The Boy in the Window: A Psychological Thriller Page 5

  Releasing her hand, Steven nodded toward the menu lying in front of her. “I hope you’re hungry.”

  She wasn’t, but she picked up the menu anyway. She’d rather have something in front of her to fidget with besides her hands. “I could eat.”

  The waitress arrived to take their orders before bustling off and returning with their drinks.

  Jessica stirred some artificial sweetener into her glass of tea, surprised to find Steven had ordered coffee. “I read that you’re in editing now.”

  He took a sip of his coffee. “For nearly nine years. How about you, what do you do?”

  “I worked in the school system for quite some time. I haven’t gotten a job since moving here. Though, I’ve only been here for a few weeks.”

  Steven set down his coffee cup. “I’ve always been a get-right-to-the-point kind of guy, so that’s exactly what I’m going to do. When you said that you saw a child in the Dayton house, what exactly did you see?”

  Jessica wondered about his blunt question but decided to be as honest as she could without appearing to be insane. “I saw a young boy in the upstairs window. When I got up there, he was already gone.”

  “I see. Can you describe him to me?”

  “Not really. He had long, dark hair and wore a striped T-shirt. Why?”

  Steven leaned back in his seat. “When I was covering that case, there was a woman who lived across the street claiming to have seen something similar. I spoke with her briefly. But when I went back to question her further, she’d moved without leaving a forwarding address.”

  Jessica’s stomach flipped. “Do you think she had something to do with Terry’s disappearance?”

  “I doubt it. She and her kids were out of town on vacation when he came up missing.”

  Letting that information soak in, Jessica asked, “What happened to the child’s parents?”

  “After losing their home, and no doubt their minds, they had no choice but to move. Last I heard, they were living in Morhaven, which is about a twenty-minute drive from here.”

  Jess nodded, unable to get the image of that painting out of her mind of that boy with the tousled hair, striped shirt…and that grave. “Do you think Eustice Martin had anything to do with Terry’s disappearance?”

  Steven shrugged. “I think he was involved in something, I’m just not sure what. Why do you ask?”

  “I know what I saw in that upstairs window, Mr. Ruckle. What if Terry is still alive and Eustice Martin is holding him somehow?”

  Steven’s eyebrows shot up. “You do realize the police went over every inch of that place. There’s no way Terry Dayton could have been in that house.”

  “Not at that time, but the Martins bought the house shortly after the Daytons moved. It’s been sitting empty for nearly thirteen years.

  “Mrs. Nobles…Terry would be twenty years old today. Do you really think old man Martin could keep him locked up in that house? And even if it were possible, the boy you saw was a child, right? It’s just not feasible.”

  Realizing she sounded like a headcase, Jessica grabbed her purse and moved to stand. “I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

  Steven reached across the table and closed his fingers around her wrist. “Please, sit back down. I didn’t mean to be so insensitive.”

  “I’m not crazy,” Jessica whispered, her voice sounding weak to her own ears.

  “I never said you were. I asked you here because of what you told me on the phone.”

  Relaxing the grip she had on her purse, Jessica searched his face. “What do you mean?”

  “I do believe the child you saw in that window was Terry Dayton.”

  “But, you just said—”

  “I know what I said. If Terry were still alive, he’d now be a man. But I don’t believe he’s alive.”

  “You mean…”

  “I believe something happened to him in that house, Mrs. Nobles. I also think he’s haunting the place.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Jessica drove home more than a little shaken from her meeting with Steven.

  He’d told her all about Mrs. Weaver, the woman who’d lived next door to the Hawthorns.

  Jess had learned about Sandy Weaver’s sightings of Terry Dayton months after his disappearance, and how she’d packed up and left in the middle of the night shortly thereafter.

  Steven had also divulged more insight into the Weaver woman and why her statements hadn’t been taken seriously by the police. Sandy Weaver had claimed to be psychic.

  Jessica didn’t believe in psychics any more than she believed in ghosts, yet the evidence of the supernatural had appeared in that window in the form of Terry Dayton.

  Pulling into her drive, Jess noticed Owen’s car parked in the garage. She glanced at her watch, surprised to find that she’d been gone for two hours. Still, Owen was home earlier than usual.

  She exited the car and trailed up the walk to the front of the house.

  The door opened before she reached it. Owen stood there, his tie hanging askew, and his brown hair standing on end as if he’d ran his fingers through it several times. “I’ve been worried sick.”

  Jessica avoided his gaze and slipped past him through the open doorway. “You’re home early.”

  “I wanted to surprise you. Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

  She’d left her cell in the SUV during her meeting with Steven. “I’m sorry. The ringer must have been off.”

  Owen followed her into the kitchen, stopping directly behind her as she opened the fridge in search of a drink. “I’m just glad you’re okay. Where’d you go?”

  Jessica couldn’t tell him of her meeting with Ruckle. She grabbed a diet soda and turned to face her husband. “I had lunch in town and then drove around for a while after. It was a nice day, so I decided to do some sightseeing.”

  Owen’s eyes narrowed as if trying to decide if she were being honest with him. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

  Nodding, Jess stepped around him and strode toward the bedroom. She didn’t blame Owen for questioning her. She had, after all, been suicidal not too long ago.

  She changed out of her clothes and donned a soft, pink robe before slipping her feet into a pair of slippers. “Are you hungry?”

  Owen answered her from the living room area. “Not really. Would you like to go to an early movie in town?”

  The last thing she wanted was to see a movie, especially not with everything she’d recently learned still spinning through her head. Instead, she said, “Sure. Let me put my clothes back on.”

  Peeling off the robe and slippers, Jessica redressed and met Owen in the living room. “Any idea what you want to see?”

  “A comedy if they have one playing.”

  It didn’t matter what they watched to Jess. If it made Owen happy, she would sit through ten documentaries. “Let’s go.”

  * * * *

  The two of them stood in a long line at the small movie theater in town. Apparently, they weren’t the only ones looking for a brief escape from reality.

  The feeling of being watched suddenly slid down Jessica’s spine. She shivered from the sensation, her gaze scanning the lobby of the movie theater to find people laughing, talking, and ordering popcorn. But no one seemed to notice her.

  She shook off the suspicion and reached for Owen’s hand.

  “I’m glad we decided to do this,” he informed her, giving her palm a gentle squeeze.

  Jessica titled her head back to look into his blue eyes. “Me too.”

  With their tickets in hand, the two of them strode through the lobby, taking a left toward the designated theater room. Yet, the feeling of being watched only intensified.

  Jess moved in closer to Owen’s side, glancing over her shoulder as they entered the darkened auditorium.

  Owen led her to a seat on the seventh row and lowered himself into the chair next to her. “What is it?”

  She shook her head. Really, what could she tell him? I feel like I
’m being watched? He would think her crazier than he already did. “Nothing. I just thought I saw Mrs. Hawthorn,” she easily lied.

  The movie previews abruptly started, saving Jessica from further explanation. She sat through the first ten minutes, pretending to watch alongside Owen before the comedy they’d came to see finally began.

  Owen’s hearty chuckles warmed Jessica’s heart. She would give anything to be able to laugh again, to find humor in life the way she’d done before Jacob’s passing.

  A chill passed along the back of her neck as if a winter wind had blown through the room. It reminded her of the icy breeze she’d felt outside the Dayton house the night they’d moved in next door.

  She shivered, hugging her arms tightly around her waist, and slowly twisted her head to look behind her. There, seated in the back of the theater was Terry Dayton.

  Jessica quickly faced forward, her heart racing to the point it became painful.

  He suddenly walked past, taking the ramp down toward the exit.

  She wasn’t about to follow—couldn’t if she’d wanted to. Her legs shook so bad, she was afraid to stand, yet she found herself doing exactly that.

  “I’ll be right back,” she whispered in Owen’s ear on her way out of the aisle.

  He nodded, attempting to see around her as she stepped over his booted feet.

  What am I doing? she silently chanted, hurrying down the ramp she’d seen the Dayton boy take.

  She emerged in the hall in time to see him disappear into the men’s restroom.

  Jess stopped outside the door, glancing up and down the hall to be sure she wasn’t seen, and then slipped quietly inside. “Terry?”

  A giant of a man stepped from a stall, his hands on the zipper of his pants. “Uh, lady, this is the men’s room.”

  Embarrassed beyond words, Jess said the first thing that came to mind. “Did you see a little boy with dark hair come in here? He was wearing jeans and a striped T-shirt.”

  The man shook his head and moved to the sink to wash his hands. “No one’s in here but me.”

  “But I saw him come in here less than a minute ago,” she argued, her gaze searching under the doors of the stalls.

  “As you can see, he’s not here.” The man moved away from the sink, turned around, and began pushing all the stall doors open. “Empty.”

  Jessica muttered her thanks and hurried from the restroom. She staggered to the side once she reached the hallway to lean heavily against the wall. After more than three years since her son’s death, Jessica had finally lost her grip on reality.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jessica kissed Owen goodbye as he headed out the door to work the following morning.

  She’d spent several hours the night before on the internet, searching for the psychic who’d lived next door to the Hawthorns—the only other person to see Terry Dayton after his disappearance…Sandy Weaver.

  Listening for the sound of Owen’s car to leave the drive, Jessica pulled the woman’s number from the pocket of her robe and went in search of her cellphone.

  It took several attempts to dial Sandy’s number before the call finally connected.

  “Hello?” a nervous sounding voice answered.

  Jess could relate. She was as nervous as a cat covering shit. “Mrs. Weaver?”

  Silence.

  “Mrs. Weaver? My name is Jessica Nobles. I was hoping to have a minute of your time to talk to you about—”

  “I know what you want,” Sandy Weaver blurted, cutting off the rest of Jessica’s words.

  Jess cleared her throat. “I need your help.”

  “Leave me be, Mrs. Nobles. There’s nothing I can do to help you.”

  “But—” The line went dead.

  Jessica pulled her phone away from her ear and stared at the empty screen for several moments before redialing Sandy’s number. It went to voicemail.

  “Dammit.” Pushing the end key on her cell, Jess strode into her office on wooden legs. If Sandy Weaver refused to speak with her by phone, she’d simply visit her in person.

  She booted up her laptop and returned to the screen she’d been on the night before.

  Laying the scrap of paper on her desk, she jotted down Sandy’s address and then inserted it into the map search on her cellphone. The woman lived two hours away in Summerville, Alabama.

  Jessica jumped to her feet and rushed into the bathroom to shower. She would need to hurry if she thought to make the two-hour drive and be back before Owen got home.

  * * * *

  Summerville, Alabama had to be the quaintest, quietest place Jessica had ever beheld. It boasted of a small, white courthouse in the center of town, with an equally small post office residing next to it.

  An old wooden shack sat just off the main stretch with a sign across the top that read: Emery’s BBQ. The intersection up ahead housed a flashing yellow caution light as well as a four-way-stop. The only thing modern about the town of Summerville was the gold and white convenience store to the right of the intersection.

  A few more buildings, such as an auto parts place and a water company, adorned the surrounding area, but Jessica paid little heed. Her mind had zeroed in on her phone and the computerized voice now spouting out her next turn.

  She took a left at the intersection, following the signs until she came upon her next turn. Three minutes later, she pulled into what she hoped to be Sandy Weaver’s drive.

  Opening the back door to her SUV, Jess retrieved the covered painting she’d placed there before leaving the house, and approached the shadowed, screened in porch.

  With no visible doorbell in sight, Jess lifted her free hand and rapped her knuckles against the door.

  Footsteps could be heard moving through the house, along with the creaking of the floors. The sounds suddenly stopped. “Who’s there?”

  Jess cleared her throat. “It’s Jessica Nobles, Mrs. Weaver. I really need to speak with you.”

  A long pause ensued, and then, “You came all this way for nothing, Mrs. Nobles. Like I told you on the phone, I got nothing to say.”

  Jessica rested her forehead against the cool wood of the door. “Please. I won’t take up much of your time. I have nowhere else to turn.”

  The floor squeaked once more, telling Jess that Sandy had taken a step forward.

  Raising her head, Jessica backed up a step and watched as the door opened a couple of inches and Sandy’s face appeared through the narrow crack.

  She peered over Jessica’s head as if searching the drive beyond.

  “I came alone,” Jess quickly assured her. “No one knows I’m here.”

  The door swung open. “Come in, but please make it brief.”

  Jessica hesitantly stepped over the threshold, gripping the painting she held as if it were her lifeline. “I’m really sorry for showing up this way, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Sandy gestured toward an old, worn looking sofa. “Have a seat.”

  Nodding her thanks, Jess moved to the couch and lowered her weight onto its center. She propped the covered painting against her legs and waited for Sandy to sit as well.

  Sandy Weaver looked nothing like Jessica had imagined. She’d expected the woman to have long, unkept hair and dress like a gypsy, but instead, she sported a short, blonde pixie, a purple T-shirt and snug fitting jeans.

  “Can I offer you a drink?”

  At Jessica’s polite refusal, Sandy took a seat in a faded brown recliner and lit up a cigarette. “What is it that you need from me?”

  “Tell me about what you saw after Terry Dayton’s disappearance.”

  Sandy took a drag from her cigarette, exhaling her smoke toward the ceiling. “How did you find out about me?”

  “I spoke with the reporter who covered the Dayton case. He told me what you saw in the upstairs window of the Dayton house.”

  Taking another puff from the cigarette, Sandy briefly closed her eyes and then pierced Jess with a penetrating stare. “I can’t be involved in
this. I left that neighborhood for a reason.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Eustice Martin.”

  Jessica’s heart jumped into her throat. “I’ve had a couple of run-ins with him.”

  “If you were smart, you’d go as far from Sparkleberry Hills as you can get.”

  “Do you think Eustice killed that Dayton boy?” Jessica leaned forward on the sofa, searching the other woman’s gaze.

  Sandy jumped to her feet and began to pace. “So, you know the boy’s dead too.”

  Jessica stood as well, removed the covering from the painting and held it up where Sandy could see it.

  “Jesus,” Sandy breathed, her attention locked on the painting of Terry’s small body in that grave. “Where did you get that?”

  “I painted it one night after I’d blacked out. I have no recollection of how it came to be. I only know that I woke with the paintbrush in my hand and this image on the canvas in front of me.”

  Tears filled Sandy’s eyes. “I saw the exact same thing. When I told the police what I’d seen, they investigated me like I had something to do with his disappearance.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jessica whispered, setting the painting down next to the sofa. “What do you think it means, and why did I see it too? Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.”

  Sandy wiped at her tears with trembling fingers and crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray beside her chair. “My best guess would be that you’re an open channel. Probably due to the overwhelming grief you’re experiencing from the loss of your child.”

  Jessica stilled. “I never said anything about losing a child.”

  “You didn’t have to. As I said on the phone, I knew why you’d called. I also know that you can’t move beyond the death of your son. It eats away at you like a cancer, slowly devouring your mind as well as your will to live.”

  All the air left Jessica’s lungs, deflating her to the point, she had no choice but to return to her seat or fall on her face. “His name was Jacob. He was seven years old when he passed away.”