by Shari Lapena
“No, thank you,” Webb says, following her husband into the living room, Moen behind him.
Detective Moen smiles back at her. She has a kind face, Olivia thinks. She’s more likable than her partner, who seems rather abrupt. Maybe that’s why they work together, Olivia thinks. She and Paul sit side by side rather stiffly on the sofa.
Detective Webb turns to her. “As you probably know,” he says, glancing at her husband, “we’re investigating the murder of Amanda Pierce.”
Olivia tells herself to relax. They have nothing to hide. It’s good that the detectives are here—they can immediately clarify where Paul was on that Friday night.
“Yes, I know,” Olivia says.
“We’ve already spoken to your husband and he’s been very cooperative,” the detective says.
Olivia nods. She still feels slightly nervous, but who wouldn’t be nervous having police detectives in their living room?
“I understand that he was home with you the evening of Friday, September twenty-ninth?” Webb says.
Paul faces Detective Webb. “Actually, I was mistaken before. I completely forgot. I have an elderly aunt—my aunt Margaret, who lives alone and gets quite lonely. She calls me a lot, asking me to visit. She called me that day, particularly agitated, and asked me to come see her, and I did. I went right after work. I called Olivia first, to tell her.” He glances at her.
Olivia nods. “That’s right,” she says.
Webb studies her for a moment and then turns back to Paul. “Where does your aunt live?” he asks.
Olivia sees Moen pull out her notebook, flip over a page.
“She’s in Berwick.”
“I see,” Webb says.
Olivia feels uneasy. She knows what the cop is thinking. The small town where Paul’s aunt lives is in the direction of Canning, out where Amanda’s body was found. But Paul didn’t have anything to do with Amanda. What he says is true—quite often Margaret calls and begs him to visit. It’s a pain, really. Mostly he doesn’t, but sometimes he’ll make the trek out there. He’s not especially close to her, but there’s no other family to visit her and he feels guilty. She remembers that Friday. He told her that Margaret was being very demanding, that he hadn’t been to see her in a long time, and that he felt he couldn’t say no.
The detective says, “You say she lives alone?”
“That’s right,” Paul answers. “She’s on a list for assisted living, but her name hasn’t come up yet. So for now, she has people come in and help her.”
“Was there anyone there with her when you visited her that Friday evening?” Webb asks. “Anyone who can vouch for you?”
“Well, no. It was evening. They’d gone home.”
“But if we make a visit to your aunt, she’ll confirm that you were there that night?”
Now Paul looks uncomfortable. He shifts a little in his chair. “Well, I don’t know,” he says. “You see, her memory is going. She’s got quite bad dementia, too—so she’s liable to get a bit mixed up. She won’t remember a visit from three weeks ago.”
“I see.”
“What number did she call you at?” Detective Moen asks.
“She called my cell, while I was at work,” Paul says. “She calls me quite a lot, actually. Pretty much every day.”
“So if we were to check your cell phone records, it would show that she’d called you that day?” Moen asks.
Paul nods emphatically. “Yes, of course.”
“And if we were to check your whereabouts by the location of your cell phone that night, it would show you were at your aunt’s,” Webb says.
Now Paul looks less sure of himself. He opens his mouth to speak but says nothing.
“Is there a problem?” Webb asks.
Olivia watches all this unfold in front of her, her heart picking up speed.
“I—I don’t know,” Paul says. “I had my cell phone with me, but it was very low on battery and I didn’t have a charger with me, so I just turned it off.”
“I see,” Webb says.
Paul glances nervously at Olivia. It doesn’t look like the detective believes him.
“What time did you get home, Mr. Sharpe?” Webb asks.
“I’m not sure,” Paul says, looking at Olivia. “Around eleven?”
Olivia shrugs. “I honestly don’t remember. I went to bed early—I was already asleep when you came in.” She suddenly realizes that Paul won’t actually be able to prove where he was that night. She studies the detectives, but she can’t tell what they’re thinking. She tells herself she has no reason to be worried. But she doesn’t like the way they are looking at her husband. She feels a bit nauseated.
She wonders, sickeningly, if he’s got anything to hide.
“And the rest of the weekend?” Webb asks, looking at Olivia.
“He was home, with me. Definitely.”
“Could I have your aunt’s address?” the detective asks Paul.
* * *
—
Robert Pierce is at home Saturday morning, enjoying a cup of coffee, when he hears his doorbell ring. He goes still. He decides not to answer it; maybe whoever it is will go away.
But the doorbell rings again, insistently. He thumps his coffee down, annoyed, and walks to the front door. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone.
He opens the door and sees a pleasant-looking older woman smiling at him. “What do you want?” he says curtly.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” the woman says. He looks back coldly at her—does she honestly not know that his wife has been murdered?—but she blithely carries on. “My name’s Carmine. I’m a neighbor of yours. I live at Thirty-two Finch, one street over.” She points over her shoulder.
He begins to close the door.
“I was broken into recently,” she says hastily, “and I’m trying to find out if anyone else was as well.”
He stops. He remembers the letter, the unexplained fingerprints in his house. He thinks about Amanda’s phone, how he’d found it on top of the envelopes in his drawer when he was so sure he’d put it beneath them. He wants to hear what this woman has to say, but he doesn’t want to let her know that he was broken into, too. He has already destroyed the letter. What if the police find out? What if they find out who it was, and ask him what he saw in Robert’s house? He shakes his head, frowns. “No. Nobody broke in here,” he lies.
“Well, that’s good, I guess,” she says. She sighs rather dramatically. “Somebody broke into my house, and I’m going to find out who.” She holds up a piece of paper. “I got this letter.”
“May I?” he asks.
She hands it to him. He quickly realizes it’s exactly the same as the letter he received. “When did you get this?” he asks.
“I found it last Monday morning. It was pushed in my door slot.”
He looks up and hands it back to her. “How unusual,” he says. He can’t think of anything else to say.
She snorts. “You could say that. I don’t know how unusual it is for kids to break into houses, but it’s pretty unusual for the mom to write an anonymous apology letter.” She adds, “I can’t find anyone else who got the letter. But it clearly says there were others. And I bet this kid has broken into more homes than just the ones his mother knows about.” She sighs again, heavily. “I suppose I should just let it go. Nothing was taken and the kid’s parents have obviously dealt with it.”
“Just some dumb teenager,” Robert says, careful not to show how uneasy he feels.
She leans in conspiratorially and says, “Actually . . . I’m pretty sure I’ve figured out who it is. And from what I hear, he’s got some pretty good tech skills.”
“Really? Who?” Robert asks casually. But he’s thinking, What if the kid looked inside the phone?
“If I find out for certain, I’ll let you know. He snoops into my li
fe, I’m going to snoop into his. And then I’m going to tell him what I think of him.”
Robert nods. “Have you gone to the police?”
“No, not yet. I doubt they’d take it seriously.”
“Probably not,” Robert agrees.
“Well, keep your doors and windows locked,” she says, turning away.
Robert closes the door and begins to pace the living room. Fuck. This fucking teenager. What if the kid looked in Amanda’s phone, and saw what was on it? He writes down Carmine’s name and address before he forgets them. And if he thinks he needs to do something about this kid, he will.
* * *
—
Raleigh looks on in surprise at the scene in front of him. He’s never seen these two official-looking people sitting in his living room before. What are they doing here? Adrenaline shoots through his body. This must be about him—about last night.
“Raleigh!” his mom says, obviously startled. “What are you doing up?”
He’d gotten up early on purpose—it’s not even noon—all part of trying to get back on her good side so he can get his phone back. But right now, she doesn’t seem very happy about it.
“We’re finished here anyway,” the unfamiliar man says, flashing a dismissive glance at Raleigh.
Nothing to do with him, then. The relief almost makes Raleigh’s knees buckle.
Raleigh realizes he’s in his pajamas, and everybody else in the room is fully dressed. Well, he didn’t know anybody was here. He slinks back into the kitchen, relieved and embarrassed, while his parents show the visitors to the door, somehow aware that he’s stumbled into something that he’s not really supposed to know about. He pours himself a bowl of cereal and waits.
He hears the front door close. His mom and dad don’t come into the kitchen immediately. They’re obviously discussing what to say to him. Finally they join him, and his mom busies herself tidying up. There’s an uncomfortable silence; nobody says anything for a minute and Raleigh wonders if they’re just going to say nothing at all. Screw that. “What was that all about?” he asks.
His mom looks anxiously at him, and flashes a glance at his dad.
“It’s complicated,” his father says with a sigh, sitting down at the kitchen table.
Raleigh waits, his body tense. A wave of anxiety comes over him.
His dad says, “Those were the police detectives investigating the murder of Amanda Pierce, the woman down the street.” He stops there, as if he doesn’t know what on earth to say next.
Raleigh can feel his heart thumping. He looks at his father, then at his mother. She’s silent, wary. He turns his attention back to his dad. He’s never seen him at a loss for words before. “Why were they talking to you?” Raleigh asks. He’s not stupid. He wants to know what’s going on.
“It’s just routine,” his dad says. “They’re talking to lots of people who knew Amanda Pierce.”
“I thought you didn’t know her,” Raleigh says.
“I didn’t, not really. She was a temp at the office sometimes, so I knew her, but not very well. She never worked in my department.”
Raleigh looks at both of his parents; he senses there’s more they’re not telling him.
“Look, Raleigh, there’s something you should know,” his dad says carefully.
Suddenly he doesn’t want to hear it. He wants to be a child again and run from the room with his hands over his ears and refuse to listen to what his dad has to say. But he can’t. He’s not a little kid anymore. His father gives him a man-to-man look across the kitchen table and says, “I saw Amanda carrying on with someone at the office. It was improper. I warned both of them to stop it. Someone else saw me arguing with Amanda about it and put two and two together and got five. I’ve told the detectives the truth. I wasn’t involved with her in any way. We weren’t having a—relationship. I don’t know who killed her. We can leave that up to the police to figure out. Okay?” He adds, “There’s nothing to worry about.”
Raleigh stares at his dad, disturbed by what he’s just heard. He’s pretty sure his dad’s telling the truth. He can’t think of a single time his dad has ever lied to him before. He sneaks a glance at his mom, but she’s watching his father, and there’s anxiety written all over her face. She doesn’t look like she thinks there’s nothing to worry about. He wonders if he can trust his dad.
Raleigh nods, frowns. “Okay.”
His mom says, looking directly at him, “I don’t think this is something anyone else needs to know.”
Raleigh nods and says hotly, “I’m not going to say anything.” Then he retreats back upstairs to his room.
* * *
—
After driving in silence for a while, Webb turns to Moen and says, “He turned his phone off.”
Moen nods. “Right.”
Webb says, “We’ll get his phone records, but I bet we’ll find a call from his aunt that day—if she calls him every day anyway. She lives out that way. She lives alone and has a bad memory, she’s confused. What if he was relying on all of that, for his wife at least, and went out that night and met—and killed—Amanda? We can’t trace where he was if his phone was turned off.”
“It’s possible,” Moen agrees. “But we haven’t actually established that he was seeing her.”
“But it’s possible. Becky Harris thought he was seeing her.”
Moen nods and says, “His wife looked worried. What is she so worried about if he just went to visit his aunt?”
“We should get him down to the station,” Webb says. “See if we can get anything else out of him.”
TWENTY-THREE
When the detectives return to the station, there’s news.
“We’ve got something,” a young officer says, approaching them. He’s one of the uniformed cops sent out to canvass the city and its surrounding area. “We found a hotel where one of the clerks recognized Amanda’s picture. She came there occasionally with the same man. And then we looked at the security camera footage.”
“And?” Webb asks, feeling an uptick of excitement.
“You have to see this,” the officer says, and leads them to a computer.
They look down at the screen.
The quality is quite good. Webb sees Amanda first, flicking her hair over her shoulder. Then the man with her comes into the frame. He retrieves his credit card at the desk and then turns, his face caught squarely by the camera. Larry Harris.
“Well, well,” Webb says. He glances at Moen. “See how they’re coming along with the security cameras at the resort—we need to know if Larry Harris’s car ever left.”
* * *
—
Raleigh is no longer grounded. His mom couldn’t stand him moping around the house without his phone and the internet to keep him busy, so at least he’s allowed to leave the house again, not just for school and practice. He heads out on his bike, cycling around the neighborhood, trying to work off some of his stress. Without the internet, there’s not much to do at home. And he had to escape the tension in the house. He cycles down the residential streets, past some of the houses he’s snuck into.
He almost got caught last night. That’s it—he has to stop. It isn’t worth the risk anymore. Breaking and entering. Messing with people’s computers. Even though he’s not actually stealing anyone’s account info, or distributing malware or porn or anything—he’s not tampering—what he’s doing is still a crime. The cops won’t care that he’s just doing this stuff for fun.
He rides slowly past the Pierce place, glancing at it as he goes by. He remembers being inside that house, how clean it was, how orderly. Maybe because there were obviously no kids living there. While he was on the computer, he’d glanced through the desk drawers and found a cell phone at the bottom of one of them. It looked like a cheap, pay-as-you-go phone. Maybe it was an old one, or a spare. He’d turne
d it on—it had a charge—but it didn’t really interest him, so he turned if off again and tossed it back in the drawer and soon left.
Later, when he’d learned that the woman in that house had been murdered, it gave him a chill. The police must have found the phone when they searched the house. His one worry now is that his fingerprints are all over that phone, and in that house. He picks up speed, thinking uneasily about the woman, Carmine, and the letters.
Raleigh’s starting to understand that everyone has secrets—he’s seen what some people keep on their computers; nothing really surprises him anymore. Raleigh has secrets, and his parents obviously have theirs, too. Perhaps he should be snooping in his own house.
* * *
—
It’s Saturday afternoon and the tension in the house is driving Olivia mad. Paul is upstairs in the office. Raleigh has gone off to his room. Olivia tries to talk herself out of going over to confront Becky. She’s worried about what exactly Becky might have said to the detectives about Paul. Does she know more than she admitted to Olivia? Did she make things up to take the attention off her own husband? Has Becky been completely honest with her? In the end, she can’t stop herself. She grabs a jacket and leaves the house without telling anyone where she’s going.
On the walk over, she has a crisis of confidence and half hopes that Becky is not in. But Olivia keeps going, even though it makes her sick that she’s left her own house and is going to see Becky to try to find out information about her own husband. She feels lately that everything she took for granted—her good son, her faithful husband—has to be reevaluated.
As she walks past the Pierce residence, she stares hard at the house. The blinds are all drawn, giving the house the look of a blank stare. She wonders if Robert Pierce is in there, behind the blinds. Suddenly she hates him, and Amanda, too, for coming into their quiet neighborhood and rocking it to the foundations. He probably killed his wife, she thinks bitterly, and they are all suffering for it.