The Woman Inside
Page 30
“Buyer beware,” he answers. I see that look of intent curiosity take shape behind his eyes.
“You’ll be keeping an eye on the place, I imagine.”
My partner grins at me. “Don’t see as I’ll much be able to help myself. Anyway, let’s hit it.”
* * *
WE’RE ON OUR way back to the station house when Duff starts howling from the back of the cruiser. I look out the window in the direction of his protests and see a black Lab sitting on the front porch of a home, pawing at the screen door. “Wolcott, slow down.”
“What is it?”
“Isn’t that Sheila Maxwell’s place?”
“I believe it is.” He pulls the cruiser over to the side of the road.
I step out and open the back door. Duff shoots straight past me toward the Lab. The dogs meet in the middle of the lawn and proceed to roll around in a heap of fur. Wolcott steps out of the cruiser and walks around to my side. He nods in the direction of a neighbor who’s watering flowers in a window box. We approach the house.
“Pardon me, ma’am?” he says.
The woman turns and smiles warmly at us. “Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you. I’m Detective Wolcott, and this is my partner, Detective Silvestri.”
“Well, hello, Detectives. How are you today?”
“Fine, thank you. Beautiful petunias,” I say.
“Well, aren’t you just the sweetest! How can I help you?”
“We were wondering if you could tell us about any activity you may have noticed at that house,” he says, pointing next door.
“Oh goodness,” she responds. “There was a young woman living there who just up and disappeared some months back. I hadn’t seen the dog for a while either. But she’s been showing up again recently, looking for her owner. Poor thing. I was debating whether to call animal control.”
“We’ll take care of it. Thank you for your time.”
“Of course. Find her a good home, okay?”
“We sure will, ma’am,” I say.
We cross the lawn to corral the dogs. The Lab approaches me and begins licking my hands as my partner pets Duff. I reach down to get a look at her ID tag. Printed on one side is the address of the house we’re standing in front of. I flip the tag over to read the name “Molly” etched into the metal. I pet her behind the ears as she pants happily. “Okay, sweetheart. Let’s get you out of here.”
epilogue
WES
OKAY, STAY COOL. You’ve got this.
As I turn in to the driveway, I see a charcoal-gray Audi parked just past the front door. The woman leans against the driver’s-side door, taking in the expanse of yard. She’s early—generally a good sign with a prospective buyer. And this prospective buyer is attractive. Hot, really. Not a bad perk. More important, she has an optimistic look to her: open face, relaxed body. This could go well.
I hear the muffled sound of the soft give of pebbles as I come to a stop and turn off the engine. I take a deep breath, collect myself, and step out of the BMW. The woman approaches and extends her hand warmly. I return the effort.
“Ms. Graves?”
“Please, call me Molly.”
“Wes.”
“Thanks for coming out, Wes.”
“My pleasure.”
She looks over my shoulder toward the BMW. “Bloodred. That’s a bold choice, Wes. I respect that.”
“Speaking of, that’s quite a stone you’ve got on your finger.”
“Thank you,” she says. “It’s something of a hand-me-down.”
“Well, fortune favors the bold, as they say.”
She smirks. “You’re not going to charge me a fortune for this house, I hope.”
I smile. “I’ll be gentle with you.”
“Chivalry is not dead.” Her tone is decidedly flirty.
I key the lock to the front door, and we enter. I walk just a step ahead and study her eyes as they move from detail to well-executed detail: cherry floors, pine beams, stone fireplace, cathedral ceiling. The midday light spilling through the picture windows sets off every surface. I feel a pang of envy at the artistry on display in even the smallest flourish. She is calm. She takes her time, savoring the experience. When she finally turns to me, she speaks in a measured manner. “So, let’s get down to it.”
She’s read up on the case and knows very well what transpired within these walls—or at least the way the papers reported it. Troubled marriage, adultery, double suicide. But the media never gets the full story. They can never know the victims the way those close to them did. The love and devotion that lived below all the drama and conflict on the surface.
I mention that the deceased were friends, a revelation that engenders her sympathy without putting a dent in her resolve. She’s market savvy, and when I suggest what this house would fetch under normal circumstances, she doesn’t hesitate to lowball me. We volley numbers. She’s long on the charm, and before I know it, she’s managed to get me to agree to go below my number.
We shake on the deal. She exudes warmth, even in the wake of her cold and clinical negotiation. I find myself captivated by the transaction. She clearly knows what she wants and just how to get it, as evidenced by the check for the deposit she produces and hands to me. I marvel at the number displayed on the check, a sum lower than I thought I’d ever agree to. There’s something about this woman.
She turns away to take in the details of her new home. When she turns back to me, her other hand has moved to her face. She cups her cheek. I watch as her finger traces its way down her throat and out along the length of her collarbone. She smiles at me.
“Ever seen something for the first time and known it was what you’d always wanted?”
acknowledgments
While The Woman Inside was written in a little more than a year, it has been in the making over the course of our twenty-three-year friendship.
It wouldn’t have been possible without the love, support, and encouragement from so many people. And while there is just one name on the book, and two writers, there is an army of people who’ve made this book a reality.
For the early reads and invaluable advice (and the best damn sourdough bread), a huge thanks to our incredible agent, Christopher Schelling, and to Augusten Burroughs. We are grateful beyond words.
We were incredibly lucky to have the publishing dream team at Dutton. From the incredible editorial talent in the hands of John Parsley, who believed in this book so enthusiastically from the beginning, and Maya Ziv’s wise editorial guidance at every turn, and Cassidy Sachs’s ongoing support and help, we are so very grateful. So many thanks go to our powerhouse publicity and marketing crew, made up of Kayleigh George, Amanda Walker, Jamie Knapp, Kathleen Carter, and Jon Reyes. Special thanks to Christine Ball for her amazing support from the first read, and to Madeline McIntosh, Alison Dobson, and Lauren Monaco (and her amazing sales team) for their enthusiasm for our book. To our brilliant jacket designer Christopher Lin, and everyone else who typeset, copyedited, designed, etc.
To our intrepid film agent, Pouya Shabazian, who saw the potential for our book to be adapted to TV early on and got it into the hands of the awesome team at Blumhouse: Jason Blum, Marci Wiseman, and Jeremy Gold, and everyone else there who is developing the series; and to J R McGinnis at Felker Toczek Suddleson Abramson LLP.
To our foreign rights and translation team: Chris Lotts, Nicola Barr, Lara Allen, Liberty Roach, and Katie Brown at Trapeze in the UK, thank you for all of your work on our behalf to bring this book all over the world.
To our incredibly supportive families: Anne, Susan, Gordon, John, Eva, Rich, Veronica, Carole, Madeline, John, Charlie, Thomas, Jesy, and Bernadette. To Lori and Lis, and especially Tom and Nina for the love of all things books, writing, and storytelling.
To our writing groups through the years, with special thanks to Ruiy
an Xui, Brian Selfon, Jason Boog, Joelle Renstrom, Sacha Wynne, Sarah Stodola, Erum Naqvi, Douglas Belford, Matthew Gilbert, David Litman, Matt Laird, Dave Hill, Sebastian Beacon, Jesse St. Louis, Michael Dowling, Eugene Cordero, Ron Petronicolos, and Chris Swinko.
To Anna Dunne, whose enthusiasm, faith, and love helped make this such an exciting journey.
To Trebor Evans, for all the shop talk over the years. You helped make Wolcott and Silvestri come off the page.
To Margery Masters, Maryellen LeClerc, Arthur Cardone, Anthony Mangano, Don Gilpin, and Nancy Himsel for fostering a love of the written word at an early age.
To everyone at Macmillan, Bob Miller, and Amy Einhorn, and everyone at Flatiron Books and to Carisa Hays, who gave me my first job in publishing and has always encouraged me to reach for the stars. For early reads, advice, mentorship, and support, special thanks to Don Weisberg, Andrew Weber, John Sargent, Fritz Foy, Pace Barnes, and Thomas Harris.
Melissa Shabazian, for her incredible championing and coaching. Brian Pedone, for inspiration, motivation, and pugilist life lessons. Leslie Padgett, for cosmic and earthly advice, and championing and support from the incredible writers and friends in our lives: Maris Kreizman, Holly Bishop, Elizabeth Stein, Daniel Mallory, Hank Cochrane, Rennie Dyball, Glennon Doyle, and Jenny Lawson.
To everyone from Screaming Muse Productions, and for lifetime friendships onstage and off, with Maurice Smith, Jason Weiner, Daniela Tedesco, Mike Bromberger, and Natasha Tsoutsouris.
A special thanks to J L Stermer, whose friendship has been a lifeline and a source of strength, laughter, and motivation for both of us to keep telling stories together.
And to the people who are no longer with us but who’ve been so important in our lives, we thank and miss you: Richard Wands, Bill Rosen, Elizabeth Calhoun, Carey Longmire, Tom and Nora Keenan, Patricia and Gordon Sabine, and Paul Williams.
about the authors
E. G. Scott is a pseudonym for two New York City–based writers. One, Elizabeth Keenan, is a writer and publishing consultant. She has worked in book publishing for eighteen years for imprints of Simon & Schuster, Penguin Random House, and Macmillan. And the other, Greg Wands, writes for the page and screen. An avid, lifelong reader, he grew up in Sag Harbor, New York, and now calls Manhattan home.
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