Exposure

The chief spread his hands. “None of this is predictable. But with three episodes at your house in less than twenty-four hours, it’s not unlikely whoever’s bothering you will come around again. This time we’ll get them. And let’s hope they can lead us to Hannah.”

Let’s hope.

“You okay with this?” Chief raised his eyebrows. “The alternative is to go stay with your friend.”

Kaycee thought of the dream her watchers had somehow caused her to have at Tricia’s house. The “wrong number” call there asking for Belinda, a haunting name that had to be connected to all this. “If I’m not here, they’ll know. They . . . see things. They know.”

“Oh, brother,” Ryan muttered in disgust. He turned toward the crime-scene tape, hands at his temples. His eyes closed, and the cynicism drained from his features, replaced with abject pain. “This sounds so crazy,” he whispered. “But just . . . make it work. Bring Hannah back.”

Yes, God, please. But it only worked if they showed up. Which would be beyond terrifying.

The meeting broke up. Sam and Ryan wandered back to Sam’s vehicle to return to Ryan’s house — and wait. The chief crossed the side yard to knock on Mrs. Foley’s door. Kaycee could imagine their conversation. The old woman would play like she was being put upon while privately basking in her incredible fortune. She’d get to help a police officer snoop.

Mark lingered on Kaycee’s porch. She surveyed him, vulnerability swirling in her chest. Ryan Parksley’s words still bit deep.

Mark cleared his throat. “About last night. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

Kaycee focused on her feet. Once again he’d surprised her. There was so much more depth to this man than he was willing to show. She wanted to reach down inside him, pull it out. “After four false alarms, why should you?”

Silence ticked by. She could feel his eyes upon her. For once she didn’t mind being watched.

Mark put a finger beneath her chin and nudged her to look him in the eye. “Guess what.”

Something whispered down the length of her, like silk. “What?”

“I read your column every week.”

She swallowed. “The one that only ‘stirs up people’s fears’?”

Instantly she wanted the words back. Why had she said that? Like she had to get in a dig.

Mark tilted his head as if considering his response. “Sometimes,” he said, “maybe it hits a little too close to home.”

Abruptly he turned and headed down her porch steps, leaving Kaycee to stare after him, half wondering if the moment had happened at all.

THIRTY-FIVE

Lorraine and Tammy sat on the bed, propped up with pillows, watching Sesame Street. That is, Tammy watched. Lorraine’s thoughts tumbled elsewhere. Tammy’s legs splayed apart, her right foot jerking back and forth. Belinda lay in her arms. With one finger Tammy absently rubbed the bear’s velvety nose.

Questions, always the questions. They snaked through Lorraine’s head, writhing from the bank robbery to Martin’s words that morning to hiding in the closet. Could she have done something different? Could she somehow have kept her husband alive?

“Please tell me this isn’t about the bank robbery.”

Lorraine knew Martin’s reactions too well. She’d always been able to read him. As he’d stared at that mouse in the toilet — was that just yesterday? — she’d seen his consternation. She’d had to tell him what to do, how to be the hero. Sometimes Martin’s dreams outran his head. He wanted so much for her and Tammy and was afraid he couldn’t always come through for them.

“We’re going to lose a lot of money.”

He’d done it, hadn’t he? He’d helped those robbers in exchange for a cut of the money. The man who killed him was supposed to come over and give Martin his share. That man told Martin to get her out of the apartment because he didn’t want her to see his face. But she wouldn’t listen.

Maybe the man never planned to give Martin any money in the first place. Her husband was set up to die like some worthless dog.

Tears burned Lorraine’s eyes.

Was all the money sitting in that storage unit this very minute?

The motel phone rang. The sound seared through Lorraine’s nerves, and she jumped. Exhaling, she picked up the receiver from the table by the bed. Detective Tuckney was on the line.

“I wanted you to know they’re done with your apartment.”

“Already?”

“I know it’s earlier than I told you. Sorry about the misinformation. We can’t always judge the timing.”

Lorraine’s focus hung on the TV as Cookie Monster counted by twos in his grating singsong. Now what should she do? She felt trapped between two worlds. This room was merely a waiting station. Her apartment was reality.

Reality was a dangerous place.

“Mrs. Giordano?”

“How bad is it?”

“How bad is what?”

“The blood. On the floor. I mean, do they leave a lot after . . . whatever they do?”

Detective Tuckney made an empathetic sound in his throat. “They take samples, but that’s all. The room will be pretty much like when you left it. There is a lot of blood in the hall. There’s also some spatter on the walls.”

Lorraine gripped the phone. Sesame Street switched to Big Bird talking to a group of kids on the steps in front of a blue house. A sudden thought hit. If Lorraine had any chance of finding someone to watch Tammy while she cleaned, it was now, at the end of the preschool day.

Besides, how could she be in that apartment tomorrow, after the morning newspaper hit the streets?

“You don’t have to clean it up yourself, if that’s what you’re thinking, Mrs. Giordano. There are specialized companies you can hire to do that kind of work.”

“How much do they cost?”

“Unfortunately a lot. A hundred or more dollars per hour.”

Lorraine gave a little snort. “Oh, good. I can afford that.”

“You don’t have to pay for it; that’s the responsibility of the property owner.”

Would Mr. Houger do that? And would he pay for her to stay another night or two at the motel in the meantime? She couldn’t even afford that much. Lorraine would bet against the motel bill for sure. She’d only met Mr. Houger once — when he’d hired her. He was a busy man, with a hardness in his lined face. The owner of many commercial properties, he’d let her know, as if that made him superior. She hadn’t liked him, but she and Martin needed a place to live. They’d seen it as a part of building their dream. Live in that grungy apartment free for a while, and they’d have more to save toward a house.

“Look.” Detective Tuckney sounded apologetic. “Cleaning up after something like this happens isn’t so simple. If you see one spot of blood on a carpet, that could mean a foot-wide circle of it underneath on the floorboard. Also, blood and body tissue are considered biohazards and potentially infectious. When special cleaning teams come in, they know how to properly dispose of all the materials they used to clean. For that reason alone, most importantly for your own emotional welfare, this isn’t a job you should even think about undertaking yourself.”

Blood and body tissue. Lorraine couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. “Okay. I’ll call Mr. Houger.” She rubbed her forehead. “Do you know any more about . . . anything?”

“We’re working on all the evidence we have. And we’ll keep working. The autopsy is scheduled for