by Joy Fielding
“I know just how you feel,” Heather said, glaring at Noah, who sighed, closed his eyes, folded his arms across his chest, and refused further comment.
* * *
—
The fight resumed in the wood-paneled lobby of their apartment building. “This is not over,” Heather said as they stepped into the ancient elevator.
“Oh, yes, it is.”
“Don’t count on it,” Heather was saying as they were joined by a middle-aged couple whose frosty demeanor told Heather they were having problems of their own. The man gave a cursory nod in their direction while the woman stared straight ahead. Neither said a word until they reached the fourth floor.
“Have a pleasant evening,” the man said as he and his wife exited the elevator.
“Don’t think there’s much chance of that,” Noah said as the doors were closing.
Heather was already speaking. “I want to know what happened, Noah. And don’t tell me nothing, because I’m not…” Dumb? “…naive.”
Noah said nothing as he marched down the gray-carpeted hall toward their apartment, key in hand.
“Noah…”
He spun toward her. The move was so sudden and unexpected that Heather was forced to take an involuntary step back. Was he going to strike her? “Okay,” he said instead, the simple word catching her equally off guard.
“Okay?” she repeated.
“I’ll tell you everything. But can we at least wait till we get inside?”
“Of course.”
He resumed his march down the hall, Heather at his heels, afraid to allow too much space between them in case he was planning to sneak inside and lock her out. Maybe he’s right, she thought as they entered their apartment without incident. Maybe I am paranoid.
“So?” She followed him into the living room, watching as he removed his jacket and tie before tossing them carelessly over the back of the sofa.
“What do you want to know?”
Seriously? “I want to know what happened between you and Paige. And don’t tell me nothing happened, because everyone was talking about it.”
“And what were they saying?”
“I want to hear what you say.”
“Fine,” he said. “On one condition.”
“You’re hardly in a position to—”
“Do you want to know what happened or not?”
“What’s the condition?” Heather asked.
“That that’s the end of it. I’ll tell you what went down, I’ll answer any reasonable questions you might have, and then we don’t talk about it ever again. Do we have a deal?”
Heather plopped down on the sofa, letting her evening bag fall to the cushion beside her, then kicking off her shoes and leaning back against Noah’s discarded tuxedo jacket, detecting a hint of Paige’s perfume clinging to the leather lapels. Which meant that they’d been standing awfully close to each other, close enough to touch. Damn you, Paige, she thought. You’ll pay for this. “Deal,” she said.
“Okay,” Noah said. “I just don’t want you to overreact. Paige is your cousin, she’s family, and I’ve already caused enough problems between the two of you…”
“What are you trying to say, Noah?”
“That what happened wasn’t entirely her fault,” he said. “I’m as much to blame…”
“For God’s sake, Noah. Just spit it out.”
“The party was breaking up,” he began. “Everyone was crowding around your uncle to say goodbye and I thought I’d sneak out for a minute to get some air. I guess Paige had the same idea, or maybe she saw me heading for the door and decided to follow me; I don’t know. I just know that suddenly there she was, and she said something like ‘walk with me,’ and I thought I owed her that much. And we walked about a block or so, not very far, and she started talking about how much she missed me, and she got all teary, said she was sorry and wanted…” He hesitated.
“Said she was sorry and wanted…?” Heather prompted.
“That she was sorry and wanted me back.” Noah took a deep breath before continuing. “And this is where I screwed up, because I said that I was sorry, too. But I just meant that I was sorry about the way it ended, that she’d deserved better than that. But she clearly misunderstood because suddenly she started kissing me. And I tried gently to get her to stop, but she wouldn’t, until I finally had to push her away. She was furious, calling me names, screaming at me to shut the fuck up. And then just as we got near the hotel, she hauls off and slaps me. And everybody’s there, everybody’s watching. And then there you were, and I didn’t know what to do or say because I knew how upset you’d be…”
“Why didn’t you just tell me what happened when I first asked?”
“I don’t know. I guess I felt responsible. If I hadn’t agreed to go for that walk…”
“You had no way of knowing…”
“I should have been more careful. I’m a lawyer, for God’s sake. I know better than to put myself in that kind of position.”
“She was the one who came on to you.”
“Yes, but in her mind, I’m sure she thinks I led her on.”
Heather shook her head. “That bitch…”
“And that’s exactly why I didn’t want to say anything,” he interrupted. “The last thing I want to do is cause more friction between the two of you. Not to mention, your families. I feel guilty enough…”
“You have nothing to feel guilty about,” Heather told him. “This is my fault as much as yours. I should have known she’d pull something like this.” Damn her cousin anyway.
There was a moment’s silence.
“Okay?” Noah asked. “Can we put this behind us?”
“Not sure I can do that.”
“We had a deal,” he reminded her.
Heather nodded. The deal was never to talk about it again. It said nothing about getting even.
“Can we go to bed now?” He grabbed his jacket and tie and walked toward the hallway.
Heather didn’t move.
“Are you coming?”
“In a minute.”
“Okay. Don’t be long. I’m exhausted.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Noah paused in the doorway, as if he had more to say.
Now would probably be a good time to tell me you love me, Heather thought. But he didn’t. He never had.
Bet you told Paige you loved her plenty of times, she thought, her anger at her cousin instantly resurfacing. She wasn’t sure how she’d get back at Paige.
Only that she would.
Just like she got back at Chloe for that stupid stunt she’d pulled, making her drive all the way to Cambridge in the rain only to send her packing. She reached inside her evening bag and pulled out her cell, punching in the familiar number and waiting while it rang five times before being picked up. “Talk to me, Brandon,” she said when McCann Advertising’s former courier finally answered.
“I did exactly what you told me to,” he said. “Pretended I was the guy who offed that Tiffany babe, told her she was next.”
“And?”
“Scared the shit out of her.”
“You’re sure?”
“She called the cops.”
Heather pressed the phone tighter against her ear, trying to contain her excitement. “How do you know?”
“I was there, wasn’t I?”
Heather laughed, imagining the scene. “I owe you one.”
“Hell, it was fun. Consider it my treat.”
“We may have found you a new line of work.”
“Speaking of which,” he said, “is there anything else you need from me? I just got my hands on some excellent blow.”
“Maybe another time.”
“Heather?” Noah called from the bedroom. “What are you doing
out there?”
“Gotta go,” Heather said, closing the phone and jumping to her feet. “Hold your horses,” she called back. “I’m on my way.”
CHAPTER FORTY
He’s tired. Tired and restless. Tired of being restless. Most of all, he’s tired of waiting. It’s almost midnight. Where the hell is she?
I have to go now. Can we continue this later?
What did she mean by “later”? Had he really expected her to contact him again tonight?
She’s interested. He’s sure of that. She’s just taking a page from his playbook and treating him mean to keep him keen. Playing it cool, letting him dangle. He laughs. Before long, she’ll be the one dangling.
From the end of a rope.
Still, he’s frustrated. Frustrated and antsy. It’s been too long since his last “date.” The feel of Nadia’s neck inside his hands, of her taut flesh between his fingers, is starting to fade. He can barely recall the sound of her muffled squeals or the smell of her blood as it flowed from her wounds. The palm of his hand no longer vibrates with each thrilling thrust of the knife.
He should write a book: Serial Killing for Dummies: The Secret to Making a Woman Follow You Anywhere. It’s so simple, he’s amazed that so few men have figured it out. You don’t have to be rich; you don’t have to be famous; you don’t have to be funny; you don’t even have to be all that good-looking. The key is making the bitch feel as if she’s the only woman in the room, as if everything she says is interesting, her every opinion not only worth considering, but adopting. Women were desperate to be heard. So, all you had to do was make them think you were listening. If you could do that, you were home free.
He turns on the TV across from his bed, casually flipping through the channels. He settles on an old episode of Dateline: a conniving wife has paid some poor dope to off her husband for the insurance money. Of course the dumb bitch happened to take out a policy on her even dumber mate a scant two days before the murder, making her the obvious suspect and pretty much sealing her fate.
What is the matter with these people? Do they want to get caught? Do they not have the brains, the forethought, to realize such behavior might be considered, at the very least, suspicious? Can they not plan ahead, maybe take out the damn insurance policy a year or two in advance?
Of course, it takes both brains and patience to wait, to plan, to consider all the angles and consequences of one’s actions.
Which is why he’s decided against targeting Paige Hamilton’s mother and best friend. The last thing he wants to do is spook this little Wildflower, a flower he intends to rip from its delicate stem, then grind beneath his feet. No, now that contact has been reestablished, he needs to focus his energy, keep his eye on the prize, which means sticking to the game plan and being patient for another week.
In the meantime, there’s Audrey.
Probably not her real name, any more than Wildflower, which is fine with him. The more anonymous the better, at least to start out. He likes to save the good stuff for when they go on their real date, and he’s forcing her to reveal the most intimate details of her life in the vain hope of postponing her death. Too much too soon takes away from the overall experience.
He and Audrey started texting a few weeks ago, feeling each other out, dropping hints about their likes and dislikes. Of course, his likes are all made up, crafted to suit the situation. Audrey likes working out, so so does he. In fact, he almost never works out, other than lifting weights, which are more-or-less a necessity when dealing with dead bodies. And she loves sad movies and romance novels, so he said he’d devoured The Notebook, although he’s never read it and only caught a few minutes of the wretched thing on TV, just enough to make him want to puke.
Killing Audrey will be not only a pleasure, he decides, but a service to mankind. Such pathetic tastes should not be permitted to continue unchecked.
Sorry I’ve been out of touch for the last week, he texts Audrey now. He suspects that even though it’s closing in on midnight, she’ll still be up, and that even though she’s all but given up on hearing from him again, she won’t be able to resist answering his text. I had a family emergency and had to go back to Madison. I wasn’t sure when, or even if I’d be back, and I didn’t think it fair to keep you hanging.
God, I’m good, he thinks.
Reach out, withdraw. Flatter, then disappear. Abandon, then resurface. All part of his technique. He begins counting to ten, sensing Audrey’s fingers already hovering over her keyboard.
Her response comes at the count of nine. What happened? she asks.
My father had a heart attack, he answers.
My God. Is he okay?
Hopefully, but not out of the woods yet. I may have to go back to Wisconsin.
I’ll say a prayer for him.
Say one for yourself while you’re at it, he thinks.
That means a lot, he texts in response, counting to ten before adding: I was hoping we could maybe meet in person.
I’d like that.
He hears footsteps on the stairs and leans forward on his bed, listening. How about next Saturday night?
Perfect. Where should we meet?
He climbs off the bed and walks toward the door. Do you know Anthony’s Bar over on Boylston?
I’ll find it. What time?
Seven o’clock?
Sounds great. You won’t stand me up, will you?
He can hear the plaintiveness echo through her text. No way.
Good. See you at Anthony’s next Saturday at seven.
Looking forward to it.
He disconnects, putting his ear to the door, hearing nothing.
And then he hears the soft squeak that tells him someone is standing on the other side. “Mrs. Lebowski?” he says, throwing open the door, expecting to see his increasingly dotty landlady on the other side.
“I’m so sorry to disturb you,” Imogene Lebowski’s daughter says, hands fluttering nervously around her face. “I was just about to slip this under your door.”
He takes the folded piece of paper from Jenna’s hands without opening it. “Is something the matter? Your mother…?”
“She’s not good,” Jenna says.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Yes, well, she’s been going downhill for a while, and I’ve finally persuaded her to come home with me. We’re just waiting for a spot in a long-term care facility to free up. She really can’t function on her own anymore. The other day, she left the stove on all morning. And she wanders. Well, you know.”
He nods, thinking how vulnerable Jenna looks, how easy it would be to get her out of her clothes and into his bed.
“I’ve been cleaning up all afternoon, getting her stuff together, trying to get organized.” There is a moment’s hesitation. “I’ll be putting the house up for sale at the end of the month, which I’m afraid means—”
“—I have two weeks before I have to clear out,” he says.
“I’m sorry. You’ve been the ideal tenant.”
He smiles. “I was planning to leave soon anyway.”
“Oh, well. Good. Then it all works out.”
“My mother used to say that everything works out in the end.” He recognizes that this conversation could have waited till morning, that the note was just a pretense. He knows she’s hoping he’ll invite her inside, but he has no desire to wrestle with those strong Polish thighs. No, Jenna Lebowski is a distraction, and he can’t afford to be distracted. Time is suddenly of the essence, and there is still a lot of work to be done. “Well, good night,” he tells her, holding up the note. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
He closes the door on her confused expression. Two weeks doesn’t give him a whole lot of time. There is much to accomplish.
He already has Audrey penciled in for next Saturday.
After that: Wildflower.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
As soon as the bus picked Josh and Sasha up for day camp on Monday morning, Chloe was in her car, on her way to the Cambridge District Court in Medford, hoping to convince a judge to issue a restraining order against Matt.
The police had suggested it, and Paige had been adamant she follow through. Once Chloe had informed her about the events of Saturday night— the threatening phone calls, the certainty that someone had been watching the house—“Well, who other than Matt could it have been?” Paige had argued—combined with the knowledge that Matt had a gun—good God, he’d showed it to their children, allowed them to hold it!—well, what choice had he left her?
The city of Medford was located a little over three miles northwest of downtown Boston on the Mystic River in Middlesex County. It had a population of close to sixty thousand people and was home to Tufts University. The courthouse itself, described as a “sad place” in a not-too-flattering online review, was a two-story, sprawling white building on Mystic Valley Parkway, with limited parking and a staff that, again according to multiple online reviews, was neither particularly friendly nor helpful. Still, it had one thing going for it that the Middlesex District Court—located a brisk five-minute walk from Chloe’s house—did not, and that was distance. There was less chance of her running into anyone she knew in Medford.
The reviews were certainly right about the limited parking, Chloe found out quickly enough. It took her longer to find a parking spot than the drive to Medford itself. She ended up leaving her car several long blocks away and then running through the persistent morning drizzle in open-toed pumps that were neither comfortable nor waterproof. She’d left the house in such a hurry she’d forgotten her umbrella, so by the time she reached the building’s front entrance, the floral-print silk dress she’d selected, hoping to make a good impression on the judge, was spotted with rain, her feet were soaking wet, and her hair clung tightly to her head like layers of damp feathers. So much for making a good impression, she thought, entering the main lobby and shaking the rain from her shoulders like a wet dog. More like a drowned rat, she thought, catching her woeful reflection in a nearby pane of glass.