Chapter 7 - The Ghost of Evelyn Cole
The brass key felt cold against the palm of my hand, heavy with an awful, unspoken history.
I didn't open the box in Harold’s room. I couldn't stand the smell of his aftershave—that cheap, spicy bay rum scent that still lingered in the curtains like an unwanted guest. I carried the lockbox into the kitchen, turned on the bright overhead fluorescent lights, and set it on the island where, just yesterday, Tessa and I had decorated gingerbread cookies with white royal icing.
The key turned in the small lock with a dry, metallic click.
The lid popped open an inch on a stiff spring.
Inside, there were no bundles of cash. No bonds. No stolen heirlooms.
There were photographs. Dozens of them, stacked neatly with rubber bands that had long since rotted and snapped, leaving brown, sticky stains across the edges of the glossy prints.
I pulled out the first stack.
The top picture was of a young woman standing in front of an old brick ranch-style home in Spokane. She had Brian’s wide, expressive eyes and the same slight crook in her nose, but her smile was strained, her shoulders pulled tight toward her ears, as if she were waiting for someone behind the camera to tell her she was standing incorrectly.
Evelyn Cole.
I flipped through the photos. Evelyn at a picnic, looking down at a paper plate while Harold’s arm rested across her shoulders like a heavy wooden yoke. Evelyn standing beside a Christmas tree in 1991, wearing a high-collared wool sweater that didn't quite hide the dark purplish bruise creeping up the side of her throat.
Beneath the photographs was a sheaf of folded notebook paper, covered in messy, frantic feminine handwriting that contrasted sharply with Harold’s rigid block lettering.
*January 14, 1994,* the first page read, the ink faded to a dull sepia.
*Harold found the receipt for the storage unit in Post Falls. He didn't yell. He never yells. He just took the keys off my ring while I was washing dishes and laid them on the counter beside the disposal. He told me that if I ever tried to take Brian and Sarah across the state line, he would make sure no court in Washington would ever give me custody. He said a woman who can't look after her own skin has no business looking after children.*
*I don't know what he means by that. He’s been spending all his time in the shop behind the plant. He comes home smelling like batteries and sour milk. Last night, I found my face lotion in the medicine cabinet had a strange, greasy film over the top. It smelled like vinegar. I threw it in the trash outside, but this morning, the jar was back on the bathroom shelf.*
*God help me, I think he’s poisoning me.*
My breath caught in my throat, a dry, choking gasp that made my ribs ache.
Thirty years.
Thirty years ago, this woman had stood in a kitchen just like mine, smelling the exact same chemical tang, realizing that the man who shared her bed was systematically planning to destroy her flesh.
I flipped to the next page, my hands shaking so hard the paper rattled against the granite counter.
*February 2, 1994.*
*He took the distributor cap out of the station wagon. Sarah has an ear infection, but Harold said the roads were too slick to drive into town. He sat by the woodstove all afternoon, cleaning his 30-30 rifle. Brian asked him why Mommy was crying, and Harold told him, ‘Your mother is sick in her mind, son. Sometimes the things we love have to be broken down before they can be cleaned up.’*
*I’m leaving tomorrow night. Art Miller’s wife said she would leave the back gate unlocked and loan me her truck after Art goes to sleep. If I don't get the kids out now, we are never leaving this valley alive.*
That was the last entry.
The rest of the pages were blank.
Beneath the notebook lay an official document folded into thirds: a certified copy of a coroner’s report from Spokane County, dated February 18, 1994.
*Cause of death: Severe pulmonary edema secondary to chemical inhalation, complicated by extensive third-degree dermal burns across seventy percent of the total body surface area.*
*Manner of death: Accidental.*
*Notes: Fire originated in basement utility area due to improper storage of industrial cleaning solvents near ignition source. Investigating officer: Det. R. Miller.*
I stared at the name on the bottom of the form.
*Det. R. Miller.*
Not Arthur Miller—the hunting buddy with the snowmobiles.
Raymond Miller. Arthur’s older brother, who had been the chief of detectives in Spokane County before retiring to the mountains thirty years ago.
The corruption wasn't an oversight. It was a family business.
Suddenly, the kitchen phone on the wall began to ring.
The shrill, mechanical bell echoed through the empty house like a gunshot. I jumped back from the counter, my elbow knocking the metal lockbox, sending several photographs fluttering to the floor.
The caller ID screen blinked with a number I didn't recognize—an unlisted area code from the northern panhandle.
I stood there, staring at the flashing green display. My whole body screamed at me not to touch it, to run out the front door, to find Deputy Vance, to get back to the hospital where the armed guards were standing outside Tessa’s door.
The phone rang a third time.
Then a fourth.
On the fifth ring, the digital answering machine on the counter clicked. The tape hissed softly, and then Harold’s voice drifted out of the small plastic speaker, crystal clear, entirely calm, and utterly chilling.
May you like
“Nora,” he said, as if he were calling to ask about the weather. “I know you’re listening. Pick up the receiver, please. We need to discuss the arrangements.”
***
