The Neighbor

family, and, of course, an entertainment agent to handle the pending book and movie deals. Right to privacy? Solitude for shock and mourning?

No one gave a rat’s ass anymore. Your pregnant daughter was kidnapped and killed. Your beloved wife was murdered on the subway. Your girlfriend’s body had just been found cut up in a suitcase. Your life suddenly belonged to the cable news. Forget planning a funeral, you needed to appear on Larry King. Forget trying to explain to your child that Mommy wasn’t coming home anymore, you needed to share a couch with Oprah.

Crime equaled celebrity, whether you liked it or not.

He was angry. Suddenly, viciously. His knuckles had whitened on the steering wheel, and he was driving too fast, way over the speed limit.

He didn’t want this life. He didn’t want to miss his wife. And he didn’t want to be so terrified for his only daughter.

He forced himself to inhale deeply, then exhale slowly, easing off the gas pedal, working out his shoulders. Push it away. Lock it up tight. Let it go. Then smile, because you’re on Candid Camera.

He turned onto his street. Sure enough, four news vans were stacked bumper to bumper on his block. The police were out, too. The cruiser parked right in front of his house, two uniformed officers standing on the sidewalk, hands on their hips as they surveyed the small huddle of smartly suited reporters and shabbily dressed cameramen. Local stations; story hadn’t launched into national headlines yet.

Wait till they heard about Ethan Hastings. That would do it.

Ree’s eyes had widened in the back seat. “Is there a party, Daddy?” she asked excitedly.

“Maybe they’re happy we found Mr. Smith.”

He slowed for the driveway, and the first surge of flashes exploded outside his window. He pulled into the driveway, parked the station wagon. The media couldn’t trespass onto private property, so he had plenty of time to unfasten his seatbelt, tend to his child, figure out Mr. Smith.

Grieving husband, grieving husband. Cameras came with telephoto lenses.

He would carry Mr. Smith to the house, while holding Ree’s hand. There was a photo op for you-bruised and bandaged husband clutching a pretty orange kitty with one hand and a beautiful little girl with the other. Yep, he’d get fan mail for sure.

He felt empty again. Not mad, not sad, not angry, not anything. He had found the zone.

Mr. Smith stood on Jason’s lap, peering out the window at the commotion. The cat’s ears were straight up, its tail twitching nervously. In the back, Ree already had the seatbelt unfastened and was staring at him expectantly.

“Can you get out of this side of the car, love?” he asked quietly.

She nodded, staring at the throng of strangers on the sidewalk. “Daddy?”

“It’s okay, honey. Those are reporters. It’s their job to ask questions, kind of like it’s Daddy’s job to ask questions. Except I write up stuff in the paper, while these reporters talk about it on TV.”

She looked at him again, the anxiety building in her drawn features.

He twisted in the driver’s seat, touching her hand. “They have to stay on the sidewalk, honey. It’s the law. So, they can’t come inside our home. However, when we get out of the car, it’s gonna be loud. They’re gonna start asking all sorts of crazy questions all at once, and get this-they don’t raise their hands.”

This caught her attention. “They don’t raise their hands?”

“No. They talk right over the top of one another. No taking turns, no saying excuse me, nothing.”

Ree blinked at him. “Mrs. Suzie would not like that,” she said firmly.

“I totally agree. And when we get out of the car, you’re going to see why it’s so important to raise your hand in school, because when you don’t…”

He gestured toward the noisy mob on the sidewalk, and Ree sighed in exasperation. The nervousness was gone. She was prepared to get out of the car now, if only to shake her head at a bunch of poorly mannered adults.

Jason felt better, too. Truth was, his four-year-old knew more than the jackals outside, and that was something to hold on to.

He tucked Mr. Smith beneath his left arm, and popped open the driver’s-side door. The first question ripped across the yard, and the reporters were off and running:

“Jason, Jason, where is Sandy? Do you have any updates on her whereabouts?”

“Is it true that police interviewed your four-year-old daughter this morning? How is little Ree doing? Is she asking for her mother?”

“Are you the last person to have seen Sandy alive?”

“What do you have to say to reports that you are considered a person of interest in this case?”

Jason closed his door, opened Ree’s door. Head down, cat tucked against his body, hand out for Ree. His daughter stepped boldly out the back. She stared at the reporters head-on, and Jason heard half a dozen cameras click and flash as one. The money shot, he realized in a distant sort of way. His little daughter, his beautiful, brave daughter, had just saved him from having his face aired on the five o’clock news.

“You’re right, Daddy.” Ree looked up at him. “They would never earn a good- manners medal.”

He smiled then. And felt his chest swell with pride as he took his daughter’s hand and turned away from the screaming press, toward the sanctuary of their front porch.

They made it across the yard, Mr. Smith squirming, Ree walking with steady feet. They made it up the stairs, Jason having to let go of Ree’s hand now and focus on the panicking cat.

“Jason, Jason, you organized search parties for Sandy?”

“Will there be a candlelight vigil for your wife?”

“What about reports that Sandra’s purse was found on the kitchen counter?”

“Is it true Alan Dershowitz is going to represent you, Jason?”

The keys dangled between his fingers. Jason juggled Mr. Smith awkwardly, searching for the right one. Get inside, get inside. Calm and controlled.

“What were Sandy’s last words?”

Then, right beside him, the unexpected creak of a floorboard.

Jason jerked his head up. The man stepped out of the shadows at the end of the porch. Immediately, Jason stepped in front of his daughter, armed with a cat in one hand and a set of house keys in the other.

The man walked three steps toward them, wearing a rumpled mint green linen suit and clutching a battered tan hat. Shockingly white hair capped a deeply weathered face. The man grinned broadly, and Jason almost dropped the damn cat.

The white-haired man threw open his arms, beamed down at Ree, and exclaimed jovially, “Hello there, buttercup. Come to Papa!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Jason swiftly unlocked the front door and thrust Mr. Smith inside. He put his hand on Ree’s shoulder. “Inside.”

“But Daddy-”

“Inside. Now. The cat needs dinner.”

Ree’s eyes widened, but she recognized his tone, and did as she was told. As she stepped into the house, Jason shut the door behind her, locked it again, and turned to the white-haired man.

“Get off my property.”

The newcomer tilted his head to the side, appearing puzzled. Jason had met Sandy’s father only once before, and he was struck now, as he was struck then, by the man’s crinkling blue eyes and bright, flashing smile. “Now, Jason, is that any way to greet your father-in-law?”

Max extended a friendly hand. Jason ignored it, stating firmly “Get off my property, or I will have you