Nightshade

And every one of them pointed toward the Hapgood house, not away.

“So if these match Matt’s shoes,” Petrocelli said as they came in view of the house, “then we know Matt used the path only to go home.”

Pullman said grimly, “Time to see if we can find the shoes Matt was wearing last night.”

CHAPTER 23

CRAZY.

She was going crazy.

She was going crazy, and she knew she was going crazy, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Cynthia’s voice was everywhere now, following Joan wherever she went, laughing at her, taunting her, mocking her.

“Never yours,” Cynthia kept repeating. “Don’t you understand, Joanie-baby?” she whispered, using the belittling nickname Joan had always hated. “Nothing you have was ever yours. It’s mine. All of it!Bill is mine, and this house is mine, and everything in it is mine. I was only letting you use it! But now I’m taking it back!”

A whimpering moan escaped Joan’s lips, and her head felt like it would explode from the pressure of the churning emotions building inside her. “No,” she whispered brokenly. “It isn’t true. None of it’s true. Bill loved me. He wanted me. He — ” But her words died in the cacophony of Cynthia’s scornful laugh.

Destroy her! That’s what she had to do! She had to destroy Cynthia.

Obliterate her from the guest room.

Obliterate her from the house.

Obliterate her from her mind.

“You can’t,” Cynthia whispered, as if she’d read Joan’s thoughts. “You can never get rid of me, Joanie-baby. Never!”

Joan came to the top of the stairs. She was only a few feet from the closed door to the guest room — Cynthia’s room — and she could feel the nearness of her sister’s spirit.

“Go ahead,” Cynthia taunted. “Try it. Try it, Joanie-baby, and see what happens.”

A strangled cry of fury erupting from her throat, Joan lunged toward the door, twisting the knob and hurling it open so hard it crashed against the wall, cracking the plaster and shattering the glass knob.

Ignoring the glass shards on the floor, she went to the closet where her sister’s clothes, arranged by color to form a brilliant rainbow, hung on their padded hangers — clothes her mother had cared for so perfectly that they looked like they’d never been worn. “Why didn’t you take care of me like this?” she cried out, her voice choking on her sobs. “Why couldn’t you love me even as much as you loved her damned clothes?” Snatching one of the dresses off its hanger, she ripped its bodice with one quick jerk, then hurled it aside as she grabbed another one. One after another she tore the dresses from their hangers, until she stood in the midst of a tangle of torn and mangled material.

Material that could never again be put back on the hangers as a memorial to her sister.

“They’re only clothes. They’re not me, Joanie-baby,” Cynthia whispered.

“Don’t call me that!” Joan screamed. She reeled away from the closet and began ripping the pictures from the walls, hurling them to the floor, the glass covering the photographs shattering.

Cynthia only laughed.

Joan moved on to the desk, sweeping the surface clean, sending her sister’s books and pens, her stuffed animals and favorite Barbie doll, skittering across the floor.

Then, through the turbulence of her own emotions, she heard something. She froze, and a strange silence fell over the house. Then she heard it again.

The doorbell.

Someone was ringing the doorbell.

A wave of panic crashed over her. What should she do? She glanced at herself in the mirror — her face was ashen, her hair a tangled mess. Maybe she shouldn’t answer the door — maybe she should just wait for whoever it was to go away.

The doorbell sounded again, as if to deny the possibility that whoever awaited would leave.

What if they came in?

What if they came in and found her like this?

What if they told her mother she was playing with Cynthia’s things?

Her mother would beat her again, and lock her in the cedar chest in the basement.

No! Don’t let them catch you! Don’t let them tell on you!

She ran from Cynthia’s room, hurried down the stairs, then paused in the entry hall, trying to catch her breath. She ran her fingers through her hair, clumsily brushing it away from her face.

The doorbell sounded again, and at last — knowing she could put it off no longer — she turned the knob and pulled the door open just wide enough to peek out.

A policeman!

A policeman, wearing a uniform.

She wanted to slam the door and run and hide in her room. But even if she could hide from the policeman, she couldn’t hide from her mother. Her mother would find her and —

Fear galvanized Joan’s mind, pulling its fragments back together, jerking her out of the past and the memories that had held her in thrall. Hearing her name, she pulled the door open wider and recognized Dan Pullman standing next to Tony Petrocelli.

“Can we come in for a moment, Joan?” the police chief asked.

Matt, she thought. They want to ask Matt more questions. “I — Matt’s not here, and I — ” Her mind cleared further, and she remembered what her lawyer had said last night. “I don’t think I’d better talk to you until I talk to Trip Wainwright. He said — ”

“I know what he said, Joan,” Dan Pullman said quickly, sensing that she was about to shut the door. “I was just wondering — does Matt have a pair of Redwing shoes?”

A veil of suspicion dropped over Joan’s face, and her eyes flicked from Pullman to Petrocelli, then back to the chief. “I’m not really sure,” she said. “I don’t pick Matt’s shoes out for him.”

She heard Cynthia’s laugh.

“Maybe if you could — ” Pullman began, but before he could finish, Joan shook her head.

“I’m sorry,” she said, starting to close the door. “I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

“All I want — ”

Joan shook her head. “I’m not supposed to,” she said again. “I’m just not supposed to!”

A second later Dan Pullman and Tony Petrocelli were facing a closed door, and both of them were certain that no matter how long they rang the bell, she wouldn’t open it again.

“Lawyers,” Pullman said bitterly. “Damn all lawyers.”

But as they started back toward the waterfall, Tony Petrocelli turned to look back at the house. “Did she sound okay to you?” he asked, cocking his head. To him, Joan Hapgood had sounded almost like a child. A child about five years old, who was afraid of doing something wrong.

Pullman shrugged. “She’s just doing what Trip Wainwright told her to do. And he’s just doing his job. So let’s you and I go do ours.”

From the house, Joan watched them disappear into the woods.

They hadn’t found out. They didn’t know she’d been in Cynthia’s room, so they couldn’t tell her mother.

“But I can,” Cynthia whispered. “I can tell Mother anything I want.”

Joan’s eyes widened. “No!” she screamed. “I’ll kill you! I swear to God, I’ll kill you!”

* * *