Under the Whispering Door Read online

  The elevator doors slid shut, cutting off her outrage.

  “Ah,” Wallace said. “That’s more like it. Back to work, everyone. Just because it’s Friday doesn’t mean you get to slack off.”

  Everyone began moving immediately.

  Perfect. The machine ran smoothly once again.

  He went back into his office, closing the door behind him.

  He thought of Patricia only once more that afternoon, when he received an email from the head of Human Resources telling him that she would take care of the scholarship. That twinge in his chest returned, but it was all right. He’d stop for a bottle of Tums on his way home. He didn’t give it—or Patricia Ryan—another thought. Ever forward, he told himself as he moved the email to a folder marked EMPLOYEE GRIEVANCES.

  Ever forward.

  He felt better. At least it was quiet now.

  Next week, his new paralegal would start, and he’d make sure she knew he wouldn’t tolerate mistakes. It was better to strike fear early rather than deal with incompetency down the road.

  * * *

  He never got the chance.

  Instead, two days later, Wallace Price died.

  CHAPTER

  2

  His funeral was sparsely attended. Wallace wasn’t pleased. He couldn’t even be quite sure how he’d gotten here. One moment, he’d been staring down at his body. And then he’d blinked and somehow found himself standing in front of a church, the doors open, bells ringing. It certainly hadn’t helped when he saw the prominent sign sitting out front. A CELEBRATION OF THE LIFE OF WALLACE PRICE, it read. He didn’t like that sign, if he was being honest with himself. No, he didn’t like it one bit. Perhaps someone inside could tell him what the hell was going on.

  He’d taken a seat on a pew toward the rear. The church itself was everything he hated: ostentatious, with grand stained-glass windows and several versions of Jesus in various poses of pain and suffering, hands nailed to a cross that appeared to be made of stone. Wallace was dismayed at how no one seemed to mind that the prominent figure displayed throughout the church was depicted in the throes of death. He would never understand religion.

  He waited for more people to filter in. The sign out front said his funeral was supposed to start promptly at nine. It was now five till according to the decorative clock on the wall (another Jesus, his arms the hands of the clock, apparently a reminder that God’s only son was a contortionist) and there were only six people in the church.

  He knew five of them.

  The first was his ex-wife. Their divorce had been a bitter thing, filled with baseless accusations on both sides, their lawyers barely able to keep them from screaming at each other across the table. She would’ve had to fly in, given that she’d moved to the opposite end of the country to get away from him. He didn’t blame her.

  Mostly.

  She wasn’t crying. He was annoyed for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. Shouldn’t she be sobbing?

  The second, third, and fourth people he knew were the partners at the law firm Moore, Price, Hernandez & Worthington. He waited for others from the firm to join them, given MPH&W had been started in a garage twenty years before and had grown to be one of the most powerful firms in the state. At the very least, he expected his assistant, Shirley, to be there, her makeup streaked, a handkerchief clutched in her hands as she wailed that she didn’t know how she’d go on without him.

  She wasn’t in attendance. He focused as hard as he could, willing her to pop into existence, wailing that it wasn’t fair, that she needed a boss like Wallace to keep her on the straight and narrow. He frowned when nothing happened, a curl of unease fluttering in the back of his mind.

  The partners gathered at the back of the church, near Wallace’s pew, speaking in low tones. Wallace had given up trying to let them know he was still here, sitting right in front of them. They couldn’t see him. They couldn’t hear him.

  “Sad day,” Moore said.

  “So sad,” Hernandez agreed.

  “Just the worst,” Worthington said. “Poor Shirley, finding his body like that.”

  The partners paused, looking out toward the front of the church, bowing their heads respectfully when Naomi glanced back at them. She sneered at them before turning around toward the front.

  Then:

  “Makes you think,” Moore said.

  “It really does,” Hernandez agreed.

  “Absolutely,” Worthington said. “Makes you think about a lot of things.”

  “You’ve never had an original thought in your life,” Wallace told him.

  They were quiet for a moment, and Wallace was sure they were lost in their favorite memories of him. In a moment, they’d start to fondly reminisce, each of them in turn giving a little story about the man they’d known for half their lives and the effect he’d had upon them.

  Maybe they’d even shed a tear or two. He hoped so.

  “He was an asshole,” Moore said finally.

  “Such an asshole,” Hernandez agreed.

  “The biggest,” Worthington said.

  They all laughed, though they tried to smother it to keep it from echoing. Wallace was shocked by two specific things. First, he wasn’t aware one was allowed to laugh in church, especially when one was attending a funeral. He thought it had to be illegal, somehow. It was true that he hadn’t been inside a church in decades, so it was possible the rules had changed. Second, where did they get off calling him an asshole? He was disappointed when they weren’t immediately struck down by lightning. “Smite them!” he yelled, glaring up at the ceiling. “Smite them right … now…” He stopped. Why wasn’t his voice echoing?

  Moore, apparently having decided his grief had passed, said, “Did you guys catch the game last night? Man, Rodriguez was in rare form. Can’t believe they called that play.”

  And then they were off, talking about sports as if their former partner wasn’t lying in a seven-thousand-dollar solid red cherrywood casket at the front of the church, arms folded across his chest, skin pale, eyes closed.

  Wallace turned resolutely forward, jaw clenched. They’d gone to law school together, had decided to start their own firm right after graduation, much to the horror of their parents. He and the partners had started out as friends, each young and idealistic. But as the years had gone by, they’d become something more than friends: they’d become colleagues, which, to Wallace, was far more important. He didn’t have time for friends. He didn’t need them. He’d had his job on the thirtieth floor of the biggest skyscraper in the city, his imported office furniture, and a too-big apartment that he rarely spent any time in. He’d had it all, and now …

  Well.

  At least his casket was expensive, though he’d been avoiding looking at it since he arrived.

  The fifth person in the church was someone he didn’t recognize. She was a young woman with messy black hair cut short. Her eyes were dark above a thin, upturned nose and the pale slash of her lips. She had her ears pierced, little studs that glittered in the sunlight filtering in through the windows. She was dressed in a smart pinstriped black suit, her tie bright red. A power tie if ever there was one. Wallace approved. All of his own ties were power ties. No, he wasn’t exactly wearing a power tie at this moment. Apparently when you died, you continued to wear the last thing you had on before you croaked. It was unfortunate, really, given that he’d apparently died in his office on a Sunday. He’d come in to prepare for the upcoming week, and had thrown on sweats, an old Rolling Stones shirt, and flip-flops, knowing the office would be empty.

  Which is what he found himself wearing now, much to his dismay.

  The woman glanced in his direction, as if she’d heard him. He didn’t know her, but he assumed he’d touched her life at some point if she was here. Perhaps she’d been a grateful client of his at one point. They all began to run together after a time, so that could be it too. He’d probably sued a large company on her behalf for hot coffee or harassment or something, and she’d gotten a massive settlement out of it. Of course she’d be grateful. Who wouldn’t be?

  Moore, Hernandez, and Worthington seemed to graciously decide their wild sporting-event conversation could be put on hold, walking past Wallace without so much as a glance in his direction and moving toward the front of the church, each of them with a solemn look on his face. They ignored the young woman in the suit, instead stopping near Naomi, leaning over one by one to offer their condolences. She nodded. Wallace waited for the tears, sure it was a dam ready to burst.

  The partners each took a moment to stand in front of the casket, their heads bowed low. That sense of unease that had filled Wallace since he’d blinked in front of the church grew stronger, discordant and awful. Here he was, sitting in the back of the church, staring at himself in the front of the church, lying in a casket. Wallace was under no impression he was a handsome man. He was too tall, too gangly, his cheekbones wicked sharp, leaving his pale face in a state of perpetual gauntness. Once, at a company Halloween party, a group of children had been delighted by his costume, one bold tween saying that he made an excellent Grim Reaper.

  He hadn’t been wearing a costume.

  He studied himself from his seat, catching glimpses of his body as the partners shuffled around him, the terrible feeling that something was off threatening to overtake him. The body had been dressed in one of his nicer suits, a Tom Ford sharkskin wool two-piece. It fit his thin frame well and made his green eyes pop. To be fair, it wasn’t exactly flattering now, given that his eyes were closed and his cheeks were covered with enough rouge to make him look as if he’d been a courtesan instead of a high-profile attorney. His forehead was strangely pale, his short dark hair slicked back and glistening wetly in the overhead lights.

  Eventually, the par
tners sat in the pew opposite Naomi, their faces dry.

  A door opened, and Wallace turned to see a priest (someone else he didn’t recognize, and he felt that discordance again like a weight on his chest, something off, something wrong) walk through the narthex, wearing robes as ridiculous as the church around them. The priest blinked a couple of times, as if he couldn’t believe how empty the church was. He pulled back the sleeve of his robe to look at his watch and shook his head before fixing a quiet smile on his face. He walked right by Wallace without acknowledging him. “That’s fine,” Wallace called after him. “I’m sure you think you’re important. It’s no wonder organized religion is in the shape it’s in.”

  The priest stopped next to Naomi, taking her hand in his, speaking in soft platitudes, telling her how sorry he was for her loss, that the Lord worked in mysterious ways, and while we may not always understand his plan, rest assured there was one, and this was part of it.

  Naomi said, “Oh, I don’t doubt that, Father. But let’s skip all the mumbo-jumbo and get this show on the road. He’s supposed to be buried in two hours, and I have a flight to catch this afternoon.”

  Wallace rolled his eyes. “Christ, Naomi. How about showing a little respect? You’re in a church.” And I’m dead, he wanted to add, but didn’t, because that made it real, and none of this could be real. It couldn’t.

  The priest nodded. “Of course.” He patted the back of her hand before moving to the opposite pews where the partners sat. “I’m sorry for your loss. The Lord works in mysterious—”

  “Of course he does,” Moore said.

  “So mysterious,” Hernandez agreed.

  “Big man upstairs with his plans,” Worthington said.

  The woman—the stranger he didn’t recognize—snorted, shaking her head.

  Wallace glared at her.

  The priest moved on, stopping in front of the casket, head bowed.

  Before, there’d been pain in Wallace’s arm, a burning sensation in his chest, a savage little twist of nausea in his stomach. For a moment, he’d almost convinced himself that it’d been the leftover chili he’d eaten the night before. But then he was on the floor of his office, lying on the imported Persian rug he’d spent an exorbitant amount on, listening to the fountain in the lobby gurgle as he tried to catch his breath. “Goddamn chili,” he’d managed to gasp, his last words before he’d found himself standing above his own body, feeling like he was in two places at once, staring up at the ceiling while also staring down at himself. It took a moment before that division subsided, leaving him with mouth agape, the only sound crawling from his throat a thin squeak like a deflating balloon.

  Which was fine, because he’d only passed out! That’s all it was. Nothing more than heartburn and the need to take a nap on the floor. It happened to everyone at one point or another. He’d been working too hard as of late. Of course it’d finally caught up to him.

  With that decided, he felt a bit better about wearing sweats and flip-flops and an old T-shirt in church at his funeral. He didn’t even like the Rolling Stones. He had no idea where the shirt had come from.

  The priest cleared his throat as he looked out at the few people gathered. He said, “It’s written in the Good Book that—”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Wallace muttered.

  The stranger choked.

  Wallace jerked his head up as the priest droned on.

  The woman had her hand over her mouth like she was trying to stifle her laughter. Wallace was incensed. If she found his death so funny, why the hell was she even here?

  Unless …

  No, it couldn’t be, right?

  He stared at her, trying to place her.

  What if she had been a client of his?

  What if he’d gotten a less than desirable result for her?

  A class-action lawsuit, maybe. One that hadn’t netted as much as she’d hoped. He made promises whenever he got a new client, big promises of justice and extraordinary financial compensation. Where once he might have tempered expectations, he’d only grown more confident with every judgment in his favor. His name was whispered with great reverence in the hallowed halls of the courts. He was a ruthless shark, and anyone who stood in his way usually ended up flat on their back, wondering what the hell had happened.

  But maybe it was more than that.

  Had what started out as a professional attorney-client relationship turned to something darker? Perhaps she’d become fixated on him, enamored with his expensive suits and command of the courtroom. She told herself that she would have Wallace Price, or no one would. She’d stalked him, standing outside his window at night, watching him while he slept (his apartment being on the fifteenth floor didn’t dissuade him of this notion; for all he knew, she’d climbed up the side of the building to his balcony). And when he was at work, she’d broken in and lain upon his pillow, breathing in his scent, dreaming of the day when she could become Mrs. Wallace Price. Then perhaps he’d spurned her unknowingly, and the love she’d felt for him had turned into a black rage.

  That was it.

  That explained everything. After all, it wasn’t without precedent, was it? Because it was likely Patricia Ryan had also been obsessed with him, given her unfortunate reaction when he’d fired her. For all he knew, they were in cahoots with each other, and when Wallace had done what he did, they’d … what? Joined forces to … wait. Okay. The timeline was a little fuzzy for that to work, but still.

  “—and now, I’d like to invite anyone who would like to say a few words about our dear Wallace to come forward and do so at this time.” The priest smiled serenely. The smile faded slightly when no one moved. “Anyone at all.”

  The partners bowed their heads.

  Naomi sighed.

  Obviously, they were overcome, unable to find the right words to say in order to sum up a life well-lived. Wallace didn’t blame them for that. How did one even begin to encapsulate all that he was? Successful, intelligent, hard-working to the point of obsession, and so much more. Of course they’d be reticent.

  “Get up,” he muttered, staring hard at those in the front of the church. “Get up and say nice things about me. Now. I command you.”

  He gasped when Naomi rose. “It worked!” he whispered fervently. “Yes. Yes.”

  The priest nodded at her as he stepped off to the side. Naomi stared down at Wallace’s body for a long moment, and Wallace was surprised to see her face screw up like she was about to cry. Finally. Finally someone was going to show some kind of emotion. He wondered if she would throw herself at the casket, demanding to know why, why, why life had to be so unfair, and Wallace, I’ve always loved you, even when I was sleeping with the gardener. You know, the one who seemed averse to wearing shirts while he worked, the sun shining down on his broad shoulders, the sweat trickling down his carved abdominal muscles like he was a goddamn Greek statue that you pretended not to stare at too, but we both know that’s crap, given that we had the same taste in men.

  She didn’t cry.

  She sneezed instead.

  “Excuse me,” she said, wiping her nose. “That’s been building for a while.”

  Wallace sunk lower in the pew. He didn’t have a good feeling about this.

  She moved in front of the church on the dais next to the priest. She said, “Wallace Price was … certainly alive. And now he’s not. For the life of me, I can’t quite say that’s a terrible thing. He wasn’t a good person.”

  “Oh my,” the priest said.

  Naomi ignored him. “He was obstinate, foolhardy, and cared only for himself. I could have married Bill Nicholson, but instead, I hooked up to the Wallace Price Express, bound for a destination of missed meals, forgotten birthdays and anniversaries, and the disgusting habit of leaving toenail clippings on the bathroom floor. I mean, come on. The trash bin was right there. How on earth do you miss it?”