53
From below, I hear the familiar jingle of the bell on the back door. I freeze.
“I have to call you back,” I whisper. “I think someone is in the house.” I hang up and tiptoe down the stairs, on alert for any more sounds. The house is silent, save for the patter of rain against the windows. I cross the dining room into the kitchen. I don’t see anyone.
“Hey.”
I spin around and face Dustin. He takes a small step toward me, a twisted frown on his face. I search his dark, menacing eyes, his pinched face, for any sign of Paul. Could this be his son?
“You’d better go, Dustin.”
“But I want to show you something.”
I back up until I am against the wall.
“You lied to me. You gave me the address of my babysitter, knowing I would go there and confront her.”
“I gave you the address of the network,” Dustin says. “That’s all. I didn’t tell you to confront someone.”
“Well, I did. Based on your lie.”
“It wasn’t a lie. That network is unsecured. Anyone within range could use it.”
“If you don’t leave, I’m going to call the police.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t let you do that. I could get in real trouble. I’m on probation.”
I take out my phone. “I’m calling 911.” My shaking finger pecks at the small screen. Before I can finish, Dustin is upon me and has my wrist in a tight grip. A searing pain shoots up my forearm as he twists.
“I said, I can’t let you do that.”
I kick his ankle with my foot, and our legs become entangled. We tumble, landing on the floor. He’s on top of me, smelling of sweat and grease, weighing me down, his pointy elbow digging into my ribs. My phone skids away from me.
We writhe together on the dusty floor. I am blind to my surroundings, can see only the black of his sweatshirt inches from my eyes, breathing in his rank odor. If I can only maneuver myself about a foot to my right, I know I can reach my phone.
I hear a thud from above, then feel a sudden jerk. All movement stops. Dustin’s body collapses upon mine, deadweight. I grab his head with both hands and push him to one side. I lie there, gasping for air. I feel something warm and sticky on my hands. When I bring my hands to my face, I see the substance that coats my palms is red. Dustin’s blood.
I let out a scream.
“It’s okay. You’re safe now.” Above me stands Daisy, our brass-handled fire poker dangling at her side. She drops it, and the clang of metal on wood echoes in the empty kitchen.
“Are you all right, Allie?” She crouches next to me, pulling my legs out from under Dustin’s inert body. “I can’t believe I did that.”
Blood pours from a gash in the back of his head, pooling on the oak floor. I struggle to speak, but my throat has closed. I nod instead.
“Hold on. I’m going to call 911.” She stands up, puts her phone to her ear, and begins pacing back and forth. “Yes, an emergency. A boy has been hit on the head, and he’s bleeding.” I hear her state my address and then repeat it. “Pulse? Hold on.” She stares at me wide-eyed, motioning with her hand. But I am frozen. Daisy drops to her knees and puts her fingers to his neck.
“Yes. He has a pulse.” Daisy stands up. “No, we won’t. Okay, all right.” She pockets her phone. “They’re on their way. They want us to open the front door. God, I feel terrible. I just saw him attacking you, and I panicked.”
I’m staring at Daisy’s hands, which look ghostly. I realize she is wearing clear plastic gloves.
“Are you all right, Allie?”
She follows my eyes to her hands. “Oh, these things?” She laughs her girlish laugh and peels them off, pushing them deep into the front pocket of her jeans. “I was doing a little touch-up painting at the Beckerman place.”
My phone pings on the floor where it has landed.
Both Daisy and I look at it.
Neither of us moves.
It pings again, and I reach for it. The message is from Madeline Ashford.
“Found her. Sorry for poor quality.”
Margaret Cooper, our tulip bulb expert at work! Below that is a grainy image of a woman on her knees next to a flower bed, wearing gardening gloves. The black-and-white image is of poor quality, but I would recognize that face anywhere. The round apple cheeks. The light, curly hair.
I look up at Daisy. “It’s you. You’re Margaret Cooper.”
54
“Let’s see.” She grabs the phone from me and squints at it. “Gosh, I look so young.” I look up into her wide face, her clear blue eyes that forecast innocence.
“You changed your name.”
“Not really. Daisy is short for Margaret; didn’t you know that? Marguerite means ‘Daisy’ in French.” A small smile appears on the edges of her lips. She exhales deeply as if she’s been holding her breath for a long time. “I always hated Margaret. Maggie, Meg, Peg. Such awful stick-in-the-mud nicknames. I always wanted to be Daisy, and when I moved to D.C. after Paul died to start over, I saw my chance. It took a long time, but I finally met Trip. Took his last name when we married. I built a life. Being a stepmom wasn’t my first choice, but I had a family, even if things weren’t always perfect. I told no one about my past. I put it all behind me. Imagine my surprise when six months ago Sexy Lexi Healy walks into Periscope Realty looking for a house.”
“I had no idea.”
“Oh, I know. I could tell. To you, I was just another boring, middle-aged woman. You with your perfect husband and child, looking for your forever home. Rubbing it in my face, all the things I didn’t have.”
“It was
