‘PCP. You mean angel dust? That can cause a delayed reaction?’ He leaned back and ran his hands through his hair. ‘Plenty of drugs floating around back then. LSD, mushrooms, speed. Not to mention truckloads of marijuana.’ His attempt at a smile quickly faded. ‘Could Tim have taken PCP without knowing it?’
‘It’s possible.’
Clouds moved in, blocking out the sun. For a moment, neither of them spoke. She shivered and pulled on her cardigan.
‘Shall we get something to eat?’ Ray stood. ‘Midtown’s dead on Sundays. But we could take a cab up to my neighbourhood.’
She hesitated, surprised by the invitation. But not quite ready to head back to Lansford, she was happy to follow his lead.
When he took her hand, his palm was warm, and she sucked in her breath, enjoying the feeling of being cared for. After coming clean about her name and profession, and her connection to Tim, she had expected him to send her packing. That he still wanted to spend time with her seemed a mark of character. As they left the park to hail a cab, she felt lighter than she had in years.
*
Ten past midnight. By the time Erin pulled up to the kerb in front of her building in Lansford, all was dark. Even the porchlight was switched off. She sat in the car and listened to the engine cool, scanning the deserted street for signs of life. In the silence, she could hear the blood pulsing in her ears.
Inside the flat, she made the usual rounds. Closing the blinds, flicking on the lights, checking inside the cupboards and under the bed. Only then did she collapse on the sofa in the front room, too wired to sleep. A draught crept along the floorboards and rustled the curtains. The lights from a passing car cast shadows on the wall.
The day, which began with such promise, had morphed into a full-on train wreck. After a stroll through Central Park and an early dinner at an Italian bistro, Ray had invited her back to his flat, tucking her arm into his as they walked up Broadway. The glow of the street lights filtered through the leaves, and the sound of their footsteps rang out in the soft air. After opening the door to his flat, and ushering her inside, he’d pulled her into his arms.
Woozy from the wine she’d drunk at dinner, she followed his lead as her coat slipped from her shoulders and onto the floor. Ray had switched on some Cuban music, samba or merengue, and danced her down the hall and over to the bed, kissing her neck and shoulders.
Riding the wave of his touch, his mouth on hers, she grew limp in his arms, until he unbuttoned her blouse and his fingers found the scar. He’d traced its length with his fingers before she realised what he was doing.
‘What happened to you?’ His voice was soft, but there was a note of something else. Fear. Suspicion. Here was one more thing she’d chosen to hide.
With a start, she pulled away and yanked her blouse closed.
‘I can’t talk about it,’ she whispered. Then she had fled.
But there was nowhere to run.
Even now, alone in her flat, clutching a mug of camomile tea, anxiety flowered like a weed. Her fingers slid under her shirt, seeking the scar, familiar as her own face and hands. The terror of that awful time was locked in the past, or should be.
Using an old trick to calm her nerves, she focused on the items in the room, naming each one aloud in turn. Table, chair, fireplace, window. But instead of the desired sensation of calm, the floor plan of the Stern house flashed in her mind, the red arrows pointing out the path of the crime, the lifeless bodies, the walls stained with blood. When an errant thought wriggled to the surface, her hands shook so hard she spilled her tea.
What if it was Stern?
33
Matlock, Vermont
June, Present Day
Twelve miles west of Stern’s farmhouse, Erin idled her car at a stop sign. Hanover, Vermont boasted a white-steeple church and tidy clapboard houses clustered round a village green. It was as good a place as any to base her operations. A sufficient distance from Stern’s house to avoid running into him, but close enough to get an idea of the local area.
‘First time staying with us?’ A woman in a pink cardigan placed a room key in Erin’s hand. ‘In the lounge, you’ll find all kinds of information on the area. Hiking trails, local history, and scenic points of interest. We’ve got an award-winning chef, but if you’d rather dine out, there are two other options in town. Nothing fancy, but popular with the locals. Enjoy your stay, Ms Cartwright.’ She snapped her fingers at a uniformed boy skulking in the corner, waiting to carry her bag.
Her room on the top floor boasted a canopy bed and a large bathroom with a claw-foot tub. A world away from the motorway motel in Atherton. For a moment, Erin considered ditching her plans to spy on Stern and treat herself to a relaxing weekend.
In the lounge, birch logs were stacked in the fireplace, ready to be lit. A selection of paperbacks lined the oak shelves. Dark green damask drapes were drawn against the midday sun. After making a cup of tea from the machine on the sideboard, Erin examined the glossy maps and tourist pamphlets. Stern’s village was a tiny dot on the county map and she circled it with a pen. Her online search for details of Stern’s life had yielded little. Whatever he might have done out in
