The Neighbor

by Lisa Gardner

  Ree wanted home, and home was probably still the safest bet. He had steel doors, reinforced windows. Forewarned was forearmed. Maybe he hadn’t known everything going on in his wife’s world, hadn’t sensed the threat. Well, he was paying attention now. No way in hell anyone was touching his daughter.

  Or so he told himself.

  Of course, going home also meant facing an empty house without Sandy’s cheerful welcome. Or worse yet, confronting the media that were no doubt camped out in his front yard.

  “How’d you kill your wife, Jason? Knife, gun, garrote? Bet it was easy for you, given all your experience….”

  He should have a spokesperson, he thought idly. Isn’t that how it worked in this day and age? Become a victim of a crime, hire an entourage. A lawyer to represent your interests, a spokesperson to speak on behalf of your family, and, of course, an entertainment agent to handle the pending book and movie deals. Right to privacy? Solitude for shock and mourning?

  No one gave a rat’s ass anymore. Your pregnant daughter was kidnapped and killed. Your beloved wife was murdered on the subway. Your girlfriend’s body had just been found cut up in a suitcase. Your life suddenly belonged to the cable news. Forget planning a funeral, you needed to appear on Larry King. Forget trying to explain to your child that Mommy wasn’t coming home anymore, you needed to share a couch with Oprah.

  Crime equaled celebrity, whether you liked it or not.

  He was angry. Suddenly, viciously. His knuckles had whitened on the steering wheel, and he was driving too fast, way over the speed limit.

  He didn’t want this life. He didn’t want to miss his wife. And he didn’t want to be so terrified for his only daughter.

  He forced himself to inhale deeply, then exhale slowly, easing off the gas pedal, working out his shoulders. Push it away. Lock it up tight. Let it go. Then smile, because you’re on Candid Camera.

  He turned onto his street. Sure enough, four news vans were stacked bumper to bumper on his block. The police were out, too. The cruiser parked right in front of his house, two uniformed officers standing on the sidewalk, hands on their hips as they surveyed the small huddle of smartly suited reporters and shabbily dressed cameramen. Local stations; story hadn’t launched into national headlines yet.

  Wait till they heard about Ethan Hastings. That would do it.

  Ree’s eyes had widened in the back seat. “Is there a party, Daddy?” she asked excitedly.

  “Maybe they’re happy we found Mr. Smith.”

  He slowed for the driveway, and the first surge of flashes exploded outside his window. He pulled into the driveway, parked the station wagon. The media couldn’t trespass onto private property, so he had plenty of time to unfasten his seatbelt, tend to his child, figure out Mr. Smith.

  Grieving husband, grieving husband. Cameras came with telephoto lenses.

  He would carry Mr. Smith to the house, while holding Ree’s hand. There was a photo op for you—bruised and bandaged husband clutching a pretty orange kitty with one hand and a beautiful little girl with the other. Yep, he’d get fan mail for sure.

  He felt empty again. Not mad, not sad, not angry, not anything. He had found the zone.

  Mr. Smith stood on Jason’s lap, peering out the window at the commotion. The cat’s ears were straight up, its tail twitching nervously. In the back, Ree already had the seatbelt unfastened and was staring at him expectantly.

  “Can you get out of this side of the car, love?” he asked quietly.

  She nodded, staring at the throng of strangers on the sidewalk. “Daddy?”

  “It’s okay, honey. Those are reporters. It’s their job to ask questions, kind of like it’s Daddy’s job to ask questions. Except I write up stuff in the paper, while these reporters talk about it on TV.”

  She looked at him again, the anxiety building in her drawn features.

  He twisted in the driver’s seat, touching her hand. “They have to stay on the sidewalk, honey. It’s the law. So, they can’t come inside our home. However, when we get out of the car, it’s gonna be loud. They’re gonna start asking all sorts of crazy questions all at once, and get this—they don’t raise their hands.”

  This caught her attention. “They don’t raise their hands?”

  “No. They talk right over the top of one another. No taking turns, no saying excuse me, nothing.”

  Ree blinked at him. “Mrs. Suzie would not like that,” she said firmly.

  “I totally agree. And when we get out of the car, you’re going to see why it’s so important to raise your hand in school, because when you don’t …”

  He gestured toward the noisy mob on the sidewalk, and Ree sighed in exasperation. The nervousness was gone. She was prepared to get out of the car now, if only to shake her head at a bunch of poorly mannered adults.

  Jason felt better, too. Truth was, his four-year-old knew more than the jackals outside, and that was something to hold on to.

  He tucked Mr. Smith beneath his left arm, and popped open the driver’s-side door. The first question ripped across the yard, and the reporters were off and running:

  “Jason, Jason, where is Sandy? Do you have any updates on her whereabouts?”

  “Is it true that police interviewed your four-year-old daughter this morning? How is little Ree doing? Is she asking for her mother?”

  “Are you the last person to have seen Sandy alive?”

  “What do you have to say to reports that you are considered a person of interest in this case?”

  Jason closed his door, opened Ree’s door. Head down, cat tucked against his body, hand out for Ree. His daughter stepped boldly out the back. She stared at the reporters head-on, and Jason heard half a dozen cameras click and flash as one. The money shot, he realized in a distant sort of way. His little daughter, his beautiful, brave daughter, had just saved him from having his face aired on the five o’clock news.

  “You’re right, Daddy.” Ree looked up at him. “They would never earn a good-manners medal.”

  He smiled then. And felt his chest swell with pride as he took his daughter’s hand and turned away from the screaming press, toward the sanctuary of their front porch.

  They made it across the yard, Mr. Smith squirming, Ree walking with steady feet. They made it up the stairs, Jason having to let go of Ree’s hand now and focus on the panicking cat.

  “Jason, Jason, you organized search parties for Sandy?”

  “Will there be a candlelight vigil for your wife?”

  “What about reports that Sandra’s purse was found on the kitchen counter?”

  “Is it true Alan Dershowitz is going to represent you, Jason?”

  The keys dangled between his fingers. Jason juggled Mr. Smith awkwardly, searching for the right one. Get inside, get inside. Calm and controlled.

  “What were Sandy’s last words?”

  Then, right beside him, the unexpected creak of a floorboard.

  Jason jerked his head up. The man stepped out of the shadows at the end of the porch. Immediately, Jason stepped in front of his daughter, armed with a cat in one hand and a set of house keys in the other.

  The man walked three steps toward them, wearing a rumpled mint green linen suit and clutching a battered tan hat. Shockingly white hair capped a deeply weathered face. The man grinned broadly, and Jason almost dropped the damn cat.

  The white-haired man threw open his arms, beamed down at Ree, and exclaimed jovially, “Hello there, buttercup. Come to Papa!”

  | CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE |

  Jason swiftly unlocked the front door and thrust Mr. Smith inside. He put his hand on Ree’s shoulder. “Inside.”

  “But Daddy—”

  “Inside. Now. The cat needs dinner.”

  Ree’s eyes widened, but she recognized his tone, and did as she was told. As she stepped into the house, Jason shut the door behind her, locked it again, and turned to the white-haired man.

  “Get off my property.”

  The newcomer tilted his head to the sid
e, appearing puzzled. Jason had met Sandy’s father only once before, and he was struck now, as he was struck then, by the man’s crinkling blue eyes and bright, flashing smile. “Now, Jason, is that any way to greet your father-in-law?”

  Max extended a friendly hand. Jason ignored it, stating firmly “Get off my property, or I will have you arrested.”

  Max didn’t move. His expression fell, however. He twisted his hat in his hands, seeming to debate his options. “Where’s your wife, son?” the judge asked at last, his tone appropriately somber.

  “I will count to five,” Jason said. “One—”

  “Heard she’s been missing for over a day. Saw it on the news and skedaddled straight for the airport.”

  “Two.”

  “That my granddaughter? She’s got her grandmother’s eyes, she does. Beautiful little girl. Shame no one thought to call me about her birth. I know Sandra and I have had our differences, but I can’t think of anything I did that deserves not knowing about such a sweet child.”

  “Three.”

  “I’m here to help, son. Truly. I may be an old man, but I have some fight in me left.”

  “Four.”

  Max’s gaze grew narrower, more appraising. “You kill my only daughter, Jason Jones? Because if it turns out you harmed my Sandra, hurt one little hair on her head—”

  “Five.”

  Jason stepped off the porch. Max didn’t follow him right away. Jason was not surprised. According to Sandra, her father lived as the proverbial big fish in a little pond. He was a highly respected judge, an affable Southern gentleman. People instinctively trusted him, which is why no one had ever intervened to help his only daughter even as her mother poured bleach down her throat.

  The reporters saw his approach, and optimistically stuck their microphones into the air, screaming louder.

  “Where is Ree?”

  “Who’s the man on your porch?”

  “Do you have any words for the person who may have abducted Sandy?”

  Jason stopped next to the uniformed officer farthest from the press and gestured him over with his finger. The officer’s nameplate read “Hawkes.” Excellent, Jason could use a hawk.

  The officer dutifully huddled close, having no more desire to share their conversation with the greater free world than Jason did.

  “Old guy on the porch,” Jason murmured. “He’s not welcome on my property. I have asked him to leave. He has refused.”

  Officer arched a brow. Looked from Jason to the reporters to Jason again as a wordless question.

  “If he wants to make a scene, that’s his choice,” Jason answered in a low undertone. “I consider him a threat to my daughter, and I want him gone.”

  The officer nodded, pulled out a spiral notebook. “What’s his name?”

  “Maxwell Black from Atlanta, Georgia.”

  “Relation?”

  “Technically speaking, he’s my wife’s father.”

  The uniformed officer startled. Jason shrugged. “My wife did not wish for her father to be part of our daughter’s life. Just because Sandy’s … gone is no reason to disregard her instructions.”

  “He make a statement? Threaten you or your daughter in any way?”

  “I consider his presence to be a threat.”

  “You mean you have a restraining order?” the officer asked in confusion.

  “First thing tomorrow, I promise.” Which was a lie, because Jason would need proof of threatening behavior, and the courts would probably require something stronger than Sandy’s belief that Max had loved his psycho wife more than his battered daughter.

  “I can’t arrest him,” the officer began.

  Jason cut him off. “I consider him to be trespassing. Please remove him from my property lines. That’s all I ask.”

  The uniformed officer didn’t argue, just shrugged, as if to say, It’s your front-page funeral, and prepared to stroll over to the front porch. Max, however, could see the writing on the wall. He descended the steps on his own, his jovial smile still firmly in place though his motions were jerky, a man doing what he had to do, not what he wanted to do.

  “Guess I’ll check into my hotel now,” Max consented grandly, nodding once in Jason’s direction.

  The reporters had quieted. They appeared to be connecting the presence of the uniformed officer to the actions of the white-haired man and were now keenly watching the show.

  “’Course,” Max said to Jason, “I look forward to visiting with my granddaughter first thing in the morning.”

  “Not gonna happen,” Jason replied evenly, heading back toward the house, where Ree waited for him.

  “Now, son, I wouldn’t say that if I were you,” Max called after him.

  Despite his better intention, Jason found himself pausing, turning, regarding his father-in-law.

  “I know something,” the old man said quietly, soft enough that only Jason and the uniformed officer could hear. “For example: I know the date you first met my daughter, and I know the date my granddaughter was born.”

  “No you don’t. Sandy never called you when she had Ree.”

  “Public record, Jason Jones. Public record. Now, don’t you think it’s time to let bygones be bygones?”

  “Not gonna happen,” Jason repeated firmly, though his heart was pounding hard. For the third time in one day, he was discovering danger where there hadn’t been danger before.

  He gave Maxwell his back, climbing the front steps, working the lock on the door. He got it open, to find Ree standing in the middle of the entryway her lower lip trembling, her eyes glazed over with tears.

  He shut the door and she threw herself into his arms.

  “Daddy, I’m scared. Daddy, I’m scared!”

  “Shhh, shhh, shhh.” He held her close. He stroked his daughter’s hair, inhaled the comforting scent of Johnson’s No More Tears shampoo.

  “I love you,” he whispered against the top of Ree’s head, even as he wondered if Max would take her from him.

  Jason made waffles for dinner. Breakfast for supper was a time-honored treat, and the familiar ritual of beating water and waffle mix calmed him. Jason poured the batter over the steaming griddle. Ree sat on the edge of the counter, steadfastly watching the red griddle light. When it went off, it would be time to eat. She took her timer duties seriously.

  Jason got out the syrup. Poured them glasses of orange juice, then scrambled the last two eggs in the fridge so his child would have something besides bread dipped in sugar as a meal. He could almost hear Sandy saying now, “Waffles with maple syrup are little better than doughnuts. Honestly Jason, at least throw in a hard-boiled egg, something.”

  She had never complained too much, though. Her favorite meal was angel hair pasta with pink vodka sauce, which she ate anytime they went to the North End. Pinkalicious pasta, Ree called it, and the two of them would slurp away, sharing the same bowl with gastronomic glee.

  Jason’s hand shook slightly. He overshot stirring the egg, sending a yellow chunk onto the floor. He tapped by it with his toe, and Mr. Smith came over to investigate.

  “The light’s off,” Ree singsonged.

  “All righty, then. Let’s eat!” He used his best Jim Carrey voice, and Ree giggled. The sound of her laugh soothed him. He did not have all the answers. He was deeply troubled about what had happened today, let alone what might happen next. But he had this moment. Ree had this moment.

  Moments mattered. Other people didn’t always get that. But Jason did.

  They sat side by side at the counter. They ate their waffles. They drank their juice. Ree chased scrambled-egg bits around her plate, putting each bite through a maple-syrup obstacle course before finally popping it in her mouth.

  Jason helped himself to another waffle. He wondered when the police would arrive to seize the family laptop. He cut his waffle into bite-sized pieces. He wondered how much Ethan Hastings had taught Sandy about computers, and why she’d never confronted Jason with her suspicions. He added hal
f a dozen waffle bits onto Ree’s daisy plate. He wondered which would be the hardest way to lose his daughter—to the police, sticking her in foster care when they came to arrest him for Sandy’s murder, or to Sandy’s father, stating in family court that Jason Jones was not Clarissa Jane Jones’s biological father and thus should no longer be part of her life.

  Ree put down her fork. “I’m full, Daddy.”

  He glanced at her plate. “Four more bites of waffle, as you’re four years old.”

  “No.” She hopped down from the bar stool. He caught her arm, frowning.

  “Four bites, then you may be excused from the table.”

  “You’re not the boss of me.”

  Jason blinked, set down his fork. “I’m your father, so yes, I am the boss of you.”

  “No, Mommy is.”

  “We both are.”

  “No, only Mommy.”

  “Clarissa Jane Jones, you may eat four bites of waffle, or you may sit on the timeout stair.”

  Ree thrust her chin out at him. “I want Mommy.”

  “Four bites.”

  “Why did you yell at her? Why did you make her mad?”

  “Back to your chair, Ree.”

  She stomped her foot. “I want Mommy! She told me she’d come home. Mommy told me she wouldn’t leave me.”

  “Ree …”

  “Mommy goes to work, she comes home. She goes to the grocery store, she comes home. Mommy told me, she promised me, she’d always come home!”

  Jason felt his chest tighten. Ree had gone through an attachment phase where she’d cried and carried on every time Sandy left. So Sandy had started a little game she’d read in some parenting book, always notifying Ree when she was leaving, and always hugging Ree first thing when she got home. “See, look at me, Ree. I’m home. I always come home. I’d never leave you. Never.”

  “Mommy’s going to put me to bed,” Ree said now, chin still sticking out obstinately. “It’s her job. You go to work, she puts me to bed. Go to work, Daddy. Go on. Leave!”