“Fine. Then just you. My office in Rockville at five.”
“I just don’t understand how this is happening. I mean, what are they basing this on?”
“Apparently, they have an eyewitness.”
“An eyewitness? That’s impossible. An eyewitness to what?”
“I don’t know. We’ll know more tomorrow. I’ll see you at five.”
I sit there a moment, letting what Zucker said sink in. Eyewitness? Could one of these women, one of these neighborhood gossips, actually think they saw something? Or is someone so hell-bent on destroying me that they would lie to the police? But who, and why?
The answer may be on this street.
I know I need to call Mark and tell him what’s happening, but the urgency to find out the truth compels me to get out of the car. I am certain in my bones that I am about to draw a direct line between what happened all those years ago and the nightmare I found myself in today.
Paul Adamson is dead.
It has to be his wife. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
Sexy Lexi.
The Overton shirt.
Someone who knew about Paul Adamson, someone angry enough to want to destroy me. It makes sense in a twisted way. In the yard next door, a middle-aged woman in jeans and a down vest drags a tarp filled with leaves to the curb.
She gives me a friendly wave as I get out of my car. I wave back and practically run up the long set of cement steps to the front door. I can feel the blood pumping through my body. I am prepared for anything. I just want answers.
Gone is the shame I felt this morning when Mark told me that I had passed out at International Night. In its place is white-hot anger electrifying me to the tips of my fingers and toes.
I knock on the paneled door and wait. I can see out of the corner of my eye that the neighbor with the tarp is staring at me. I shoot her a look, telegraphing her to mind her own business.
I knock on the door again, this time with a closed fist.
A black metal mailbox molded into the shape of a giant envelope hangs on the brick wall next to the front door. I lift the flap. Maybe I’ll find a letter with a name on it. But it’s empty save for a flyer from Greener Pastures Landscaping. It’s four o’clock. Either the mail has not yet been delivered or whoever lives here has taken it in.
A tall pane of wavy glass flanks the left side of the front door, but it is difficult to see through. All I can make out is a long, dark hallway, a slate floor, and a narrow console. This time, I bang on the door with all I’ve got.
Impatience gnaws at me. I step back to assess the house and yard. A mulched pathway laid with round concrete stepping-stones runs alongside the house to the back.
“They’re not home,” the neighbor calls.
I ignore her and head around back, taking giant half hops on the stones, which are set just far enough apart to make simple steps impossible. With a little finagling, the back-gate latch opens, and I find myself in a wide but shallow backyard. It’s really just a stretch of grass parallel to a tall privacy fence. Most of the back is taken up by a slate patio, upon which sits a rusted wrought iron table and chairs.
Nothing here to identify the occupants of the house. Only a plastic blue watering can, bleached by the sun, lying on its side next to a few terra-cotta pots.
A wide sliding-glass door offers a view of the kitchen. I cup my hands over my eyes and peer inside, looking for clues. It’s dark. I can make out blond wooden cabinets and yellow laminate countertops that look original to the house.
Suddenly, something lunges from the darkness inside the house and hurtles itself against the plate glass. I stumble back, trip on the edge of a chair, and fall down.
A dog’s muffled yapping fills the air. Shock gives way to annoyance. I’ve fallen on wet leaves, which now cling to my jeans. The dampness soaks through my pants to my rear end and thighs.
“Damn it.” I pick myself up, peeling off the leaves. On the other side of the glass, a small white dog propels itself at the glass once again.
A West Highland Terrier.
Marnie.
50
In an instant, the truth crystallizes. Susan lives here.
How could I not know that? My face flushes hot as it hits me how careless I have been. I allowed this woman into my home and into my life, and I never even bothered to learn her address. I spent more time researching scooters for Cole than I did checking on Susan.
I trusted her implicitly, and why wouldn’t I? An older woman, so warm and maternal, always ready with the right recipe or a piece of poster board. How easy it was for her to infiltrate my chaotic life. She must have been laughing at me the whole time.
I gave her the key to our house.
I entrusted my son to her.
Could she have been married to Paul? Impossible. She would have been a good twenty years older, at least.
Then it hits me—she is Paul’s mother. She blames me for his death. What would I do if I thought someone had been responsible for Cole’s death? Would I track that person down and claw their life to shreds?
I might.
Bits of data zip across my brain.
It would have been easy for her to plant the liquid Ambien. She had access to my home computer, too, no password required.
I’ve seen her at the pool.
She lied about the Zoni triplets.
The Overton T-shirt—it could all easily be her doing.
From the front of the house comes the sound of a car with squeaky brakes pulling to a stop. In seconds, I am through the gate and running back down the wood-chip path to
