Shallow Graves (The Haunted Book 1) Read online

  Thunder? Had it been the thunder?

  It had certainly sounded like a knock. Robert waited, listening closely as the rain continued to pelt the windows.

  Unlike when he had seen Amy earlier, it was so dark outside that the frosted panes flanking the door only appeared black; he couldn’t tell if there was someone standing outside.

  “In other news…”

  The TV suddenly blared as it powered up.

  Robert jumped.

  “Fuck!” he yelped. He tried to thumb the mute button, but his aim was off and his vision blurry. He hit the channel up button instead.

  A wide pink face, a victim of plastic surgery that made the woman resemble some sort of human puppet, came on screen, spewing nonsense about Botox.

  Some housewives of someone rich somewhere else.

  Robert breathed deeply, trying to calm his beating heart, and he concentrated on finding the mute button.

  Then he heard it again, more deliberate this time.

  It was a knock.

  “Wendy?” he called out as he started to stand.

  He made it halfway before falling back into the couch cushions. In the process, he spilled some scotch on the green suede.

  “Shit,” he grumbled, swiping ineffectively at the stain with his free hand.

  Wendy is going to lose her shit over that, too.

  Robert succeeded in standing on his second try and even managed to put his glass down on the coffee table without spilling it again.

  “Coming, Wendy!” he hollered. “Amy! Your mother’s home!”

  It took less than a minute for Robert to get to the door, even considering his swaying gait. He flipped the deadbolt and pulled it wide.

  “Wendy, get out—” Of the rain, he meant to say.

  Except it wasn’t Wendy at the door.

  The sight of a policeman, his hat in his hand, his lips pressed together in a deep frown, caused the words to get stuck in his throat.

  Chapter 4

  “What—what?” Robert nearly shouted.

  “Please, Mr. Watts, can I come in?”

  Robert stared wide-eyed at the soaking wet middle-aged police officer who stood on his doorstep. Somehow, he managed a feeble nod.

  I have some bad news, Mr. Watts.

  All of a sudden, Robert wished he hadn’t drunk half as much scotch as he had. Swallowing hard, he turned and the man stepped inside his home.

  “Come in,” Rob managed, the hold of the alcohol rendering him unable to process or even contemplate what was going on. Still, he was with it enough to know that a police officer at the door, a sad-looking figure saying words like bad news, usually only meant one thing.

  Robert shook his head.

  No, no, no…

  “Come, sit down,” he croaked. The police officer hesitated.

  “I’m soaking wet. Maybe—”

  But Robert had already made it back to the couch and collapsed in his familiar spot. He didn’t dare reach for his scotch on the table.

  The officer reluctantly followed, sitting gingerly to avoid soaking the loveseat that sat catty-cornered to the couch.

  “Mr. Watts, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but your wife, Wendy?”

  Robert nodded, knowing what the man was going to say even before he uttered the words.

  “She was in a car accident tonight…Mr. Watts,” he sighed heavily, “Mr. Watts, your wife is dead.”

  The air was suddenly sucked out of Robert’s lungs, leaving him unable to breathe. His mind turned to his wife’s angular face, her blonde hair that she kept short even though he had told her countless times that he preferred it long.

  “Mr. Watts? I’m sorry, but…”

  Robert didn’t hear anything else the officer said; instead, he could only hear the rushing of blood in his ears.

  Numb.

  His entire body suddenly felt numb.

  Wendy can’t be dead. She was selling a house…this is all just a cruel joke.

  Robert reached for his scotch after all, and then stared at the golden brown liquid for so long that his eyes defocused.

  I’m drunk.

  The tears came next, not racking sobs, but silent tears that slid down his cheeks. One drop fell into his scotch, reminding him that it was still in his hand. He brought it to his lips and took a small sip.

  “Mr. Watts? Mr. Watts?”

  Robert suddenly realized that the officer was still there in the room with him, and he raised his gaze to look at him.

  The man’s face was flat, even; this was no joke. Or, if it was, then award this man the Oscar immediately.

  “I’m sorry,” the officer repeated.

  For the briefest of moments, Robert actually felt sorry for him; he didn’t envy the man for having to break the news. It must be incredibly difficult watching someone break down after being told that their loved ones were dead. Robert wondered how his current reaction sized up against those of others. He supposed most women would be hysterical, flopping on the floor, while men, hard men, would be solemn, remaining deadpan throughout.

  Robert, as usual, fell somewhere in the middle.

  “Mr. Watts, I’m so sorry for your loss…I hate to be the one to bring this news to you.”

  Robert nodded, now consciously considering his reactions. He sniffed and forced the tears away…or at least he tried to.

  “Did you hear everything I said?”

  Robert said that he had, then added, “Thank you for coming here in the rain. The driving is probably terrible out there.”

  The officer eyed him curiously.

  “You sure you’re going to be okay here by yourself, Mr. Watts? Is there someone you want to call? A friend, maybe? Another family member? Sometimes…sometimes being alone is not the best thing when you are grieving.”

  Robert offered a weak smile.

  “I’ll be fine…I just—I just need some time alone. To think.”

  But he wasn’t alone, not really—he had Amy. And if he thought a police officer telling a stranger that his wife was dead was difficult, he couldn’t even contemplate breaking the news to his nine-year-old daughter that she was never going to see her mother again.

  There was a pause, during which the officer stared at Robert long enough to make him uncomfortable.

  “Is there anything else, Officer?”

  The man looked like he was holding on to more information, and when he let out a long sigh, Robert knew this to be true.

  “What is it?”

  “Look, I don’t usually do this, but I think you should know…I would want to know. I just couldn’t imagine a situation in which everyone knows but you.”

  Robert waited, trying to figure out how anything could be worse than what he had already been told. He shook his head expectantly.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Watts, do you know a Mr. Landon Underhill?”

  Robert’s eyes narrowed.

  “Yeah, he’s my boss,” he said before quickly correcting himself. “He was my boss. What about him, what does he have to do with Wendy’s accident?”

  The officer looked as if he had been punched in the stomach. His face contorted.

  “Shit…your boss?”

  Robert got the impression that this comment was more for the officer than for him, so he refrained from answering.

  “Ah, man, this is…this is shit.” He folded his hands on his lap, regret clearly etched on his face. “Wendy was coming from Landon’s house when she crashed.”

  The man waited, expecting this to be a grand revelation, but the words rang hollow for Robert.

  “Landon? Why? What?”

  The officer swallowed and then leveled his eyes directly at Robert’s.

  “He, uhh…he, uhh…well, your wife was with Mr. Underhill before she died, Mr. Watts. She was with him.”

  Robert grimaced.

  “What are—?”

  But then it hit him, and he knew.

  Wendy was with Landon…Wendy was with Landon…Wendy wa
s—

  “Wait, how the hell do you know?”

  The officer lowered his gaze.

  “He was the first one on the scene…heard the crash from his house. The man was devastated and couldn’t stop blubbering…”

  Robert’s felt his lower lip start to tremble.

  “Fuck,” was all he could think of to say.

  How is this possible? Wendy was having an affair with my boss?

  His mind turned to seeing that weasel Carl in the office only a couple hours ago, the man clearly getting some sort of sadistic pleasure at the power he had to fire him.

  “Landon is at a business meeting…”

  Landon’s business was fucking his wife.

  Did Carl know about this? Did he know about this all along? Was he sitting at home, laughing at him? If he was, Robert hoped he choked on his goddamn bubblegum.

  “Mr. Watts,” the police officer said, drawing him back. “I know this is a lot, a whole hell of a lot to take in. And I am truly, truly sorry for your loss.”

  Robert didn’t know what to say to that, so he elected to say nothing at all.

  The officer took this as his cue to leave and slowly stood, pulling a business card from his wallet at the same time.

  “I want you to take this,” the officer said. “And if you need anything at all, please, just call. It doesn’t matter what it’s about, whether you have any questions of what to do next or if you just need someone to talk to.”

  Robert took the card in numb fingers and put it into his pocket without even looking at it.

  “Please, just call.” The man’s eyes were soft, kind.

  “Okay,” was all he could offer in response.

  Robert somehow managed to walk the man to the door, even though the fact that he was moving barely registered.

  Wendy…dead…killed in a car accident…

  He assumed that the officer had gone into more detail, but he had drowned out pretty much everything that had come out of the man’s mouth after uttering those fateful words. Until, of course, he had mentioned Landon.

  Wendy was with Mr. Underhill.

  Wendy was sucking on Landon’s big hard cock, Mr. Watts. She was giving him road head when she crashed, Mr. Watts.

  Robert’s tears suddenly dried up. He opened the door and was greeted by a blast of cold, wet air. The rain had no intentions of letting up, it seemed.

  The officer donned his cap, then turned back to face Robert one last time before leaving.

  “If you can, please consider visiting the morgue tomorrow…Marrivale Morgue…to identify the…the…” he let his sentence trail off, then cleared his throat. “It’s probably best that you don’t go alone, Mr. Watts.”

  Now it was Robert’s turn to clear his throat, which was oddly dry despite the scotch that he had just swallowed.

  “I will, thank you again, Officer…?”

  “Officer Dwight. Kevin Dwight.”

  Robert didn’t respond, and instead slowly closed the door as the officer continued to stare at him. When it was fully closed, the sound of the rain once again muted by the windows and doors, he felt an incredible loneliness fall over him.

  Robert was truly and completely alone in this new house.

  His eyes slowly drifted upward, and he peered up at the large chandelier that dangled in the front foyer from the second-floor ceiling. It was ornate, covered in Swarovski crystals dangling from wrought iron arms.

  He hated that fucking chandelier…it had been Wendy’s choice.

  A thought suddenly came to him, one that seemed wholly selfish, yet oddly appropriate—pragmatic even. And it wasn’t about his wife fucking his ex-boss, but about the house, of all things.

  How can I afford this place now that Wendy’s dead and I have no job?

  Chapter 5

  Marrivale Morgue was actually located within Marrivale Hospital, which made sense to Robert. After all, they did autopsies at the hospital, so it was only practical that the bodies be kept there afterward.

  Strangely, Robert had slept well the night prior, likely a result of the alcohol and from the psychological exhaustion that had eventually crossed over to physical exhaustion. Unfortunately, when he’d awoken, he hadn’t even been afforded the temporary solace from the idea that everything had just been a horrible nightmare.

  He remembered everything.

  Wendy had cheated on him with his ex-boss and then had crashed her car in the storm and killed herself. Which brought him here, the morgue, to identify her body.

  He hadn’t woken Amy; he just couldn’t do it. There was nothing he could think of to say to her to make her understand, nothing would protect her heart from breaking into a million tiny pieces. He was a horrible father for leaving a nine, almost ten-year-old, alone in the house, a girl who would probably be terrified if she woke and no one was around.

  He knew that. And yet he still couldn’t bring himself to wake her.

  Roberts emotions were a confused mix of anger and sadness. And fear, loneliness, and hurt. All of these feelings coalesced and caused him to occasionally burst into tears, which would quickly evaporate and he would start swearing like someone suffering from Tourette’s. But now, approaching a thick woman huddled behind a desk, a semblance of calm had passed over him. It was tenuous, he knew, but hopefully he wouldn’t be here long.

  “Hi,” he said softly. “I’m not really sure where to go, can you help me?”

  The woman, who wore way too much eye makeup and had hair that looked freshly permed, indicated a red box off to Robert’s left with a soft chin.

  “Take a number,” she instructed.

  Robert looked at the red ticket machine, then at the other dozen or so patrons seated in the reception area.

  They can’t all be here to identify the dead, can they?

  He turned back to the lady at the desk.

  “I just want to know if I’m in the right place. If I am, then I’ll take a number.”

  The woman sighed and rolled her eyes as if simply opening her mouth was exhausting.

  “Well, you need to tell me what you are here for if you want to know if you are in the right place.”

  Robert swallowed. All of a sudden, his throat felt tight.

  “I need to identify my dead wife,” he said, the words strange on his tongue. He expected tears to follow, but this time his face remained dry.

  The woman’s expression immediately softened, her tight eyes relaxing. She leaned closer to him.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she offered. When Robert didn’t reply, she continued, “What is your name?”

  “Robert Watts.”

  The woman hammered away at her keyboard, then turned back to him, the same sadness clinging to her soft features.

  “Okay, Robert, what you want to do is to head down the hall here—you see the one with the beige paint?”

  Robert’s eyes followed her pudgy finger and he nodded.

  “And then you want to look for 116, okay?”

  Again Robert nodded.

  “But here’s the thing, there is no number on the door. Just look for the door between 114 and 118. Knock once, then they’ll open it and take it to where you need to go. I’ll call ahead so that they know you are coming. Again, I’m sorry—”

  “Thank you,” Robert interrupted her, and walked away before she finished her sentence.

  Don’t go alone, Officer Dwight had suggested. But who was he supposed to come with?

  Robert supposed he could have called his best friend Cal, but other than that, who? Amy was out of the question. Robert himself was an only child, and his parents had both died more than five years ago. Wendy had a sister, but they had been estranged for as long as he could remember. Even if he’d wanted to contact her, he would have no idea how.

  Wendy’s parents?

  He could have called them, he supposed, but he didn’t know if he could stomach spending more than a few minutes by their side.

  Would he tell them about their daughter’s
infidelity? Could he trust himself not to tell them while they stared at their daughter’s corpse?

  So when Robert pulled in front of the unmarked door between rooms 114 and 118, he did so alone.

  He had barely retracted his knuckles from the first rap on the dark blue metal before it was yanked open.

  A thin bald man with round spectacles peered out at him.

  “Mr. Watts?”

  For some reason, Robert was at a loss for words. The man waited patiently; clearly he had been in this situation before.

  Robert knew that all he had to do was nod, to say yes, maybe even just shrug to affirm that he was indeed Mr. Watts and he would be ushered inside.

  But then he would have to see her, and he wasn’t sure how he would react. Then there was also the old adage that seeing was believing—and he didn’t want to believe any of this.

  In the end, his lack of response was as good as him showing his driver’s license.

  No, this was not the man’s first time showing a loved one’s corpse.

  “Please,” he said quietly, his beady eyes glancing down the hallway from behind his glasses. “Please, Mr. Watts. Come inside.”

  Robert swallowed hard and obliged.

  “Follow me,” the doctor said after making sure that the door closed firmly behind Rob.

  They walked down a narrow hallway flanked by several doors, each with a different warning sticker affixed to them—some he recognized, some he didn’t—along with the ubiquitous ‘AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY’ tag in big, bold letters. The hallway ended abruptly at a gray door, from which hung a single sign: VIEWING ROOM.

  “In here,” the man instructed, and moved to pull the door wide.

  It suddenly dawned on him that his wife, his dead, cheating wife, was behind this door.

  And he wasn’t ready to see her just yet.

  He reached out and grabbed the back of the man’s arm that poked out from beneath his blue scrubs. The doctor turned to face him before opening the door more than a crack. His eyebrows rose up his forehead expectantly.

  “Is she—is she in there?” Robert asked quietly.

  The man nodded.

  “But they’re covered. There’s a separate viewing room that you can look through, or you can come right up to the, uh, bodies if you wish. It’s up to you.”