Even if he didn’t open up, she’d still get a bowl of Felicia’s homemade soup. That alone made the evening worth it.
* * *
His brain slamming him with insult after insult, Gideon trudged into the dining room, grabbed the empty soup bowls off the table, and shoved them into the dishwasher. No wonder Tamara had dumped him; he was an idiot.
Over the past week, he’d pondered Felicia’s theory that his father had been murdered and had convinced himself it was absurd. He’d wanted to discuss it with Felicia, but she’d mostly ignored his calls, and when she had answered her phone, she’d insisted she was too tired to talk or too busy for visits. Her avoiding him had strengthened his conclusion that grief was making sensible Felicia irrational. For her sake, he couldn’t keep his promise to hide what she’d told him, allowing her to suffer alone. When Natalie had shown up, she’d seemed like the perfect person to confide in—Felicia’s long-time friend and a mental health professional as well.
If he’d made up his mind, why had he flip-flopped the instant Natalie had admitted her connection with Robert Chapman? Felicia’s warnings had stabbed into his mind, and he’d panicked and put himself in the running for Nincompoop of the Year by railroading Natalie into staying for dinner. He’d been desperate to shift the subject away from Felicia, and dinner was the only diversion he could think up.
Natalie had been so kind as he’d spent the entire dinner prodding the conversation away from Felicia, even resorting to analyzing every type of soup he’d ever eaten. Natalie had courteously joined in the soup analysis, sharing her own thoughts on minestrone and french onion, but she must have been privately analyzing him—how could she not? Erratic behavior. Poor social skills. Wearing argyle socks with running shoes. He wished for a moment that he’d explained to her that the dress-socks-and-athletic-shoes combo was because when he’d changed clothes to rake the leaves, he hadn’t bothered to change his socks.
Who cared? His socks were a lot less dorky than his claiming he wanted to talk to her about Felicia, then doing a bait and switch. He must have come across as a sleazeball who was using his worry about his stepmother as a ruse for hitting on Natalie. And after he’d gotten the heebie-jeebies, why had he thought he needed to pretend Felicia was fine and avoid talking about her completely? Why hadn’t he shared some generic worries like “I’m afraid she’s spending too much time alone,” or “I’m afraid she’s working too much,” so Natalie wouldn’t wonder why his worries had magically disappeared?
Natalie hadn’t even left the gift she’d brought for Felicia, claiming she wanted to deliver it in person. Was that the reason she’d taken it, or did she think Gideon was too much of a loser to handle the task of passing it on?
At least the split-pea soup had been great.
Gideon stuffed the remaining rye crackers back in the box, put it in the pantry, and wiped the table. He’d better get that leaf pile swept to the curb, even though it was dark outside. He should have finished the raking earlier rather than leaving it unfinished so he could focus on making a fool of himself. Would Natalie tell Felicia what he’d done? What if Felicia’s fears weren’t imaginary and he’d almost screwed up catastrophically?
He hurried outside and put on his gloves. Working fast, he raked the remaining leaves toward the curb, hating that he was vacillating again. This whole thing was ludicrous. How could Felicia tell him someone had maliciously caused his father’s accident but the specifics were none of his business? What were these “private matters” she’d refused to discuss? Something must have happened in his father’s interaction with Chapman that she’d twisted in her mind, and the nervous, purse-buying woman had sparked her theory about sabotage. Even Felicia must know her reasoning wasn’t valid. If it were, she’d have told the police everything. She’d have insisted an expert examine the ladder for deliberate damage instead of saying nothing while Gideon had chucked the evidence. She wouldn’t value hiding any private matter more than she’d value getting justice for her husband. Right?
Mrs. Chapman’s death. The accident Felicia had witnessed . . . how long ago had that been? Seven or eight years, maybe? He couldn’t remember how she’d died. Something to do with water. Drowned? Had the trauma of witnessing that accident now linked to his father’s accident in Felicia’s mind? Was that why she’d mentally entangled the Chapman family in her grief?
Gideon flipped a clump of leaves into the gutter. If there had genuinely been trouble—dangerous trouble—wouldn’t his father have told him? Gideon had talked to him the week before his death, and he’d been fine, telling Gideon the shop was thriving and asking if Gideon wanted to come camping with him in August; Felicia wasn’t a fan of dirt.
Sweating now, Gideon raked faster, gathering leaves from the last corner of the yard and directing them into the gutter. What was Felicia up to now? She was a tireless, organized person, and even if grief had fogged her logic, it hadn’t changed her personality. She wouldn’t be sitting home, passively lamenting his father’s alleged murder. She’d mentioned following up with the artist who’d made that incriminating purse. Had she done that? Had she learned anything?
Gideon’s rake scratched along the sidewalk as he clawed a few damp leaves loose and added them to the pile heaped near the street light. Why was he always so clueless? He had no idea how to help his stepmother. He’d had no idea how to handle the conversation with Natalie tonight. He’d had no idea his fiancée was cheating on him. He hadn’t seen anything coming before Tamara had handed his ring back and said, “There’s someone else.” He’d gaped at her, a deer in the headlights, thinking, Someone else you want to invite to our wedding?
Get a grip. His father would want him to help Felicia; he had to figure out how to do that. Why did she think Gideon might be a target—but she wasn’t? Wasn’t that evidence that this was traumatized imagination? She’d lost her husband, and now she was afraid of losing all she had left of Wade: his son. She wasn’t scared for herself because intellectually she knew there was no danger.
Or maybe she was right, and he was naïve, thinking picturesque Ohneka couldn’t harbor deadly evil or that his father couldn’t have crossed a ruthless, conscienceless man. But sabotaging a ladder was an odd way to murder someone. His father could have received only bruises or a broken arm. Maybe it was meant more as a warning than attempted murder?
He needed to talk to Felicia again, and this time he wouldn’t back off until she gave solid, provable evidence for her theory. He wished he could call Natalie and apologize for his behavior, but how could he do that without admitting why he’d acted weird? Nothing he could say would purge her memories of his dorkiness anyway. He’d wrecked his chance to get help from her, but maybe he could get on a better track with his stepmother.
At any rate, when he confronted Felicia, he could wear better socks.
Chapter 6
Wind plucked red leaves from the maple tree in Camille’s front yard and scattered them over the lawn and driveway. The rustling branches and leaves fluttering and swooping in the dark sky gave Lacey a thrill. It was a spooky night, and she was slinking right through it, not scared. Plus, with the wind noises, Camille couldn’t possibly hear her approach.
All the curtains on Camille’s front windows were closed, but light glowed in the entryway, the living room, and her office. Camille would be in her office; Lacey had learned that she always left the living room lights on when she was home at night, but only turned her office lights on if she was working in there. Good thing she’d learned that before Camille had gotten vigilant about closing her curtains. She used to leave gaps sometimes, but now she never did.
Beneath the excitement, guilt nibbled at Lacey, taking tiny but poisonous bites that she knew would burn later. What would Dr. Marsh say if she knew Lacey was creeping toward Camille’s house? What would Jonas say? He’d tell Dr. Marsh, call and inform her Lacey had a problem with stalking and Dr. Marsh needed to fix her.
Fix her. Nobody could fix her. She was born warped and w
eak and rotten.
She’d been determined not to tell Jonas what she and Dr. Marsh had discussed, which wasn’t anything earthshaking—mainly basic stuff about her background that Jonas already knew—but she’d still wanted to keep the conversation private. On the bus ride home from her appointment, she’d told herself over and over that when Jonas asked what they’d talked about, she’d say, “It’s confidential.” She’d thought about lying and saying, “Dr. Marsh said I can’t tell you,” but that wouldn’t have worked. Jonas wouldn’t have believed her, and if she’d insisted, he’d have called Dr. Marsh and asked. Even though Dr. Marsh was adamant that she wouldn’t tell Jonas anything without Lacey’s permission, would she be willing to cover for Lacey and say she’d forbidden her from sharing?
Her plans had ended up useless anyway. When Jonas had arrived home yesterday evening, he’d asked her about the appointment, saying how disappointed he was that he couldn’t be with her and it must have been stressful and what did they talk about? She’d told him she was fine, that she didn’t want to discuss it, but he’d insisted. She’d given him short answers; he’d pushed; she’d given him longer answers; he’d pushed harder; she’d blabbed everything, despising herself.
Why hadn’t she kept her mouth shut? Why couldn’t she tell him she wanted her sessions to be private, that she needed something in her life that wasn’t under his control?
She walked along the driveway at a normal pace so if a neighbor saw her, they’d assume she was a friend visiting Camille. At the corner of the house, she stopped and glanced around to check for any passers-by or open curtains in surrounding houses. No one was watching her.
She slipped behind the bushes lining the front of the house and ducked so they concealed her. From inside her long, hooded coat, she pulled out the telescopic rod that had once been part of a duster she’d used to clean ceiling fixtures. To the tip of the rod she’d glued a pebble.
She extended the rod until it was about five feet long, positioned the end of it near the side of the window opposite from where she crouched, and tapped the pebble against the glass.
Taptaptap tap tap tap taptaptap.
Morse code. SOS. Camille might or might not recognize it, but she’d know it wasn’t a branch hitting the window or debris blowing against it.
One more time to make sure Camille’s fear was surging: taptaptap tap tap tap taptaptap. Finished, Lacey began backing away, smoothing the mulch as she went, keeping the rod below the level of the windowsill. The curtains swooshed open, and light illuminated the bushes. Lacey glimpsed Camille facing the wrong way—the direction from which she’d heard the tapping.
Lacey snaked around the side of the house, collapsed the rod, and sped through the back yard. She passed through the yard of the house that backed on Camille’s, jaywalked across the street, and hurried through a park where empty swings swayed in the wind. On the next street over, she started walking along the sidewalk at a normal pace, the cleaning rod concealed inside her coat. Her insides jumped and rattled like a bag of beads, but she smiled. She pulled the rolled-up, reusable shopping bag out of her pocket and shook it out.
Strong Camille couldn’t manage everything, could she? The abrupt wrenching of those curtains open . . . She was scared. She’d probably called 911 by now, but when the police came, they wouldn’t find anything.
A car passed, and Lacey maintained her brisk pace, a confident woman heading to the grocery store on a windy September evening, enjoying the exercise. More headlights approached, but she didn’t care. Even if it was a police car—which it wouldn’t be; she was already half a mile from Camille’s—there was nothing suspicious about her.
She should call it quits with Camille now, but she’d think about it later, after she’d finished savoring tonight’s triumph. Maybe she was crazy, but wow, she was good at this spying and stalking. She’d never been caught. Jonas had no idea what she was doing. She could keep a secret. One secret. She hadn’t told Dr. Marsh, she hadn’t told Jonas, and she never would. This was hers. She owned it. She was strong enough to—
The car swung toward the curb and pulled over a few yards in front of Lacey. Fear rolled through her. What should she do? Ignore the car, or look toward it?
Keep walking. Head up. It has nothing to do with you. Someone’s visiting one of the houses near you.
Lacey kept walking, her empty shopping bag flapping in her hand. Something brushed against her hair, and she started but recovered without slowing her gait. It was only a leaf tumbling from the tree overhead. Confident. She passed the car, not even glancing at it.
A car door opened behind her. “Lacey!”
Lacey whirled toward Jonas’s voice.
He barreled toward her. “What are you doing here?”
Lacey’s thoughts stuck to each other and froze into chunks of ice.
He reached her. “What are you doing here?” he repeated.
He thought she was sneaking out to see a boyfriend. Her father’s voice thumped into her brain: “Where’ve you been this time? Thrashing around with some pretty boy you think’s better than me?” Denials from her mother. A slap. A cry.
“Lacey.” Jonas grabbed her shoulder. “What’s going on?”
He’d followed her. He must have followed her. He knew she’d been at Camille’s. Wait, did he know that house was Camille’s? Had he ever met Dante Moretti there when they were training for that marathon? It didn’t matter. Even if he’d never been there before, by now he’d looked up the address to find out who Lacey was spying on . . . but had he spotted her there? She hadn’t seen any cars on the street while she was nearing Camille’s house. A car had driven past while she’d been behind the bushes, but she’d glimpsed it; it had been a pickup truck. She hadn’t seen Jonas’s car at all. Or maybe she had and hadn’t noticed it. She hadn’t noticed it now, hadn’t recognized it even when it had pulled over. So many people drove that model . . . She couldn’t even remember what model of car it was; she never paid attention . . .
He was still gripping her shoulder, staring at her. She needed to answer him. “I’m . . . going shopping.” She held up her empty bag. “At The Antipasti.” She named the Italian specialty market a few blocks away. “You love their soppressata. I wanted to make pasta tonight—tomorrow night. I thought . . . didn’t you have a work dinner tonight?”
“I didn’t feel like going. The Antipasti is on Melrose Street. Why did you park there and walk over here?”
Glass cut into her chest with each thump of her heart. How did he know she’d parked there? “I was feeling, um . . . It was stifling in my workroom, and I needed some exercise. I thought I’d walk around a little before I shopped.”
“In the dark?”
“It’s not very late. This neighborhood is safe.” Beneath her gloves, her hands swam in perspiration. Was he testing her? Did he already know everything she’d done? “I’m sorry. I had no idea you’d be home tonight, or I would have had dinner ready. I can go grab that sausage and do a quick pasta.”
“Where’s your purse?” he asked.
My purse. She’d left it in the car, under the seat, not wanting ID with her while she was on the prowl. Left her purse and brought a shopping bag. That made no sense. “That’s a good question,” she said. “I wasn’t thinking about it. I guess I left it in the car.”
Jonas shifted his hand to her elbow and led her toward his car. He opened the door for her, and she slid into the passenger seat, all but splashing in the sweat running down her body.
Jonas drove toward The Antipasti, not speaking.
“How was your day?” Lacey tried to sound nonchalant.
He didn’t answer. Lacey’s tongue went dry and still, a stone cemented in place.
When they reached the store, Jonas drove into the parking lot and stopped behind her beige Kia. She started to open her door, but Jonas grasped her arm.
“You stay here,” he said. “Give me your keys.”
Did he want to drive her car home, leaving her to drive hi
s? She never drove his car. “Why don’t you head home?” she said. “I’m sure you’re tired. I’ll grab the stuff for the pasta and follow you. I can have dinner ready in half an hour.”
“Give me your keys.”
Afraid to ask why, Lacey dug her keys out of her coat pocket and handed them to him.
“Stay here.” He opened his door. At her car, he slid into the driver’s seat and leaned to the right. What was he doing?
Within thirty seconds, he stepped out of the car, holding her purse, and locked the doors.
He climbed back into his own car and slammed the door. Trying for a Camille-confident gesture, Lacey held out a steady hand for her keys. “I’ll see you at home,” she said.
Jonas flung her purse into the backseat, accelerated past her car, and headed toward the exit on the other side of the parking lot.
“Honey, what are you doing? I need my car!” She faked a laugh. “I don’t want to walk miles back here tomorrow to get it. My legs don’t need that much stretching.”
“I’ll get the car later so you don’t have to worry about it.”
“Oh, thank you,” she said, pretending to be grateful for his thoughtfulness, pretending she wasn’t terrified. She didn’t dare look at him, even out of the corner of her eye. Why was he leaving her car behind? Because he knew she was lying about her impromptu walk. Because he was afraid if he let her drive herself, she’d return to the lover he thought she’d visited.
“Did you get much done today?” He spoke in an even, almost monotone voice.
“Actually, I did,” she said, relieved that this was a question she’d prepared for. She’d pulled some old sketches out of her files, sketches she’d never turned into mosaics, and had left them on her desk, along with the beginnings of one new sketch. “I’ve been sketching some ideas. I did a bunch of them.”
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