Cedar Creek, Nevada - Tuesday, July 4, 1995 The Day Of . . .

Cedar Creek, Nevada

Tuesday, July 4, 1995 The Day Of . . .

ANNABELLE PULLED INTO HER DRIVEWAY AND PARKED. SHE OPENED the trunk of the BMW in anticipation of stuffing it with luggage. As she turned from the car, she took a moment to admire the house where she was supposed to raise her kids and grow old with her husband. Despite the forced design, it was a beautiful home. She looked to the still-unfinished three-car garage with Lester’s ladder tilted against the side. She saw the tread marks in the grass, left by the bulldozers and backhoes that had dug the hole for the pool. Waiting at the corner of the driveway were chest-high stacks of pavers meant to line the side of the house and lead to the back patio and pool deck. Part of her was sad that she’d never see this home completed the way she and Preston had planned. Another part of her was ready to run like hell and never look back.

In the distance, positioned high in the branches of a lodgepole pine, a Cooper’s hawk sat. The bird released a long crow that echoed into the afternoon. Annabelle squinted her eyes at the beautiful sight, lifted the camera that still hung from her neck, and snapped off a photo of the bird just as it took flight—its wings outstretched and the colorful underbelly visible. The bird was gone in just a few powerful strokes of its wings and Annabelle hoped the single shot she’d managed to get off had captured the beauty of the animal.

She collected Charlotte from the baby seat and hurried through the front door. Several suitcases waited in the foyer. For the first time, she allowed herself to believe her family was actually leaving. She climbed the stairs to the second floor. In her bedroom she placed Charlotte in the bassinet next to the bed and walked into the bathroom to wash her face. Things had been spiraling out of control ever since her car was found abandoned on the side of the road where Baker Jauncey’s body had been discovered. In her postpartum confusion, and suffering from sleep deprivation over the last two weeks, Annabelle’s mind had spun with possible explanations—even conjuring the possibility that she had taken her car out that night during a forgotten moment of delusion. She secretly wondered if she had been the one who ran Baker Jauncey down, only for her sleep-deprived mind to block out any memory of the event.

She had become sick with these thoughts until Sheriff Stamos invited Preston out to his hunting cabin to break the news that Baker Jauncey had not died from injuries suffered when Annabelle’s car struck him, but had instead been killed by a baseball bat. And, Sheriff Stamos added, whoever killed Baker Jauncey was likely behind the fraud happening inside Margolis Margolis. Preston had spent all of Sunday night at the office digging through the firm’s files and looking into the fraud. When he came home early Monday morning he told Annabelle about everything he had found. It was then that they had decided to leave Cedar Creek. Annabelle was not so na?ve to think that they could escape this godforsaken place without interference from Preston’s family. She only hoped that she, Preston, and Charlotte were far enough away when the rest of the Margolis family figured out their plan.

Annabelle cupped cool water in her hands and splashed her face. She soaked a washcloth and rubbed the coolness into the back of her neck. Finally, she took a deep breath and walked back into the bedroom. Charlotte was sleeping in the bassinet. She opened the dresser drawers to make sure Preston had packed everything she needed. She was about to check the armoire when a car door slammed outside.

Annabelle hurried to the bedroom window, hoping Preston was ahead of schedule and that they might get an early start on their stealth exit from Cedar Creek. But when Annabelle pulled the window curtain to the side, it was not Preston she saw.

“What the hell?” she whispered to herself.

Annabelle’s breath caught in her throat. Although she wasn’t sure why—intuition, maybe, but a premonition more likely—she lifted the Nikon FM10 that still hung from her neck, placed her eye to the viewfinder, and snapped several photos as she stood at her bedroom window, capturing the person’s movements as they walked across the driveway and to the front door. Annabelle’s stomach dropped when she heard the doorbell chime.

She thought briefly about not answering, but her car was in the driveway with the trunk open. It was obvious someone was home. She took a deep breath, lifted the camera strap over her head, and placed the Nikon in Charlotte’s bassinet. She grabbed the handle and carried her daughter down the stairs.