“It was my pleasure.” She still had a brittle smile plastered on her face. “Now, I thought we were friends. Why don’t you put down the gun? I’ll make us a couple of drinks.”
“No, I need to keep a clear head for all the work I still have to do tonight.”
Leah wished the woman would step out of the darkness again so she could see her face. She still wasn’t sure if the gun was just a precaution or if the woman actually intended to use it.
“That business with the dog was pretty brilliant, too,” the woman said. “I had those two people working for me—kids really—but you . . . well, you didn’t even know you were working for me. Still, I think you were the most effective one. Remember that detective I told you about—the one who dug up the names of so many of Dylan’s girlfriends?”
“Yes,” Leah answered, wide-eyed.
“The detective drew up profiles of each one, and without a doubt, you took the prize. For a while there, you were so relentless, like a little honey badger. I read some of those emails you wrote to Dylan, and I said to myself: ‘If she moves in next door, that insane bitch is going to push Sheila over the edge.’ And honey, you haven’t disappointed me.”
Leah moved back and almost tripped over the bottom step of the spiral staircase. She grabbed on to the railing. “Can’t we talk without the gun?” she pleaded. “We’re supposed to be friends.”
“First, do me a favor. Gently toss that box cutter on the floor—in front of me.”
Leah tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry. She picked up the box cutter and lobbed it over toward the woman. It landed near her feet.
“Good girl,” she whispered. Then she nodded toward the staircase. “Sit down.”
Leah was obedient. But the metal step had a grating that dug uncomfortably into her buttocks. “I thought you were going to get rid of the gun. Like I said earlier, you and I are on the same side.”
“You were—until you screwed Dylan this afternoon.”
Leah was stunned the woman knew. She shrugged helplessly. “Well, why come after me? You and I both know he’s slept with dozens of women.”
“Yes, I expected him to be unfaithful to Sheila. But I’ll be damned if he cheats on me.”
“You’re seeing him?”
The woman nodded. “He’s very much in love with me. He’s been leaning on me a great deal while his wife becomes more and more unhinged. And I’m in love with him. I knew him way before you did, Leah. I lost him to my best friend. But she’s dead now.”
“What—are you killing all the women Dylan has slept with?”
“No. I threw my friend off a rooftop because she stood in the way of my plan. If I was intent on killing every woman Dylan has slept with since he married Sheila, I’d need an army.” She snickered. “But that was the old Dylan. He loves me now, and no woman is going to spoil that. I happened to see him slip up yesterday with a schoolteacher—in her car, no less. So she had to die. I killed her last night.”
Leah squirmed on the grated step. She’d heard something on the radio this afternoon about a high school teacher shot to death in her home in Shoreline. She wondered if that was what her “friend” was talking about.
“And you, Leah,” the woman said. “You fucked him this afternoon, so now you’re the one who’s fucked.”
She quickly shook her head. “But I didn’t. Nothing really happened.”
“That’s not what my girl told me. She saw the two of you screwing on the dining room table.”
“It just looked that way!” Leah insisted. “I—I admit, I tried to seduce him, but nothing actually happened. So—so it must be that he really is in love with you, because he didn’t want me. I swear, that’s the truth . . .”
Leah wondered if this ploy would help save her life. “So—you win,” she said with a scared, pathetic little laugh. “Hell, you can’t blame a girl for trying. Besides, I didn’t know he was yours. And anyway, you don’t have to worry about me. I’ll move out tomorrow and clear the field for you. Nothing happened with him this afternoon. The girl got the wrong idea about us. Okay? I mean, you don’t have to kill me . . .”
“Oh, I’m not going to kill you,” the woman said quietly. “Sheila O’Rourke will. Sheila killed that schoolteacher last night, too. She shot her in the throat.”
Leah didn’t understand. The woman wasn’t making any sense.
“This is Sheila’s coat I’m wearing,” she explained. With the gun muzzle, she pointed down to her feet. “And these are Sheila’s shoes. I have hair samples from Sheila’s hairbrush. And it’s only a matter of time before investigators find the strands I left behind in that teacher’s bedroom. They won’t be able to trace the gun, but the bullets will lead them straight to Sheila. She bought them on Wednesday and paid for them with a personal check.”
“So you’re framing her for this teacher’s murder?” Leah asked.
“Not just her murder.” The woman slid a gloved hand into her coat pocket and carefully took out a scrunched-up tissue. She let it drop on the floor. “Sheila’s DNA will be found here, too. I’m afraid they’ll think she was an awful sloppy murderess. But then, when someone goes on a killing spree and then shoots herself, she can’t be expected to cover her tracks.”
“Killing spree?” Leah repeated.
“Those plans of mine to eventually drive Sheila to an apparent suicide,” the woman explained, “they had to be accelerated, thanks to certain things beyond my control. I really didn’t count on the teacher—or you. And there’s someone in a hospital in Issaquah that I still need to take care of. This ‘killing spree’ is part of my plan B. And actually, I think it works out even better than the original plan.”
Leah inched backward off the bottom step of the spiral staircase and up three steps. She gazed at the woman through the railing bars. She couldn’t think of any possible way to escape other than maybe running up the steps to the rooftop deck. Once she got the door open, she’d scream and scream—if she was able to get that far without being shot. There were some potted plants and garden tools up there. She might be able to use one of the tools as a weapon. Leah couldn’t think of anything else—except to keep this woman talking and stall her. “Who else is going to die in this killing spree?” she asked. “I mean, we’re friends, right? I’d like to help.”
“You’ve already done your part, Leah. Dylan knows my girl saw you two screwing this afternoon. By the time I’m done, he’ll assume his wife found out about the two of you and went berserk—just like she did last night with that schoolteacher he screwed. You’ve provided Sheila with the perfect motivation to go on a rampage. The evidence will show she shot two of her husband’s most recent illicit lovers before killing her son and herself tonight. That ought to help Dylan keep his zipper shut from now on.”
Leah stared at her. “Then you’ll move in on him, and he’ll be faithful to you? Is that it?”
She nodded. “Plan B. Dylan is already turning to me for comfort. After a suitable grieving period, we’ll move away and raise our daughter together, along with his two other children.”
Leah shifted around and scooted up two more steps on the spiral staircase. “But you said he knew you from before,” she pointed out. “Are you going to keep pretending you’re someone else for the rest of the time you’re with him?”
“I’ve already changed my life around to raise his daughter. And I’ve killed for him. I don’t mind changing my identity, as long as I can keep him.”
“Your daughter, is she the pale blonde?” Leah asked. “I didn’t think she was part of the family seven years ago . . .”
“Yes, she’s mine—and Dylan’s.”
Leah moved up another step. “Where is she now?”
“She’s run away, right on cue—as instructed. She’s made sure that the son tells Dylan she’s gone. That way, when the killing starts, she won’t be a suspect or even a potential witness.”
Leah stole a glance up at the landing to the rooftop deck access. She was halfway the
re. “But—well, aren’t you worried she’s going to give you away eventually?”
“She isn’t in on everything. I think she has a pretty good idea about what’s going to happen tonight to her stepmother and half brother. And I suspect she has some misgivings. But I’m the only real parent she has, and she’ll do what I tell her. Still, I should get going.”
Leah got to her feet and watched the woman raise the gun.
“Sheila needs to start killing,” the woman said.
“No, wait, please!” Leah begged. She stood up and desperately raced up the narrow metal steps, but lost her footing a few steps from the top. She slammed her knee against the edge of a step and tumbled back down the spiral stairs with a clatter. She heard bones snap as her arm banged against the wrought iron steps and railing. She landed at the bottom of the staircase, helpless. Her body wracked with pain, she gasped for breath.
Gazing up, Leah tried to focus on the woman standing over her with the gun. The woman’s face was expressionless. Past the ringing in her ears, Leah almost didn’t hear the woman whisper: “I’ll give Dylan a kiss for you . . .”
But she clearly heard the gunshot.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Saturday—9:59 P.M.
Steve listened to the water pipes humming. It sounded like his mother was in the shower upstairs.
Dodgeball was wrapping up on the kitchen TV. Steve had set aside a small stack of photos of the woman he suspected was Eden’s “other mother.” He was now dumping all the other photographs back into the two boxes. If they were supposed to be in any special order he was screwed, because he hadn’t been paying attention.
Steve kept thinking about his phone conversation with Eden nearly twenty minutes ago. He wondered why she kept telling him to call their dad about her running away. She knew their father was at the police station and probably couldn’t take the call. And why didn’t she just call him herself? It didn’t make any sense.
She kept saying she was sorry, too. It almost sounded as if she were planning to kill herself.
Or was she sorry about something else? Something that was about to happen here in this house tonight? Steve remembered another thing she’d said: “I really wish you’d run away with me when I asked you . . .”
A loud bang from outside made him jump.
It sounded like a gunshot. It came from the Curtis house, where that crazy lady was staying. All he could think was that, earlier tonight, she’d thrown a dirtball at the house. Did that nutcase own a gun?
Steve was almost afraid to look, but he moved the curtain aside and tried to see if anything was happening across the way. Except for a light in one second-floor window, the house was dark.
Moving away from the kitchen window, Steve ran to the foot of the stairs. “Mom?” he yelled. “Mom, are you okay? Can you hear me up there?”
There was no answer—just the hum of pipes.
He turned and looked at the front door. Instead of just hurling dirtballs at it, maybe the crazy lady now intended to shoot her way in.
Running back into the kitchen, he swiped his phone off the table and dialed his dad’s number. It went directly to voicemail. “Shit,” Steve murmured, anxiously awaiting the prompt. Beep.
“Hey, Dad, when are you coming home?” he asked. “I—I just heard a gunshot outside. At least, I think that’s what it was. The crazy lady next door was over here earlier tonight, ranting at Mom and saying all sorts of creepy stuff about you. And Eden’s run away. I’m really worried. I keep thinking Eden might kill herself or something. What’s taking you so long? Mom’s upstairs in the shower. She wasn’t feeling well earlier. I’m worried about her, too. Could you—could you just come home? I feel like something bad is about to happen.”
*
“Thank God,” Dylan said.
With the phone to his ear, he hurried through the light rain toward his car. He’d left the BMW parked in front of Brooke’s building while he’d gone next door to check the resident listing on the call box. There hadn’t been any Brooke Crowley or Paul Crowley listed as living in that building, either.
“Where are you?” Brooke asked.
“I’m out in front of your apartment building. Didn’t you get my text?”
“No. What are you doing there?”
“I was worried about you.”
There was a beep from his phone—his call waiting. Dylan ignored it.
“Listen, I couldn’t find you anywhere on the call box,” he said. “And I ran into some guy who said he was president of the condo board or something. He said he’d never heard of you.”
“Oh, that guy. He did that to another friend of ours just last week. I’ve only introduced myself to the guy like twenty times. The condo belongs to Paul’s sister. We’re subletting. It’s her married name on the call box.”
“Well, could you come down and meet me?”
“I’m not there. But I do need to see you, Dylan. In fact it—it’s kind of an emergency.”
He stopped in front of his car. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
“Not really. Can you meet me at Ray’s Boathouse? Do you know where that is?”
“Yeah, it’s in Ballard,” he said. The restaurant-bar was also about half an hour away.
“I should be there in about five minutes,” she said, her voice shaky. “I wouldn’t ask you to come if it wasn’t important. I really need you right now. I’ll explain everything when you get here. Okay?”
Dylan ducked into the BMW and shut the door. “Can’t you at least tell me what this is about?”
“When you get here,” she said. “And please, please, hurry. I love you.”
She clicked off.
Frazzled, Dylan started up the car and peeled out of the condo’s driveway. He tried to think of the most direct way to Ballard. Every route that came to mind from Capitol Hill to Ray’s Boathouse seemed convoluted—full of stops through neighborhood centers. He switched on his wipers again and turned down Belmont Avenue, like he was headed to his gym.
Brooke had sounded upset, maybe even scared. Had Leah tracked her down and threatened her? Brooke had said it was an emergency. She wouldn’t have asked him to drop everything and drive to the other side of town just because she was feeling blue or had argued with her husband.
Dylan sped down the high, curved overpass. The road was slick with rain. The car started to skid, so he eased off the accelerator. At the bottom of the overpass, he hit a red light. “Shit,” he muttered.
Impatiently tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, he realized something. With the trip to Ballard, there was no way he’d make it back home in an hour, like he’d told Sheila in his voicemail.
He also remembered that someone had tried to call while he’d been talking to Brooke. Dylan checked his phone. Steve had left a voicemail.
A car horn blared—right behind him. Startled, Dylan saw the light had turned green.
He tossed the phone on the passenger seat and stepped on the gas.
He told himself he’d listen to Steve’s message at the next red light.
*
Steve knocked on his parents’ bedroom door. He had his phone in his other hand. He could hear the shower roaring in the master bathroom, where his mother had been for at least twenty minutes now. With everything that was happening, he couldn’t help worrying about her, too. She’d gotten an earful from that crazy lady tonight, and he kept thinking about how his dad had once called his mom “emotionally fragile.”
Steve had heard stories about people killing themselves in bathtubs. They slit their wrists open and bled to death. The tub full of warm water was supposed to dull the pain, or something.
“Mom?” he yelled. “Mom, can you hear me?”
The shower kept going.
Steve opened the bedroom door. It was dark, but there was enough light from the hallway behind him that he could see the bedroom was empty. The bathroom door was closed, and he noticed the thin strip of light at the threshold. Steve was about to knoc
k and call to his mother again, but then, past the sound of the shower, he heard a noise downstairs.
He rushed out to the hallway. It sounded like someone was trying to get in the front door. He heard the key in the lock.
He hoped it was his dad. Or maybe Eden had changed her mind and come back.
Steve hurried to the stairs, then stopped halfway down—just as the front door opened. He was baffled by what he saw. He couldn’t make out the woman’s face. But if he didn’t know any better, he’d have thought it was his mother letting herself inside. The woman had the same kind of hair as his mom, along with a purple coat his mother sometimes wore.
The phone rang in Steve’s hand.
The strange woman in the foyer glanced up at him. It wasn’t his mother, of course. And it wasn’t the crazy lady from next door. But there was a passing resemblance to the woman he’d seen in those photos with Eden’s mom.
She had a gun in her hand—pointed at him. “Don’t answer it!” she commanded. “Let it ring.”
Steve started to tremble. He stole a glance at the Caller ID. It was his dad calling.
“Put the phone down, Steve.”
How did she know his name? He half-turned and set the phone over to the side on a step behind him. It kept ringing. Steve turned to face her again. He kept thinking of all the true-crime murder stories he’d read. And now it was happening to him.
“Good boy,” she whispered, like he was an obedient dog. “Now, where’s your mother?”
*
The water pipes squeaked as Sheila turned off the shower. She’d had a long, hard cry while sitting in the tub with the water washing over her. She hadn’t wanted Steve to hear her sobs.
She could no longer turn a blind eye to Dylan’s infidelities—not now, not when her children knew about them. She used to reassure herself that Dylan always came back to her after fooling around with other women. But Sheila now realized maybe that wasn’t such a good thing.
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