Bette had questioned that, and Victoria had said Dr. William Ryerson was known for screwing his patients and being a bit free with his prescriptions, so maybe there was a little quid pro quo going on, pills for sex? That was one of the rumors going around before he left town, although it had never been substantiated.
She wondered if she should call Teddy now. She felt broken. How could Phil take up with that whore when he wouldn’t even have sex with his own wife? Was she that pathetic?
Her vision blurred with tears. She knew her eyes and nose were red from crying. No. She would not call Teddy now.
But she would refill her empty glass.
She walked back inside. She tried to close the slider, but it stuck a little. Fuck it. She was heading outside again as soon as she opened another bottle anyway.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the stylized mirror above the wine refrigerator. A sun made out of shards of glass that radiated from a center point. She sniffed. She looked terrible.
She bent down and searched in the undercounter refrigerator for a bottle of Pinot Gris. Lots of red, Phil The Bastard’s favorite. No Pinot Gris. But there was a rosé left over from the summer . . . from that little patio party she’d had for the girls. That was before Jamie Whatever-her-name-was had been invited to their group. She’d had a pink tablecloth and her best china and they’d drunk themselves silly over canapés and desserts.
But when Jamie Whatever had shown up something had changed. Not just because she was turning Cooper Haynes’s head, as Jill and Victoria had told her, but because everybody who’d gone to River Glen High seemed weirded out about Jamie’s sister, and the tragedy that had befallen her. Bette had heard the story from Phil, which had been corroborated by her friends, though none of ’em wanted to talk about it that much.
Emma Whelan’s ghost hung over them all . . . even though Emma was still alive.
But . . . but . . . Phil and that whore . . . Her heart ached. No, she didn’t want a divorce. What could she do, then?
“You can’t have one,” she muttered aloud, twisting off the screw-top. Amazing how good some of these twist-top wines were these days.
She refilled her glass and screwed the top back on the bottle, then bent down again to put it back in its slot so that it stayed cold. She stumbled a bit, accidentally, hit her cell phone on the counter, spinning it around to where it nearly fell to the floor. The door shot back on its hinges, slamming into the cupboard. Luckily, she’d left her glass on the counter and it was intact.
“Shit.”
She stood up.
In the mirror shards, she saw a tall, masked figure standing behind her. A ski mask. Bette automatically whipped around and saw the knife.
She screamed, and he slashed at her. She backed up, kept on screaming, her hand hitting her wineglass, grabbing it as it fell. He charged her, and she threw the glass at him, hitting him in the head. He stumbled. She tried to turn, slipped, and her knee buckled as he slashed forward. Missed her face. Jabbed her throat. He drew back, and Bette reached up in shock, covered the wound with her hand. Her other hand was gripping the edge of the counter. She was sinking, sinking. Her fingers moved, slipped a bit, touched her phone.
Her attacker had fallen back. He lifted the knife again, caught sight of himself in the sunburst mirror, and hesitated. Bette used the moment to grab her phone. She hit Favorites and pressed randomly. Got Victoria’s number.
Her attacker came at her again.
“Call 9-1-1,” Bette whispered as she fell to the floor. “He’s in my house . . . I’m dying. . . .”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“What’s so urgent?” Dug Douglas growled into the phone as Cooper drove over to Jamie’s.
Cooper had answered the phone even though he hadn’t recognized the number. Teri, Dug’s wife, must’ve gotten him Cooper’s message. He jumped right in with, “Race told me he circled back to the Ryersons’ the night Emma was attacked but couldn’t find you.”
“Oh, for . . .” He cut himself off. “So, what of it? Now you’re going to say I’m the guy who attacked her?”
“You and Race lied. To us, and to the police.”
“Race lied,” he corrected.
A fine distinction. “He told you he came back for you. You both held back vital information.”
“So what? You fucking cops. All you wanna do is bust people. You don’t care about the truth.”
“Race said he saw somebody in a ski mask.”
Dug grunted. “Yeah, he told me the same.”
“He’s not just making that up? You’re not making that up together?”
“Hell no. What the fuck, man?”
“Marissa was attacked by a guy in a ski mask.”
“So?”
“It just seems kind of convenient.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at, but Race told me—”
Cooper’s cell started buzzing. He had another call coming in. From the station.
“—at the time that he saw this guy in a ski mask, in the neighborhood. I didn’t see him. I walked home, and it took a long fucking time, let me tell you. You want to know more, talk to Race.”
“I’ve got a call coming in that I need to take.”
Dug snorted his disgust. “I’m done talking anyway.”
“We’re not finished,” said Cooper.
“Yeah, we are.” He clicked off.
Cooper answered his call and learned a 911 call had come in from Victoria Stapleton about a possible attack at the Kearns’.
He’d just turned onto Jamie’s street, but now he kept going right on by her house. At the first opportunity, he circled back around and headed for the Kearns’ home, the second time in as many days. He called Jamie and had to cancel
