Her Final Confession

Chapter Twelve

JULY 1993

Seattle, Washington

Mary lay in bed, body tense as she listened. There it was again. A noise. Almost like glasses clinking except, not exactly. It sounded more musical. She nudged her husband with an elbow and was rewarded with a grunt. She clamped a hand on his shoulder.

“Tim,” she whispered. “Wake up. I hear something.”

It took several tries to rouse him. He had always slept like someone had drugged him. Finally, a hearty slap against his upper back woke him, and his head shot up from the pillow. Beneath a spike of brown hair, two angry eyes glared at her.

“Chrissake, Mare. What is it now?”

She put a finger to her lips to shush him. He rolled his eyes but listened anyway. The tinkling sound came again.

“It’s the neighbors throwing bottles in their recycling bin,” he dismissed, burying his face back in the pillow.

Mary gave his arm a hard pinch.

“Owww, dammit, Mare.” But he was up out of bed, mumbling under his breath. Something about bullshit.

“I heard that,” Mary hissed as Tim fumbled on his nightstand for his glasses and disappeared into the dark hallway.

Clutching the comforter to her chest, she listened to the sounds of him moving through the house. The telltale squeal of the front door sounded, and then a moment later, she heard it again. Then more of his footsteps. She heard him struggle with the back door. The humid weather had made it swell in its frame. She had been after him to shave it down so they could get it open and closed more easily. Then came a loud clanking, like he was fighting whatever it was that was making the noise. It didn’t sound like a recycling bin full of beer bottles. There was a racket that made her wince, something landing on what she guessed was the kitchen table, then the back door slamming.

Even in the low moonlight streaming through the bedroom window, Mary could see that her husband was furious.

“Goddamn wind chimes,” he said, climbing back into bed. He tossed his glasses onto his bedside table. “What were you thinking? If someone farts three blocks away, it wakes you up. You, of all people, do not need wind chimes.”

Mary felt a slice of fear cut through her chest. “Wind chimes? I didn’t buy wind chimes.”

He rested his cheek on his pillow and closed his eyes. “Then who the hell hung them up out back, Mare? The tooth fairy?”

He was already drifting back to sleep when she threw the covers off and jumped out of bed. Muscle memory carried her feet to the kitchen in the dark, where outdoor streetlights revealed a set of wind chimes lying crumpled on her kitchen table. Drawing closer, she saw they were in the shape of a hot air balloon.

She scurried back to the bedroom. “Tim,” she said as she crossed the threshold, “I did not buy those. Someone else—” Her words lodged in her throat as the beam of a flashlight caught her eyes. She threw a hand up to shield herself from the glare. Beyond the circle of light, she thought she saw Tim’s eyes, large and afraid. He was sitting up in bed, the barrel of a gun pressed into his temple.

“Run!” he said.

Then another voice came. Male. Unfamiliar. “Oh, Mary isn’t going anywhere. We were just about to begin.”