account slowly, put the money in a suitcase. Sell the house, though breaking even was probably my best hope. Sell our cars, sell everything we owned. I pictured a yard sale with all our possessions on the lawn. I imagined a sign that said, Everything Must Go.
How would we cross the country without leaving a trail? Not by plane and not in a car. Like Stas before us, we could pay cash for train tickets, travel east over the course of several days. I pictured our family reunion in some cramped apartment above a Russian storefront.
These scenarios were all unthinkable; they were all impossible. All I wanted was what we already had. A house with a yard, a swing on a tree, a leafy front walk where one day I’d wait with my children for a school bus. There was nothing I wouldn’t give—nothing at all—just to keep everything the way it was.
* * *
We returned late Sunday night, well after dark, and as I got out of the car, I nearly wept at the sight of our damp lawn, the sound of crickets, the bright stars above and the fragrance of woodsmoke. Would it ever feel safe to savor these things, or would I always be waiting for that knock at the door, the slow whirl of red and blue lights in our driveway, the flash of a badge that would level our lives?
It was the very next morning that I saw the article. A newspaper—the local one, The Columbian —was spread open on a table at the neighborhood bagel place. On the lower section of the front page were two photographs side by side.
One of them was Jack. I felt the recognition in my body—a stab of the old fear—before I’d even named him to myself. It took another moment to identify the second photo as that of the boss next door.
CONSTRUCTION OWNER CONFESSES TO MURDER OF MISSING VANCOUVER MAN read the headline.
Warren Albertson, detained Friday night as a suspect in the murder of Jack Shelby, confessed to the crime Saturday afternoon, investigators reported. Albertson, 44, told police that he bludgeoned his longtime employee with a crowbar before choking him to death, then buried his body beneath the house they were renovating. Jack Shelby’s remains were unearthed by sheriff’s investigators following the confession. Clark County coroner Dr. Gavin Blackwell confirmed multiple signs of blunt force trauma to the face and skull. He also cited injury to the neck consistent with manual strangulation.
I eased myself into the nearest chair and sat there, clutching the newspaper in both hands and staring at Warren Albertson’s grainy little mug shot. The suddenness of it left me blindsided.
This man had killed Jack. Not Stas.
Not Stas.
I stayed at the table for several minutes, trying to take in this information. It was a long time before I was able to lay the paper aside. How many days had I been walking around with the conviction that Stas had done it? I hadn’t realized how much space this belief had occupied until it was suddenly dismantled. What amazed me was how hard it was to let go of the idea—the idea of Stas as the killer. Maybe it was even harder to dispel than it once had been to absorb.
I went out to the parking lot with the newspaper and got into my car, where I sat behind the wheel and stared through the windshield.
There was relief, yes. The relief of surfacing from the dangers in a dream, to find yourself not only safe but restored to the familiar contours of your life: the solidity of your body, your bed. All the circumstances you checked at the threshold of sleep.
Relieved and restored and unburdened and bereft.
I wanted to tell someone, but there was no one to tell. Nobody knew I’d suspected Stas in the first place.
* * *
“I saw the paper and couldn’t believe it,” Rae told me over the phone. “That was your guy, right? The stalker next door? Maybe it was wrong to feel this way, but God help me, I said good riddance! I said, what a great break for Leda. And a great break for me too, because now I don’t have to get Angel to rub him out! Ha
How would we cross the country without leaving a trail? Not by plane and not in a car. Like Stas before us, we could pay cash for train tickets, travel east over the course of several days. I pictured our family reunion in some cramped apartment above a Russian storefront.
These scenarios were all unthinkable; they were all impossible. All I wanted was what we already had. A house with a yard, a swing on a tree, a leafy front walk where one day I’d wait with my children for a school bus. There was nothing I wouldn’t give—nothing at all—just to keep everything the way it was.
* * *
We returned late Sunday night, well after dark, and as I got out of the car, I nearly wept at the sight of our damp lawn, the sound of crickets, the bright stars above and the fragrance of woodsmoke. Would it ever feel safe to savor these things, or would I always be waiting for that knock at the door, the slow whirl of red and blue lights in our driveway, the flash of a badge that would level our lives?
It was the very next morning that I saw the article. A newspaper—the local one, The Columbian —was spread open on a table at the neighborhood bagel place. On the lower section of the front page were two photographs side by side.
One of them was Jack. I felt the recognition in my body—a stab of the old fear—before I’d even named him to myself. It took another moment to identify the second photo as that of the boss next door.
CONSTRUCTION OWNER CONFESSES TO MURDER OF MISSING VANCOUVER MAN read the headline.
Warren Albertson, detained Friday night as a suspect in the murder of Jack Shelby, confessed to the crime Saturday afternoon, investigators reported. Albertson, 44, told police that he bludgeoned his longtime employee with a crowbar before choking him to death, then buried his body beneath the house they were renovating. Jack Shelby’s remains were unearthed by sheriff’s investigators following the confession. Clark County coroner Dr. Gavin Blackwell confirmed multiple signs of blunt force trauma to the face and skull. He also cited injury to the neck consistent with manual strangulation.
I eased myself into the nearest chair and sat there, clutching the newspaper in both hands and staring at Warren Albertson’s grainy little mug shot. The suddenness of it left me blindsided.
This man had killed Jack. Not Stas.
Not Stas.
I stayed at the table for several minutes, trying to take in this information. It was a long time before I was able to lay the paper aside. How many days had I been walking around with the conviction that Stas had done it? I hadn’t realized how much space this belief had occupied until it was suddenly dismantled. What amazed me was how hard it was to let go of the idea—the idea of Stas as the killer. Maybe it was even harder to dispel than it once had been to absorb.
I went out to the parking lot with the newspaper and got into my car, where I sat behind the wheel and stared through the windshield.
There was relief, yes. The relief of surfacing from the dangers in a dream, to find yourself not only safe but restored to the familiar contours of your life: the solidity of your body, your bed. All the circumstances you checked at the threshold of sleep.
Relieved and restored and unburdened and bereft.
I wanted to tell someone, but there was no one to tell. Nobody knew I’d suspected Stas in the first place.
* * *
“I saw the paper and couldn’t believe it,” Rae told me over the phone. “That was your guy, right? The stalker next door? Maybe it was wrong to feel this way, but God help me, I said good riddance! I said, what a great break for Leda. And a great break for me too, because now I don’t have to get Angel to rub him out! Ha
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