The Neighbor

gonna toss you behind bars for sure.”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Then convince me of it. Talk to me. Tell me all about this nothing you’ve been doing, because you’re right, Aidan-you’re a registered sex offender living five houses from where a woman has gone missing, and so far you’re looking pretty good for this.”

I lick my lips. Snap my band. Lick my lips. Snap my band.

I want to tell her about the car, but I don’t. Volunteering the car tidbit will bring the police to my house for sure. Better to wait, use the information as barter once they’ve hauled in my sorry ass for questioning and have me locked up in a holding cell. Better to talk when I can trade the information for freedom. Never give somethin’ for nothin’, another rule of thumb for the convicted felon.

“If I had done something,” I say at last, “then I damn well woulda put together a better story, don’t you think?”

“The lack of alibi is your alibi,” Colleen states drolly.

“Yeah, something like that.”

She rises off the sofa, and I have one second where I honestly feel relieved. I’m gonna survive after all.

Then she asks: “Can we walk outside?”

And I feel my good mood disappear just like that. “Why?”

“Nice night. I want to get some fresh air.”

I can’t think of a thing to say, so we walk outside, her, six feet high in some crazy platform boots, me, all hunched up in jeans and a white T-shirt. I’ve stopped snapping the rubber band at least. My wrist has gone numb and turned bright red. I look like a suicide victim. It’s something to consider.

She walks around the house, to the back yard. I can see her, intently checking the grounds. Any bloody power tools lying around? Perhaps some fresh-turned earth?

I want to say Fuck you. Of course, I say nothing at all. I keep my head down. I don’t want to look up. I don’t want to give anything away.

Later, she will tell me she’s doing this for my own good. She is looking out for me, trying to protect me. She only wants to help me.

And I can suddenly picture myself, sitting down on my stupid pink floral sofa, writing full force:

Dear Rachel:

I am sorry for what I did. Sorry for all the times I told you I only wanted to talk, when we both knew I just wanted to get you naked. Sorry for all the times I got you in bed, then said I only wanted what was best for you.

I’m sorry I fucked you, then told you it was all your fault. You wanted it. You needed it. I did it for you.

And I’m sorry that I still think about you every single goddamn day. How much I want you. How much I need you. How you did it just for me.

Then, just as I’m really on a roll, writing away in my head, Colleen’s voice suddenly cuts through the gloom.

“Hey, Aidan,” she calls out. “Is that your cat?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

The meeting started at six A.M. sharp. They began with the board. They had Person of Interest A: Mr. Jason Jones, relation-spouse. They had Person of Interest B: Aidan Brewster, relation-registered sex offender living on same block. From there, they outlined means, motives, and opportunity.

Means was left blank, as they lacked information on what exactly had happened to Sandra Jones. Killed, kidnapped? Ran away? Never good to make assumptions at such an early stage in an investigation, so they moved on.

Motives. Jones stood to gain millions of dollars he might otherwise lose in divorce, plus custody of his daughter. Brewster was a known sexual predator, perhaps acting out long-festering impulses.

Opportunity. Jones had an alibi for the night and time in question, but the alibi was hardly airtight. Brewster-no alibi, but could they connect Brewster to Sandra Jones? At this time, they had no phone messages, e-mails, or text messages linking the two. But geography remained in their favor. Suspect and victim lived only five houses apart. A jury could reasonably assume that Brewster and the victim had known each other in some capacity. Plus, there was the matter of the garage where Brewster worked. Perhaps Sandra Jones had serviced her car there-they planned on asking first thing this morning.

They moved on to background. Jones was a freelance reporter and “devoted” father, who’d married a very young pregnant bride and transplanted her to South Boston from Atlanta, Georgia. He had millions of dollars in assets from sources unknown. He was deemed “uncooperative” by both Detective Miller and Sergeant Warren, which was not in his favor. He also appeared to have a fetish for bolt locks and steel doors.

Brewster, on the other hand, was a registered sex offender, having engaged in sexual relations with a fourteen-year-old. Worked the same job for the past two years, lived at the same address. His PO liked him and had called in at nine P.M. to report she’d found nothing suspicious at his apartment. So a plus in his favor.

Victim herself was not considered high-risk. A devoted mom and new schoolteacher, she had no history of drugs, alcohol, or sexual wantonness. Principal of the middle school described her as punctual, reliable, and conscientious. Husband claimed she’d never willingly leave her daughter. On the flip side, victim was young, living in a relatively strange city, and seemed to lack a support network of close friends and/or relatives. So they had early- twenties, socially isolated beautiful mom who spent most nights alone with her small child.

Crime scene: no sign of forced entry. No blood spatter or overt signs of violence. They had one broken lamp in the master bedroom, but no evidence it had been used as a weapon or destroyed as part of a larger struggle. They had a blue-and-green quilt that used to be on the master bed, but someone had stuffed it in the washing machine along with a purple nightshirt. They had the wife’s purse, cell phone, car keys, and vehicle all accounted for at the scene. No missing clothes, jewelry, or luggage. Husband’s truck was searched, but came up clean. Crime lab was currently searching the family’s trash. BRIC-Boston Regional Intelligence Center-would really like to search family’s computer.

At the last minute, D.D. added: 1 missing orange cat.

She stepped back from the white board. They all studied it.

When no one had anything new to add, she capped her pen and turned to the deputy superintendent of homicide.

“Sandra Jones has now been missing over twenty-four hours,” D.D. concluded. “She has not turned up at any local hospital or morgue. Nor has there been any activity on her credit cards or bank accounts during this time period. We have searched her house, her yard, the two vehicles, and her neighborhood. As of this time, we do not have a single lead on her whereabouts.”

“Cell phone?” the deputy superintendent barked.

“We are working with her cellular provider to procure a complete log of all deleted voice messages and text messages, as well as a list of all incoming and outgoing calls. In the past twenty-four hours, the activity on her cell phone has mostly been limited to her teaching position, with various staff members and students trying to track her down.”

“E-mail?” Clemente prodded.

“We tried unsuccessfully yesterday to get a warrant to seize the family computer. The judge argued Sandra Jones had not been missing for a sufficient length of time. We will resubmit our affidavit this morning, now that we have passed the twenty-four-hour benchmark for missing persons.”

“Strategy?”

D.D. took a deep breath, eyed Detective Miller. They’d been at this since five this morning, having regrouped after only a few hours of desperately needed sleep. Passing the twenty-four-hour mark was both the best and worst thing to have happened for them. On the one hand, they could officially open a case file for Sandra Jones. On the other hand, the odds of finding said female had just dropped in half. Before, they’d had a window of opportunity. Now, they had an hourly race against time, as each additional minute Sandra Jones remained missing spelled only