The Disappearance of Stephanie Mailer: A gripping new thriller with a killer twist Joël Dicker (booksvooks TXT) 📖

said. “Did you get the feeling the mayor was anxious about anything lately? Had he told you about any threats? Was he worried for his safety?”

“Threats? No, he never said anything like that. Can I . . . Can I look inside the house?”

“It’s best to avoid contaminating the crime scene,” Chief Hayward said. “And besides, it’s not a pretty sight, Alan. A real slaughterhouse. The boy was killed in the living room, Leslie in the hallway, and Joseph in the kitchen.”

Deputy Mayor Brown felt shaky. He suddenly had the impression that his legs were giving way and he sat down on the sidewalk. His gaze again came to rest on the white sheet a few dozen yards away.

“But if they all died in the house, then who’s that?” he asked, point-ing to the body.

“A young woman named Meghan Padalin,” I said. “She was jogging. She may have run into the murderer as he was coming out of the house.”

“It’s not possible!” Brown said, covering his face with his hands. “This is a nightmare!”

Just then, Deputy Gulliver joined us. “The press are asking a lot of questions,” he said to Brown. “Someone will have to make a statement.”

“I . . . I don’t know if I can face it,” Brown stammered.

“Alan,” Chief Hayward said, “you have to. You’re the mayor of this town now.”

JESSE ROSENBERG

Saturday, June 28, 2014

Twenty-eight days to opening night

It was eight in the morning. While Orphea slowly woke up, excitement was still high on Bendham Road, which was filled with fire engines. The building where Stephanie lived was a smoking, skeletal ruin.

Betsy and I stood on the sidewalk, watching the coming and going of the firefighters, who were busy rolling up their hoses and putting away their equipment. We were soon joined by the fire chief.

“It’s arson,” he said categorically. “Lucky that nobody was hurt. Only the second-floor tenant was in the building and he got out in time. He’s the one who alerted us. Would you come with me? I’d like to show you something.”

We followed him into the building, then up the black, soaked staircase. The air was smoky and acrid. When we got to the third floor, we discovered that the door to Stephanie’s apartment was wide open. The lock looked intact.

“How did you get in without breaking the door down or damaging the lock?” Betsy said.

“That’s what I wanted to show you,” the fire chief replied. “The door was wide open when we arrived, just as you see it now.”

“The arsonist had the keys,” I said.

Betsy looked at me gravely. “Jesse, I think the person you surprised here on Thursday night came to finish the job.”

I went closer and looked into the apartment. The furniture, the walls, the books—everything was charred. The person who had set fire to the apartment had had only one aim in mind: to destroy it.

*

Out on the street, Brad Melshaw, the man who had lived on the second floor, was sitting on the steps of a nearby building, wrapped in a blanket and drinking from a mug, contemplating the flame-blackened facade of the building.

He told us he had finished his shift at Café Athena at around 11.30.

“I came straight home,” he said. “I didn’t notice anything unusual. I took a shower, watched T.V. for a while, and fell asleep on my couch, as I often do. Around three in the morning, I woke up to find the apartment was filled with smoke. I quickly realized it was coming from the stairwell. When I opened my door I saw that the floor above was burning. I ran straight down to the street and called the fire department on my cell phone. Apparently, Stephanie wasn’t at home. She’s having problems, is that right?”

“Who told you that?”

“Everyone’s talking about it. This is a small town, you know.”

“Do you know Stephanie well?”

“No. Like neighbors who pass on the stairs, but not even that really. Our timetables are very different. She moved here late last year. She’s nice.”

“Did she tell you about a trip she had planned? Did she mention that she was going away?”

“No. Like I said, we weren’t close enough for her to tell me that kind of thing.”

“She might have asked you to water her plants or pick up her mail.”

“She never asked me to do anything like that.” Suddenly, Melshaw’s eyes clouded over. “Wait! How could I have forgotten? She had an argument with a police officer the other night.”

“Which night was this?”

“Last Saturday.”

“What happened?”

“I was coming home from the restaurant. It was around midnight. There was a police car parked outside the building and Stephanie was talking to the driver. She was saying, ‘You can’t do that to me, I need you.’ And he said something like, ‘I don’t want to hear from you again. If you keep calling me, I’ll lodge a complaint.’ Then he started the car and drove away. She stood there on the sidewalk for a while. She looked lost. I waited at the corner of the street, which was where I’d seen it all from, until she went up to her apartment. I didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable.”

“What type of police car was it?” Betsy said. “From Orphea or another town? State Police? Highway Patrol?”

“I have no idea. I didn’t pay attention. And it was dark.”

We were interrupted by Mayor Brown. “I assume you’ve read today’s paper, Captain Rosenberg?” he said angrily, unfolding a copy of the Chronicle in front of me.

On the front page was a photograph of Stephanie, and above it the headline:

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN?

Stephanie Mailer, a reporter for the Orphea Chronicle, has been missing since Monday. A number of strange events have occurred in connection with her disappearance. The State Police are investigating.

“I didn’t know anything about this article, Mr Mayor,” I assured him.

“Whether you knew about it or not, Captain Rosenberg,” Brown said crossly, “you’re the one creating all this upset!”

I turned to the still-smoking building. “Are you saying that nothing out of the ordinary is