As he drove, the directions from the GPS were the only voice in the car. Grateful Gideon wasn’t asking questions or trying to make conversation, Natalie watched the road with dry eyes. Hope intertwined with terror, twisting into knots so tight it was difficult to breathe or swallow.
When they reached Haslett Street, she started to tell Gideon which house but realized she didn’t need to point it out. The flashing lights of two police cars and an ambulance had marked it.
Camille’s radiant smile last night . . . the glee in her eyes when she’d showed Natalie the new purse . . . her jokes about flirting. Her empathy when Natalie had reacted with cowardice and avoidance to her discovery of the letter from Dante.
Please let her be alive. Let Jonas be wrong.
Gideon slowed his car and glanced at Natalie, waiting for instructions. She didn’t know what instructions to give. She wanted to sprint into the house, but panic spun her thoughts into such a blur that she couldn’t figure out how to explain her arrival to the police without exposing the fact that Lacey Egan was her client. She had no idea what Jonas had told them.
Whatever. She’d handle this on the fly. “Pull over,” she said. “I’ll go see what’s happening.”
Gideon parked at the curb a few houses down from Camille’s. “Would you like me to come with you, or would you rather I wait here?”
“Wait here.” Natalie opened her door and tried to hurry toward Camille’s house. She caught the toe of her shoe on a crack in the sidewalk, skidded on an acorn, stepped out of her shoe, and had to stop to slip it back on.
Camille’s front door was open, and a police officer stood on the porch. As Natalie approached him, he held up a hand. “You can’t come in here, ma’am.”
Natalie stopped on the sidewalk and tried to read the officer’s inscrutable face. “I’m a friend of Camille Moretti’s. What happened? Is she all right?”
“What is your name?” His accent made Natalie think of Europe and cold. Europe and the travel she’d wanted to do, the trips she and Camille had wanted to take someday. Scandinavia, Germany, France, Italy . . .
“Ma’am, what’s your name?”
“Natalie Marsh. Camille and I grew up together. I’ve known her since . . .” Why was she babbling, trying to prove her friendship with Camille? “I have my ID . . . No, I don’t.” She had her phone, but she hadn’t brought her purse. “Is Camille all right?”
The officer took a notebook and pen out of his pocket. “What’s your address?”
Natalie gave it. Inside, she grew darker and darker, her mind and body a smudge of fear. If this were only a burglary, would the officer look this grim? If Camille had been unconscious but was now awake, wouldn’t Natalie be able to hear her voice through the open door? She couldn’t see any damage to the front door. The cut glass Jonas had described must be in back.
“What happened?” Natalie repeated, frantic for information. Or maybe she didn’t want information, not unless it was good, not unless it was a miracle, not unless Jonas was delusional and the officer on the porch was imaginary and she could wake from a nightmare.
From the street behind her came the double thump of two car doors slamming. The officer gazed past Natalie, and she turned to see who had arrived. Two men strode toward the house. Their charcoal-gray suits were similar, but everything else in their appearances was opposites: one man was portly, bespectacled, black, and in his forties or early fifties. His pale, extremely tall, and much younger partner could have passed for a college basketball player.
“Scene is secure,” the officer on the porch said. “EMTs are inside with Haber and Avino. Fuller’s in back.”
“Thanks, Rasmussen.” The older man shifted his gaze to Natalie. The thumping in her heart seized control of her lungs, forcing breaths down her throat in too-quick gasps.
“This is Natalie Marsh,” Officer Rasmussen said. “A friend of— A friend who arrived right before you did.”
The older officer nodded and flipped open a badge to show Natalie. “Detective Jeffrey Turner.”
“Is Camille all right?” Natalie asked.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Mrs. Moretti is dead.” His words swept through Natalie. “If you could wait here for a moment, Detective Bartholomew will return to take your statement.” Turner walked briskly up the porch stairs.
A hand gripped her elbow. “You should sit down.” This advice came in such a rich bass voice that Natalie glanced dumbly around, searching for a speaker besides the rail-thin young officer holding her elbow. There wasn’t anyone else in sight except Rasmussen, the officer with the northern European accent. The deep voice was Bartholomew’s.
He propelled her toward the porch. To the right of the door were Camille’s pumpkins and scarecrow. Natalie had shrugged off Camille’s anxious report of the repositioned decorations. She’d minimized Camille’s fears that someone was watching her, following her. She’d lulled Camille into thinking she was imagining things, that there was no stalker.
Natalie pressed both hands over her mouth, smashing her lips against her teeth as though sealing her mouth shut now could undo words she’d spoken earlier.
“Right here.” Bartholomew grasped her shoulders, his stringy fingers urging her toward the ground. Not the ground; the stairs. He wanted her to sit on the stairs. Natalie dropped her hands to her sides, bent her knees, and settled on the steps.
“I’ll be right back.” He walked past her up the steps. She watched the motion of his king-sized leather shoes, the hem of his trousers.
She closed her eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled. Inhaled. Tears would have to wait until she’d finished talking to the police. Was Jonas here? Probably not. He’d been so agitated on the phone; she couldn’t imagine he’d be willing to return to the crime scene. Either the police were at his house, or he’d promised to go to the department to make a statement.
Did Camille’s family know?
Behind her, Bartholomew was speaking to Rasmussen, but the conversation was too quiet for her to overhear. They must have stepped through the doorway for privacy.
A breeze stroked her hair. Dried leaves scratched whispers against the pavement.
Gideon. She had no idea how long she would be here, and she didn’t want him stuck waiting for her. She pulled out her phone to text him that he should go home, that she’d call a cab when she was done, but the phone fell out of her hand, bounced off the edge of a red-brick step, and landed on the step below it.
With floppy fingers, she groped for the phone until she was able to pick it up and set it on her lap. It wasn’t damaged. The case had protected it. The crimson leather phone case that Camille had given her. She thought of Camille’s glittery case that she’d joked could double as a disco ball in a dance emergency.
Gideon. She was supposed to be texting Gideon. Tapping the screen in slow motion, she wrote a message: I don’t know how long I’ll be. Don’t wait for me. I’ll take a cab home.
Gideon answered immediately: Don’t take a taxi. When you’re done, call me, and I’ll come get you.
She was about to text back to refuse the offer, but Bartholomew’s rumbling voice spoke behind her. “Thank you for your patience.” He sat on the step next to her, letting his long legs stretch the rest of the way down the steps and over the sidewalk. “Are you all right?”
By what standard? She didn’t need the attention of the EMTs, if that was the question. “What happened to Camille?”
“I hope you don’t mind if I take notes, ma’am.” He opened a notebook. “I like to make sure I get everything right.”
“That’s fine. I’m sorry I don’t have my ID. I forgot my purse.”
“Not a problem, Dr. Marsh. You’re a friend of Camille Moretti’s?”
“Yes, I’ve known her since we were in elementary school. We’ve stayed close. Especially after her husband died . . . that was about a year and a half ago. A car accident, or rather a car-pedestrian accident . . .” She was rambling again, saying irrelevant things. She wanted to screech W
hat happened to her? at a volume the whole neighborhood would hear. Why were the police so hesitant to give her information?
Think about it. You came rushing onto the scene of a homicide. Of course they’re cagey with you.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Bartholomew said. “Do you know Mrs. Moretti’s next-of-kin? The person we should contact?”
“Yes. Her parents. Annette and Jacob Edison.” Natalie studied a fragment of dried dough stuck to one of her cuticles, wanting to focus on anything but a mental image of Camille’s parents learning their daughter had been murdered.
“Do you have their contact information?” Bartholomew asked.
“I don’t think so. They moved to North Carolina several years ago, to Raleigh. I can check though . . . the information . . . Wait, I do have it. I think it was in their Christmas letter . . . I might have saved it . . .”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll find it. Why did you come to Mrs. Moretti’s house today?”
“I was . . . informed that she was . . . I hoped the information wasn’t correct, that she was injured, not . . .” Natalie rubbed a scratch on the corner of her phone case.
“Who informed you?”
“Jonas Egan,” she said. “He called me. I assume he called you.”
“Why did Mr. Egan notify you?”
What could she say that wouldn’t make it plain Jonas’s wife was her client? Nothing. Had giving Jonas’s name been too much? Should she have kept that confidential? But he wasn’t her client . . . The police already knew he’d discovered Camille’s body . . . This was a murder investigation . . .
Her thoughts decomposed into sludgy misery, and all Natalie could say was, “I’m sorry. I’m not free to discuss that.”
“All right.” Bartholomew’s matter-of-fact answer caught Natalie off guard. She’d expected him to be suspicious, push her to explain—
Oh. Dr. Marsh. She hadn’t introduced herself that way, but he’d just addressed her by her title. He knew who she was. The police had clearly done some quick research on her.
“Tell me about Mrs. Moretti,” he said. “Did she have any enemies?”
Chapter 13
Natalie paid the taxi driver and trudged up the sidewalk toward her house. Though she’d ignored Gideon’s offer of a ride, not wanting to inconvenience him, she’d have to face him anyway: his car was in her driveway. Why had he returned? Had he left something behind—a jacket or his wallet?
She opened her still-unlocked front door, feeling strange as her hand executed the simple, familiar gesture. Everything looked the same. Everything felt different.
The house was silent. “Gideon?” His name croaked out of her throat. She swallowed.
No answer. He must be in the backyard. Maybe it should bother her that he’d come to her home without her, but she didn’t care. Let him wander wherever he wanted. Let him rearrange the furniture, paint the walls orange, stable a horse in the living room.
A horse. Camille had always sworn that someday she’d own a horse. A mustang, glossy black.
Natalie walked into the kitchen. The table that had been covered with flour and towel-draped balls of dough was empty and clean. No dishes waited in the sink, and the dishwasher was running. Through the window, she saw Gideon sweeping the patio. Two rows of small pizzas covered the card table Natalie had set up to hold the finished pizzas.
She opened the back door.
“Hey.” Gideon leaned the broom against a patio chair and came to meet her. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“I didn’t want to bother you.”
“It’s not a bother. I like to do what I can.”
With a controlled breath, Natalie inhaled the scents of woodsmoke, pizza crust, and tomato. “You didn’t need to do all this.”
“It’s the least I could do.” He waved toward the pizzas. One of them was too thick, a puff of dough. One was burnt. One was too thin, with a hole in it. The rest looked great, with perfect, light charring. “Took me a few pizzas to get the hang of it, I’m afraid. Would you like to eat? No pressure, but you must be hungry.”
She felt dehydrated and headachy but didn’t have an appetite. Would she feel less sick and foggy if she ate? It might help. A little.
“Here.” Gideon pulled out a patio chair. “May I bring you something to drink?”
She sank into the cushioned chair. “Water. A huge glass of water.”
“Got it.” Gideon hastened toward the back door. In a minute, he returned with a glass filled with ice and a pitcher of water. He poured water into the glass and set the glass and pitcher in front of Natalie. “Do you want pizza?”
Natalie nodded. “I don’t care what kind. Please eat, too, if you haven’t already.”
Gideon picked up two plates and headed toward the card table.
Her phone rang. For a surreal instant, she imagined she’d see Camille’s name on the screen, as though she could think herself into the past.
She gulped water and drew the phone out of her pocket. Kirk. She took the call. “Hi.”
“Natalie,” Kirk said. “I heard. I’m so sorry. How are you holding up?”
“I’m holding.”
Gideon, at the pizza table, caught Natalie’s eye. He pointed to himself, then to the door, and mouthed, “Should I?”
Natalie shook her head and beckoned him toward the patio table. “How did you hear so quickly?” she asked Kirk. He had obviously not only heard of Camille’s death but also knew Natalie knew.
“Jeanne’s son,” Kirk said. “He lives in the same neighborhood as Camille, and word is traveling at light speed. He called Jeanne; Jeanne called me. He heard you were the one who found her.”
Apparently, the grapevine had some glitches, but that was just as well. “No. I . . . stopped by her house a couple of hours ago, and the police were already there.” As she said the words, she realized Gideon would recognize that she’d cut the information about receiving word via phone. Gideon wouldn’t ask about it though, and she could give Kirk a better explanation later, in private.
“Glad to hear you weren’t the one who . . . Still rough for you, but at least you didn’t have to see her.”
Natalie wondered if she could dump the pitcher of water over her head and wake herself up to a different reality.
“I didn’t know Camille well, but everything about her impressed me,” Kirk said. “I know you two were best friends from childhood. I’m sorry.”
Natalie licked her lips and realized how chapped they were. “Thank you.”
Gideon set a plate filled with wedges of pizza in the center of the table. Natalie gestured for him to sit and mouthed, “Eat.”
“Natalie, I’m in Syracuse for the day, but I called Skyler, and he’s on his way to your house,” Kirk said. “Don’t worry if you’re not home or don’t want company. We just had something we wanted to drop off.”
“You guys are the best,” Natalie said. “I’m home.”
“Do you feel up to seeing him, or do you want him to leave it on the porch?”
“I’ll see him. Tell him the front door’s unlocked and he can come straight through the house. I’m in the backyard.”
“I’ll let him know. If there’s anything at all we can do for you, please let us know.”
“Thank you, Kirk. I appreciate it.”
“Talk to you soon.” Kirk hung up.
Gideon finished his slice of pizza. He was eating eagerly enough that Natalie suspected he hadn’t eaten at all while cleaning and cooking. She took a slice and put it on her plate. “A friend from work is stopping by, but please don’t feel you need to leave. He’s just dropping something off.”
“Are you sure you don’t want privacy?”
“We’re not discussing anything confidential,” Natalie said. “Eat, please. You’ve been working for hours on this food.”
He took another slice.
Natalie took a few bites of pizza, and her appetite stirred. She was hungry. “I’m sorry about today. We were supp
osed to talk about Felicia, and instead you ended up as chauffeur. And cook and maid.”
“I volunteered for those positions. We’ll talk about Felicia later. She’s struggling, but it’s not urgent. Grief is a . . . long process.”
She nodded. He was grieving. Felicia was grieving. Camille had been grieving for a year and a half. Natalie had been . . . was still . . . her father’s aneurysm . . . her mother’s cancer . . . Camille’s death . . .
A bite of pizza got stuck partway to her stomach. She swallowed water, a large gulp that hurt all the way down.
They’d nearly emptied the pizza platter before the back door opened and Skyler stepped onto the patio. Natalie tried to stand but couldn’t seem to remember the technique; her chair legs snagged on the stamped concrete, her knees shook, and her chair tipped.
“Don’t get up.” Skyler scurried toward Natalie, set a vase of cream and pale-yellow flowers on the table, and hugged her while she was still seated.
“I’m sorry, Nat.” Skyler released her. “Camille was awesome.” He held out a hand to Gideon. “Skyler Hudson. Sorry to come crashing in.”
“I’m the trespasser.” Gideon stood and shook Skyler’s hand. “Gideon Radcliffe.”
“Radcliffe, as in Wade Radcliffe?” Skyler asked.
“My father.”
“Nice. I knew your dad. Good guy. I was sorry to hear about his passing.”
“Thank you. How did you know him?”
“Worked with him in physical therapy. After he got beaned by a ball.”
“Hey, right, I heard him talk about you. You did great work with him.”
“Eh, I always do great work, but it’s more fun with a guy like your dad. Easy patient. Worked hard at recovery. It’s rotten that . . .” Skyler scowled. “Wish fate had left the guy alone.”
“Me too,” Gideon said.
“Skyler works part-time in our office as a biofeedback therapist, in addition to his PT work,” Natalie explained.
“Good to meet you.” Gideon picked up his empty plate. “I’m heading out. Natalie, please call me if you need anything.”
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