Deceit

THREE

Melissa saw it.

As my foot hit the accelerator, sickening regret washed through me. I eased off, ready to brake. In that split second I saw myself jumping out of the car, yelling for the man, begging him to come back. Why hadn’t I pressed him for more information? Why had I allowed panic to overtake me?

New fear surged. How could I even think of looking for a strange man in a mask after dark? All alone out here?

I pressed on the gas. My car engine gunned. Immediately I slowed, afraid to go too fast in the downpour.

My house lay close, just around the next bend. It seemed as if I’d been gone for hours.

The inside of the 4Runner began to fog. I turned up the dashboard fan.

She knows where the body is.

Melissa Harkoff—the sixteen-year-old foster girl Linda and Baxter had taken in during that summer of Linda’s disappearance. Someone from social services had arrived at the Jackson house to pick Melissa up the day Linda’s blood-smeared car was discovered. A few weeks later Baxter announced in church that he’d heard Melissa had run away from her new foster home. He’d led us all in a special prayer for her safety.

I’d always felt sorry for Melissa. She’d arrived at the Jacksons a frightened teenager, trying with all her might to look strong, hardened. I sensed that Melissa watched every word she said, wanting to fit in, seeking Linda’s approval. I know she came to love living with the Jacksons. And she’d been so grieved at Linda’s disappearance. To think that Melissa witnessed Linda’s murder. How terrified she must have been. Baxter probably threatened her life if she told.

Questions in my head whirled and eddied. The Hooded Man—who was he? How did he know Melissa saw Baxter kill Linda?

When the police had questioned Melissa she gave them the same story as Baxter did. No one ever suspected she knew anything different. I hadn’t even suspected that. Melissa had seemed to think the world of Baxter.

I rounded the curve. The lights of my house glowed into view, a welcoming beacon. Never had my small home, its front porch with white square pillars, looked like such a haven. I turned right into my driveway, hit the garage remote, and slipped inside as soon as the door opened.

The sudden cessation of rain on my car roof rang in my ears. I turned off the engine and tried to breathe. Wet cold bit into my muscles until my whole body shook.

“Don’t tell the police.”

I should, though. Not about what the man had said, but that I’d hit him. What if he turned against me and reported a hit-and-run?

But why would he do that, after the warnings he’d given? And with no victim, what would I tell the police? That I’d hit an unknown masked man who’d materialized from the night, then vanished like a specter? The Vonita police would surely be all ears. They were so attuned to listening to me these days.

Did I know this man? I hadn’t recognized his voice. But he’d spoken in such a gravelly tone.

On purpose?

I pushed the button to close my garage door, grabbed my purse, and got out of the car. My feet squished as I crossed to the door that led into my kitchen. I placed my hand on the knob—

Wait.

I pulled up short.

Why had the man been out on that road? Where had he come from, where was he going? He’d been so close to my house. What if he meant to harm me? What if he’d been here while I was gone? It was no secret I went to my sister’s for dinner every Saturday night.

Water dripped from every inch of me, puddling at my feet. I shivered.

If the man wanted to harm me, why hadn’t he taken his chance when he had me alone on the road, not another car in sight?

Maybe because the accident had hurt him just enough…

I lifted my hand from the knob and stared at the door, afraid of what I might find on the other side. I shook all over, miserably cold. Logic wormed its way into my brain once more—the man hadn’t hurt me, far from it. He’d given me incredible information. Melissa knew what had happened.

But how could I trust this man when he hadn’t even been willing to show his face?

Fine, Joanne—and if you don’t walk through your own door right now, just what do you plan to do?

A violent shudder possessed my limbs. I could barely feel my fingers and toes. I needed a hot shower. Warm, dry clothes. I needed to think this through.

The SUV’s engine ticked. I looked back at the car. Water plinked from it onto the garage’s concrete floor.

I could get back inside the car, return to my sister’s house.

Then what?

I faced the door, heart stuttering. Another hard shiver wracked my body. I craved heat. Needed it, now.

Breathing a prayer, I opened the door and ventured into the house.

FOUR

JUNE 2004

Wow. Sixteen-year-old Melissa Harkoff’s jaw hinged loose. The house was crazy.

She gaped through the back window of the Jacksons’ fancy car. A Mercedes. That should have given her a clue. But nothing could have prepared her for this mansion. Two-story, with big gray stones around the front door, and chimneys on each end. The driveway circled in front, a long sidewalk sweeping up to three wide steps of the porch. Green, thick bushes lined the sidewalk, and big pots of flowers sat on the porch. The windows were large and clean. And the house went on for…like forever.

How many rooms did a house like that hold? Twenty? Fifty? Each one must be as long as a yacht.

And one of them was for her. A bedroom. With a sturdy door she could close.

Tears welled in Melissa’s eyes. This couldn’t be happening. Any minute now she’d wake up back in her mother’s filthy trailer. She’d open her eyes to a stained, saggy ceiling. Hear her mother’s hack and cough, the clink of the first bottle she’d pulled from a paintpeeling cabinet. Gin. The whiskey would come later. Melissa would smell the trailer’s stale mustiness of dirt and despair. A life going nowhere. She’d pull on old clothes and slip out the door to school before taking a true, deep breath.

Melissa blinked back the tears. She never cried in front of anybody, much less people she hardly knew.

She looked down at her lap, taking in the new designer jeans Linda had just bought for her. The pink, crisp top. Matching sandals. They’d stopped at a big mall before coming here. Mr. Jackson—Baxter, he told her to call him—had waited patiently while she tried on a bunch of stuff. He told Melissa she looked “very nice” when she came out to show Linda the jeans and top she liked best. He was holding Linda’s hand, and they smiled at each other like they shared a fun secret.

Baxter wasn’t hot-looking at all. He had a boyish face, kind of round, with thick, dark hair parted on the side. The hair looked totally eighties. He had brown eyes, and his jawline was a little soft. Sort of looked like a grown-up choirboy. But there was something about him. He wasn’t that tall, but he seemed to tower over Melissa, as if some power vibrated from his body. She’d found herself eyeing him, trying to figure him out. He was nothing but kind to her. Not coming on to her in any way. But what was it about him? In a huge party, you’d know when this guy entered the room. You’d feel it, as if the air changed. Magnetism, that was the word. He oozed it.

Melissa’s hands trembled. She stuffed them between her knees. This day was too much already. Had to be a