picture of her son on the dresser underneath the mirror. Never would she see him in a cap and gown, graduating high school. Never would she see him find love, get married, or have children. Never was she going to see that beautiful smile again or hear his laughter again. Oh, how she had loved that laugh of his. Nothing could make her feel more pure joy than the sound of that.

  "An accident," the sheriff had called it when coming to her door. "A terrible, terrible accident."

  He had held his hat between his hands, Leanne had noticed. She hadn't been able to take her eyes off his fingers fiddling with it while he spoke. The sheriff's nails had been dirty.