A friend indeed, p.24
A Friend Indeed, page 24
I spin to look behind me. Nothing. I crouch to peer under the bed. It’s bare but for a used tissue.
On quaking legs, I rush to the closet. I swipe an arm under the hanging clothes. Fabric rustles.
In full-blown panic, I stagger to the closest window. I claw back the drapes, sure I’ll find someone hiding: Gemma, looking smug yet sullen. Ryan, oozing sex and danger. Ralph or his smirking son, Emmett Isles.
I yank each drape in turn. Each tall window stands empty.
Feeling sick, I lean against the cold glass. Down below, my yard steps down to the sea. Here and there, pools of light break the darkness. The giant willow flails in the wind. The dock’s a tear in the sea’s gray fabric. My teeth clack. The islands are ink stains: a Rorschach test I will fail.
I want to stay with the girls but can’t. I must check on the twins. Search the house. I need Jo.
I’m near the door when I realize I missed a hiding place: Zoe’s wooden playhouse. I teeter toward it, note in hand.
Square, symmetrical windows frame an open door about as high as my chest. I peer in. The floor’s covered in soft, flowery mats. In one corner lies a sprawl of stuffed animals: watchful glass eyes, soft limbs, and snouts.
In the other corner lie two dolls, both naked, pink limbs askew. I blink and shrink back. The dolls are headless.
I stand and spin to see the top shelf near the door. Two decapitated heads sit side by side, smiling vacuously. One’s fair, the other dark. I gag.
Those dolls are new and precious, the girls’ latest obsession. There’s no way they’d break them, nor could they reach that shelf. Bile fills my throat.
Was it Owen? I sway, hating that I had that thought. It’s not fair.
As I lock the door to Zoe’s room, I picture Stan’s severed head on the seafloor: mouth agape, eyes empty.
CHAPTER 40
JO
Dana’s ragged voice finds me: “Jo, wake up!” I can hear her outside my room, stumbling down the stairs to my level.
I sit up with a jolt. The room’s dark. My stomach knots. I shove back the covers. “Dana?” I’m hoarse. “What’s wrong?”
The door flies open and the light flicks on. Blinded, I shield my eyes.
“Jo?” In the doorway, Dana is ghoul-faced. “The blackmailer!” With one hand she clings to the doorframe. There’s a piece of paper in the other. “Look!” She shakes it. “Right next to Zoe’s bed!”
I stagger over, dizzy from standing up too quickly. It’s another note, written in thick red marker. “Where are the girls?” My voice is loud with panic.
“In bed. Sleeping.”
I exhale. “And the twins?”
“They’re fine. I locked the doors to all the kids’ rooms.”
“Okay,” I say. “Good thinking.”
Dana’s trembling. “We need the police, Jo! Someone broke in! They could’ve—”
“What? No!” I’m near enough to smell her lemony lotion—and her breath, sour with wine. “What does it say?” I snatch the note from her hands and read it. Bank details and a threat: not paying is not an option.
“Fuck,” I say. I peer into the hallway. “We need to search the house. Now.”
She doesn’t react. I grab her arm and push her into the hall. “Where are Stan’s golf clubs?”
“What?”
“His golf clubs!”
“The, um, storeroom.” She looks to the end of the hall.
I rush toward it. “Come on. Hurry.” There are three sets of golf clubs. I extract two large drivers and hand one to Dana. “Should we split up?”
This gets her attention: “Hell no!”
She grips my arm as we search this floor of the massive house. There’s nothing here.
We quietly climb the stairs. Halfway up, Dana stumbles. I yank her up. Is she in shock or just drunk? We reach the main floor.
I go to switch the lights on but stop. I recall the back patio, and the sounds in the bushes. If Ryan were outside watching, with the lights on, he would see us.
And if he’s inside, the lights won’t help us.
In the hall closet, I find a flashlight. We move from room to room. In a house this big, there are a million hiding places.
“I think they’re gone,” says Dana. She’s got the golf club in one hand and the note in the other.
“Maybe,” I say. I push open the door to Stan’s study. We both step inside.
Something moves in the darkness. I yelp, ready to swing. Dana grabs me. “Stop!” she squeals. “It’s the cat!”
Toonces advances and slinks around her ankles. I scan the room’s windows. The one facing the cedar bushes lies open. “Look!” I say. The sash is raised a good five inches.
Dana shakes her head. “But it can’t be! I set the alarm.”
I push past her and stride to the window. I look out. It’s too dark to see anything. I yank the window down and lock it. “You can’t have,” I say flatly. She’s drinking too much, getting careless.
“I did,” she cries. “I . . . I . . .” Her voice wobbles to nothing. I feel like screaming. Now’s not the time to give her shit. That can come later.
Heart hammering, I peer under Stan’s desk. I swipe my golf club under the sofa. Toonces leaps onto Stan’s chair, fat but agile. His tail swishes, indignant.
It’s past five by the time we’re done searching all the rooms. Morning, although it’s still dark. Dana looks limp. I lead her down to the kitchen. It’s freezing. Not one single room in this house feels safe or cozy. I almost miss my shitty apartment.
“Want tea?” I ask tiredly. Tea was my mother’s cure-all.
“Coffee, please.” Dana leans her golf club against the counter, sinks onto a barstool, and sets down the blackmail note.
I don’t answer. This is all her fault. She should be making me coffee.
I brew some coffee, then sit beside her. I feel wrung out: overtired and hung over. Last night’s wine was so tasty. I’m not much of a drinker. Or maybe stress has caused this headache. “Who knows your alarm’s code?” I ask.
Dana stares at her mug, slack faced.
Anger pounds through me. When I found the note in Ruby’s room, she didn’t seem that perturbed. Now it’s happened to her, and she’s catatonic. “Dana?” I say sharply.
She hangs her head. “The boys know the code, but . . . I . . . I’m sorry. The alarm . . . I thought I set it, but . . .”
I take a sip, force myself to calm down. But. That means she didn’t. I grit my teeth. “I’m not mad at you.” This is untrue. “I’m just . . .”
She nods, eyes downcast. “I know.” Her voice quakes. “Who could do this? First your place and now here? It’s so brazen.” She bites the inside of her cheek. “Do you think it was Gemma Costin?”
I stare at the note on the counter. The red marker has bled into the paper. “Could a sixteen-year-old pull this off?” I ask. My sinuses throb. “Why a bank transfer this time?”
“Last time was a test,” says Dana. She sounds bitter. “A game. They just wanted to watch us creep around in the dark. To get off on our panic.”
I’m croaky. “Yeah. We should’ve realized.” I sip hot coffee. Blackmailers have moved with the times. “Paying in cash seems outdated.”
I scan the room. Everything’s white and silver. The chrome counters belong in a morgue. And I hate the tall dark windows. Anyone outside could see us huddled at this counter. I cough. Anyone—like Ryan Reeve.
I try to stare outside but see only our reflections. We look pale and insubstantial, a pair of ghost women.
Dana’s reflection shudders. “They were in the girls’ room—Zoe! I thought she was . . .” Her transparent face collapses.
I look away from the window, back to my friend.
Her head’s in her hands. “I can’t not pay,” she says. “I just can’t. This dread’s killing me. What if they’d hurt them?” She peers at me, hollow-eyed. “What should I do?”
I set down my mug sloppily. Coffee sloshes onto the shiny counter. It’s not fair, her asking me: it’s not my money. I’m scared too. I want to cry. I know I sound resentful. “No idea. It’s your decision.”
She takes a deep breath. “No. We’re in this together.”
I push back my stool and stand. I’m too wound up to stay still. I walk to the picture window and breathe deeply. The stars are still out, so vast yet so small. They shine, cold and pure.
I turn back to Dana. “What if paying doesn’t help?”
She stares at her hands. I don’t think she even heard. “I’m going to pay,” she says. “I need to do something!”
I don’t respond. What’s there to say? It’s her choice, after all.
Dana’s voice shakes. “Our girls! This was the last straw.” Fresh tears fill her eyes. “Who could hate me this badly?”
I shake my head in frustration. “It’s about money. People do terrible things for money! Kids get killed for their sneakers!”
Dana shudders. “That’s—” Her voice breaks. “Awful.”
She sounds indignant, so out of touch with reality. But then she is—in the exclusive Oaks, behind the tall walls of her mansion.
“Three million dollars should keep them happy for a while.” I scan the yard, looking for movement, then spin back to Dana. “And whoever it is will start spending.”
“So we watch and wait?” she says. “See who’s had a windfall? Like Ryan?” She looks toward the Reeves’ mansion. Her voice thins with fury. “If he’s behind this, I’ll kill him! Pretending to miss me. What a wacko!”
I shrug. I don’t want to think about Ryan Reeve. I recall the sounds in the bushes. Probably just a raccoon or Toonces. But what if it wasn’t? I won’t feel safe until Ryan’s in jail.
I’m gazing at the Milky Way when a shooting star flares by. I gasp, momentarily joyful.
“What is it?” says Dana, freshly anxious.
I turn and smile. “A shooting star.”
She rubs her forehead. “Did you make a wish?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, don’t tell me,” she says. “Or it won’t come true.”
I look back at the sky, thinking of all the people who’ve wished on stars over the millennia. Most of them are long gone, along with their wishes. And shooting stars aren’t really stars, just chunks of rock burning up. We’re witnessing their demise.
And yet I recall the bright gash where that star sliced the sky. I deserve a wish.
I shut my eyes.
CHAPTER 41
DANA: TWENTY-FOUR DAYS SINCE STAN’S DEATH
I raise a hand to my brow and squint out the picture window. That dinghy. What’s it doing?
I’m in the living room, coffee in hand. We made the transfer yesterday, as instructed, from Jo’s granny’s account to the blackmailer’s. I woke up feeling optimistic. For the first time in ages, I actually slept well. I figured my luck was turning.
But something’s wrong. The black dinghy keeps coming closer. Close enough to read the letters on its side: glebes bay pd.
Dismay grips me. Three people are onboard, two of them clad in black wet suits. Are they coming to moor on our jetty? But the dinghy stops, just short of our dock. One man lowers an anchor. My gut shrinks. I shouldn’t have drunk that extra coffee.
I set my cup on a side table and walk to the patio door. I unlock it and stride onto the terrace. Two divers shrug on their oxygen tanks and check their equipment. They toss out a dive flag. One diver steps overboard, then the other. The tide’s low. Where they are, the water must be shallow.
I cross the terrace and take the path toward the jetty. Like my stomach, my thoughts are churning. Sour coffee burns up my windpipe.
I push back my hair and remember my tablet. Jo tossed it out back. Damn. What if they find it? How could I explain? Could I say someone stole it? No. I’m getting wound up for no reason. I take slow breaths. I mustn’t panic.
I continue down the path toward the boathouse.
Near the back of the dinghy a head pops up, black and slick. It’s one of the divers. He passes something up to the man still on board. My belly flip-flops. Jesus. What the hell is it?
I’m nearing the rocks. I stop, unsure whether to keep watching or to flee back indoors.
Turning, I spy Detective Shergold off to my left. She’s in front of the Reeves’ place, standing on the rocks exposed by the low tide. Everything’s public property below the mean high-tide line.
I freeze. She hasn’t noticed me yet, her gaze fixed on the dinghy. She’s speaking into a walkie-talkie. The man onboard holds one too. I can’t hear what they’re saying.
Detective Shergold lowers her walkie-talkie. The guy on board nods and does the same. She turns and walks my way, intent on where she’s stepping. The rocks are slippery with seaweed. On a bedrock base, some loose stones are shaky.
I’m turning to go when she looks up. Shit. Our eyes meet. I can’t slink away. It would look bad, like I’m guilty and can’t face her.
She walks faster, with more confidence. After a moment’s more hesitation, I walk her way.
“Morning,” she says when we’re about twenty feet apart.
“Morning.” I stop and shove my hands into my pants pockets. I didn’t plan on coming outside. I’m wearing a sweater but no coat. Despite the sun, it’s cool. The breeze off the water is chilly.
Shergold keeps coming. She’s clutching the walkie-talkie.
“What did they find?” I blurt. “I saw them recover something!”
She squints at the dinghy. “Nothing relevant. Junk. Just a broken car headlight.” In the morning light, she looks tired. Older than when we first met, the skin around her eyes more crinkled. She’s been putting in long hours trying to catch my husband’s killer.
I don’t answer. I hope my relief’s not too obvious. Not that relief’s warranted. It’s not like they’d tell me if they did find something useful! The only reason they’re here is because they suspect me.
Does she really think I dumped Stan right out back of my own house? Do I really look that stupid?
I hunch against the wind. One of the divers pops up, nearer the guesthouse.
I recall the role I’m meant to be playing: the grieving widow, desperate for answers. “Will you tell me when you know who’s responsible—and why? My children and I—” My voice breaks. “We need to know.”
I expect her to show me some sympathy, but her frown deepens. Her voice is flat as she says, “All I can tell you is that we’re getting closer. And you’ll be the first to know. That much, I promise.” Her iron eyes spear me.
I shrink back.
With a nod, I spin away. I can’t maintain my pretense any longer. That sounded more like a threat than a promise.
CHAPTER 42
DANA
I’ve barely had time to calm down when I get a call from Jo. My anxiety surges. She’s at work. Her phone’s usually turned off at this time.
I set down my florist’s knife and the white camellia I was cutting. The police have yet to return my good Japanese knives. This replacement slices less cleanly.
I accept Jo’s call. “Hey, Jo?”
Her voice is low and anxious: “Dana! Owen’s locker’s been searched again. They found pills. Oxys.”
“Jesus.” I lean against my worktable and squeeze my eyes shut. How much worse can things get? I can barely get the word out: “Oxycontin?”
“That’s what he says,” says Jo. “But it could be worse. No one’s sure what they’re buying anymore. And that’s not all.” She’s talking fast, her voice low and urgent. “I found a cell phone.”
Her tone signals danger. I don’t get it. “A phone?” I parrot. All I can think about are the pills. Oxycontin. There’s a freaking opioid epidemic. Kids are dying in record numbers. We’ve all heard those tragic tales: a good kid tries something once and drops dead. An allergy. The wrong dose. A bad batch.
“A burner phone,” says Jo. “You know, the cheap kind, without contracts. You can’t trace them?”
I touch my abandoned camellia’s waxy leaves, unsure where she’s going.
“I was on the search team. Thank God. I managed to snatch it before anyone else saw.”
I feel cold all over. Why? What, besides increasingly dangerous drugs, has Owen been doing?
Jo’s voice tugs me back: “Look, Dana. You’d better get here. Deal with Owen first, then come find me. You won’t believe this. I need to show you in person.”
The camellias’ scent rises, overpowering. The fragrance is fine out of doors but all wrong in here. They reek like cheap perfume.
CHAPTER 43
JO
I’m teaching when I get her text: Where are you?
I text her back and assign my class some reading. Bag in hand, I speed-walk to the closest washroom.
Leaving this lot alone is a risk, but there’s no choice. If something goes wrong, I’ll claim food poisoning and a mad dash to the toilet.
Meeting in the school bathroom takes me back to my school days. I’m not sure how we worked it, pre-texting. Handwritten notes? Whispered commands in the hallways? Sign language?
I look both ways before shoving the door, feeling furtive and adolescent.
Stepping inside, I’m hit by the odor: bleach and bad drains offset by Dana’s perfume. It’s a clean, citrusy scent. She never smells girly.
Sure enough, she’s near a sink, arms crossed tight, like she’s freezing. She looks drawn, her face shadowy in the fluorescents. Seeing me, she steps forward: “Jo, what’s happened?”
I study the stalls behind her. While they look empty, you never know. I brush past her and give each door a hard push. This sets them all clanging.
Satisfied we’re alone, I spin back. Dana’s arms hang limp at her sides. She looks strung out. “What happened with Owen?” I ask.
