Chapter 46 - She didn't come back at night
***Alex***
The dim light filtering through the window awakens me, casting a soft glow across Laurie's room. Though faint, it's enough to disturb my sleep, probably not much past five in the morning. I rub my eyes, feeling the fatigue weigh heavily on me as I realize that I've spent the night in Laurie's bed.
This room holds memories, some bittersweet, of Laurie's first years. I recall the nights she cried, longing for her mother's embrace, the loneliness etched into her tear-streaked face. She would cling to me, seeking solace from the storms both outside and within. That's why she spent more time in my bed than I had anticipated, and why I hesitated to leave her alone last night, knowing her fear of thunder and lightning.
I shouldn't have slept here, knowing how difficult it was to coax her to sleep alone. When she started school, she would often cry, saying all her classmates had mothers to tuck them in at night, except for her. As a result, she spent more time in my bed than I had anticipated. But now, as I rise quietly, careful not to wake my daughter, memories of those nights flood my mind, mingling with the present reality.
My back aches from sleeping bent over in her small bed, the discomfort a small price to pay for her comfort and security. The room is adorned with toys and books, remnants of her childhood scattered across the floor. A dollhouse sits in the corner, a silent witness to countless bedtime stories and imaginary adventures.
I tiptoe out of Laurie's room, making my way to my own. The hallway is dimly lit, the early morning light casting long shadows along the walls. The familiar creak of the floorboards beneath my feet echoes through the silent house, a sound that has become as much a part of my morning routine as brushing my teeth or tying my shoes.
My room is a sanctuary, a refuge from the chaos of the outside world. The soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminates the space, casting a warm and inviting atmosphere. The bed is large and inviting, a welcome sight after a restless night spent in Laurie's cramped quarters.
I wash my face, performing my morning routine with mechanical precision, each movement a familiar ritual. The bathroom is serene, the soft sound of running water a soothing backdrop to my thoughts. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, noting the lines that etch my face, the weariness that lingers in my eyes.
When I step out of my room, I knock lightly on the door to Harper's room. First, gentle taps, so as not to disturb Laurie. I feel guilty for leaving her on the roadside; I had no idea it would rain so heavily.
After three soft knocks with no response, I realize she might be in a deep sleep. I reach for the doorknob, intending only to check on her and ease my conscience. Fortunately, the door is unlocked. I peek inside, aiming my gaze toward the bed, but she's not there.
I could assume she's in the bathroom, but the bed is neatly made, and her suitcases at the foot of it remain closed, as if she hadn't touched them to change clothes. It's odd because she should have arrived completely drenched. I enter the room slowly, announcing, "Harper, I'm coming in."
No sign of her.
I descend the stairs in search of a staff member. Given the hour, none should have arrived yet, but I know Mrs. Doris rises early. She's likely in the kitchen.
Even before reaching the room, I catch the scent of brewing coffee. There are the sounds of a television; she always enjoys watching TV while cooking. Mrs. Doris has worked for me for so long that I consider her like an aunt. She's also the only servant who lives in my house. Laurie's three nannies spend some nights here, but they rotate and return to their own homes.
The kitchen is a hive of activity, the clatter of pots and pans mingling with the rhythmic hum of the coffee maker. Mrs. Doris moves with practiced efficiency, her movements fluid and purposeful. The kitchen is warm and inviting, the heart of the home. The countertops are cluttered with jars of spices and cooking utensils, evidence of Mrs. Doris's culinary prowess. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the air, mingling with the scent of sizzling bacon and frying eggs.
"Good morning, Mrs. Doris," I greet her, my voice carrying a note of fatigue. "Have you seen Harper?"
"Good morning, my boy," she replies, her voice warm and comforting. "No, I was waiting for you to wake up to ask about her."
My heart skips a beat at the mention of Harper's name, the worry knotting my stomach. If something has happened to her, I won't forgive myself. It was only meant to be a scare, not to harm her in any way.
"Would you like some coffee?" Mrs. Doris asks, her concern evident in her eyes.
However, I don't even get to taste it, as the news anchor interrupts with breaking news, grabbing my attention.
"A woman was found dead on the road leading to the estates on the east side of the city. It appears she was struck by lightning while seeking shelter from the rain under a large tree."
I rise quickly, not bothering to answer Mrs. Doris's question about the coffee. I need to leave.
I walk quickly to the garage, my mind foggy and heart racing, as if racing against time. I don't care which car I grab, nor its color or year - everything is a blur in the face of the urgency consuming me. The key trembles in my hands as I try to fit it into the ignition, and I almost hit the automatic gate as I try to leave as quickly as possible, barely noticing that it didn't fully open.
The journey to the accident scene feels like an eternity, each second dragging on as if the world were in slow motion. Traffic is at a standstill on that stretch of the road, with fire trucks and police cars clustered around. I step out of the car in a desperate hurry, running towards the commotion. Yellow and black tapes try to contain the curiosity of the crowd and the press, but nothing stops me. I push aside the policeman trying to detain me, ignoring attempts to control the situation.
The sheriff is there, and his eyes meet mine, filled with concern and uncertainty. "Mr. Montreal, what..." he begins to say, but I don't allow him to finish.
"Where is she?" My voice sounds hoarse and tense, echoing in the tense and sorrow-laden air.
I come to an abrupt halt upon seeing the body lying on the ground, covered by a white sheet. Despair grips my chest, a sharp and unbearable pain. My eyes find the shoes and the purse that I recognize as hers, securely held by one of the policemen.
"It's my wife..." The words escape my lips in a whisper, interspersed with anguish, as my legs weaken and I find myself falling to my knees on the damp, cold ground. The world seems to collapse around me, a storm of overwhelming emotions threatening to swallow me whole.