ALSO BY LINDA L. RICHARDS
The Madeline Carter Series
Mad Money
The Next Ex
Calculated Loss
The Kitty Pangborn Series
Death Was the Other Woman
Death Was in the Picture
Death Was in the Blood
The Nicole Charles Series
If It Bleeds
When Blood Lies
Anthologies
Vancouver Noir
Thrillers: 100 Must-Reads
Fast Women and Neon Lights
Copyright © 2021 by Linda L. Richards
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-60809-420-2
Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing
Sarasota, Florida
www.oceanviewpub.com
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
It is always important to know when something has reached its end. Closing circles, shutting doors, finishing chapters, it doesn’t matter what we call it; what matters is to leave in the past those moments in life that are over.
—PAULO COELHO, The Zahir
CHAPTER ONE
I AM ON a plane. There are always planes. That’s an important part. They say it’s inefficient and ineffective to break cover in your own community. Me, I say it a different way that means the same thing: shitting in your own backyard makes no sense at all.
So, I am on a plane. It’s a hop this time. The where does not matter, but if I say “Atlanta” you’ll get the idea. In the terminal, when I pick up the rental car that’s been reserved for me, I look it over approvingly. It is dark and somber. Unremarkable. Mid-sized. A sedan. If I turn my head quickly, I’ll forget what it looks like. I tell the oily-haired kid behind the counter that I’ll take it and he nods without concern because there was never any question.
I leave the airport and I drive like someone who knows where she’s going. I don’t, but I fake it. I’ve got SatNav in the rental, Google Maps on my cell phone, and I’ve got the general idea.
I end up in a beautiful neighborhood with wide, tree-lined streets. You can tell it’s an affluent neighborhood because even the supermarket has trees and plants right next to it and the bagboys look pale and well scrubbed, like they’re home during midterms, working to make beer money. It’s a nice place.
I find the house without difficulty. It looks as I’d imagined it would. The house is antebellum, with columns in a big yard with a well-manicured lawn. The house is a white so bright, it’s like a clean tooth in the center of a big green mouth. A long driveway curves through the lawn and ends at the entrance to the garage where a porch swing is idle next to the closed front door.
I circle the block a couple of times. Not much is going on. If anyone is home, they’re keeping quiet inside and their car is tucked into the garage.
I pull my dark and perfectly nondescript sedan up across the street from the house. It’s warm here in “Atlanta.” Somewhere, someone has a window open and strains of a Strauss waltz float across the air. Behind the house, I see a pool. It gives me an idea.
I sit in the car and dial the number I was given. It seems to ring for a long time. Finally, someone answers. I force on a clean and happy smile and I make it touch my voice.
A man answers and sounds exactly as I’d anticipated.
“Hi there,” I say, the chirp in my voice at a careful place. It echoes the smile. “This is Brandee calling from Super Bright Pools. I wanted to make sure you were happy with the servicing you got earlier today.”
There is a pause, but it’s not very long. I feel I may have tipped my hand too far. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. I tell myself it won’t matter for long.
“Listen, Brandee, we don’t have any pool service. I clean the pool myself.”
“I’m sorry,” I say in the same odd chirp. “But are you certain. Maybe if you checked with your wife …”
“My wife’s not here,” he says. I hear the call disconnect sharply. And though he’d meant to be rude, I feel myself smile into the phone. He’s given me more information than he knew, including the fact the he is alone in the house. Now I know what to do.
I leave the car, approach the house. I am silent. Like a cat.
The first two windows I try are locked, as is the garage door. The third window is not latched, and it doesn’t take much for me to open it all the way, slide through. Had I not found the window open, it would have slowed me down, but it would not have stopped me. And, in any case—in almost all cases—there’s a window open somewhere. Not in my house. Not anymore. But, what the hell: I like to think you can learn from other people’s mistakes.
Once through the window, I’m in the prettiest laundry room I’ve ever seen. The walls are white and pink, striped, and the room smells good. Clean. There’s a little desk in one corner, the surface of it in tidy disarray. There are clothes, neatly folded, on top of the dryer. His and hers, nothing for children. It wouldn’t have made any difference if there were, but still. I’m relieved. There’s a part of me that can’t help it.
When I leave the laundry room, I think I’m mouse-quiet, but he must have very good ears.
“Desiree,” he calls out. His voice is honey and old scotch. Oakwood: gnarled and rich. “I didn’t expect you for a while.”
He turns a corner and he doesn’t see Desiree. Instead, he
