by Leah Konen
I would have laughed if I didn’t want to cry. “Okay,” I said, thoughts twisting around themselves like pretzels. “What about prior tenants? Do you change the locks between?”
“Why? Did something happen?”
“I just—only because of my neighbor—John Nolan. The police are still investigating his death. I want to make doubly sure.”
A pause stretched across the line, and I found myself wondering if she was smoking a cigarette. She cleared her throat twice before she spoke. “Yes,” she said, her voice deepening. “Yes, how awful. The locks were changed, I can assure you. Now, is there anything else? I do have to get going. I have a showing this afternoon.”
“You’re sure no one has access to that key besides you?”
“No one but me, my husband, and my daughter, and I’m sure you’re not implying that either of them would . . .”
“No,” I said. “No, of course not. Thank you.”
My eyes darted around the room as I hung up. Someone had to have found a way in here. Maybe she was bullshitting me. Maybe she hadn’t changed the locks at all. Opening a new page on my phone, I googled her company, Jennifer Moon Real Estate. As promised, a Yelp page turned up. She wasn’t lying. There were loads of five-star reviews. It was difficult to read through the cracks in my screen, but, squinting, I did.
Incredibly professional!
A pleasure to work with.
Takes safety very seriously.
Jennifer has the best rentals in the area.
And then, a longer one.
We worked with Jennifer Moon to get our cabin in tip-top shape before renting it. Her husband is an amazing local contractor, and she got us a great deal on all the necessary repairs to bring things up to snuff. We ended up getting a far higher monthly rental rate than we’d anticipated. Can’t recommend enough!
I paused. Something wasn’t right. Something wasn’t right at all.
Heart pounding, I found the field that would let me search within the reviews as I remembered what Vera had said, early on.
He’s a top contractor in the area—through his business, he’s become friends with a bunch of lawyers, even a judge. . . .
Fingers shaking, I typed in contractor. Like that, three reviews appeared, relevant text highlighted and bolded.
She’s married to a great contractor in the area
Her contractor husband was a life-saver before we sold
The last one on the list was the one that made my heart stop, that turned everything I thought I believed—about Davis, about John, about all of this—upside down.
The one that made me realize I had gotten it all terribly, horribly wrong.
Jennifer set us up with her husband, contractor Sam Alby of Alby Construction
THIRTY-SIX
I headed to Vera’s immediately, snowflakes catching in my hair. I walked as quickly as I could manage, careful not to slip on the slick road. I told myself the threat of exposing that photo was enough to hold Davis off, but how could I really be sure? I had spent so many years under his control—it was hard to believe it would end just like that. Davis could have changed his mind, or this could all be part of his plan. Perhaps he wanted to watch me squirm a little more before hurting me again.
As soon as I reached the farmhouse, I banged on the front door like my life depended on it. And, fuck it, maybe it did.
Vera opened the door after twenty seconds or so. “Are you okay?” she asked frantically. “God, did Davis come back? Did you finally contact the police?”
I pushed past her, traipsing into her living room, the heat of her woodstove hitting me all at once.
“You should sit down,” she said, gesturing to the sofa. “You’re still in shock.”
“I was wrong,” I said. “I was completely wrong.”
“What do you mean?” Vera asked, voice sharp. “What do you mean, you were wrong?”
“Davis didn’t have a key.”
“I know,” she said, tugging at the bottom of her shirt. “Didn’t you see your window? That’s why I wanted you to report it. You need to get it on record.”
I walked away from her, began to pace her living room. It was messier, more cluttered, than I’d ever seen it before, as if she hadn’t so much as tried to put things back together after the police searched her house. “Listen to me,” I said. “That doesn’t matter.”
Vera’s eyes widened. “Of course it matters.”
I shook my head. “No, I told you last night. I won’t. I can’t.”
“But, Lucy—”
“I know it’s my responsibility. I know I’m supposed to—believe me, I’ve told myself this a million times—but I won’t tell them this, I won’t have them put it down in writing. I won’t have my entire past combed through just to make a point.”
“It’s not just to—”
“It is, though. Listen. I thought somehow, some way, Davis got a key, made a copy of mine or something.”
She reached for the corner of an armchair, almost as if for balance. “I don’t understand. Why would you even think that?”
I sighed. “Things have been happening. My faucet was running. Dusty got out. And things are gone. That knife. My mom’s scarf. This—” I paused, knowing I couldn’t tell her about the note. “It doesn’t matter. Someone’s been in there, I’m completely sure of that, and I thought it was Davis. I thought he’d killed John and wanted to frame me for the murder, but it wasn’t him.”
“You’re in shock,” Vera said. “You’re not thinking straight. Why would—”
“Please, just listen. I called the real estate agent who’d set me up with this place, to see if anyone else had access.”
Her hands fell to her sides. “Jennifer Moon?”
Heat rose to my face, and a sudden anger bubbled within me, in a way it never had toward her. “You knew she was Sam’s wife? And Claire’s mom? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did,” Vera said, placing a hand on her hip.
“No, you didn’t,” I said firmly. “Your archnemesis has access to my house—his wife keeps the keys in their home, she just told me—and you don’t think that’s information I should know?”
Vera bit her lip. “I swear I did. When you first moved in. Or when I told you about Sam and Claire and all that. That’s his excuse for being on this block—he has to check on his wife’s properties. I know I told you. I even asked you if you’d ever met her, his wife.”
I stared at her. Was she lying? I remembered, vaguely, her mentioning something about Sam’s wife, but never a name, never a clear warning. It was almost like she’d purposefully omitted it.
“Could you have been any more cryptic about it? You don’t even think it’s relevant information, something you might want to mention more than in passing?”
“Don’t, Lucy,” Vera said.
“Seriously,” I said, walking closer now. An awful part of me almost wanted to push her, I was so mad. “You know Sam’s dangerous; you know he’s angry, he’s threatening you, and you can’t even give me a fucking heads-up.”
Her lips pressed into a thin, tight line, but she didn’t back away from me, only crossed her arms. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious,” I said. “You should have told me!”
Her eyes went completely still. There was a pause, long and heartbreaking, before she spoke. “I’m sorry, Lucy. I guess I’ve been a little busy mourning my husband. And before that, planning this whole thing so you could get away from your ex. Rushing everything and setting up John to be murdered to save you.”
I took a step back as she glared at me, her eyes narrowed to slits.
It’s not my fault it’s not my fault it’s not my fault.
Her cheeks flushed, she kept going: “And now Davis has found you, and I’m trying to take care of you, I’m trying to hold you together even
though I’m coming undone myself, and you won’t even tell the police? Do you know how crazy that is? Do you know how dangerous? Instead of protecting yourself, you’re over here, grilling me about things I may or may not have told you. Coming up with these bullshit theories about people breaking into your house, which doesn’t even make sense. Why the hell would Sam want to frame you and not me, the person he actively hates? You’re the one who first pointed it out—it’s always the wife. You’re not the center of the universe, you know.”
My eyes welled as I walked toward the door. I prayed that she would stop me, pull me close, but she didn’t even look at me as I pushed the door open and rushed outside, into the snow.
Back at my cottage, desperate to speak to someone about all I’d discovered, needing to understand how Vera could turn on me so quickly, still shocked and scared from my confrontation with Davis, I typed the message with shaking hands.
It’s Lucy. Any way you can meet me today? I don’t know who else to talk to.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Woodstock was eerily different at night—a still scene, empty and frozen, like a David Lynch film or an Edward Hopper painting gone wrong.
Every light was off as I drove down Tinker Street, passing Schoolhouse, a hippie candle shop, and a cluster of overpriced clothing stores.
Another block, and I spotted Platform, the only place still lit up. I slowed as I approached it. Half-covered with a dusting of snow, it looked almost like a postcard, or one of those overpriced paintings they sold in galleries at the mall. A shiver ran up my spine as I remembered what Vera had said. Sam apparently spent every night there. I wondered if he was there now.
I pressed the gas, passing Vera and John’s gallery, and two blocks down, I turned onto a quiet, winding street. I pulled up in front of the address I’d typed into my GPS, a small brick Colonial with white trim and a tidy red mailbox. Careful not to slip, I made my way up the stone walkway, already coated in a light sheen of ice. Above me, the moon was like a silver dollar. Nearly full.
On the porch, I glanced around me, behind me—it was hard to shake the feeling of being followed, being watched. I rang the bell, and while I waited, took in the odds and ends: Clay flowerpots arched with snow. A hummingbird feeder, sugar-water frozen. Remnants of summer past.
The front door opened, and she smiled, ushering me in.
Rachel was draped in a burgundy poncho, one she might have crocheted herself, from the looks of it. Without saying a word, she wrapped me in a hug, holding me so close I could smell her shampoo—something with apples or cinnamon, something warm.
She pulled back. “Tell me you like pinot noir.”
I nodded, my pulse slowing. “I do.”
“Good,” she said.
She gestured to a pale gray midcentury-style sofa and told me she’d be right back. I shrugged out of my coat, setting it on the rigid arm of the sofa, and took the room in. It was minimal to the extreme, just as she’d said, done in shades of gray and white, an unexpected contrast to the colorful sorts of clothes she always wore. The coffee table was all glass, with edges that looked almost sharp, topped only with a Diane Arbus photography book. Beside it sat the pristine Eames chair she and her ex-husband had argued about. The only points of departure from the absence of visual stimuli were the walls, which were covered in photographs.
I stood, approaching the opposite wall. The photos were all portraits—men and women, children and couples—but in almost every one, something was off. One side of a face just out of focus. The lighting harsh enough so the person’s eyes became black holes. A perspective so skewed, it made you dizzy.
What’s more, I could see, in all of them, the same intimacy, the same closeness, I’d seen in those photos of John—only these were even more arresting, more haunting, like the John set had been nothing more than a trial run.
I took a step back, taking them all in, then inhaled sharply.
There, on the bottom right corner, was a face I recognized.
Vera.
She was staring into the camera, her lips pressed together and her eyes preternaturally wide, almost as if she were frozen in a state of blank stoicism. It wasn’t the smiling Vera I’d come to love or the angry Vera I’d seen on occasion, but instead it was my friend, stripped of all emotion. My friend, pared back to her rawest self. Beautiful.
“What do you think?”
I jumped, spinning around. “Sorry, I—”
“Don’t be,” Rachel said, handing me a glass of wine. “That’s what they’re there for. Looking. And buying, if you’re in the market.”
I glanced back again, eyes locked on Vera’s. “They’re gorgeous.”
Rachel smiled. “Thank you.” She sat down in the Eames chair, and I resumed my place on the sofa.
“I’m really glad you texted me,” she said. She took a sip of her wine, then put it down, her berry lipstick leaving a print on the glass. “I wanted to see how you were doing, since I didn’t even get to say bye at the memorial. I wanted to see how Vera was doing, too, but I didn’t want to upset her. How are you? Shit, that’s a stupid thing to say. I mean, how are you, all things considered?”
I tugged at the scarf I’d wrapped around my neck, the one I’d used to cover up the bruises left behind from my encounter with Davis, as I attempted to push last night out of my mind. No matter how difficult it was to shake the fear I’d been living with for so long, I had come to believe that what had happened to John wasn’t about Davis. Apparently, it never had been.
“Fine. I mean, awful. But fine.” I took a sip of wine. Then I stole another look at Vera’s photo.
“It must be so difficult,” Rachel said. “And now with an ongoing investigation and everything. I hope they find the bastard. I hope they get him.”
Rachel paused, giving me some space to tell her why I was really here. From the opposite wall, Vera’s photo continued to stare, but I tried my best to ignore her. She hadn’t wanted to hear what I had to say, so now I was telling someone else, simple as that.
I took a large sip of wine for courage. “I know this is strange, me showing up out of the blue, but I tried to talk to Vera, and she won’t listen, and now I’m afraid she’s mad at me . . .” I picked at the skin beneath my thumbnail. “I just needed to talk to someone, and I know you get it.”
“Get what?” Rachel asked.
“What it feels like to try Vera’s patience.”
She laughed, but it was bitter, and if I wasn’t mistaken, it looked like she wanted to cry. “Yes, I do,” she said, eyes flicking briefly to the photo of Vera on the wall. “Unfortunately.”
I took another sip, feeling like Rachel and I could understand each other, like the two of us weren’t all that different, when it came right down to it. Each of us a different but similarly positioned complement to Vera’s radiance. Imperfect women who made her shine all the brighter.
“How well do you know Claire’s dad—er, Sam Alby?”
Rachel raised an eyebrow. “Not well. But enough to know he hates John and Vera, to know he threatened them, all that.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah, that’s it,” she said. “And his wife set me up with the cottage, but you know that already. Why?”
I gulped down more wine. “I didn’t know Jennifer was Sam’s wife—or Claire’s mom—actually. Not until today.”
“Really?” Rachel asked.
“Vera says she told me, but I swear she didn’t.”
Her eyebrows furrowed. “Maybe she mentioned it in passing.”
“It doesn’t matter.” I gazed down at my hands, then up again. “Someone’s been coming into my house.”
Rachel leaned forward. “What do you mean? Breaking in?”
“Yes,” I said, nodding. “There’s no other way to explain it. I thought it was my ex-boyfriend.” I adjusted my scarf. “He was controlling,” I said. “He
hurt me.”
“Oh. Oh, Lucy, I’m so—”
I shook my head vehemently. “That doesn’t matter now. The point is, it wasn’t my ex, I learned that last night, because the person who was coming in had to have a key, and he didn’t—he broke the window in the kitchen door. I called Jennifer, and she said that no one else had a key besides her, that the locks were changed between you and me and everything, and that her copy of my key was stored in her house, that no one but her husband and daughter could possibly ever touch it . . .”
Rachel’s mouth formed a circle of understanding. “But you don’t really think—why would Sam even want to come into your place?”
I took a sip of wine: “A knife of mine is missing. I only realized it recently. It’s just a kitchen knife, but . . . I think he killed John, and he’s trying to make it look like I did it. I know it sounds absolutely crazy—like, why try and frame me and not Vera? She’s the obvious target. But I think it was just convenience. Sam knew he’d be a suspect, and so he had to blame someone, and he knew I was close with them, and most important, he had access to my belongings. I’ve been going over and over it in my head, and it’s the only explanation that makes sense.”
I didn’t tell her about the photos or the note—or my mother’s scarf—I still hadn’t put that together myself. Why in the world would Sam take those things? But it didn’t matter. The knife alone was enough.