Walters frowned. “I don’t like the insinuation that I’m not basing my investigation on facts.”
“You know as well as I do, Chief, that one has to consider everything. No question is off-limits.”
“I never disagreed with Wolfie that Manning was a person of interest in this case. And it just seems the more that happens, the more interesting he becomes. He had a fight with Bryan Pierce, and after that, Pierce disappears.”
Castile gave her a rare, small smile. “But there’s no evidence yet that Pierce’s disappearance is even connected to this case.”
“The key word, Mr. Castile, is yet.”
The FBI agent’s smile faded. “Well, I think I have everything I need for now. But I’m certain we will have many more conversations.”
“All right,” the chief said.
Castile stood. “Thank you for all your work and your advice, Chief Walters.”
She nodded.
She did not like this man.
SEVENTY-FOUR
Jessie and John were sitting in a small coffee shop in town at a table near the back. After the altercation with Heather, they’d walked for a while so that Jessie could cool down. She’d been horrified by the photo of herself that Bryan had taken. She felt violated, sick to her stomach. John had assured her that Chief Walters would never allow the photo to be made public, and that he was certain she would recognize it was an old shot. Jessie shouldn’t worry that it would be used against her in any way. If anything, it just made Bryan look worse.
“Thank you, John,” Jessie had said. “Your words have helped.”
After walking for what seemed to be a mile, they’d come into this café, where a couple of old ladies who had lacquered bouffants and were sitting in a booth up front had seemed to recognize them. The biddies had begun to immediately whisper under the breaths. Neither John nor Jessie had commented on it as they’d found their table in back. They ordered their coffees and sat there drinking them, mostly in silence for the first ten minutes. Jessie had let her mind go numb, still exhausted by the scene with Heather. At last John jarred her back into consciousness.
“Jessie,” he said, “I’m not going to write the book.”
She said nothing in return, just looked at him.
“I need you to understand that I wasn’t using our friendship for the purposes of gaining information,” John continued. “I didn’t intend to pursue a friendship with you. If anything, the day I first met you, at your picnic, I tried to be cordial but also to keep a certain distance.”
Jessie remembered that. She recalled now her ridiculous, childish envy when it had been Inga that John had seemed interested in.
“I’m scrapping everything I’ve written,” John told her. “It’s not worth it if it comes between our friendship.”
“I can’t ask you to do that,” Jessie said quietly.
“You’re not asking me. I’m telling you it’s what I’m doing.”
“No,” she said. “I can see now that you weren’t using me for information. And the book is fiction, as you say. It’s not about me.”
“My mind is made up, Jessie.”
“Look, John. What really concerned me was the possibility that you might somehow have some connection to Emil. . . . That was what I feared deep down. That you were somehow . . . involved with him.”
John closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.
“I was scared,” Jessie said. “But I believe you, John. You were just writing a book, and you never intended to exploit our friendship. And it’s not fair to you to have to stop working on a project just because we’ve become friends.”
John’s eyes popped open. “The matter is closed, Jessie. I’ve already permanently deleted it from my computer.”
“Oh, John . . .” Jessie struggled for the right words. “I appreciate the gesture very much. But it seems too much. How could you delete all that work?”
“Easy. I just dragged the file to the trash.”
“You must have backups.”
“Jessie, I destroyed it all.”
“Oh, John . . .”
Those deep dark eyes of his searched her out. “I can’t profit off something that might take advantage of the pain of someone that I care about.”
Jessie was silent. Finally, very softly, she said, “Thank you, John.”
He reached across the table and took her hand in his. “But that wasn’t all I wanted to talk to you about, Jessie. I wanted to ask you about the boy.”
“You mean Abby’s friend.”
“Yes.”
“What could you possibly know about Aaron?”
“What did you say his last name was?”
“Smelt,” Jessie told him. “Aaron Smelt.”
She saw the look cross John’s face. “Spell it for me,” he said.
Jessie complied.
John sat back in his chair. “Jessie . . . does that name mean anything to you?”
“Well,” she admitted, “when I was pregnant with Abby, I discovered I was carrying twins. I lost one of the twins in a miscarriage eventually, but I had been planning on naming the boy Aaron.”
This seemed to surprise John. “A rather eerie coincidence,” he said.
“Yes. I felt tremendous guilt after the miscarriage, because I’d been wishing I wasn’t carrying a boy, just a girl. I didn’t want a boy who might grow up to be like Emil.”
“That’s a natural feeling.”
“Still . . . when a little boy named Aaron showed up in Abby’s life, it freaked me out a little,” Jessie admitted.
“But didn’t his last name trouble you too?” John asked.
Jessie shook her head. “Why would it?”
“Does ‘Smelt’ have any relevance to you?”
“No,” Jessie told him. “That’s why I asked Chief Walters about it.”
“Then you didn’t know that . . .” John hesitated, then continued. “You didn’t know that Smelt was the maiden name of Emil Deetz’s mother?”
Jessie’s blood instantly ran cold.
“I see from your expression you didn’t,” John said. “You see, I had done some research on Emil when I was planning the book. I obtained his birth certificate. I remembered the mother’s name because I had attempted to track down family . . . cousins and the like. I didn’t have any success.”
“Emil barely knew his parents,” Jessie said. “He was abandoned.”
John nodded. He apparently was aware of the facts of Emil’s life.
“So Smelt was Aaron’s mother’s name?” Jessie asked, as if the full force of the news was just hitting her. “That seems too much of a coincidence.”
“Did Emil know you were planning on naming his son Aaron?”
Jessie shook her head. “He never even knew that I was pregnant. I hadn’t yet told him when . . . when I saw him commit the murder.”
“Might he have found out?”
“I suppose . . .” Jessie shuddered. “What are you thinking, John?”
“I’m thinking that maybe your aunt was correct that she saw him. I’m thinking that it might well be true that Emil is alive.”
Jessie eyed him cagily. “Why do you think so?”
“I don’t know. A gut feeling, maybe.”
For a moment, Jessie’s doubts resurfaced. Is there a connection between John and Emil? Why is he suddenly so convinced that Emil is alive?
John seemed to read her mind. “It’s just that . . . well, your aunt’s report of seeing someone who looked like Emil, combined with the a boy named Smelt showing up seemingly out of nowhere, has led me to at least consider the possibility that Emil is alive, and that he’s back in Sayer’s Brook.”
“I guess that does make sense,” Jessie said.
“And might Emil be trying to torment you in more ways than one . . . the murders . . . and arranging for a boy to spend time with Abby, reminding you of your miscarriage?”
Jessie shuddered again. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“We need to
talk with this boy, find out his story,” John said. “He could lead us to Emil.”
Jessie was aware that he was using the pronoun “us,” and she liked it. She took a sip of her coffee, allowing its warmth to calm her nerves. “Perhaps I should tell Chief Walters about this,” she said. “About the coincidence of names.”
“Eventually,” John said. “But she seems disinclined to take the idea of Emil being alive seriously. I suspect. . .” His voice trailed off for a second before he continued. “I suspect the FBI agent, if he contacts us, may be more interested in what we have to say.”
“Why do you suspect that?”
“Just a hunch.” He smiled and took Jessie’s hand in his again. “But for the time being, the next time that boy comes around your house, I’d suggest you pin him down, and find out as much as you can about him.”
Jessie agreed.
She was very happy that she and John were friends again.
SEVENTY-FIVE
“I was beginning to worry about you,” Mr. Thayer said, stepping aside from his front door so that Todd, carrying a suitcase, could enter.
“I’m sorry,” Todd told the old man. “I needed the time away. I kept in touch with the office by phone and by iPad.”
“I don’t mean that I was worried about business,” Thayer said, shutting the door behind him. “I meant on a personal level, Todd. I wish you had come to me before you ran off. I thought we were better friends than that.”
Todd frowned. “I’m sorry. Really I am. It’s just that . . . I needed some time by myself to think. I went out and stayed at my brother’s place in Montauk.” He set his suitcase down. “But it’s okay that I stay here now for a few nights? Just until my apartment in the city is available?”
“Of course.” Mr. Thayer gave him a terribly sad face. “So you’re really certain you want to leave Monica ?”
“Our marriage has been deteriorating for years,” Todd told him. “Now I understand why. It was founded on a lie. Monica was never pregnant—in her entire life. I spoke with our doctor. I asked him directly. He hemmed and hawed, blathering on about doctor-patient confidentiality . . . but that alone told me what I needed to know. I could see from his face that he knew Monica had never been pregnant.”
“I’m so sorry, Todd.”
Todd looked out the window, down the darkening street toward the home he’d shared with Monica. He spotted Jessie’s car as it rattled past Mr. Thayer’s house and turned into her driveway.
He pulled away from the window and looked over at Mr. Thayer. “I never stopped loving Jessie,” he said. “That’s clear to me now. And somehow . . . I need her to know that. If only it wasn’t too late to change things.”
SEVENTY-SIX
“I’m sorry it took me so long, Maxine,” Jessie was saying, as she hurried out of her car. “Thank you so much for staying.”
Maxine smiled. “Not a problem at all.”
“Everything okay with Abby today?” Jessie asked.
The tutor’s smiled broadened as she opened her car door. “Oh, yes. After our lessons, she played on the swings. And that little friend came by and joined her.”
“Little friend?”
Maxine slid in behind the wheel. “Yes. The one she mentioned. Aaron.”
Jessie approached Maxine’s car and looked down at her intently. “Did you meet him?”
“Oh, yes. What an adorable little boy.”
“What did they do?”
“They just swung on the swings. Then, when it started getting a little dark, I told Abby she ought to go inside and wash up for supper. Aaron waved good-bye and went on his way home.”
“Which way did he walk?”
Maxine gestured with her head. “Over there. Through the woods. I assume he must live in one of those new houses over there.”
“Yes,” Jessie said, her voice soft.
“I’ll see you on Monday, Jessie,” Maxine said, starting her car. “Have a lovely weekend.”
“Yes, thank you,” Jessie said, her voice still far away and distracted. “You too.”
As Maxine backed out of the driveway, Jessie hurried into the house.
She found Abby upstairs, in the bathroom. The little girl had just finished washing her face and hands and was brushing her shiny blond hair in front of the mirror.
“Hi, Mommy!” Abby chirped when she spotted her mother’s reflection behind her.
“Hello, baby,” Jessie said, kissing her daughter on the top of her head. “Did you have a good day with Maxine?”
“I sure did!”
“I understand Aaron came over to play.”
In the mirror Jessie saw Abby’s blue eyes dart up to her, as if she worried her mother might be angry. But Jessie just gave her a smile.
“I hope you two had fun,” she said.
“Oh, we did, Mommy. We played on the swings.”
“You know, Abs,” Jessie said, stroking the girl’s hair, “I was thinking. If Aaron comes over tomorrow, maybe we can have a cookout.”
“That would be great, Mommy!”
Jessie smiled, looking up from her daughter to meet her own eyes in the mirror. “I’d like to get know Aaron better,” she said. “In fact, I want to learn all there is to know about him.”
SEVENTY-SEVEN
Heather could hear the kids arguing from down the hall, but she paid them no mind. The last thing she wanted to deal with tonight was Piper and Ashton’s brattiness. She wasn’t happy that she would have to deal with them entirely on her own for the next few days—and that included Halloween, much to her regret—since Consuela was off visiting her ailing sister in Rochester, New York. In a burst of generosity, Heather had let her faithful housekeeper-assistant take her car for the six-hour trip. Her Beemer was certainly more reliable than Consuela’s old Nissan.
In the interim, Heather could use Bryan’s car. His Porsche Panamera had been sitting in the garage ever since he disappeared. Wherever Bryan was, he didn’t seem to need wheels.
Heather passed the door to Piper’s room. She heard a loud crash from inside, and then her daughter’s shrill voice: “You broke the lamp!”
Then her son’s: “No, you broke it!”
Heather just sighed and continued down the hall.
Before Consuela had left, the kids had squirted dish detergent all over the slick marble floor in the foyer, causing the housekeeper to slip and fall hard on her butt. Piper and Ashton had run away laughing hysterically. Consuela, used to such pranks, had just gotten up and continued on her way, her dignity unruffled. Heather had observed the scene from the living room. She really should punish the brats, but she was too exhausted to deal with it at the moment. She’d get on their case in the morning. Right now all she wanted to do was get to bed.
In her room, Heather undressed, trying to block all unpleasant thoughts from her mind. She wouldn’t think about the kids, or Bryan, or John, or that damn Jessie. She would just think of herself tonight. No one had it as hard as she did. She ran this house, raised those incorrigible kids, ran a successful business, and dealt with an unfaithful pervert of a husband. She would have loved a bubble bath this evening, but Heather was too tired even for that. So she slipped into her black satin negligee—which John had once so admired on her—and stood looking at herself in her bathroom mirror. She figured she still had what it took. She’d forget John eventually, and once she was free of Bryan, she could get another man easily.
Heather smiled. Maybe, in fact, she was already free of Bryan. Maybe John had taken care of that.
It galled Heather to think that John and Jessie were involved. That was the only explanation for why John had so abruptly ended his and Heather’s relationship.
“I could get him back,” Heather whispered to herself, lowering her eyes to gaze upon her full breasts in the negligee. “I could definitely get him back.”
She giggled a little, then turned and shut the light off in the bathroom.
Her bedroom was dark. Heather had pulled the light-blo
cking curtains tightly so not even a hint of moonlight might penetrate the room. The only light in the entire place came from the small clock on the bedside table, with the numbers 9:59 glowing green. From down the hall Heather could still hear the muffled voices of her kids. She should really tell them to get to bed, but at the moment she just didn’t care. Feeling around on her bureau, Heather found the remote for her iPod, which was docked across the room. She powered it on. Instantly the sounds of Stevie Wonder filled the dark room. Isn’t she lovely. . . . Isn’t she wonderful . . . .
Heather smiled and slipped into bed.
She wondered briefly if Bryan and Jessie had ever had sex right here, in her own bed. The thought revolted her, but she figured it was unlikely. Despite what she had told Chief Walters, Heather didn’t really believe that Jessie and Bryan had been carrying on an affair. That photograph wasn’t recent. It probably came from their college days, and Bryan, the perv, had probably snapped it while Jessie was asleep. But if Heather could stir up trouble for Jessie, she was only glad to do so. The bitch deserved it after stealing John away from her.
Heather yawned, stretching out in the bed.
Her right arm touched something.
What was that?
The room was so dark that it was difficult to see even a few inches in front of her face. Heather stretched her arm out again across the king-size bed. She felt nothing but air. Maybe she’d imagined it.
But there was a warmth. . . .
And . . . movement.
And . . . breathing!
Someone was in the bed with her.
“Who—?” Heather blurted, reaching up with her left hand to find the lamp.
But she never did. The next thing Heather knew there was someone right beside her, breathing in her ear. The darkness prevented her from seeing a thing, but she certainly felt the cold blade that was suddenly pressed against her throat, and then the warm blood that splattered all over her face and filled up her lungs, leaving her unable to cry out, or even breathe.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
Someone was calling Ashton’s name.
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