One
Buffalo, New York, Trailside Grove
The horror that was coming for Greg, Jennifer, and Jake Griffin could not have happened to another family.
Yet, like other families, they were living everyday lives in an everyday suburb.
It could’ve been greater Boston, Chicago, or Toronto—any metropolis with freeways webbing from crowning skylines, stretching to new communities where farm fields had been churned to yield a crop of template neighborhoods. All of them served with the same assortment of Walmarts, McDonald’s, Home Depots, and other big box outlets.
It could’ve been Calgary, Denver, or Detroit.
Any big city with planned subdivisions, schools, playgrounds, parks, man-made lakes and protected forests. Neighborhoods of curving streets with names like Spring Breeze Way, Sunshine Rise, or Blue Willow Crescent. They were the kinds of places where kids pedaled their bikes, or skateboarded around the block, or played basketball or road hockey; where gardens were tended with love, where SUVs were washed in driveways. They were places where the houses had double garages, pools, decks and patios, big kitchens; home offices, en suite bathrooms, and fireplaces. They were the kinds of places where people pursued their dreams while trying to hang on to reality.
But behind the closed doors of their home, the Griffins held secrets, kept them unseen, buried below the surface, so that on the night the horror began, no one—not Greg, Jake, or Jennifer—knew what was coming for them.
There was no shriek, no immediate alarm, because it came upon them silently, the way an anaconda captures its prey, slowly coiling around it, squeezing until escape is impossible.
The Griffins lived in the Buffalo-Niagara region of New York, in Trailside Grove, a newish and serene neighborhood not found on any map.
On that night, everything started to unravel sometime after nine, when Greg wheeled his Ford F-150 into his driveway. After shutting it off, he sat there in the late spring twilight, the engine ticking down, dragging his hands over his whiskered face and reflecting on the evening’s events.
What have I done? I should’ve put a stop to it.
Exhausted, yet his mind raced.
Did I let it go too far? No, relax. It’ll be all right.
Taking a breath, he pressed the button on the remote opener. His double-garage door came to life, rising before him. The interior automatically illuminated.
Jenn’s Corolla was gone.
She’s at book club tonight. That’s why she’s not home.
Grunting, he climbed out of his truck and entered through the garage, smelling the usual mix of rubber, engine fluids, and fresh-cut wood, looking at items neatly placed there: the snowblower, the lawn mower, the ladder, Jake’s hockey sticks, Jake’s bike, Jenn’s bike, her gardening stuff, his tools, workbench, table saw, and the recycle bins.
Stepping up to the interior door, he hit the wall switch and the garage door rumbled closed.
Greg entered his home with a sense of accomplishment because he’d built it. Well, he and his crew had built it, several years ago. They were among the contractors framing houses when Trailside Grove was in its infancy.
Where All Your Dreams Come True, the developer’s billboard had said, the banner arching like a rainbow over an artist’s concept of a world of new homes and blissful families.
For Greg and Jenn, this was their dream home.
“Our forever home,” Jenn had called it.
There were still things Greg would change—a contour here, window size there, maybe the placement of a door. All right, it was well-constructed. But bottom line: he was damned proud of this house. It took a lot of their hard-earned savings, the little money they’d inherited, and a lot of sweat, but he and Jenn had done it.
Our forever home.
The strong scent of laundry soap greeted him as he moved by the washer and dryer through the laundry room. He walked into the living room, softly lit by the lamp Jenn had left on. He’d also leave it on because she wouldn’t be home for well over an hour.
That’s how it was on her book club nights.
He made his way to the kitchen. It was spotless. The counters gleamed in the dimmed cabinet lighting, and Greg welcomed the tranquility.
He opened the ceramic jar with the peanut butter cookies Jenn had made then went to the fridge for milk. Crunching on a cookie, he read notes written in her neat script on the calendar pinned to the wall next to the fridge door.
Jake was at Carter’s tonight for a sleepover.
Right. Jenn had told him about that yesterday. Jake had a dental appointment coming up. Greg shook his head, recalling Jenn’s warning: “He may need braces.”
A big expense when things are getting tight.
Taking another cookie, Greg saw that Jenn had school meetings, a yoga class, then some kind of seminar-conference thing in Tonawanda with the optometrist she worked for.
Finishing another cookie—man they’re so good—he drank milk directly from the bottle, something Jenn forbade. But she wasn’t home, so...
Greg grabbed more cookies and, milk bottle in hand, went down the hall to his office. Standing at his desk, he looked over his copies of the drawings, to familiarize himself with the next stage of the job tomorrow at Phase 2 of Pine Castle Park.
Then he glanced at the printout of Kyle’s email. He was continually urging him to move to Phoenix. “The building biz is booming in AZ, bro.” The notion of steady work and no snow was appealing to the point that Greg and Jenn had considered moving there. But they weren’t sure because Buffalo was their home.
Greg glanced at the other letters and printed emails officially informing him of the contracts his company had bid for and lost out on. Sure, the region’s economy had taken some knocks over the years, but with that never-say-die attitude of Western New Yorkers, Greg believed things would improve. Still, missing out on contracts deepened his fear that if things didn’t pick up for his crew soon, they’d be in real trouble.
His phone vibrated. There was no name displayed, but he knew the number and read the text.
Think about it Greg. We’d be great together.
He didn’t respond.
He didn’t move, still looking at the photo of Jenn with Jake on his desk. They’d known each other since high school. They’d built a good life together, shared so much. She was so beautiful, so loving, but lately, little by little, she’d become distant and he didn’t know why. He closed his eyes. He was too tired to think about anything. He had to get up early to get to the job site. He left the text unanswered, turned off his phone, then connected it to the charging cable in the kitchen.
Wearily, Greg hauled himself upstairs.
He passed Jake’s room, looking at his posters for the Bills and Sabres, pictures of the three of them at Six Flags in Darien, and Bills Stadium in Orchard Park.
He smiled.
Greg took a quick, hot shower, checked his hands—no splinters to pull out tonight. He brushed his teeth, got into his sweats and a T-shirt, then climbed into their king-size bed.
The green numbers on his bedside clock showed 9:59 p.m. His alarm was set for 4:35 a.m.
He usually went to bed before Jenn, especially on book club nights. Sometimes he woke when he heard her come home, most times he didn’t.
In less than five minutes, Greg sank into a deep sleep. He began dreaming before surfacing through a foggy stage of near wakefulness, glancing at the clock.
One twenty-one a.m.
No, get back to sleep. I need sleep.
In his sleepy state, he turned over to Jenn.
But she wasn’t there.
Two
Buffalo, New York, Trailside Grove
Greg lifted his head.
Jenn’s side of the bed was still made.
It hadn’t been slept in.
What the—
Greg snapped awake.
Where is she?
He looked to their bathroom, the door was open, no lights on. She wasn’t there. He looked to their closet. He’d left the door open. It was dark.
Maybe he’d been snoring again; “like a wild beast,” she called it, forcing her downstairs to sleep on the sofa. That happened sometimes.
His thoughts then went to the cordless landline phone on his bedside table. If Jenn had called, he would’ve heard; he had the ringer set to its loudest level. He grabbed it.
No messages.
Where is she?
Greg got up, first looking in the other upstairs bedrooms. All were empty. He padded downstairs.
The sofa was empty.
He went through every room on the main floor, flipping on lights, looking for her in vain. He went downstairs to search their finished basement, the guest room, his man cave, the spare room.
She wasn’t there.
Climbing up to the main floor, a tiny warning bell pinging in a corner of his mind, he went through the laundry room and opened the door to the garage.
Jenn’s Corolla was not there.
He pushed the button on the wall control, raising the garage door.
His pickup stood alone in the driveway.
Cursing, he rushed back into the house for his phone on the counter. Yanking off the charge cord, he called Jenn’s phone. It rang to voice mail and he left her a message: “Where are you, honey? Call me!”
He texted her with the same message, then checked his phone for any calls, texts, or emails Jenn may have sent earlier that he may have missed.
There was nothing.
Driving his hands through his hair, his mind raced.
This had never happened before.
All right, okay, she’d gone to her book club meeting at her friend’s house in Ripplewood Creek, a hamlet, what, some three miles away, if that. And they always finished around 10:00 p.m., or 10:30, and she always came home and went to bed.
So why wasn’t she there?
Did her car break down? Was she in an accident? Wouldn’t someone have contacted me?
Staring at his phone, Greg had an idea. He hurried into his office and switched on his tablet. Their plan came with an app to help locate their phones if they were lost, or track them if they were stolen.
If I find Jenn’s phone, I’ll find Jenn.
Greg tapped on the app on his tablet. He wasn’t good at this stuff. Taking a breath, he followed the instructions and a map of their neighborhood appeared on his screen, locating his phone at their house, but nothing current on Jenn’s. The last location of Jenn’s phone was old, placing it at their house. But her phone was not plugged into her charger on the kitchen counter, where she always kept it.
That meant she had her phone with her.
He went through the help pages to find the contact number for the twenty-four-hour support line and called. After the prompts, he was put on hold, then a live person came on the line.
“I’m trying to locate my wife’s phone. It’s kind of urgent,” Greg said.
“Yes, sir,” said the agent, whose name was Taj. “Just a few security questions about your account.”
Forcing himself to stay calm, Greg answered the questions.
“Okay, sir. I’ve verified your account.” Taj was pleasant. “Did you try signing into the advanced browser online?”
“No, I don’t know how—look—” After Greg explained his situation, he said: “I need your help.”
“Yes, sir. One moment.”
Greg could hear the rapid clicking of a keyboard for several moments.
“Sir, I’m sorry but we’re unable to provide an updated location for that phone.”
“What? Why not?”
“It could be any number of reasons, such as a dead battery, no internet connection, or a SIM card issue...”
“I need to find her phone.”
“I would advise you to keep up with your efforts. Your wife could resolve the issue at her end, and then you can locate the phone. Is there anything else I can help you with today, sir?”
“What?” Stunned, Greg then said: “No.”
He was at a loss.
It was now 2:46 a.m.
He thought for a moment.
Jenn’s book club.
He’d call whoever hosted. But who was it? A small wave of shame rolled over him. He knew little about his wife’s book club group, other than a few first names, and that most of them lived in Ripplewood Creek.
Wait.
Greg went to the kitchen calendar, where Jenn had noted the meeting: “Book Club. L.”
That had to be Liz. Greg had met her at the mall. It was last year. Jenn introduced her as being in the club. Liz was a retired bank teller. But what was her last name? He thought for a moment. It started with an M...for Martin! No—Meyer! No—Miller!
It was Miller.
Liz Miller.
He needed her number.
Greg went beyond the kitchen to the alcove that was home to Jenn’s desk and computer, where she handled all their household finances. It was a foreign land to him. She kept it ordered, tidy. Jake smiled from a framed picture she kept on one corner.
Greg had seen Jenn with her little blue address book many times. Did she keep it here? The first desk drawer he opened had envelopes, bills, statements, warranties. The next drawer had a stapler, tape, pens, stamps, sticky notes, paper clips, and there—a blue address book! He flipped through it, coming to Jenn’s handwritten entry for Liz Miller, including her address in Ripplewood Creek and phone numbers for her landline and cell.
Gripping his cell, Greg called.
As it rang, he wrestled with the absurdity of his situation, the imposition, the embarrassment. Then, touching Jenn’s desk, looking into their son’s face, Greg confronted the break from the order of their lives.
A man answered, his voice groggy, bordering on a growl.
“Hello?”
Greg let out a breath. “Mr. Miller?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry for waking you. I’m Greg Griffin. My wife, Jennifer, was at your house earlier, for a book club meeting.”
Miller said nothing.
Greg continued, not believing the words as he spoke them aloud.
“Jenn, my wife, hasn’t come home.”
“What?” Miller’s voice was tense and he coughed.
“My wife hasn’t come home from your house.”
“What? She what? It’s three in the morning.”
“Mr. Miller, could I talk to your wife, please?”
Greg heard another voice in the background, then a rustling.
“Hang on.” Miller was less tense. “Hang on.”
More talking, then a woman’s voice, full of concern.
“Hello?”
“Liz Miller?”
“Yes.”
“This is Greg Griffin, Jenn’s husband. Was she at the book club meeting at your house tonight?”
“Yes, she was. What’s wrong?”
“What time did it end?”
“Ten thirty, maybe a bit later. Why?”
Greg tightened his hold on his phone.
“Jenn hasn’t come home.”
“She hasn’t come home?”
“Did she leave with the others?”
“Yes, they all left. It was after ten thirty. Greg, it’s only a ten-minute drive from my house to yours.”
“I know. Liz, could you call the others who were there? Maybe Jenn said something to one of them?”
“Yes. Yes, I will.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry to wake you.”
“Not at all. It’s all right.”
Ending the call, Greg stood there, almost numb.
Staring at Jenn’s address book, he considered a potential scenario: Jake was sick, or hurt. Jenn picked him up from Carter’s house and took him to the hospital. Maybe her phone died and she hadn’t called him yet, or it wasn’t that serious and she didn’t want to wake him.
Grasping at the possibility, Greg flipped through Jenn’s book. He knew Carter’s family, the Wileys. They lived two blocks over. Holly Wiley was an assistant manager at Walgreens. Her husband, Nate, was a welder, who coached kids’ softball and hockey. They’d had a couple of backyard barbecues together.
Greg called. Holly answered.
“Holly, this is Greg.”
“Greg?” Her voice was low, heavy with sleep. “What is it? Why’re you calling so late? Is everything all right?”
“Is Jake okay?”
“Jake? Yes, he’s fine. The boys are sleeping. Why?”
“Have you heard from Jenn tonight?”
“No.”
“Nothing at all?”
“I saw her when she dropped Jake off. Why?”
Greg hesitated.
“Greg, tell me what’s going on,” Holly said.
“Jenn hasn’t come home from her book club meeting.”
“She hasn’t come home? Oh my God, Greg!”
“Listen, don’t tell Jake. Or anybody. I’ve got to sort this out.”
“Maybe she had a flat tire or something?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Listen, Holly, call me if you hear from Jenn.”
“Absolutely. Do you want me to send Nate over?”
“No. No, thanks. Please call me if you hear from her.”
Greg hung up, took a breath, went upstairs, got dressed, then grabbed the keys to his truck.
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