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

“You haven’t changed,” he said.

She smiled. “Thank you, Kirk. Neither have you.”

He shrugged. “Oh, I’ve turned into a crazy old man. You really want to go back on the stage?”

“I think I do.”

“Then you’re hired.”

He added her name to his list.

* * *

The fact that Hayward was behind the whole “Darkest Night” business made him in our eyes even more of a fanatic. But it was Brown who intrigued us. Why had Stephanie stuck up on the wall of her cubicle at the self-storage facility an image of him making his speech on the opening night of the 1994 festival?

In Betsy’s office, we looked at the video extract again. What Brown had to say was quite banal. What else could there be? Derek suggested sending the cassette to the police experts to have the sequence analyzed. Then he stood up and looked at the whiteboard. He erased the words The Darkest Night. That mystery had been solved.

“I still can’t believe it was just the title of the play that Hayward wanted to drum up publicity for,” Betsy sighed. “When I think of all the theories we concocted!”

“Sometimes the solution is right there in front of our eyes,” Derek said, smiling.

Just then, my phone rang. It was Connors, from the gas station.

“I know who he is,” he said.

“Who do you mean?”

“The guy who was doing his own investigation the year after the murders. I just saw his photograph in today’s Chronicle. He’s going to act in the play. His name’s Ostrovski.”

* * *

At the Grand Theater, Jerry and Carolina Eden got up onstage to audition.

Hayward looked Eden up and down.

“What’s your name and where are you from?” he asked sternly.

“My name is Jerry Eden, and I’m from New York. It was Judge Cooperstein who—”

Hayward interrupted him. “You came from New York to be in my play?”

“I need to spend time with my daughter Carolina, to experience something new with her.”

“Why?”

“Because I feel I’m losing her, and I’d like to find her again, since you ask.”

There was a silence. Hayward considered Eden for a moment and decreed, “I like that. The father’s hired. Let’s see how good the daughter is. Come into the light, please.”

Carolina stepped into the spotlight. Hayward gave a start. There was an extraordinary strength emanating from her. She threw him an intense look, almost too strong to be sustained. Hayward grabbed the script of the scene from the table and stood up to take it to Carolina, but she said:

“No need, I’ve been listening to this scene for the last three hours, I know it by heart.”

She closed her eyes and stayed like that for a moment. All the other auditionees could not take their eyes off her, struck by her magnetism. Hayward was speechless.

Carolina opened her eyes and declaimed:

It is a gloomy morning. Rain is falling. On a country road, the traffic is paralyzed. A vast bottleneck has formed. The motorists, at the ends of their tethers, blow their horns angrily. A young woman walks along the side of the road, past the line of motionless cars. She approaches the police cordon and questions the officer on duty.

Then she lifted the collar of the coat she wasn’t wearing, jumped to avoid an imaginary puddle, and ran toward Hayward as if to avoid the drops of rain falling on her.

“What’s going on?” she said.

Hayward gazed at her spellbound and said nothing. She repeated, “Well, officer, what’s going on here?”

Hayward, getting a grip on himself, gave her the next line:

“A man is dead. There’s been a terrible motorcycle accident.”

He stared for a moment at Carolina, then, with a triumphant look on his face, cried:

“We have all the actors we need! Tomorrow, first thing, rehearsals can begin.”

The audience applauded. Mayor Brown heaved a deep sigh of relief.

“You’re amazing,” Hayward said to Carolina. “Have you ever had acting classes?”

“No, never, Mr Hayward.”

“You’re going to play the main role!”

They looked at each other again with fierce intensity.

“Have you ever killed anyone, child?” Hayward said.

She turned pale and started shaking. “How . . . How did you know?” she stammered.

“It’s written in your eyes. I’ve never seen such a dark soul. It’s fascinating.”

Carolina was unable to hold back the tears.

“It’s alright, my dear,” Hayward said gently. “You’re going to be a great star.”

* * *

It was almost 10.30. Sitting in her car outside Café Athena, Betsy was watching the interior of the restaurant. Ostrovski had just paid his check. As he stood up, she said into her radio:

“Ostrovski’s on his way out.”

Derek and I, waiting in the outdoor seating area, intercepted the critic as he was leaving the establishment.

“Mr Ostrovski,” I said, pointing to the police car parked below, “if you wouldn’t mind coming with us, we have some questions to ask you.”

Ten minutes later, Ostrovski was sitting in Betsy’s office in the station, drinking coffee.

“It’s true,” he admitted, “I was fascinated by the case. I’d covered theater festivals before, but never had a series of murders take place on opening night. Like any slightly curious human being, I was eager to get to the bottom of the story.”

“According to the gas station attendant,” Derek said, “you returned to Orphea several times the following year. But by then, the case was over and done with.”

“From what I gathered, the murderer had died before he could confess, although the police were persuaded of his guilt. I admit at the time it excited me. And without a confession, I felt there was something missing.”

Derek gave me a circumspect look.

“So,” Ostrovski went on, “taking advantage of the fact that I regularly come to this wonderful region of the Hamptons to relax, I passed through Orphea from time to time and asked one or two questions here and there.”

“How did you know the gas station attendant had seen something?”

“Pure chance. I stopped for gas one day. We had a chat. He told me what he had seen and that he had informed the police, but that his testimony