She Lies Alone: An utterly compelling psychological suspense novel, page 28
“You should get back inside.”
He turned his head, studying the shadowy outline of his house. “Yeah.”
“Take care, Rowan.”
The boy raised an arm as he moped toward his front door.
I tipped my head back, taking a few deep breaths and feeling redeemed. I inched my car further down the road as I debated my next move.
Phoebe’s defiant eyes loomed from inside my mind. Her story was like a mysterious box I needed to open. I looked up her address in the directory—2768 Haven Rd. I entered the address into my GPS, finding that it was only a mile and a half away. A short drive in the direction of my house. Just this one last indulgence into my laywoman’s investigation.
Four minutes later, I turned into a neighborhood with a different feel than Rowan’s. There was nothing generic about this one. The houses were an eclectic mix of styles and decades, but there was one thing they all had in common. Even through the darkness, they looked expensive. Uplighting lined many of the walkways and front entrances, native plants waved in the wind, and solar panels blended into the shingled roofs. The yards sprawled across acres with mature trees and patches of woods providing privacy from pesky neighbors. Fenced backyards housed swimming pools, tennis courts, outdoor kitchens, elaborate swing sets, and raised garden beds. The dirt road gave the feel of a country setting, although it was only a five-minute drive to downtown.
Phoebe’s house sat about eight houses in from the main road. My car crept forward until I located the colonial that lay beyond a rolling front yard. The porch light was off, but a few lights brightened the windows inside. I tried to guess which window belonged to Phoebe’s room. I pictured the way Phoebe had chopped and dyed her hair as her mom sat clueless in my classroom on Curriculum Night. The grainy clip from the parking lot played through my mind. I wondered what else Phoebe could have done in the middle of the night without her mom knowing.
Headlights turned in from the main road behind me, so I continued toward the top of the hill. I pulled over next to the woods at the edge of the street and cut the engine. My lights snuffed out. Hidden in a patch of complete blackness, I twisted around and spied through my back window. A light-colored Mercedes crept around the corner and pulled partway into the driveway across the street from the Grangers’ house. The car reversed back into the road, turning and pulling forward next to the Grangers’ mailbox. The red glow of the brake lights illuminated a vanity license plate: FLOSS EM.
A slender hand flicked out of the window and shoved something into the metal mailbox. My chest strained against the seat belt, eyes bulging. The Mercedes crunched over gravel and sped back toward the main road.
My heart pounded in my chest, and my back slid down behind the cover of my seat as I wondered what I’d just witnessed. The person driving that car had put something in the Grangers’ mailbox. I was sure of it. Was it a clue?
My mind was spinning tales, so many crazy theories bleeding through me. I cracked open my car door, crouching down and pulling my cardigan tight around my shoulders. The wind stung my cheeks as I ducked outside. My feet slipped over some loose stones, but I ignored them and scurried toward the mailbox, ears alert for any approaching cars or opening front doors. The squeaky hinge fell open easily, my hand darting inside, fingers closing around a plain white envelope. Without looking, I raced back to my car and shut myself inside, trying not to think about all the federal mail laws I may, or may not, have been violating. My breath huffed out in jagged bursts, my hands shaking. I pushed the interior light as I opened the envelope and unfolded the paper. Red words written in even handwriting reached out from the page and grabbed me by the throat.
GUILTY!
“How was the visitation?” Craig stood up from the couch and stepped toward me.
Moose sniffed my knees, then my shoes.
My body solidified, the disturbing note weighing in my pocket. “Horrible.”
He hugged me. “I’m sorry. I should have gone with you.”
I stepped back and raised the note toward him. “I found this.”
Craig removed the note from my shaking fingers, eyes scanning it. “What? Where?”
“In Phoebe Granger’s mailbox. A white Mercedes pulled up and put it there. I saw the whole thing. The license plate was FLOSS EM.”
“FLOSS EM? Like a dentist?” Craig studied my face. “What were you doing at Phoebe’s house?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. Hiding in my car. Looking for something. Any kind of clue.” I left out the part about driving past Nick’s house, Jefferson’s house, and Rowan’s house, too.
“Jane. You have to stop. You’re not going to solve Elena’s murder. The police are working on it. They probably already know who did it.”
“Then why haven’t they arrested anyone?”
Craig glanced away from me. “I don’t know. They’re probably gathering enough evidence to make sure their charges stick. It’s not like on TV. These things take time.”
I lowered my head toward the piece of paper. “What about the note?”
Craig shrugged. “It looks like what mean girls do to their frenemies when they’re bored on a Friday night.”
My lips pressed together, lungs collapsing. Craig was probably right. The note wasn’t proof of anything. The car had probably belonged to the mother or father of one of Phoebe’s former friends. Girls could be so nasty.
“Want to hang out on the couch and watch a movie or something?”
My weight leaned into my heels, arms crossing in front of me. Elena’s pale and luminous face flickered in front of me like a scene from a horror movie.
“I think I’m going to do some stuff on my computer.”
“Not Crime Trackers again?”
“No. I just want to catch up on some emails and grading. Then I’ll have the rest of the weekend free.”
Craig ran his fingers through his hair, leaving a section standing on end. “Okay.” He turned and flopped down on the couch, lifting the remote and flipping through channels.
I closed myself in our bedroom, adding “bad wife” to my list of recent failures. I swapped my stiff pants and scratchy blouse for fleece-lined sweats and thick socks. Then, I sat cross-legged on my bed, fired up my laptop, and began my search for The Silver Slasher.
A list of articles appeared on the screen. I clicked on one from The Observer, entitled Silver Slasher Assaults Third Victim. The article described how the victim had been attacked while walking back to her apartment after leaving a fraternity party. Like the two before her, she’d been a college student who was held up at knifepoint and sexually assaulted. Each victim had had a piece of jewelry ripped from them during the assault. The assailant was a white male in his thirties wearing a black ski mask.
The differences between the previous attacks and Elena’s glared back at me. As far as I knew, Elena hadn’t been sexually assaulted. The other women had been college students, and all the attacks had happened within a five-block radius on campus. Elena’s murder had taken place off-campus, several miles away. And wouldn’t someone as practiced as The Silver Slasher have carried the murder weapon with him, not stolen a knife from a food truck at the last minute?
I read through a few more articles, coming to the same conclusion each time: The Silver Slasher hadn’t been responsible for Elena’s death, but it sure looked like someone else had tried to copy him.
Thirty-One
Amy
The screen flickered and steadied, the numbers lining up in orderly rows like tiny soldiers. The funds for the band scholarships and new Chromebooks had been earmarked. Amy had transferred twenty percent of the remaining money into Ravenswood’s general operating fund. Everything added up exactly the way it was supposed to. It was a relief to be in control of something. She couldn’t contain the suspicion swirling around Phoebe, or the strange man who’d been following her, or Scott’s irresponsible decisions, but she could line up the numbers and have them make sense. Her shoulders lifted with a sense of accomplishment. Accounting might not have been her true calling, but she was good at it. All those years of keeping the books for Granger Rentals hadn’t been wasted.
Behind her, Lydia blathered to someone on the phone about the importance of parking in the visitors’ lot. Amy tried to tune her out, but the volume and pitch of Lydia’s voice continued to rise the longer she talked.
Amy’s phone dinged with a message, and she tilted it toward herself, thankful for the distraction: Hi Amy. Nice to hear from you and thanks for the invitation. I’m out of town this weekend, so I won’t be able to attend. Have fun!
It was from Susan, the widow from two doors down. Amy’s weight sank deeper into her wobbly office chair. Noah’s parents had texted their excuse last night, citing a vague reference to other plans. She lifted her chin and took a breath. The new neighbors hadn’t responded yet. And Nick would be there.
A stack of papers landed on her desk, air whooshing into her face.
“I need you to collate these.” Lydia peered down at her, her skin smelling like Dial soap. Her colorless face and shapeless body begged for a pop of style, a belt, or any accessory or hint of makeup to bring her into the nearest decade.
Amy leaned back. “Okay.”
“Do you have a good stapler?”
Amy scanned the workspace, finding no stapler at all. “No. I guess I don’t have one.”
“You should always have a stapler.” Lydia’s disapproving voice carried the same tone as if she were scolding Amy for not wearing underwear. “Go get one from the supply room.”
“Will do.” Amy slipped her phone back inside her purse and closed it in her bottom drawer as Lydia hobbled toward her post at the front desk.
Amy’s shoes clicked down the shiny hallway, away from the police officer stationed near the front entrance. The corridor was empty except for a lone student walking past her and carrying a hall pass. The supply room sat in an alcove just around the bend. To her right, the door to Nick’s classroom was open, and Amy glanced in, finding the room devoid of students. He hunched behind his desk, a stack of papers in front of him. He lifted the top page and studied it.
Amy paused. Nick glanced up and smiled. Her heart leaped.
“Hi, Nick.” She kept walking, not wanting to make a big deal or seem desperate. Her trembling fingers found the supply room light switch, and she closed herself inside, pulse racing. She breathed in the inky smell, finding herself surrounded by shelves of computer paper, boxes of pens, pencils, markers, paper clips, staples, and rubber bands. Remembering the reason for her trip, she scanned the shelves for staplers.
The door creaked open behind her. Amy’s body tensed as an image of the unidentified man who’d been following her popped into her head.
“Hi.” Nick edged inside the tiny room, unsure where to position himself.
Amy huffed out a puff of air at Nick’s unexpected arrival, relief and excitement tingling over her skin.
Nick’s eyes lifted from the floor, holding Amy’s gaze, luring her toward him. His lip twitched as if he was thinking about what to say next.
Amy’s hands fell to her sides, mouth dropping open. The intoxication of new love bubbled in her chest. He’d followed her in here. She wasn’t crazy to think they had a connection. He must have felt it, too. There was no reason to wait a moment longer. She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around his sturdy shoulders, pulling his face toward hers.
“What the…?” His palms pressed against her shoulders, pushing her away. His eyes bulged in confusion. Or was it disgust?
Amy’s face burned with embarrassment, her stomach turning as she realized the enormity of her mistake. “I’m sorry. I thought you followed…” Her hand shook as it covered her mouth.
Nick rubbed his temples, inhaling. “No. It’s okay. I did follow you.” He raised his palms toward her slowly, as if trying not to frighten a wild animal. “I came in here to tell you that I can’t make it to your party on Friday. I just wanted to let you know in person, instead of sending a text.”
Amy swallowed, unable to make eye contact. Tears stung from behind her eyes. “Okay. Thank you.”
Nick dropped his head and turned away from her, opening the door. He shoved his hands in his pockets and strode down the hallway without looking back.
Amy’s legs could no longer support the weight of her body. She collapsed to the floor, squatting against a stack of binders, squeezing her eyes shut and feeling as if she was going to throw up. She’d never been so humiliated in her life. Her enormous lapse in judgment coupled with Nick’s swift rebuff was devastating. Several minutes passed before the ring of the bell jarred her back into a standing position. She smoothed back her hair and practiced smiling before exiting the claustrophobic room, letting herself get pushed downstream by the rush of oblivious students.
Lydia stared down her nose at Amy as she entered the office. “That took a while. Where’s your stapler?”
Amy noticed her empty hands. She’d completely forgotten about the stupid stapler. Her feet stumbled toward her desk. She turned off the computer and grabbed her purse out of the drawer.
“I’m not feeling so great all of a sudden. I’m going to leave early today.”
Before Lydia could respond, Amy pushed through the door and jogged to her car.
The commute home had always been quick, but today it passed in a vacuum. She couldn’t remember how she’d gotten inside the shadowy garage. She recalled scurrying to her car in the school parking lot. The next thing she knew, her foot was slamming against the brake to avoid hitting the front wall of the garage. She blinked several times, breathing deliberately. Her finger pushed the button on her key fob, killing the ignition as the back of her head leaned against the headrest. She counted silently, gathering enough strength to get out. Her forearm shoved open the door. Then she heaved her weight forward onto her wobbly legs and out of the car. Her palm found the small of her back as she stretched out a kink and peered toward the bright opening.
A car door slammed nearby, engine turning over. Amy stepped from the garage into a patch of sunlight at the top of the driveway. A black pickup truck drove past, the blip of a profile visible from the driver’s seat—baseball cap, sideburns. Her body froze. Was it the mysterious man? Or was she imagining things again? She craned her neck toward the road, but the early-afternoon light reflected off the truck’s windows, blocking her view.
She staggered toward the road, but the truck was gone. The door of her mailbox sat slightly ajar as if the mailman had been in a big hurry. Her legs continued toward the receptacle as her mind spun. Her fingers reached inside, tightening around a short stack of envelopes and fliers. She flipped through the contents, thankful to not find any more accusatory notes waiting for her.
She pulled her jacket around herself and headed toward the house but turned around when Nicolette’s Volvo rounded the bend. It was odd that a woman in such a prominent position could work such flexible hours. Things like that happened so easily for other people.
Nicolette eased to a halt when she reached the foot of Amy’s driveway, lowering the window. “Hi, Amy.” She pinched her pink lips together, propping her sleek sunglasses on top of her head.
“Hi.” Amy kept her face still, hiding her anguish from the humiliating event in the supply room.
“It’s getting colder, isn’t it?”
Amy rubbed her hands together. “Yes. It feels like it,” she lied. Her skin felt as if it were burning.
Nicolette lowered her gaze, studying Amy in that way she often did, pupils flickering, wheels turning. Her eye makeup was slightly overdone, and Amy wondered if she was coming from an important meeting.
Nicolette scratched an itch on the side of her cheek. “Are you doing okay?”
“Of course.”
“You look…” she paused, glancing toward Amy’s hands, “distressed.”
Amy looked down, too, realizing she was still rubbing her hands. Or wringing them. She crossed her arms to make it stop.
Nicolette cleared her throat and shifted in her seat. “You know, I was thinking you should make another appointment with Dr. Pilsburn. Sometimes it takes several sessions before you feel any benefit. Or, I’m happy to give you a different name.”
Amy’s toes curled inside her shoes. This again. Of course she was distressed! Nicolette didn’t need to be a world-renowned psychologist to tell her that. Besides, Nicolette didn’t know the half of it. Amy pressed her lips together, lacking the energy to respond.
Her neighbor’s phone balanced in her palm as she pressed a button. “I just sent you another name. She’s very experienced.”
Amy nodded, throwing a glance down the street.
A wave of despair began to rise from her toes. Her guest list had been whittled down to two guests, the new neighbors who hadn’t responded yet. Scott’s deceit had caused her to push everyone away. Phoebe’s association with Rowan had made people wary of their family and caused losers with too much time on their hands to leave creepy notes in their mailbox. Now Amy had no friends. Her lip quivered, but she wasn’t worried about crying. She’d passed that point.
Nicolette gawked at something beyond Amy’s shoulder, her olive skin fading and eyes bulging. Amy swung her head around to see what had caused such a reaction. A curtain rippled in the upstairs window—Phoebe’s room.
“What is it?” Amy asked.
“Is Phoebe home sick today?”
“What?”
“I’ve got to get going.” Nicolette shook her head, her features hardening. “You should go talk to your daughter. And call that number.”
Nicolette’s window slid up as she put her car in gear and zoomed into her driveway, disappearing into her garage.
A second later, the back door clicked. A bike careened down the hill and through the trees, heading into the neighbor’s yard and out onto the street. A black coat fluttered out behind the rider like a villain’s cape. Rowan hunched over the handlebars and pedaled as fast as he could go.
