Leah knew the only obstacles standing between her and Dylan were his stupid wife and those three kids. She’d never really gotten over being dumped by him years ago. And over the past several months, all that passion, rage, and yearning had been stirred up again by a series of phone conversations with Leah’s new “friend.”
The anonymous woman had one of those blocked numbers, so Leah had no way of calling her back. She’d started out just leaving messages. Leah still remembered the first one: “That Dylan O’Rourke was a fool to let you go.”
That had been all. Then she’d hung up.
But it had gotten Leah’s attention. It was like hearing the voice inside her head, the one reassuring her that she was right and everyone else could go to hell. But now it was somebody else’s voice, almost as if she had her own personal cheerleader: “That wife of his is such a frump. Stupid Sheila, I call her. Dylan would be so much happier with you . . .”
It got so that Leah looked forward to the calls. The woman wanted to remain anonymous, referring to herself as a “concerned friend,” which was frustrating. Leah would have loved to sit down with her, mix a batch of martinis, and talk about Dylan. Her “concerned friend” admitted that she’d been with Dylan, and he’d unceremoniously dumped her, too. A private investigator who owed her a favor had been able to track down the names of several other women Dylan had been with. The detective had even gained access to some of Dylan’s old emails. “That’s how I got your name,” her friend told her. “And oh my God, those emails you wrote him were hot. So sexy! How could Dylan just ignore you like that? After reading what you wrote and seeing what you look like, well, I guess I don’t feel so bad anymore that Dylan dumped me. What a fool he is! You’re gorgeous, Leah.”
Her friend texted her shots that looked like surveillance photos of Dylan and his family. One batch showed them in a restaurant, and another bunch was from a Fourth of July celebration. In some of the shots, her anonymous friend had defaced Sheila’s image. Some of the embellishments were lewd and pretty funny.
Leah’s new friend also sent her a notice that the house next door to Dylan’s was on the market to rent. The accompanying text message simply read:
U have to move in!
Leah was no fool. A part of her knew the woman was setting her up for something. But she wasn’t ready to push away someone who told her everything she wanted to hear. It was like having a fan, someone completely devoted to her. Plus, Leah believed that a couple of women working in secret together could really make a man suffer and repent. Her friend assured her that they’d meet someday.
Meanwhile, the notion of living next door to Dylan was just too good to pass up. Before moving in, Leah couldn’t quite decide if she wanted to make his life miserable or if she wanted him back.
“Make Sheila’s life miserable,” her friend suggested. “Have fun. And you’ll get him back eventually, Leah. He won’t be able to resist you.”
Her friend always knew what she wanted to hear.
Leah got a look at the layout of the place. What really appealed to her was how, from one of the bedrooms, she could look through the window into Dylan and Sheila’s bedroom. After securing the rental, one of the first things Leah did was go to the pound and adopt the noisiest dog there. In confidence, one of the employees at the shelter had even tried to talk her out of it.
After moving in, Leah was delighted to see that Dylan wasn’t even sleeping with Sheila. Leah was dying for her friend to call so she could share this little tidbit with her. But the woman hadn’t called or texted since Leah had made the move.
That first night, when she’d seen Sheila alone in the bedroom, Leah locked Trudy in the bedroom across from hers. On the other side of the door, she’d shaken the Milk-Bone box to get the dog all stirred up, thinking she had a treat. And just to make sure Trudy kept barking, Leah opened a can of dog food and left it outside the closed door. She knew the animal would go crazy from the smell. All night, Trudy kept howling and scratching at the door. Leah knew it was a mean thing to do to the dog, but she couldn’t stop giggling when she thought about Sheila just across the way.
Leah didn’t stick around very long, though. The constant barking was unbearable. She slept at the Four Seasons that night, and the next.
On Thursday night, she’d been about to go through the routine of torturing Trudy again when she noticed Dylan alone in the bedroom across the way. He was in his boxer shorts and passed by the window only twice before the light went out. There had been no sign of frumpy Sheila.
The dog got a break that night. And the following evening, Leah dressed in a sexy nightgown and kept a vigil at the window, waiting for Dylan to return. She imagined Dylan’s surprise when he spotted her across the way. She even indulged in a little fantasy in which the two of them drove each other crazy masturbating for each other.
Unfortunately, Sheila was back in the bedroom that night, spoiling all of Leah’s plans. Leah went back to torturing the dog instead, but Trudy was growing tired of the routine and didn’t create quite as much of a racket as she had the previous nights.
Leah hadn’t expected to grow so attached to the damn mutt. But now that the German shepherd had been gone six hours, Leah was worried about her. Leah didn’t think she’d be able to sleep tonight unless the dog was in the house. She glanced out the kitchen window. All the shades were drawn next door, and there was no sign of Trudy in the backyard.
Suddenly, she heard a scraping noise upstairs. Leah froze. It sounded like something had been dragged across the floor.
Leah told herself she simply wasn’t used to this house. Without the dog scurrying around, the strange quiet was unsettling. Every little noise was exaggerated.
She glanced at the kitchen door. How long had it been open—ten or fifteen minutes? That was certainly long enough for someone to sneak into the house and creep upstairs.
The floorboards creaked above her.
Leah looked up at the ceiling. That wasn’t the sound of the house settling. It was the sound of footsteps. She backed up and bumped into a stack of moving boxes by the breakfast table. A box cutter fell from the top of the stack and hit the floor with a clank.
The footsteps above suddenly stopped.
Leah swiped the box cutter off the floor and padded into the front hallway. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs. The sounds had seemed to come from the room in which she’d locked the dog those nights she’d been trying to drive Sheila crazy. But Leah couldn’t be certain.
She pushed the little lever on the side of the box cutter, and the blade slid out. As she crept up the steps, Leah could hear the footsteps again—coming from that same bedroom.
A part of her felt a strange thrill at the notion of a burglar. Her heart was racing. She’d never killed anyone before. The prowler might not even know she had the box cutter in her hand until it was too late and she’d slit his throat. But maybe it wasn’t a burglar. Perhaps Sheila O’Rourke or the son had snuck into the house. Or maybe Dylan was waiting for her upstairs—naked and back for more after today’s interrupted session. By the time she reached the dark second-floor landing, Leah was still scared. But she also felt like this was part of some exciting, dangerous game.
The footsteps stopped again. Her intruder must have heard her skulking up the stairs.
Leah glanced inside the bathroom: empty. The shower curtain was open, so she didn’t even need to switch on the light or step inside the bathroom to double-check.
She heard a light thud and shuffle of papers, like someone had dropped a small book on the floor in the master bedroom. Leah hurried to the bedroom and switched on the light. An open Architectural Digest was on the carpeted floor directly in her path. Some of the mail-in subscription cards had fallen out. Scanning the room, she noticed that the closet door was open. On the bed, someone had laid out some of her sex toys.
She was trembling now. Yet she couldn’t help hoping it was Dylan, playing with her, taunting her. She hurried across the room to the master
bathroom, where the door was ajar. She opened it and quickly switched on the light. The shower curtain fluttered. As she ripped the curtain open, the hooks made a scraping noise on the curtain rod. No one was hiding in the tub.
She heard two knocks. They seemed to come from the hallway.
She padded across the bedroom, noticing the magazine again. Her intruder must have thrown it into the bedroom from the hall. By the time Leah reached the door and peered down the shadowy corridor, she could hear water running. It came from the bathroom she’d checked earlier.
Unnerved, she raced down the hallway to the darkened bathroom. Water flowed from the sink faucet. With a shaky hand, Leah turned it off. She emerged from the bathroom, angry now. At one end of the hallway was the second bedroom, where she’d kept the dog those nights she wanted to torment Sheila.
At the other end of the hall to the right was a wrought iron spiral staircase that led up to the rooftop deck. She’d been up there earlier today, enjoying the spectacular view of Portage Bay—and Dylan in the ravaged garden next door.
Leah thought she saw something move by the staircase.
“Who’s there?” she yelled. She tightened her grip on the box cutter. Her nerves were frayed. “I’m sick of this! Who’s there? Quit fucking with me!”
“I will,” she heard a woman murmur behind her, “as soon as you quit fucking with my husband.”
Leah swiveled around. A woman in a purple coat stood just outside the second bedroom’s door. She looked like Sheila at first glimpse. Yet the voice, though familiar, wasn’t Sheila’s. It was too dark to make out the woman’s face.
But Leah could clearly see the gun in her hand.
Shaking her head, she backed toward the spiral staircase. “Who are you?”
“Drop the box cutter, Leah,” the woman said quietly. Her face was still in the shadows.
Leah backed into the staircase. Obediently, she set the knife on one of the lower steps. It clanked, metal against metal. “Who the hell are you?” Leah said, raising her voice.
“I’m Mrs. O’Rourke,” the woman whispered. “And I won’t let you ruin my family.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Saturday—9:41 P.M.
They gave me a bathroom break. I’m still at the police station. I should b home in an hour or so. Is everyone ok? XXX
While Dylan waited for Sheila to respond, he checked the last text he’d sent—along with the time he’d sent it: 9:19 P.M.
R u still on the cruise? I need to talk with u and hear ur voice. Please call asap. It’s urgent. Concerns that woman following u. I may come by ur place to check on u. Please call.
There was still no response from Brooke.
Sitting at the wheel of his BMW, Dylan anxiously glanced at his wristwatch.
His phone chimed. It was a text from Sheila:
We r fine. Hurry home.
It seemed a bit curt, like Sheila was pissed off at him about something. Then again, what else was new? Dylan texted back:
C u soon!
He’d lied to Sheila in the earlier text. Detective Laskin had finally let him go about twenty-five minutes ago. Laskin had told Dylan they probably wouldn’t go public with the intimate details of his story, but there was no guarantee of that. And they might want to talk with him again.
Dylan hadn’t said anything to the detective about Leah or Brooke. But he couldn’t stop thinking about the woman who had called Brooke in the middle of the night and might have been following her. Could it have been Leah? Could she have been following and watching him when he’d been with Miranda Warren, too?
He’d parked down the street, a block from the precinct station. The minute Dylan had climbed inside his car, he’d texted Brooke.
That had been twenty minutes ago.
Now, he was about a mile away from the police station, and he’d just bought himself another hour before Sheila expected him home. He needed this time so he could talk to Brooke and make sure she was all right.
Dylan couldn’t help thinking something bad had happened to her. He hadn’t heard from her since this morning, when she’d said she would try to get out of going on the Puget Sound cruise with her husband. Dylan figured she’d been unable to wiggle out of the trip or find a moment alone to text him. But it had been ten hours, for God’s sake, and now he was worried. He needed Brooke to tell him that she was all right, and then he’d be able to breathe easy again.
The BMW had been idling for a few minutes. Dylan finally switched off the ignition. He was in a guest parking space in the half-circle driveway in front of Brooke’s ten-story building. He knew he was taking a chance of fouling things up with her husband if the guy was home, but Dylan had to make sure she was okay.
Climbing out of the car, he figured if the husband answered the intercom or the door, he’d say that he knew Brooke from Children’s Hospital. He’d say that his daughter had been a patient there—no, his and his husband’s daughter had been recently released from the hospital, and Brooke had been so nice, and he was sorry to drop by unannounced, and blah-blah-blah. He’d be fine, he’d finesse this. He just hoped Brooke would answer the intercom and the husband would be out, or asleep, or in the shower.
By the glass double doors to the lobby, Dylan checked the resident call box, but he couldn’t find the name Crowley anywhere. Was that her maiden name? There must have been about a hundred people living in the building. Her husband’s name was Paul. Dylan started going through the listing, pressing the pound sign for the next name and then the next, hunting for someone with the initials P or B, or a couple with the initials P & B. He’d gotten through about twenty names when a white-haired, fifty-something man wearing a brown leather bomber jacket stepped out of the building. “Excuse me,” Dylan said. “I’m sorry to bother you. But do you live here?”
The guy gave him a wary look. “Yes.”
“I’m trying to get ahold of Brooke Crowley, but I don’t see her name in the directory.”
The man squinted at him. “Is she a guest of someone who lives here?”
“No, she lives here. She’s lived here for a couple of years.”
The man shook his head. “No, there’s nobody here by that name.”
Dylan laughed. “But I just dropped her off here last week. Brooke Crowley. Her husband’s name is Paul. Paul and Brooke . . .”
“No, you’ve got the wrong building,” the man said, looking like he was ready to move on. “Maybe it’s the next building down—or the next one. People get the three buildings mixed up. They kind of look alike.”
“No, I’m sure it’s this one,” Dylan said.
The man started to walk away.
“Y’know, there must be a hundred residents in there,” Dylan yelled at the man. “I’m sorry, but how can you be so sure my friend doesn’t live here? You can’t know everybody in the building, buddy.”
Hands in his jacket pockets, the man turned. “A hundred and sixteen residents,” he called. “And I’m president of the condo board, buddy. It’s my job to know everybody who lives in this building. Try the next building over.”
He turned and continued walking. But he kept looking over his shoulder.
Dylan finally retreated to his car. He stopped and rattled off a quick text to Brooke:
Where r u? I’m at ur place. Please call!
He sent the text and set down the phone. He looked up at the ten-story structure. Brooke didn’t live in the next building over or the next one. It was this building.
“What the hell?” he murmured to himself.
*
Trembling, Leah stood by the wrought iron spiral staircase. She stared down the darkened corridor at the woman in the purple raincoat—and at the gun in her hand. Leah realized the intruder was wearing thin, nearly transparent surgical gloves.
“You’re not Mrs. O’Rourke,” Leah said.
“Not yet,” she replied. She took a step forward into the light from the master bedroom.
Leah didn’t recognize the woman. Ther
e was a passing resemblance to Sheila. The light brown hair was almost exactly the same cut and style, only this woman’s hair looked like a wig. Leah knew enough about makeup and hairstyles to discern a wig from real hair. And this was a wig—a decent one, but still a wig. The woman was in her forties, and pretty—the kind of prettiness money could buy. She’d had work done, at least some Botox around the eyes and forehead. Leah knew because she’d had the same kind of work done.
“Say something else,” Leah whispered. “I know your voice . . .”
“We’ve talked on the phone enough, Leah. I’d think you should.”
“It’s you,” Leah laughed. “My concerned friend.”
The woman stepped forward, past the shaft of light pouring from the bedroom, and then stopped. She was in the shadows again. But Leah could still see the gun in her steady hand. “I told you we’d meet eventually,” the woman said.
Leah let out another nervous laugh. “Aren’t we on the same side?”
“We were. In fact, my compliments on the job you did on Sheila’s garden. That was really inspired.”
“Well, thanks,” Leah said with a baffled smile. She wondered when her friend was going to put down the gun.
“Me, I was working on Sheila from inside. I had a brilliant plan to drive Sheila insane, to the point of an apparent suicide or some fatal accident that could have been avoided. Did you ever see that old movie Gaslight?”
Leah shook her head.
“It doesn’t matter. The objective was to clear the way for me. I had someone in the house providing me with lots of valuable information. I also had someone else sneaking in there when no one was home, creating little booby traps and tampering with certain food and beverage items only Sheila consumes. I was able to do some serious damage. In fact, I nearly killed the bitch a couple of times. I certainly messed her up some. But what you did to her garden . . . well, that really left her devastated. Bravo, Leah.”
The Betrayed Wife Page 36