No One Needs to Know
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Synopsis
In July 1970, actress Elaina Styles was slain in her rented Seattle mansion along with her husband and their son's nanny. When the baby's remains were found buried in a shallow grave close to a hippie commune, police moved in-only to find all its members already dead in a grisly mass suicide.
Now, decades later, a film about the murders is shooting at the mansion. On-set caterer Laurie Trotter ignores gossip that the production is cursed. But then people start dying . . .
As Laurie digs deeper into what happened all those years ago, she discovers that the truth is more twisted than any whispered rumor, as a legacy of brutal vengeance reaches its terrifying climax.
Release date: July 28, 2015
Publisher: Pinnacle Books
Print pages: 416
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No One Needs to Know
Kevin O'Brien
Wednesday, May 28, 10:51 P.M.
Ellensburg, Washington
Laurie Trotter had a bad feeling about the man who stepped inside the restaurant just ten minutes before closing. There were no other customers in the place. The last one had left about five minutes ago.
The Superstar Diner off Interstate 90 was isolated—a Texaco station on the other side of the highway was its closest neighbor. Laurie hated working this “bare-bones staff” late-night shift. Somewhere along the line, the owner, Paul, had done a survey and determined their slowest evening for business was in the middle of the week, especially in the summer, when most of the students at Central Washington University had gone home. So from nine until closing on Wednesday nights, the menu was limited to grill food.
A trained chef, Laurie reluctantly emerged from her sanctuary in the kitchen to double as a waitress and short-order grill cook on those nights. The only other person working the shift was the dishwasher, Duncan, a sweet, nerdy eighteen-year-old with a puny build and a nervous manner. He always seemed overwhelmed, rushing around, bussing tables and washing dishes as if it were his first day on the job. Whenever he became flustered—which was often—he got tremors, which made him shake from the neck up like a bobblehead figure. If some creep were to wander into the diner and make trouble, poor Duncan could hardly come to Laurie’s rescue.
In fact, it was sort of the other way around. A while back, a trio of jerks from Duncan’s high school had come in. They’d sat down at the counter, where they could see him through the pass-through window while he’d toiled away in the kitchen. They’d started teasing him.
“Hey, retard, how many plates did you break today?”
“Shit, look at him shaking . . .”
“When I grow up, Duncan, I want to have a real cool job like the one you have!”
Laurie had spotted Duncan, bent over the sink, trying to ignore them. All the while, his head trembled on his skinny neck.
Instead of handing menus to Duncan’s tormentors, she’d just glared at them. “If you guys ever want to eat in here again, you’ll shut the hell up right now,” she’d growled. “I’m serious, knock it off.”
And they’d clammed up.
Laurie had that kind of pull at the Superstar Diner. In the two years she’d been employed there, business had almost doubled. Thanks to her daily specials and the desserts she added to their menu, the once-foundering truck stop had become a popular dinner spot in Ellensburg—like one of those places profiled on Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives. Plus, Laurie was well respected in town. A graduate of Central Washington U, she’d been married—too briefly—to the star player on their football team before he’d joined the army and been sent overseas. At least Brian Trotter had gotten to see his infant son, Joey, before dying a hero five months ago. He was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross and a Silver Star posthumously. They had a big ceremony at City Hall, and the event made the front page of the Daily Record. As Brian’s widow and the mother of his child, twenty-six-year-old Laurie was revered around town. Sometimes that wasn’t easy. The perfect widow wasn’t exactly something she’d aspired to be.
The local high school boys were especially in awe of her—and it wasn’t just due to her dead husband’s heroics on the football and battlefields. Laurie was cute, with auburn hair and a buxom figure. Laurie thought she was a bit too buxom. She still hadn’t completely shed the extra baby weight, and working in a kitchen didn’t help.
At the moment, she would have welcomed a familiar face or two. These last few lonely minutes before closing were sometimes a bit unnerving. There was always the chance of a stranger wandering in there, a stranger who might want to cause trouble or rob the place.
Laurie wasn’t usually this paranoid. But six nights ago, only thirty miles away at Paddy’s Pantry off Highway 82 near Yakima, a waitress and a cook had been viciously beaten by a pair of armed robbers. It had occurred just minutes before closing.
The gunmen had emptied out the register, stealing close to seven hundred dollars. They’d also made the waitress, cook, and a busboy surrender their wallets. Laurie had followed the story closely. The waitress and cook resisted. She ended up with a black eye and a split lip; the cook spent three days in the hospital having his broken jaw wired. Their attackers were still at large. Paddy’s Pantry had surveillance cameras. Blurry shots of the perpetrators were printed in the newspaper, and distributed to several restaurants in the area. The photos were plastered in the break room at the Superstar Diner. Laurie thought it was pretty ridiculous that they were expected to recognize the assailants from those fuzzy snapshots. Both men had medium builds and dark hair; one looked pale, and the other might have been Latino—that was all she had to go on. The descriptions from the waitress, cook, and busboy could have fit half the men who had walked into the Superstar Diner tonight.
“My Sharona” was churning over the jukebox, Laurie’s selection. That thump, thump, thump rhythm always helped revive her at the end of a long day on her feet. “Walking on Sunshine” was another song selection that reenergized her near closing. Both tunes were probably brand new when Paul had last changed the jukebox selections.
Duncan had already brought in the sandwich board sign from the sidewalk by the entrance. He was mopping the kitchen floor—always his last chore for the night.
As she wiped down the counter with Windex and a sponge, Laurie prayed no last-minute customers would show up. In just a few minutes, she could lock the door and hang up the CLOSED sign. She was hoping to get out of there by 11:15.
She was about to pull the keys from the pocket of her waitress uniform when the man strutted through the doorway.
Laurie hadn’t noticed a car pull into the parking lot. She couldn’t help wondering if the guy had switched off his headlights as he’d approached the diner. But why would he do that? Was it because he didn’t want anyone identifying his car later?
Laurie felt dread in the pit of her stomach. She put down the sponge, and nervously wiped her hands on her apron. She tried not to stare at the man: dark hair, pale complexion, medium build. She guessed he was about thirty. He looked unwashed with his five o’clock shadow and greasy, unkempt black hair. Still, he was sort of sexy in a strange, dangerous kind of way. Maybe it was the unabashed, flirtatious grin on his face as his dark eyes met hers. He seemed so smug. Any other time, she might have been amused, maybe even slightly intrigued despite herself—but not now.
Please, she thought, just order a Coke to go, take it, and get out of here. Hell, she wouldn’t even charge him for it if that was all he wanted.
The camouflage-pattern army fatigue jacket he wore seemed too big for his frame. With a grunt, he plopped down on one of the middle stools. Then he began to slap his hands on the countertop, keeping time with “My Sharona.”
Laurie worked up a smile and handed him the grill menu—which, thankfully, got him to stop pounding on the counter. “We’re about ready to close,” she said over the music. “But I can still fix you something to go.”
He studied the menu and frowned. “What the hell is the Rita Moreno Burger?”
Laurie took a deep breath. “It’s a ground chicken burger with hints of chili, lime, and cilantro, topped with guacamole, and served with beans and plantain fries.” The description was plainly there on the menu. Still, she refrained from asking, Can’t you read?
“Doesn’t sound very Italian,” he muttered.
“It’s Puerto Rican,” Laurie explained. “Rita Moreno is from Puerto Rico.”
“Moreno sounds Italian to me,” he grumbled.
Laurie just shrugged.
Paul, the owner, was a big movie fan. His collection of framed vintage movie posters and autographed film-star portraits decorated the walls of the Superstar Diner. Every item on the menu was named after a movie star—from the Crepes Suzanne Pleshette to the Lee J. Cobb Salad to the Spencer Tracy Steak. Laurie figured this clever concept was lost on most of the truckers who wandered in for a fast meal.
His eyes on the menu, the stranger let out a long sigh. “Okay, give me three of those, two Myrna Loy Soy Burgers, three of the Gary Cooper Classics, one with cheese, and two Jon Hamm and Egg Sandwiches.” He slapped the menu down on the counter and smirked at her. “To go.”
Oh, crap, Laurie thought, scribbling it all down. She’d be lucky to get out of there by 11:40 now.
“Regular french fries with each order, okay?” he grunted. “None of that plantain shit.” He reached inside his fatigue jacket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one up.
Laurie shook her head at him. “I’m sorry, but you can’t smoke in here. It’s against the law.”
He drew in, and then deliberately blew smoke rings in her direction. “Know what else is against the law?” he asked. “Carrying a concealed weapon.”
Laurie froze and stared at him. Was he hiding a gun inside that baggy fatigue jacket? For a second, she couldn’t breathe.
“My Sharona” finally ended. She could hear Duncan in the kitchen, wringing out the mop. He had no idea what was going on. The sound of the kitchen door slamming made her flinch, and she realized he’d just stepped outside to empty the mop bucket.
Now she and this man were alone.
He took another long drag from his cigarette, and then he cracked a smile. “Hey, relax,” he whispered. “I’m just having a little fun with you, Laurie, that’s all.”
For a second, it baffled her that he knew her name. Then she remembered the name tag on her waitress uniform. She wore the uniform only on Wednesday nights.
With a shaky hand, Laurie grabbed a saucer and set it on the counter in front of him. It wobbled and clanked against the linoleum. “No smoking,” she said, hating the little tremor in her voice. “Put out your cigarette, please.”
He drew in one last puff, stubbed out the cigarette, and then exhaled a cloud of smoke in her face.
Laurie glared at him. Her stomach was in knots. “I’m sorry, but with a big order like this so late at night, you’ll have to pay in advance. I’ll total it up . . .” She started toward the cash register at the end of the counter. She remembered, in case she needed it, the button was there under the counter by the register—a silent alarm to the police department.
Suddenly, he grabbed her arm. “Listen, why don’t you skip that for now and start cooking up the shit you’re passing off as food, huh?” he said. “The sooner you get my order on the grill, the sooner you can wrap it up here and go home to your baby boy. Am I right, Laurie, or am I right?”
She automatically wrenched her arm away from his grasp. But she couldn’t move. Staring at him, she felt as if her feet were cemented to the floor. She couldn’t figure out how he knew about Joey.
He grinned. He could tell she was scared. That was the thing about him—it was as if he knew her every thought.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
Laurie barely got the question out when she heard the kitchen screen door slam again. It gave her another start. She turned to see if Duncan was coming back inside. But she couldn’t spot him through the window. For a moment, she imagined someone following him into the kitchen—with a gun at his bobbling head.
Laurie stole a glance at the silent alarm, just a few feet away. She had to go for it—even if it meant a split lip and a black eye.
“Is someone smoking out there?” Duncan called.
She swiveled around, and was grateful to see him—alone—peering at her through the pass-through window.
“Go back to your mopping, Einstein,” the stranger snarled. “Laurie and I are having a private conversation. Go on . . .”
Duncan blinked at him, and his head started to shake.
“Loser,” the man grumbled.
Behind the man, out the plate-glass window, Laurie noticed a pair of headlights coming up the road from the Interstate’s off-ramp.
“Laurie, are you okay?” Duncan asked.
She watched the vehicle turn into the lot. To her utter relief, she saw it was a police car. “Everything’s fine, Duncan,” she said evenly. “The gentleman’s just leaving . . .”
The man fiddled with a salt shaker. He looked so smug. He didn’t seem to catch on that a patrolman was just outside the restaurant.
Duncan retreated from the pass-through window. A moment later, Laurie heard the bucket clanking as he put it away.
“I have no idea how you know me,” Laurie said to the stranger. Her heart was racing. “But you’re acting like a total creep. Now it’s past closing time, and I don’t have to put up with you. Do you understand me? You need to leave—now.”
In response, he unscrewed the top of the salt shaker, and slowly poured out the salt. A little white mound formed on the counter.
Laurie nodded toward the window in back of him. “You’re going to have a tough time explaining that little trick to the state trooper out there.”
The man glanced over his shoulder, and then turned toward her again, stone-faced. “If he’s a friend of yours, he might be interested to hear how much you whored around while your hero-husband got shot at in Afghanistan. I could give him an earful, sweetie. You have everybody in this town thinking you’re somebody special, the sweet war widow . . .” He stood up. “But you’re just a fraud.”
Dumbfounded, she stood there with her mouth open. It wasn’t true. He didn’t know what he was talking about. She wanted to say as much, she wanted to scream it at him. But a grain of truth in his tirade kept her mute.
He sauntered toward the exit, slipping out just as the state patrolman opened the door to come inside. “Thanks, pal,” he muttered to the cop.
The husky, baby-faced patrolman scowled at him. Then he seemed to shrug it off. “Is it too late for a cup of caffeinated to go?” he asked, lumbering toward the counter.
Laurie listened to an engine start up outside. Through the window she watched an old, beat-up silver minivan pull out of the lot. This time his headlights were on. She thought she saw someone with him in the front passenger seat.
She had a pretty good idea who it was.
“Is it too late to get a cup of coffee to go?” the patrolman asked again.
Rattled, Laurie gaped at him, and quickly nodded, “Sure thing, coming right up.” She headed for the coffee station. She hadn’t switched it off yet. “It’s on the house,” she said, reaching for a Styrofoam cup. Her hand was shaking a little. “You want a large?”
“Sure, thanks,” the cop replied. He squinted at the white mound of salt on the counter—and the cigarette stubbed out on the saucer. “What’s this?”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” Laurie said, pouring coffee into the large container. She set the container and a lid in front of him, and started to clean up the stranger’s mess. “Did you need cream or sugar with that?”
“Black’s fine,” the policeman said.
Laurie wanted to tell the cop what had just happened, but she couldn’t. Right now, she couldn’t tell anyone.
She stole another look out the side window—at the access road. The minivan’s front beams and taillights disappeared in the darkness.
But she didn’t feel any relief. The dread was still rooted in the pit of her stomach.
She knew it wasn’t over. The silver minivan would be back.
Tonight was just the beginning.
Wednesday, 11:12 P.M.
The code to set the alarm was *72. The keypad was on the kitchen wall by a pair of saloon doors to the dining area. Once she set the alarm, Laurie had sixty seconds to leave through the front exit and lock it—or the damn thing would go off. As usual, Duncan waited for her outside, because the whole business of having to get out of there within a minute flustered him. Tonight he had the state patrolman keeping him company. After what had happened at Paddy’s Pantry six nights ago, the cop said he’d stay until she’d closed up—just to be safe.
Laurie knew her last customer of the night had nothing to do with the armed robbery at Paddy’s Pantry. He’d had no intention of robbing the diner tonight.
No, he’d come there for her.
But she couldn’t admit that to the cop—or to Duncan. For them, she tried her damnedest to act as if nothing was wrong. Yet all the while she felt as if her whole world was about to crumble. She couldn’t breathe right. She just wanted to get home and make sure Joey was safe.
At closing, they always left on the big lighted Coke clock and the red neon sign in the window spelling out BREAKFAST-LUNCH-DINNER. The dim, scarlet-hued light was enough for Laurie to navigate her way through the shadowy restaurant.
She slipped out the front door and locked it with thirty seconds to spare. A cool night breeze hit her, and she clutched together the front of the black cardigan over her waitress uniform.
Duncan said he’d see her tomorrow, and then he mounted his moped, which always sounded like a defective lawn mower whenever he started it up. Waving good-bye to her and the cop, he took off. The sound of the sputtering engine grew fainter as Duncan headed up the access road toward town.
Laurie turned and smiled at the state patrolman. He had no idea how he’d rescued her tonight, even if it was just temporarily. “Well, thank you for sticking around,” she said. “It was a comfort—”
A static-laced announcement came over a mic strapped to the cop’s shoulder, interrupting her. The patrolman pressed a button on the device and spoke into it. “This is car seventeen responding . . .” There was more gibberish from the mic, which apparently he understood. “I’m at the Ellensburg exit by I-90 right now. I’m on my way. Over . . .” He turned to Laurie, his eyebrows raised. “Are you okay on your own from here?”
Nodding at him, she reached into her purse for the car keys. She backed toward her Toyota Camry on the other side of the small lot. “Oh, yes, I’m headed straight home . . .” She turned and pressed the device on her key ring. The car lights blinked.
She glanced back at the cop, who was already ducking inside his patrol car. He started to talk into his mic again, and then shut the door.
She was about to call, “Thanks again,” but he wouldn’t have heard her.
With a sigh, Laurie climbed into her car. She put the key in the ignition, and then remembered something she’d left behind in the diner.
The prowler’s headlights and rooftop red strobes went on as the cop pulled out of the lot.
Biting her lip, Laurie watched him drive away.
She’d promised Paul that when she got home tonight, she would bake four orange cakes for tomorrow. So on the way to work, she had stopped by the grocery store and bought all the ingredients, which she’d stashed in the diner’s refrigerator. Her orange cake was a hit at the Superstar Diner, and would go on the special dessert menu Thursday night. She would be baking one more cake—to send to Cheryl Wheeler, the owner of Grill Girl, a popular Seattle food truck recently profiled on the Food Network. Paul didn’t know it, but for the last two months Laurie had been sending her desserts to various Seattle and Portland restaurateurs in hopes of getting hired—and getting out of Ellensburg.
She nervously tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. One of the last things she wanted to do right now was go back inside the diner, deactivate the alarm, and retrieve a bunch of groceries. She’d have to go through the whole lock-up procedure all over again, alone this time. And she couldn’t be certain if her last customer of the night hadn’t stuck around to see if the cop would leave before her.
Did she dare push her luck?
Laurie told herself she’d be back inside the car within two minutes. That was certainly a lot less time and hassle than making a special trip here tomorrow morning. Just getting Joey dressed and strapped in his car seat always added an extra ten minutes to every trip—each way.
“Damn it,” she hissed, fishing her cell phone from her purse. She slipped it into the pocket of her waitress uniform, and then climbed out of the car. She warily glanced toward the access road. She didn’t see any cars. There was nothing, no sign of the silver minivan.
As she unlocked the restaurant door, the alarm went off. She rushed inside, shut the door and bolted it behind her. Leaving the key in the lock, she hurried into the kitchen. Laurie tried not to let the alarm’s incessant beeping unnerve her. She knew the disable code by heart: 8291940. The saloon doors were still swinging back and forth as she punched in the numbers on the lighted keypad. All at once, silence. It was a relief. But her heart was still racing.
In the darkness, Laurie made her way to the big refrigerator, and opened it. “Let there be light,” she whispered. Even for a normal evening, it would have been a bit scary poking around here in the dark.
She imagined stepping out of the kitchen—only to see her last customer standing on the other side of the plate glass window, staring in at her.
Laurie grabbed two large to-go bags, doubled them up, and quickly loaded the butter, milk, eggs, and orange juice inside. She closed the refrigerator door, and the kitchen was dark again.
The bag felt heavy and awkward as she lugged it toward the saloon doors. She set the activate code again, and then made a beeline for the entrance. She didn’t spot anyone out there, thank God. She unlocked the door, swung it open, and hurried outside. The bagful of groceries got in the way as she tried to lock up, and she couldn’t keep her hands from shaking. But she finally got the door locked.
Glancing toward the access road again, Laurie didn’t notice any headlights. She let out a sigh of relief, but then it caught in her throat.
There in the moonlight, she saw a vehicle slowly moving up the road—toward the restaurant, toward her. The headlights were off.
She wasn’t certain, because of the distance and the night, but it looked like a minivan.
Bolting toward the Camry, she dug the key from the pocket of her waitress uniform. She clicked the unlock button on the key ring device, and the Camry’s lights flickered. Pulling open the car door, she jumped inside and tossed the bag on the passenger side floor. She heard something crack inside the bag, but was too frazzled to care right now. Fumbling with the key, she struggled to get it in the ignition. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” she breathed.
Even with the window up, Laurie could hear the minivan’s engine now—and stray pieces of gravel crunching under its tires.
At last, she got the key in the ignition and started up the car. She backed out of the parking space, and then shifted gears. She was about to put her foot down on the accelerator when all at once, something blinded her. She hit the brake.
The minivan’s driver had switched on his brights. The van stopped at the narrowest part of the drive, where a curbed sidewalk jutted out at the edge of the parking lot. It was her only way out, and they had it blocked.
Squinting in the headlight beams, she could just barely make out the two silhouetted figures inside the front of the minivan. Someone climbed out on the passenger side, but she couldn’t quite see him. She heard the vehicle’s door shut.
Laurie immediately reached for the armrest, and with a click, locked the car doors.
The tall, lean man came into view, weaving toward her. He looked as if he were drunk. He banged his fist on the hood of her car. “Roll down your window!” he yelled, his voice only slightly muffled by the glass. “C’mon, Laurie, roll it down, before I break it!”
Reluctantly, she reached for the armrest switch. The window hummed as she lowered it a mere couple of inches. He glared at her through the narrow opening. Laurie stared back at him. “That was your brother, Ryder, in the restaurant earlier, wasn’t it?” she said. “I should have seen the family resemblance. What do you want, Tad?”
He drummed his fingers on the roof of the car—just above her head. His face came even closer to the glass.
For Laurie, seeing him again for the first time in four months was a shock. He looked terrible—like someone who was strung out on drugs or living on the streets. He used to have a sweet, goofy cuteness that made him endearing. But it was gone now.
He hadn’t answered her question. He just shook his head at her.
“What do you want?” Laurie asked again. Her foot was still on the brake.
He just glared at her, and kept drumming his fingers on the car roof.
“I can’t believe this,” Laurie said. “You used to tell me that your brother was bad news. You didn’t want anything to do with him. That therapist you were seeing called him a sociopath. Remember? So why did you send him into the diner to harass me? Or was that his idea? Are you two buddies now?”
“I just want to see my kid,” he replied—at last.
“He’s not your child,” Laurie said steadily. “You know that, Tad. I gave you proof—and it cost me dearly. It almost ended my marriage.”
“Well, your marriage did end,” Tad said. “The guy died. And I’m alive. Goddamn it, Laurie, you care about me! Quit trying to be the great, suffering, noble war widow. That routine might fool some people, but I know you—”
“Stop it,” she whispered. Her eyes were starting to hurt from the headlights’ blinding glare. “Just leave me alone.”
“I still have a right to see my own kid,” he argued.
“Good God, how many times do I have to tell you? Tad, I showed you the test results—”
“Ryder says you probably paid off some doctor to fake those documents. And I wouldn’t be surprised if you did, you lying bitch.”
“‘Lying bitch?’ I think that’s your brother talking. That’s not you. Why are you even listening to him?” She studied his ravaged face. If she weren’t so frightened, her heart would have been breaking for him. “What happened to you? You used to be sweet.”
“You can’t just dump people—”
“That was two years ago, Tad. Two years . . .”
“I was in love. We had something together. You can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. If I can’t have you . . .” He trailed off, and then suddenly banged on the hood.
Startled, Laurie reeled back.
“Get out of there!” he shouted. “Get out of that goddamn car right now!”
Laurie gaped at him, and then she realized her foot had been on the brake all this time. She turned and switched on her high beams. Tightening her grip on the wheel, she pushed down on the accelerator. The tires let out a loud screech as she sped toward the narrow section of road between the minivan and the edge of the sidewalk.
Tad jumped back from the car, and fell down on the pavement.
Laurie saw him only out of the corner of her eye as she plowed forward. For a second, the minivan’s headlights blinded her. Then she felt a jolt as the front passenger-side tire hit the curb and the car bounced up onto the sidewalk. She thought the Camry might tip over and crash into the other vehicle. The car’s underside scraped against the concrete, and she winced at the grating sound. She got another jolt when the back tire slammed into the curb. One side of the Camry careened along the walkway. She kept her foot on the accelerator, and didn’t let up.
Clearing the minivan, Laurie swerved back onto the driveway. She was almost certain she’d damaged the underside of the Camry, but she didn’t stop. She checked her rearview mirror to make sure Tad and his brother weren’t following her.
She didn’t see anything back there. Ryder must have turned off the minivan’s headlights. She turned down Canyon Road, and headed toward the center of town. There were other cars on the road, and that made her feel better. If the Camry were damaged and broke down on her, at least other drivers were around. She wouldn’t be totally helpless.
She tried to tell herself that everything was okay. But her heart was still racing.
Laurie pressed the switch on her armrest, and her window descended. The cool breeze through the open window was refreshing. She thought about calling the police. But what would she tell them? I’m worried, because the guy I slept with a few times while my husband was fighting in Afghanistan is now harassing me—him and his sociopath brother.
She kept thinking that she deserved this. Everyone who knew her—or knew of her—would think the same thing.
No, she couldn’t call the police.
Right now, she just wanted to get home. She glanced in the rearview mirror again. She didn’t see the minivan anywhere back there. They weren’t following her. Then again, they didn’t have to.
They knew where she lived.
Her home was on Wilmington Court, a cul-de-sac about half a mile from the university. As she turned down the block, Laurie kept a lookout for the minivan. Tad and his brother couldn’t have made it there before her. She’d gone over the speed limit most of the drive home. Still, she kept her eyes peeled.
Laurie pulled up in front of her duplex, a charmless, beige stucco—one of four that made up the Bancroft Townhome Apartments. Her apartment was on the first floor. The inside of the unit was just as drab as the exterior. With the imitation parquet floors and the cheap-looking wood doors, cabinets, and accents, Laurie figured the place must have been built in a hurry sometime in the mid
Ellensburg, Washington
Laurie Trotter had a bad feeling about the man who stepped inside the restaurant just ten minutes before closing. There were no other customers in the place. The last one had left about five minutes ago.
The Superstar Diner off Interstate 90 was isolated—a Texaco station on the other side of the highway was its closest neighbor. Laurie hated working this “bare-bones staff” late-night shift. Somewhere along the line, the owner, Paul, had done a survey and determined their slowest evening for business was in the middle of the week, especially in the summer, when most of the students at Central Washington University had gone home. So from nine until closing on Wednesday nights, the menu was limited to grill food.
A trained chef, Laurie reluctantly emerged from her sanctuary in the kitchen to double as a waitress and short-order grill cook on those nights. The only other person working the shift was the dishwasher, Duncan, a sweet, nerdy eighteen-year-old with a puny build and a nervous manner. He always seemed overwhelmed, rushing around, bussing tables and washing dishes as if it were his first day on the job. Whenever he became flustered—which was often—he got tremors, which made him shake from the neck up like a bobblehead figure. If some creep were to wander into the diner and make trouble, poor Duncan could hardly come to Laurie’s rescue.
In fact, it was sort of the other way around. A while back, a trio of jerks from Duncan’s high school had come in. They’d sat down at the counter, where they could see him through the pass-through window while he’d toiled away in the kitchen. They’d started teasing him.
“Hey, retard, how many plates did you break today?”
“Shit, look at him shaking . . .”
“When I grow up, Duncan, I want to have a real cool job like the one you have!”
Laurie had spotted Duncan, bent over the sink, trying to ignore them. All the while, his head trembled on his skinny neck.
Instead of handing menus to Duncan’s tormentors, she’d just glared at them. “If you guys ever want to eat in here again, you’ll shut the hell up right now,” she’d growled. “I’m serious, knock it off.”
And they’d clammed up.
Laurie had that kind of pull at the Superstar Diner. In the two years she’d been employed there, business had almost doubled. Thanks to her daily specials and the desserts she added to their menu, the once-foundering truck stop had become a popular dinner spot in Ellensburg—like one of those places profiled on Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives. Plus, Laurie was well respected in town. A graduate of Central Washington U, she’d been married—too briefly—to the star player on their football team before he’d joined the army and been sent overseas. At least Brian Trotter had gotten to see his infant son, Joey, before dying a hero five months ago. He was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross and a Silver Star posthumously. They had a big ceremony at City Hall, and the event made the front page of the Daily Record. As Brian’s widow and the mother of his child, twenty-six-year-old Laurie was revered around town. Sometimes that wasn’t easy. The perfect widow wasn’t exactly something she’d aspired to be.
The local high school boys were especially in awe of her—and it wasn’t just due to her dead husband’s heroics on the football and battlefields. Laurie was cute, with auburn hair and a buxom figure. Laurie thought she was a bit too buxom. She still hadn’t completely shed the extra baby weight, and working in a kitchen didn’t help.
At the moment, she would have welcomed a familiar face or two. These last few lonely minutes before closing were sometimes a bit unnerving. There was always the chance of a stranger wandering in there, a stranger who might want to cause trouble or rob the place.
Laurie wasn’t usually this paranoid. But six nights ago, only thirty miles away at Paddy’s Pantry off Highway 82 near Yakima, a waitress and a cook had been viciously beaten by a pair of armed robbers. It had occurred just minutes before closing.
The gunmen had emptied out the register, stealing close to seven hundred dollars. They’d also made the waitress, cook, and a busboy surrender their wallets. Laurie had followed the story closely. The waitress and cook resisted. She ended up with a black eye and a split lip; the cook spent three days in the hospital having his broken jaw wired. Their attackers were still at large. Paddy’s Pantry had surveillance cameras. Blurry shots of the perpetrators were printed in the newspaper, and distributed to several restaurants in the area. The photos were plastered in the break room at the Superstar Diner. Laurie thought it was pretty ridiculous that they were expected to recognize the assailants from those fuzzy snapshots. Both men had medium builds and dark hair; one looked pale, and the other might have been Latino—that was all she had to go on. The descriptions from the waitress, cook, and busboy could have fit half the men who had walked into the Superstar Diner tonight.
“My Sharona” was churning over the jukebox, Laurie’s selection. That thump, thump, thump rhythm always helped revive her at the end of a long day on her feet. “Walking on Sunshine” was another song selection that reenergized her near closing. Both tunes were probably brand new when Paul had last changed the jukebox selections.
Duncan had already brought in the sandwich board sign from the sidewalk by the entrance. He was mopping the kitchen floor—always his last chore for the night.
As she wiped down the counter with Windex and a sponge, Laurie prayed no last-minute customers would show up. In just a few minutes, she could lock the door and hang up the CLOSED sign. She was hoping to get out of there by 11:15.
She was about to pull the keys from the pocket of her waitress uniform when the man strutted through the doorway.
Laurie hadn’t noticed a car pull into the parking lot. She couldn’t help wondering if the guy had switched off his headlights as he’d approached the diner. But why would he do that? Was it because he didn’t want anyone identifying his car later?
Laurie felt dread in the pit of her stomach. She put down the sponge, and nervously wiped her hands on her apron. She tried not to stare at the man: dark hair, pale complexion, medium build. She guessed he was about thirty. He looked unwashed with his five o’clock shadow and greasy, unkempt black hair. Still, he was sort of sexy in a strange, dangerous kind of way. Maybe it was the unabashed, flirtatious grin on his face as his dark eyes met hers. He seemed so smug. Any other time, she might have been amused, maybe even slightly intrigued despite herself—but not now.
Please, she thought, just order a Coke to go, take it, and get out of here. Hell, she wouldn’t even charge him for it if that was all he wanted.
The camouflage-pattern army fatigue jacket he wore seemed too big for his frame. With a grunt, he plopped down on one of the middle stools. Then he began to slap his hands on the countertop, keeping time with “My Sharona.”
Laurie worked up a smile and handed him the grill menu—which, thankfully, got him to stop pounding on the counter. “We’re about ready to close,” she said over the music. “But I can still fix you something to go.”
He studied the menu and frowned. “What the hell is the Rita Moreno Burger?”
Laurie took a deep breath. “It’s a ground chicken burger with hints of chili, lime, and cilantro, topped with guacamole, and served with beans and plantain fries.” The description was plainly there on the menu. Still, she refrained from asking, Can’t you read?
“Doesn’t sound very Italian,” he muttered.
“It’s Puerto Rican,” Laurie explained. “Rita Moreno is from Puerto Rico.”
“Moreno sounds Italian to me,” he grumbled.
Laurie just shrugged.
Paul, the owner, was a big movie fan. His collection of framed vintage movie posters and autographed film-star portraits decorated the walls of the Superstar Diner. Every item on the menu was named after a movie star—from the Crepes Suzanne Pleshette to the Lee J. Cobb Salad to the Spencer Tracy Steak. Laurie figured this clever concept was lost on most of the truckers who wandered in for a fast meal.
His eyes on the menu, the stranger let out a long sigh. “Okay, give me three of those, two Myrna Loy Soy Burgers, three of the Gary Cooper Classics, one with cheese, and two Jon Hamm and Egg Sandwiches.” He slapped the menu down on the counter and smirked at her. “To go.”
Oh, crap, Laurie thought, scribbling it all down. She’d be lucky to get out of there by 11:40 now.
“Regular french fries with each order, okay?” he grunted. “None of that plantain shit.” He reached inside his fatigue jacket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one up.
Laurie shook her head at him. “I’m sorry, but you can’t smoke in here. It’s against the law.”
He drew in, and then deliberately blew smoke rings in her direction. “Know what else is against the law?” he asked. “Carrying a concealed weapon.”
Laurie froze and stared at him. Was he hiding a gun inside that baggy fatigue jacket? For a second, she couldn’t breathe.
“My Sharona” finally ended. She could hear Duncan in the kitchen, wringing out the mop. He had no idea what was going on. The sound of the kitchen door slamming made her flinch, and she realized he’d just stepped outside to empty the mop bucket.
Now she and this man were alone.
He took another long drag from his cigarette, and then he cracked a smile. “Hey, relax,” he whispered. “I’m just having a little fun with you, Laurie, that’s all.”
For a second, it baffled her that he knew her name. Then she remembered the name tag on her waitress uniform. She wore the uniform only on Wednesday nights.
With a shaky hand, Laurie grabbed a saucer and set it on the counter in front of him. It wobbled and clanked against the linoleum. “No smoking,” she said, hating the little tremor in her voice. “Put out your cigarette, please.”
He drew in one last puff, stubbed out the cigarette, and then exhaled a cloud of smoke in her face.
Laurie glared at him. Her stomach was in knots. “I’m sorry, but with a big order like this so late at night, you’ll have to pay in advance. I’ll total it up . . .” She started toward the cash register at the end of the counter. She remembered, in case she needed it, the button was there under the counter by the register—a silent alarm to the police department.
Suddenly, he grabbed her arm. “Listen, why don’t you skip that for now and start cooking up the shit you’re passing off as food, huh?” he said. “The sooner you get my order on the grill, the sooner you can wrap it up here and go home to your baby boy. Am I right, Laurie, or am I right?”
She automatically wrenched her arm away from his grasp. But she couldn’t move. Staring at him, she felt as if her feet were cemented to the floor. She couldn’t figure out how he knew about Joey.
He grinned. He could tell she was scared. That was the thing about him—it was as if he knew her every thought.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
Laurie barely got the question out when she heard the kitchen screen door slam again. It gave her another start. She turned to see if Duncan was coming back inside. But she couldn’t spot him through the window. For a moment, she imagined someone following him into the kitchen—with a gun at his bobbling head.
Laurie stole a glance at the silent alarm, just a few feet away. She had to go for it—even if it meant a split lip and a black eye.
“Is someone smoking out there?” Duncan called.
She swiveled around, and was grateful to see him—alone—peering at her through the pass-through window.
“Go back to your mopping, Einstein,” the stranger snarled. “Laurie and I are having a private conversation. Go on . . .”
Duncan blinked at him, and his head started to shake.
“Loser,” the man grumbled.
Behind the man, out the plate-glass window, Laurie noticed a pair of headlights coming up the road from the Interstate’s off-ramp.
“Laurie, are you okay?” Duncan asked.
She watched the vehicle turn into the lot. To her utter relief, she saw it was a police car. “Everything’s fine, Duncan,” she said evenly. “The gentleman’s just leaving . . .”
The man fiddled with a salt shaker. He looked so smug. He didn’t seem to catch on that a patrolman was just outside the restaurant.
Duncan retreated from the pass-through window. A moment later, Laurie heard the bucket clanking as he put it away.
“I have no idea how you know me,” Laurie said to the stranger. Her heart was racing. “But you’re acting like a total creep. Now it’s past closing time, and I don’t have to put up with you. Do you understand me? You need to leave—now.”
In response, he unscrewed the top of the salt shaker, and slowly poured out the salt. A little white mound formed on the counter.
Laurie nodded toward the window in back of him. “You’re going to have a tough time explaining that little trick to the state trooper out there.”
The man glanced over his shoulder, and then turned toward her again, stone-faced. “If he’s a friend of yours, he might be interested to hear how much you whored around while your hero-husband got shot at in Afghanistan. I could give him an earful, sweetie. You have everybody in this town thinking you’re somebody special, the sweet war widow . . .” He stood up. “But you’re just a fraud.”
Dumbfounded, she stood there with her mouth open. It wasn’t true. He didn’t know what he was talking about. She wanted to say as much, she wanted to scream it at him. But a grain of truth in his tirade kept her mute.
He sauntered toward the exit, slipping out just as the state patrolman opened the door to come inside. “Thanks, pal,” he muttered to the cop.
The husky, baby-faced patrolman scowled at him. Then he seemed to shrug it off. “Is it too late for a cup of caffeinated to go?” he asked, lumbering toward the counter.
Laurie listened to an engine start up outside. Through the window she watched an old, beat-up silver minivan pull out of the lot. This time his headlights were on. She thought she saw someone with him in the front passenger seat.
She had a pretty good idea who it was.
“Is it too late to get a cup of coffee to go?” the patrolman asked again.
Rattled, Laurie gaped at him, and quickly nodded, “Sure thing, coming right up.” She headed for the coffee station. She hadn’t switched it off yet. “It’s on the house,” she said, reaching for a Styrofoam cup. Her hand was shaking a little. “You want a large?”
“Sure, thanks,” the cop replied. He squinted at the white mound of salt on the counter—and the cigarette stubbed out on the saucer. “What’s this?”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” Laurie said, pouring coffee into the large container. She set the container and a lid in front of him, and started to clean up the stranger’s mess. “Did you need cream or sugar with that?”
“Black’s fine,” the policeman said.
Laurie wanted to tell the cop what had just happened, but she couldn’t. Right now, she couldn’t tell anyone.
She stole another look out the side window—at the access road. The minivan’s front beams and taillights disappeared in the darkness.
But she didn’t feel any relief. The dread was still rooted in the pit of her stomach.
She knew it wasn’t over. The silver minivan would be back.
Tonight was just the beginning.
Wednesday, 11:12 P.M.
The code to set the alarm was *72. The keypad was on the kitchen wall by a pair of saloon doors to the dining area. Once she set the alarm, Laurie had sixty seconds to leave through the front exit and lock it—or the damn thing would go off. As usual, Duncan waited for her outside, because the whole business of having to get out of there within a minute flustered him. Tonight he had the state patrolman keeping him company. After what had happened at Paddy’s Pantry six nights ago, the cop said he’d stay until she’d closed up—just to be safe.
Laurie knew her last customer of the night had nothing to do with the armed robbery at Paddy’s Pantry. He’d had no intention of robbing the diner tonight.
No, he’d come there for her.
But she couldn’t admit that to the cop—or to Duncan. For them, she tried her damnedest to act as if nothing was wrong. Yet all the while she felt as if her whole world was about to crumble. She couldn’t breathe right. She just wanted to get home and make sure Joey was safe.
At closing, they always left on the big lighted Coke clock and the red neon sign in the window spelling out BREAKFAST-LUNCH-DINNER. The dim, scarlet-hued light was enough for Laurie to navigate her way through the shadowy restaurant.
She slipped out the front door and locked it with thirty seconds to spare. A cool night breeze hit her, and she clutched together the front of the black cardigan over her waitress uniform.
Duncan said he’d see her tomorrow, and then he mounted his moped, which always sounded like a defective lawn mower whenever he started it up. Waving good-bye to her and the cop, he took off. The sound of the sputtering engine grew fainter as Duncan headed up the access road toward town.
Laurie turned and smiled at the state patrolman. He had no idea how he’d rescued her tonight, even if it was just temporarily. “Well, thank you for sticking around,” she said. “It was a comfort—”
A static-laced announcement came over a mic strapped to the cop’s shoulder, interrupting her. The patrolman pressed a button on the device and spoke into it. “This is car seventeen responding . . .” There was more gibberish from the mic, which apparently he understood. “I’m at the Ellensburg exit by I-90 right now. I’m on my way. Over . . .” He turned to Laurie, his eyebrows raised. “Are you okay on your own from here?”
Nodding at him, she reached into her purse for the car keys. She backed toward her Toyota Camry on the other side of the small lot. “Oh, yes, I’m headed straight home . . .” She turned and pressed the device on her key ring. The car lights blinked.
She glanced back at the cop, who was already ducking inside his patrol car. He started to talk into his mic again, and then shut the door.
She was about to call, “Thanks again,” but he wouldn’t have heard her.
With a sigh, Laurie climbed into her car. She put the key in the ignition, and then remembered something she’d left behind in the diner.
The prowler’s headlights and rooftop red strobes went on as the cop pulled out of the lot.
Biting her lip, Laurie watched him drive away.
She’d promised Paul that when she got home tonight, she would bake four orange cakes for tomorrow. So on the way to work, she had stopped by the grocery store and bought all the ingredients, which she’d stashed in the diner’s refrigerator. Her orange cake was a hit at the Superstar Diner, and would go on the special dessert menu Thursday night. She would be baking one more cake—to send to Cheryl Wheeler, the owner of Grill Girl, a popular Seattle food truck recently profiled on the Food Network. Paul didn’t know it, but for the last two months Laurie had been sending her desserts to various Seattle and Portland restaurateurs in hopes of getting hired—and getting out of Ellensburg.
She nervously tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. One of the last things she wanted to do right now was go back inside the diner, deactivate the alarm, and retrieve a bunch of groceries. She’d have to go through the whole lock-up procedure all over again, alone this time. And she couldn’t be certain if her last customer of the night hadn’t stuck around to see if the cop would leave before her.
Did she dare push her luck?
Laurie told herself she’d be back inside the car within two minutes. That was certainly a lot less time and hassle than making a special trip here tomorrow morning. Just getting Joey dressed and strapped in his car seat always added an extra ten minutes to every trip—each way.
“Damn it,” she hissed, fishing her cell phone from her purse. She slipped it into the pocket of her waitress uniform, and then climbed out of the car. She warily glanced toward the access road. She didn’t see any cars. There was nothing, no sign of the silver minivan.
As she unlocked the restaurant door, the alarm went off. She rushed inside, shut the door and bolted it behind her. Leaving the key in the lock, she hurried into the kitchen. Laurie tried not to let the alarm’s incessant beeping unnerve her. She knew the disable code by heart: 8291940. The saloon doors were still swinging back and forth as she punched in the numbers on the lighted keypad. All at once, silence. It was a relief. But her heart was still racing.
In the darkness, Laurie made her way to the big refrigerator, and opened it. “Let there be light,” she whispered. Even for a normal evening, it would have been a bit scary poking around here in the dark.
She imagined stepping out of the kitchen—only to see her last customer standing on the other side of the plate glass window, staring in at her.
Laurie grabbed two large to-go bags, doubled them up, and quickly loaded the butter, milk, eggs, and orange juice inside. She closed the refrigerator door, and the kitchen was dark again.
The bag felt heavy and awkward as she lugged it toward the saloon doors. She set the activate code again, and then made a beeline for the entrance. She didn’t spot anyone out there, thank God. She unlocked the door, swung it open, and hurried outside. The bagful of groceries got in the way as she tried to lock up, and she couldn’t keep her hands from shaking. But she finally got the door locked.
Glancing toward the access road again, Laurie didn’t notice any headlights. She let out a sigh of relief, but then it caught in her throat.
There in the moonlight, she saw a vehicle slowly moving up the road—toward the restaurant, toward her. The headlights were off.
She wasn’t certain, because of the distance and the night, but it looked like a minivan.
Bolting toward the Camry, she dug the key from the pocket of her waitress uniform. She clicked the unlock button on the key ring device, and the Camry’s lights flickered. Pulling open the car door, she jumped inside and tossed the bag on the passenger side floor. She heard something crack inside the bag, but was too frazzled to care right now. Fumbling with the key, she struggled to get it in the ignition. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” she breathed.
Even with the window up, Laurie could hear the minivan’s engine now—and stray pieces of gravel crunching under its tires.
At last, she got the key in the ignition and started up the car. She backed out of the parking space, and then shifted gears. She was about to put her foot down on the accelerator when all at once, something blinded her. She hit the brake.
The minivan’s driver had switched on his brights. The van stopped at the narrowest part of the drive, where a curbed sidewalk jutted out at the edge of the parking lot. It was her only way out, and they had it blocked.
Squinting in the headlight beams, she could just barely make out the two silhouetted figures inside the front of the minivan. Someone climbed out on the passenger side, but she couldn’t quite see him. She heard the vehicle’s door shut.
Laurie immediately reached for the armrest, and with a click, locked the car doors.
The tall, lean man came into view, weaving toward her. He looked as if he were drunk. He banged his fist on the hood of her car. “Roll down your window!” he yelled, his voice only slightly muffled by the glass. “C’mon, Laurie, roll it down, before I break it!”
Reluctantly, she reached for the armrest switch. The window hummed as she lowered it a mere couple of inches. He glared at her through the narrow opening. Laurie stared back at him. “That was your brother, Ryder, in the restaurant earlier, wasn’t it?” she said. “I should have seen the family resemblance. What do you want, Tad?”
He drummed his fingers on the roof of the car—just above her head. His face came even closer to the glass.
For Laurie, seeing him again for the first time in four months was a shock. He looked terrible—like someone who was strung out on drugs or living on the streets. He used to have a sweet, goofy cuteness that made him endearing. But it was gone now.
He hadn’t answered her question. He just shook his head at her.
“What do you want?” Laurie asked again. Her foot was still on the brake.
He just glared at her, and kept drumming his fingers on the car roof.
“I can’t believe this,” Laurie said. “You used to tell me that your brother was bad news. You didn’t want anything to do with him. That therapist you were seeing called him a sociopath. Remember? So why did you send him into the diner to harass me? Or was that his idea? Are you two buddies now?”
“I just want to see my kid,” he replied—at last.
“He’s not your child,” Laurie said steadily. “You know that, Tad. I gave you proof—and it cost me dearly. It almost ended my marriage.”
“Well, your marriage did end,” Tad said. “The guy died. And I’m alive. Goddamn it, Laurie, you care about me! Quit trying to be the great, suffering, noble war widow. That routine might fool some people, but I know you—”
“Stop it,” she whispered. Her eyes were starting to hurt from the headlights’ blinding glare. “Just leave me alone.”
“I still have a right to see my own kid,” he argued.
“Good God, how many times do I have to tell you? Tad, I showed you the test results—”
“Ryder says you probably paid off some doctor to fake those documents. And I wouldn’t be surprised if you did, you lying bitch.”
“‘Lying bitch?’ I think that’s your brother talking. That’s not you. Why are you even listening to him?” She studied his ravaged face. If she weren’t so frightened, her heart would have been breaking for him. “What happened to you? You used to be sweet.”
“You can’t just dump people—”
“That was two years ago, Tad. Two years . . .”
“I was in love. We had something together. You can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. If I can’t have you . . .” He trailed off, and then suddenly banged on the hood.
Startled, Laurie reeled back.
“Get out of there!” he shouted. “Get out of that goddamn car right now!”
Laurie gaped at him, and then she realized her foot had been on the brake all this time. She turned and switched on her high beams. Tightening her grip on the wheel, she pushed down on the accelerator. The tires let out a loud screech as she sped toward the narrow section of road between the minivan and the edge of the sidewalk.
Tad jumped back from the car, and fell down on the pavement.
Laurie saw him only out of the corner of her eye as she plowed forward. For a second, the minivan’s headlights blinded her. Then she felt a jolt as the front passenger-side tire hit the curb and the car bounced up onto the sidewalk. She thought the Camry might tip over and crash into the other vehicle. The car’s underside scraped against the concrete, and she winced at the grating sound. She got another jolt when the back tire slammed into the curb. One side of the Camry careened along the walkway. She kept her foot on the accelerator, and didn’t let up.
Clearing the minivan, Laurie swerved back onto the driveway. She was almost certain she’d damaged the underside of the Camry, but she didn’t stop. She checked her rearview mirror to make sure Tad and his brother weren’t following her.
She didn’t see anything back there. Ryder must have turned off the minivan’s headlights. She turned down Canyon Road, and headed toward the center of town. There were other cars on the road, and that made her feel better. If the Camry were damaged and broke down on her, at least other drivers were around. She wouldn’t be totally helpless.
She tried to tell herself that everything was okay. But her heart was still racing.
Laurie pressed the switch on her armrest, and her window descended. The cool breeze through the open window was refreshing. She thought about calling the police. But what would she tell them? I’m worried, because the guy I slept with a few times while my husband was fighting in Afghanistan is now harassing me—him and his sociopath brother.
She kept thinking that she deserved this. Everyone who knew her—or knew of her—would think the same thing.
No, she couldn’t call the police.
Right now, she just wanted to get home. She glanced in the rearview mirror again. She didn’t see the minivan anywhere back there. They weren’t following her. Then again, they didn’t have to.
They knew where she lived.
Her home was on Wilmington Court, a cul-de-sac about half a mile from the university. As she turned down the block, Laurie kept a lookout for the minivan. Tad and his brother couldn’t have made it there before her. She’d gone over the speed limit most of the drive home. Still, she kept her eyes peeled.
Laurie pulled up in front of her duplex, a charmless, beige stucco—one of four that made up the Bancroft Townhome Apartments. Her apartment was on the first floor. The inside of the unit was just as drab as the exterior. With the imitation parquet floors and the cheap-looking wood doors, cabinets, and accents, Laurie figured the place must have been built in a hurry sometime in the mid
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No One Needs to Know
Kevin O'Brien
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