Page 29 of I Know She Was There

One thing was certain: now that I had the name of the couple who’d lived at 21 Pine Hill, I planned on digging into Ray and Annie Connolly. Why did they move away so abruptly? Were they running away from something or someone? Or was it more sinister than that? Perhaps it was just Ray on the run, after killing his wife.

It sounded fantastical. After all, people moved out of their houses every day. Why was this any different from anyone else who initiated change in their lives? Because Ray hadn’t appeared to tell anyone before leaving? He could have a plausible reason for not doing so. I didn’t know his work situation. Maybe he’d had a beef with management and was sticking it to them by leaving suddenly without a forwarding address.

I shook my head. Two things about Pine Hill Road were becoming clear:somethinghappened in that house, and every day I discovered new ways in whichIwas connected to it. There was no way I could stay away.

CHAPTER13

THURSDAY, AUGUST 31

Ispent an entire day searching the internet for information on the Connollys, but the name was common, and the results were endless. Dozens of people named Ray Connolly in the US and even more hits for Annie Connolly, with multiple spellings. After hours of slogging through useless biographies of people across the country with the same or similar names, my eyes began to sting. I closed my laptop and went into the kitchen to prepare Emmy’s rice cereal and pureed peas.

As I fed the baby her dinner, I decided there had to be a better way to get information on the couple. I could search the Multiple Listing Service for recent home sales, though I didn’t think names were mentioned in the reported transactions.

I thought about 21 Pine Hill Road, feeling drawn to it as though both the house and I were magnetized, forever straining toward each other. As the sun set, I changed Emmy’s diaper and bundled her into thebabyzen, adding an extra blanket. It was a surprisingly cool evening for August. One of those rare nippy summer nights that offered a welcomed respite from the ever-present heat.

As I hastened down Pine Hill Road, anticipation building in my chest made my heart pump harder and my limbs move faster. I barely glanced at the houses I passed on my way to the corner of Pine Hill and Lakeside, noticing only the glow emanating from windows, halos of light piercing the gritty darkness. The minutia of the inhabitants’ daily lives couldn’t possibly compete with the drama I’d witnessed in the custom Cape Cod. I thought again of the woman I’d called Melanie. Annie. I once again pictured her gouged neck and intent, pleading stare. Emotions swirled in my chest, forcing me to stop dead in my tracks and take a deep breath.

There had been fear in her gaze, and desperation I understood only too well as I recalled my vain attempt to get to her. But there had been something else: shocked disbelief. Those large, dark eyes had begged me to validate the truth. She’d been attacked. Taken by surprise.

In the slew of events volleying around me since that night, I’d not been able to isolate that element of her expression, but now that I had, I was sure she did not take her own life. I began walking again, my mind turning over the idea. Of course, I’d never really considered suicide, but now I had what felt like proof.

But what good was that? Nobody believed I saw a woman bleeding out right in front of me. The police refused to acknowledge anyone had even been in the house. I stopped in front of the dark structure on the lonely corner lot, looming against the darker backdrop of trees. I thought about Tim approaching me the last time I’d stood in the same spot. He’d looked at me with hostility, openly suspicious of my motives. If the person who’d known me well and had even once loved me viewed me so warily, wasIthe problem? Had I imagined the horrible scene in the window?

I thought about an incident right after Emmy was born, when I’d been in the throes of full-blown postpartum depression. Harsh voices by unseen people rang in my ears as I looked at Emmy twisting and howling in her bassinet. Voices commanded me to stay away from the possessed infant. I recalled Tim’s look of disbelief as he nudged past me and scooped up our baby, rocking her tenderly until she quieted. I’d realized then that I was the possessed one.

Was I reverting to those dark days? Reclaiming old, evil habits? I was diligent about taking my meds each morning, like I always had. The mood stabilizer rebalanced the chemicals in my brain so successfully that I still took it, months later. The meds were the reason I no longer felt the urge to shrink away from my baby, or anyone else. Hell, I even tolerated Mary, and she could try a saint’s patience.

And I had proof the doomed woman was real—tangible evidence of her existence in the house. The neon-orange fingernail fragment, now tucked safely into the back of my lingerie drawer. Without that, I couldn’t claim she was anything more than a specter, a figment of my unreliable imagination. A reason to get my medication adjusted.

I stared at the house. The dark obscured its charming features, rendering it a flat cardboard cutout of itself. Like a backdrop on a stage, nothing more than an enhancement to the action around it. I struggled to reconcile what I’d seen inside, my feet walking up the driveway as if of their own accord.

Pushing the baby carriage alongside the hedge, I peered in at Emmy sleeping. As a sudden breeze kicked up, I tucked the extra blanket around her and lowered the carriage hood, satisfied that she’d be amply protected from the wind.

I straightened and looked around, hearing only theshushof leaves in the breeze. I pushed Emmy along the driveway edge where it butted against the concrete bib of the three-car garage, not knowing what I expected, but if anyone saw me prowling around the property I’d certainly be reported for trespassing. After my recent experience with the cops, I didn’t relish the idea of how they’d handle this latest transgression. Pushing the thought from my mind, I halted the carriage at the edge of the driveway where it hemmed the backyard. Circling around it, I peered into the night, black as dirty engine oil, unable to see anything. I stepped forward, Emmy now behind me, and started around the corner of the house—butting instantly against the solid build of a man.

I gasped, shrank back against the baby carriage. A hand materialized in the gloom, a large palm engulfing my mouth. My knees wobbled and my head swam. I was going to faint.

“Shhh,” he commanded in a harsh whisper. “We’re not supposed to be here.”

He suddenly released me. I gulped air, sputtering in relief and confusion: “What the hell?—”

“It’s okay, it’s me,” he interrupted. “Keep your voice down.”

I had no idea whomewas, but the voice was vaguely familiar. I squinted through the dark, barely making out the stranger’s features. Jeffrey Trembly. I stepped to the side of the carriage, trying to create space between us.

“Look, I don’t know what you’re doing here, but I?—”

“Quiet.” He lowered his brows, the shadows turning his eyes into eerie hollows. “Or are you trying to alert the neighbors to our unlawful presence?”

“No,” I stage-whispered. “What are you doing here?”

“What areyoudoing here?”

Oh God, not this again. I was playing out the same scenario I had the night before but with a different man. A potentially dangerous man—with a key to the empty house. “You know why I’m here. I saw someone bleeding—maybe dying—in this place, but nobody will believe me.” I slowly stepped back and pushed the baby carriage farther from him.

“I believe you,” he said quietly.

“You do? Why?” I had to keep him talking long enough to think up an escape route.

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