It was dark around her, with no houses in sight. The grass had been cut for hay and lay in humped rows. In the distance was a tall treeline and a hulk of farm machinery. She remembered the shaking she’d felt in the box, the tornado she’d heard driving over her. It had been a harvesting machine.
It struck her then what must have happened. The hay in the field must have been tall when Alice had buried the box, but she wouldn’t have known that it would be cut at the end of the month. The harvesting machine, and the wolf, had saved Bennie’s life.
She started walking, wobbly and weary, looking for a road. Her bare feet aching, her hand trailed its bloody bandage. She didn’t want to think about what she looked like. She hadn’t eaten in forever, her throat was dry and parched. She felt dizzy and weak.
She heard the screech of a faraway owl. The loud knocking of a woodpecker, echoing over the field. Crickets everywhere. She passed a herd of deer lying in the short grass. They spotted her, startled, and took off, their back hooves flying, white tails upright as surrender flags.
She kept walking, using the hayrow as a guideline. Above shone the stars, their whiteness brighter out in the country. They pierced a velveteen sky, a glittery whitewash of stardust. She remembered looking at the stars so long ago, when her mother was still alive. She had thought that her family was fixed as the constellations, but she’d been wrong. She’d learned that stars changed and so did families, hers when it belatedly acquired its darkest star.
She walked through another field, passing immense rolls of hay, lined up together like houses, two stories high. She followed the rows of mown hay when she could and her sense of direction when she couldn’t, stumbling and halting but going ever forward, and she saw a black ribbon of paved road that snaked along the fields, its canary yellow divider phosphorescent in the moonshine.
She almost cried with happiness. She staggered over, reached the shoulder, and walked next to it in the grass. It was only a matter of time until someone drove by. She’d call the cops and find Alice, no matter where she tried to hide. She’d charge her, prosecute her, and lock her away for good. Twin or no. Sister or no. Blood or no.
Her pace quickened, heedless of her sore everything. And when she spotted a pair of headlights coming down the road, she thanked God.
For salvation.
And for vengeance.
Chapter Forty-two
Alice trailed Grady into the house, acting grief-stricken, and he hugged her as the door closed behind them.
“I know what you need,” he said softly. “Remember my specialty, from our Vermont trip? When you saw that deer and got all upset? I’ll make it. You haven’t eaten all day.”
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”
“Not at all?” Grady pulled away from her, surprised. “It’ll cheer you up. Do you have the ingredients?”
“I doubt it.” Alice was playing the odds. Whatever the ingredients were, Bennie wasn’t the homemaker type. “But I should get to work, I have a new client coming in tomorrow. Rexco. It’s a big meeting and I should prepare.”
“You can’t work now, you know that.” Grady touched her cheek tenderly. “Why don’t you go up and rest? I’ll bring you dinner in bed. Is that bodega still on Spring Garden?”
“I’ll go get the stuff and be right back.” Grady gave her a quick kiss, then went to the front door. “You’re going to go rest?”
“Yes. Promise.” Alice flashed him a smile, and he left.
As soon as the door closed, she dropped the smile. Something was bugging her and she felt antsy. Hinky. She should have known about the Vermont thing. She hoped Grady wasn’t getting suspicious. She fetched the messenger bag and went upstairs to the home office. She scattered the Rexco file around the desk and fired up the computer so it looked like she’d been working. Then she went to the bathroom and switched on the light, checking her reflection.
She wet a bar of soap, worked up a lather, and rubbed a little into her eyes. They stung like hell, and tears flowed. She rinsed and dried her face, but spilled water on her shirt by accident. She crossed to the dresser and opened the middle drawer to find something dry. She grabbed yet another oversized T-shirt. VESPER ROWING, it read, and she was slipping into it when she spotted something strange outside.
She went to the window. She didn’t have the best view, and her eyes were killing her, but it looked like Grady was on a pay phone, down the street. It was too far away to be sure it was him, but she thought it was his blond hair and he was holding a paper bag in his left hand.
She watched him hang up the phone and hurry toward the house, so it was definitely Grady. Her thoughts raced. If he had stopped at Bennie’s on impulse, he probably hadn’t told his friends or family where he was going. And if he’d asked his law partner to cover for him on a family emergency, then his office didn’t know he was at his old girlfriend’s. Odds were, no one knew Grady was here.
Alice grabbed a wad of Kleenex from a box on the night table and flopped face-down on the bed, burying her face in the pillow as if she’d been crying. In the next minute, she heard the front door open and close downstairs.
“Come on up!” she called out, forming a new plan. If Grady didn’t mention that he’d made a phone call, it could mean he was getting suspicious of her.
Chapter Forty-three
Mary put the realtor’s card back down on the bedspread. Anthony hadn’t called, but she wasn’t about to stand on ceremony. Partners didn’t play power games, except when it was billable.
She speed-dialed him and listened to the phone ringing. Once, twice, three times, then his voicemail came on. The sound of his voice gave her a familiar pang, but she didn’t give in to a love attack. She thought about leaving him a call-back message, but she didn’t want to do that either. Why hadn’t he picked up? Was he blowing her off?
She put down the BlackBerry. Maybe he was in the bathroom or the shower. She got up, stretched her legs, and went to the bathroom. She emerged a few minutes later, made a beeline for the BlackBerry, and speed-dialed him again. Still no answer. She could feel herself start to simmer. When the voicemail came on, she no longer felt a pang when she heard his voice.
She felt grumpier by the minute. She had a right to buy a house if she wanted one. Anthony should be willing to talk about it. Who was he to not take her phone calls? They said they loved each other, didn’t that mean anything? At the very least, it should mean I-take-your-calls-even-when-I’m-pissed-at-you.
She picked up the laptop on its pillow desk and logged on to her email, killing time before the next phone call. She’d gotten two zillion emails from clients and she kept opening them without really reading them, preoccupied. Anthony could at least pick up. His mother spoiled him. He was the darling of the family, just because he wasn’t on parole.
When she figured about fifteen minutes had passed, she called him again. No answer. She found herself boiling over, but when the beep came on, she restrained herself and hung up. She would give him one last chance. And by
