What You Don't Know, page 1
What You Don’t Know
Bianca Sloane
Copyright © 2020 by Bianca Sloane. All Rights Reserved.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, places, dialogue, and plot are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
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Cover design by Damonza: https://damonza.com/
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Bianca@BiancaSloane.com
http://www.biancasloane.com/
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V1-FV
Books By Bianca Sloane
STANDALONE NOVELS
Killing Me Softly (Previously published as Live and Let Die)
Sweet Little Lies
What you don’t know
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THE EVERY BREATH YOU TAKE SERIES
Every Breath You Take
Missing You: A Companion Novella to Every Breath You Take
The Every Breath You Take Collection (Box Set of Every Breath You Take and Missing You)
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THE LIVE TO TELL SERIES
Live To Tell
Tell Me A Lie
White Christmas (A Live To Tell short story)
Contents
A Normal Saturday
Part 1
10:20 a.m.
Malcolm Gilbert, the Greatest of All Time
10:45 a.m.
Fear in Highland Park
11:00 a.m.
Unexpected Guest
11:10 a.m.
11:15 a.m.
The Gilberts
11:45 a.m.
Pop Princess
11:55 a.m.
Phone Call
Something’s Wrong
12:25 p.m.
Falling in Love
12:35 p.m.
Missing
12:45 p.m.
Love and Marriage
12:45 p.m.
12:55 p.m.
12:55 p.m.
1:17 p.m.
1:30 p.m.
Phone Call
Separate Lives
1:45 p.m.
Things Fall Apart
5:45 p.m.
Secrets and Lies
5:45 p.m.
Clues
7:31 p.m.
Big Break
7:59 p.m.
The Suspects
8:25 p.m.
Turnabout
10:30 p.m.
Interrogation
Tip of the Iceberg
10:45 p.m.
Interrogation
11:00 p.m.
Part 2
6:45 a.m.
Green-Eyed Monster
9:15 a.m.
Family Ties
6:45 p.m.
Tick, Tick
Phone Conversation
Boom
Part 3
5:30 a.m.
The Last Hours
The Final Pieces
Phone Conversation
The Aftermath
Want more WHAT YOU DON’T KNOW?
Acknowledgments
Books By Bianca Sloane
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About the Author
A Normal Saturday
Elena York, True Crime Writer, Author of Terror in the Suburbs: It was Saturday, April first—April Fool’s Day.
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Bridget Johnson, Blair Gilbert’s Sister: Two days before my birthday (Scoffs and shakes head) My birthday.
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Lani Jacobs, Blair and Malcolm Gilbert’s Neighbor: It was a beautiful day. That’s probably what I’ll always remember. What a beautiful day it was.
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Guy Sledge, Friend of Malcolm Gilbert: The four of us—Malcolm, myself, our friend, Don, our friend, Kip—had a standing golf date—weather permitting—every Saturday at twelve fifteen at the club. Had been that way for years. Malcolm was usually there around ten forty-five, eleven, as he liked to chip and putt beforehand.
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Lani Jacobs: It was one of those beautiful warm spring days. Blair and I went jogging early that morning, like we usually did on Saturdays, then we’d stop for coffee on the way home. It was just a normal Saturday.
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Elena York: Blair and Malcolm Gilbert had lived in Highland Park, Illinois, one of the cornerstones of Chicago’s tony North Shore, for over twenty years. The North Shore is a cluster of suburbs north of the city that represents some of the highest per capita income in the country. Highland Park is affluence defined—the cream of the crop, a gated community with no gates. It’s home to CEOs, singers, actors, philanthropists, doctors, attorneys. Athletes in particular flock to Highland Park because the practice facilities for the city’s football and basketball teams are in neighboring suburbs. It’s also a popular locale for movies and television shows.
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Guy Sledge, : What came later that morning—well, yes, it was a bit odd. Nothing worrying necessarily, but … well, knowing what I know now, I wish I’d called him, maybe even gone over to the house. My wife says it’s a good thing I didn’t—I might have been there. Still, you can’t help but wonder what if.
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Loretta Robinson, the Gilberts’ Neighbor: I’ve lived in Highland Park fifty years and I’ve never seen anything like this here. Ever.
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Bridget Johnson: What I’ve never been able to forgive or understand is the brutality of it. To this day, I ask myself, “How could someone be this cruel?”
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Skye Stafford, reporter, Channel 4 News, Chicago: Can you imagine? Your doorbell rings and the next thing you know, you’ve opened the door to a nightmare.
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Cassie Wexler, Blair and Malcolm Gilbert’s Neighbor: You know what’s dangerous about the suburbs? The false sense of security. It’s so easy to buy into this notion that nothing bad can happen to you when you live in a beautiful mansion or behind a gate. Bad things happen in other places. Bad things happen to other people. So, you let your guard down. Which is the biggest mistake you can make.
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That’s the thing about evil. You can’t escape it. It’s like water. It manages to find its way into the smallest of cracks.
PART 1
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Saturday, April 1
Highland Park, Illinois
The Residence
of
Malcolm and Blair Gilbert
10:20 a.m.
Malcolm adjusted the collar of his peach Polo in his bathroom mirror before running his index finger along the crease of his khakis, almost disappointed he didn’t slice the skin open. He was just playing golf today, but it didn’t matter. He still had to be Malcolm Gilbert and that meant expectations. A role to play. A flawlessness to maintain. A massive gold Rolex had to rest at the end of one lean, muscular forearm. An expensive Polo was expected to drape his flat, sixty- (almost sixty-one-) year-old abs. His khakis were meant to hang just so down the length of his legs, still two pillars of concrete. The money clip was supposed to bulge obnoxiously. And of course, that other thing—one of six—was expected to be on display at all times for those in its presence to notice, fawn over, revere.
Downstairs, Blair thrashed around the kitchen. He scoffed softly as he squirted toothpaste onto his toothbrush. Hurricane Blair. Right on time. The requisite slamming of cabinet doors soon commenced. He’d endured her tirade on the way home from dinner last night. Had tolerated her cursing and mumbling into the pages of the Metro section at breakfast while they ate scrambled eggs and fruit salad. He didn’t take the bait either time, knowing it would irritate her. He’d calmly slurped his coffee, ate his eggs, enjoyed his sweet and juicy strawberries and kiwis, while he read the sports page. He wasn’t ashamed to admit it gave him a measure of satisfaction. After what she’d pulled at the bank yesterday, she’d had it coming.
Another crash erupted as he spit blue mouthwash into the sink. He could see her now, whirling around the kitchen, righteous indignation at full tilt. Muttering under her breath about what an asshole he was and how she wasn’t going to take his shit, and this was a marriage, not a fucking dictatorship, and how dare he, how dare he.
Funny how she was the one who was wrong, yet she was the victim.
Malcolm stepped into the bedroom as he glanced at his watch. He’d need to leave in the next ten minutes at the latest. From the corner of his eye, he could see the table on the balcony outside their bedroom. He noticed the flapping pages of the crossword puzzle book he’d been working on earlier that morning. He stepped outside to grab the book, stopping a moment to drink in the view. Lake Michigan was serene today. He stood with his feet slightly apart, his hands on his hips, relishing the warm wind threading across his body as he took a deep, cleansing breath. Sunlight danced across the lake’s glassy surface. Seeing the magnificent expanse of water stretching into infinity every day was one of his favorite things about the house.
It was a beautiful house, of course, what one would expect from a man of his stature, his wealth, his name. And he had enjoyed showing it off over the years, watching those granted access into the inner sanctum oohh and ahhh over the clean lines of the contemporary-modern mansion awash in crisp white, slate gray, soothing beige, and sea glass green. A marked change from the dark wood panels, ornate oil paintings, and heavy Oriental rugs his mother favored or the black leather couches, glass top coffee tables, and oversized cubis
But the lake. The lake made him happy. Even in the winter, nothing gave him greater pleasure than to sit outside, the wind slicing through him, the tips of his nose and fingers burning bright red, and watch the choppy, ugly gray waves capped with specks of foam, swirl and churn. Even the ugliness of the water was beautiful to him.
He took one last inhale and closed the balcony door behind him, the digital lock beeping as he tossed the book of crosswords onto his nightstand and grabbed his keys, wallet, and phone before heading downstairs. He frowned as he took a cursory look at the cameras on his phone. It looked like a few of them were glitching.
Blair’s phone trilled from the kitchen and he rolled his eyes, already knowing who was on the other end, so there was no point in asking. She shook her head slightly and rolled her eyes as he stood at the threshold of the kitchen.
“I can’t talk right now,” she said. “I’ll call you later.”
She ended the call and threw the phone down, along with a dirty look in his direction as she picked up her tube of wipes to clean. Again.
It struck him again, as it had earlier, that she looked like hell. Blair had one of those curious faces that often had trouble deciding whether it was stunning or hideous. At any given moment, she was the exotic looker whose unusual features had deepened into “God, she looks great” forty-eight-year-old beauty; the silky swells of long black hair spilling across her shoulders. The burnished cola brown skin. The pink pin cushion lips. The large, molten brown eyes simmering beneath spider-leg lashes. The check-mark chin. The sky-high, knife-edge cheekbones.
It was the angles that usually did Blair in. She could cock her head just so, squint her eyes at the wrong moment, or scrunch up her mouth and the beauty would vanish, replaced with dry, cracked lips in need of ChapStick, tight wrinkles puckering around her mouth like a drawstring. The deep luminous eyes dwarfed by the dark half-moons of flesh sagging underneath. The glossy ripples of hair morphed into a ragged nest of straw held together by a careless ponytail holder.
Blair the Beauty had been missing in action since yesterday. She stood at the stove, scrubbing maniacally, her back drawn tight as a corset, even through her pink sports bra tank.
“I’m leaving,” he said.
“Oh, you’re talking to me this morning, Malcolm Gilbert?” she asked, whirling around, a clump of wipes still in her hand.
“Seeing as how you slept in the guest room after we got home last night, I couldn’t exactly talk to you, could I?”
“Why the hell would I want to sleep next to you?”
“Here we go—”
“You didn’t bother to say two words to me during breakfast.”
“Who could say anything with you mumbling to yourself the whole time?” Malcolm laughed, equal parts frustrated and incredulous, as always, at the ridiculous zigzag of her logic.
“Oh, you think you’re funny, huh? You got jokes, ‘Mr. Big Man,’ hiding behind a telephone?”
“I’ll say the same thing to your face that I said to you on the phone yesterday.”
“Nothing but a fucking dictator,” she said as she gave the stove a final swipe before grabbing a mop bucket and filling it with bleach and hot water.
“You don’t like it, you don’t have to stay.”
“Shut up,” she said over her shoulder.
Even after twenty-two years of marriage, the hurricanes came fast and stayed as late as ever. There were times he wished volatility weren’t her vocation, that outrage didn’t permanently simmer on her lips. Then again, if she were sugary sweet and docile, lapping up after him like a desperate groupie, she wouldn’t be Blair—ridiculous, funny Blair. The woman so completely unimpressed by his slick attempts at seduction when they’d met, that she’d laughed and told him not to bother, a first for his ears. The woman who didn’t want to be wined and dined, but who drooled when he put pepper and extra butter on her popcorn when they went to the movies. The woman who sang him to sleep and giggled at his jokes, corny and otherwise, until tears streamed down her face. The woman who was the first person to tell him it was okay if he didn’t like his father.
Sometimes, the hurricanes were a fair price to pay.
This time, though … this time was different. He was on the right side of this one.
He watched Blair, on her hands and knees now, swiping the floor with a big yellow sponge.
“I’m heading out,” he repeated. “I’ll pick you up at six.”
“I’m driving myself.”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. Making everything more of a hassle than it needed to be. As usual. “Fine.”
“That’s it?”
“You want me to say something else?”
“Oh, you’ve said plenty.”
“Jesus Christ.” He sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “All right, you know what … I’ll see you tonight.”
She resumed pushing the sponge against the floor, like a demon. “And then you’re going to spend all day badmouthing me, making yourself look good—”
“Okay, Blair, you want me to treat you like a child, keep it up.”
“You know what, Malcolm Gilbert? Just go.” She threw the sponge to the floor. “Go and play your precious, stupid golf.”
“You’re acting like a lunatic. You know that, right?”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah, okay, fuck me,” Malcolm said, turning toward the front door.
“That’s right, fuck you!” she yelled to his back.
He rolled his eyes, waving his hand behind him in an “I don’t care” motion before stopping and pivoting for the stairs, cursing himself for forgetting he planned to shower at the club. He darted up to the bedroom for his toiletry kit and tux, checking his pockets and the balcony door once more before heading back downstairs and straight for the front door. Just avoid Blair altogether.
He swung the door open, then jumped back, startled.
Shit.
Malcolm Gilbert, the Greatest of All Time
Bob Boswell, the Voice of the Bruins, 1962–2000: Malcolm Gilbert’s the best to ever play the game, period. Don’t let anybody tell you different.
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Autry Stevens, Sportscaster, ABS Network, 1965–2007: Well, I don’t think the boys in that family were allowed to be anything but football legends, were they? I mean, when Admiral Gilbert’s your daddy, you don’t got too many other options, do you?
