Deceit

I froze. No, no, not yet! I wasn’t ready. I’d needed to gather myself before ringing the doorbell.

Everything in me wanted to turn and run.

A lock clicked, then a bolt. The door pulled back.

Melissa stuck her head outside, gaze aimed downward. She caught sight of my feet, and her head jerked up.

We ogled each other.

Her cheeks had grown a little rounder, her brown hair now cut to her shoulders. But I’d have known her in a crowd. Her eyes latched onto mine as emotions rippled across her face. Surprise…recognition…indignation…fear. My tongue couldn’t utter a word.

A small gasp escaped her. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you, Melissa.”

“Why?” She threw wild looks up and down the street, as if searching for ghosts. “How’d you find me?”

“No one’s with me. Please let me come in.”

“How did you find me?”

“I—”

Anger cinched her face. “The UPS lady. That was you.”

“Please, I—”

“Get out of here! Now!”

She pulled back into the house, started to shove the door closed. I thrust my foot across the threshold. The door hit it hard. I winced.

“Get out of here right now, Joanne.” Melissa’s words spit through clenched teeth. “Or I’m calling the police.”

“You can’t call the police. You want me to tell them why I’m here?”

“I have no idea why you’re here.” She pushed harder against my foot. I couldn’t have pulled it out if I wanted to.

“Melissa, please. Let me in.” My voice shook.

“What do you want?”

“I have to talk to you.”

“Who knows you’re here?”

“Nobody. I promise. Please. Give me five minutes.”

“You lied to me.”

“Do you know Baxter’s second wife is dead?”

Melissa’s shoulders arched back. “What does that have to do with me?”

“Everything.”

She glared at me, her hand still on the doorknob, her cheeks blanched. My foot throbbed. I clutched my purse, a trembling supplicant.

Air whooshed from Melissa, deflating her chest. She dropped her chin, anguish and ire etching her forehead. She stepped back. Opened the door.

I pushed inside before she could change her mind. We stood in a tiled entryway, illumed by an overhead light. To the right lay a darkened living room, leading to a dining area. A large den with a staircase at the far side was on the left. Straight ahead up a hall I could see a little of the kitchen, the only other room in the house that was lit.

Melissa banged the door closed, folded her arms, and assailed me with her eyes. “Five minutes.”

My throat constricted. None of this was going right. I struggled to find a starting point. “Can we sit down?”

“No.”

I nodded.

“This is about Baxter.” Melissa spoke his name with contempt.

“Cherisse, his second wife, died two weeks ago. From a fall down the stairs, so he said. I don’t believe it.”

“Why should I care?”

“Because you saw him kill Linda.”

Melissa’s jaw moved to one side. She singed me with a look on slow burn. “Says who?”

“Linda told me he was beating her. She showed me the bruises. I never believed Baxter’s story of what happened that night. And now Cherisse is dead, and he’s going to get away with that too.”

“Not my problem.”

“You want him to kill a third wife someday?”

“I don’t know anything about Cherisse.”

“Doesn’t matter. They’ll have to reopen that case once they see Baxter lied about Linda.”

She shook her head.

“Melissa, please. I’m begging you to tell what you saw. Don’t let Baxter get away with this.”

“He already has. The Vonita chief of police is one of his best friends.”

“He doesn’t have to get away with it forever. You can change that.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Joanne.” Her eyes closed, her voice dulling. “You don’t know what you’re asking. He’ll kill me.”

He’ll kill me if you don’t.

I touched her forearm. “I’ll be with you every step of the way. We’ll go to a reporter first, not the police. A reporter will be all over the story—”

“Baxter will deny everything.”

“But you can prove it. You know where Linda’s body is.”

Her eyes widened, and abject fright seized her face. “Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, yes it does! Who told you?”

A clack sounded from the rear of the house. Like metal on metal. Melissa stilled, and her eyes locked with mine. She hunched forward, mouthed Did you hear that?

I nodded.

The unmistakable whir of a sliding glass door opening filtered to our ears.

Melissa focused past me, ancient horror in her eyes, as if she’d known for years this day would come. For an endless second neither of us moved.

The light in the kitchen blacked out.

Melissa twisted and smacked off the entryway light switch. Grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the unlit living room. Instinctively, we crouched low, moving on panther feet across the tile.

Our feet hit carpet. I couldn’t see a thing in the sudden darkness. A streetlamp two doors up gave no light to the room. I stumbled after Melissa, clutching my purse to my chest—and praying.

Somewhere in the distance footsteps skulked.

THIRTY-TWO

JUNE 2004

By the second week of working in Baxter’s real estate office, Melissa’s dreams of her mother’s death came less often. But they were no less vivid when they did invade her sleep. The blood on the trailer’s kitchen floor, the gash in her mother’s forehead, the wild and furious reality that the woman whom she hated, loved, hated was gone. Gone. Such relief from that stunning knowledge. Such abject fear.

But Melissa’s past life was fading. Almost like she was two people—the Melissa before coming to the Jacksons’ house, and the Melissa after.

“Baxter Jackson’s office.” Melissa answered the ringing phone at her small desk in the corner of Baxter’s