The Disappearance of Stephanie Mailer: A gripping new thriller with a killer twist by Joël Dicker (ebook reader play store .txt) 📕

beside him, but not before I’d had a chance to glance at the words on the top page of the pile.

THE DARKEST NIGHT

A Play by Kirk Hayward

Wherever we went, these three words kept cropping up. I had already suspected that Hayward had something to hide. Now I was sure of it. But when I had settled in the booth, I didn’t mention his play, but instead asked him about Stephanie Mailer.

“Stephanie Mailer?” Hayward said. “Yes, I met with her right here. She said she was writing a book about the 1994 murders in Orphea. Why do you want to talk to me?”

“She’s dead. She was murdered.”

“Hell!”

“I think she died because of what she discovered about those murders. What exactly did you tell her?”

“That I was sure you had gotten the wrong man.”

“So it was you who put that idea in her head? But why didn’t you tell us that during the investigation?”

“I didn’t realize it until later.”

“Was that when you left Orphea in such a hurry?”

“I can’t tell you anything. Not yet.”

“What do you mean, not yet?”

“You’ll understand. When the time is right.”

“Listen, Hayward, I’ve come two and a half thousand miles to see you.”

“You needn’t have come. I can’t risk compromising my play.”

“Your play? What does your ‘Darkest Night’mean? Is it connected to what happened in 1994? I need to know exactly what happened on the evening of July 30. Who killed the mayor and his family? And I need to know why you ran away.”

Just then I heard an embarrassed cough and turned to see Sergeant Cruz standing a little distance from the table, holding up the copy of the Chronicle Betsy had given me for the flight.

“Sorry, Captain,” he said, coloring at the cheeks. “I finished my crossword. Mind if I make a start on this one?”

I raised my hand to wave him away, but Hayward was already half out of his seat.

“Is that the Orphea Chronicle?” he said, a look of childish excitement spreading across his face. “That brings back a few memories. Can I take a look?”

I scowled at Cruz, who looked crestfallen as he approached the table to hand the paper over.

Hayward unfolded it and glanced at the front page.

MYSTERY PLAY FOR THE OPENING OF THE

THEATER FESTIVAL

“I don’t believe it!” he cried.

“What’s the matter?”

“What is this mystery play?”

“I don’t know. To tell the truth, I don’t think the mayor himself knows.”

“What if this is the sign? The sign I’ve been waiting for for twenty years?”

“The sign of what?”

Hayward grabbed me by the shoulders. “I want to have ‘The Darkest Night’ put on at the festival in Orphea!”

“But the festival is in two weeks. How can you be ready to perform it in two weeks?”

“You don’t understand.”

“Understand what?”

“If I can put on ‘The Darkest Night’ you’ll get the answers to your questions.”

“About the murder of the mayor?”

“Yes, you’ll know everything. On opening night, the whole truth about this business will be revealed!”

I telephoned Betsy. “Hayward says if he is allowed to put on this play of his, he’ll tell us who killed Mayor Gordon.”

“You mean he knows?”

“So he says.”

“Is he bluffing?”

“Strangely enough, I don’t think so. When he saw the front page of the Chronicle his reaction was immediate. He offered to tell me the truth if we let him perform his damn play.”

“It’s possible he’s crazy. Maybe he killed the mayor and his family and he’s at last going to own up to it.”

“That never occurred to me.”

“Tell Hayward it’s a deal. I’ll make sure he gets what he wants.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. You need to bring him back here. If the worst comes to the worst we’ll have him arrested, he’ll be under our jurisdiction, and he’ll have to talk.”

“O.K.,” I said. “Let me ask him.”

I went back to Hayward.

“I’m on the line with the deputy police chief of Orphea. She says it’s a deal.”

“Do you take me for a fool?” Hayward said coldly. “Since when have the police decided on the program of the festival? I want a handwritten letter from the Mayor of Orphea.”

* * *

With the time difference, it was after 8 p.m. on the east coast. Betsy had no choice but to go and see Mayor Brown at home, who at that moment was in his study, rereading the resignation speech he would make to his colleagues. He had not found anything to replace the opening play. The other companies he had considered were all amateur and too modest to attract an audience big enough to fill Orphea’s Grand Theater. He could not bear the thought that three-quarters of the tickets might remain unsold, which would be disastrous for the town’s finances. It was decided: tomorrow morning, Thursday, he would gather all the staff of the town hall and share with them the news of his standing down. On Friday, he would gather the press as planned and the news would be made public.

He was reading his speech out loud: “Ladies and gentlemen, it is with a heavy heart that I have gathered you all here to announce that the Orphea Theater Festival will not be taking place this year. You know how attached I was to this event, both personally and politically. I have not succeeded in making the festival the unmissable ‘occasion’ that would have restored the prestige of our town. I have failed in what should have been the major project of my mandate. It is therefore with a great deal of emotion that I must announce to you that I am resigning as mayor of the town of Orphea. I wanted you to be the first to know. I am counting on your total discretion. I do not want this news to be made public before Friday’s press conference.”

He felt almost relieved. He had been too ambitious, for himself, for Orphea, for this festival. When he had launched the project, he had been only the deputy mayor. He had imagined he would make it one of the major cultural events of the state, then of