by Minka Kent
“Like I said, don’t be afraid to call if you need me,” he says. “I mean it. I want to catch this guy.”
“And I hope you do.”
It’s a quarter after nine by the time I get home. The house is dark. Andrew mentioned maybe having dinner with a few work colleagues, but that was hours ago, and he was on the fence about it at the time.
He must have chosen to go.
I don’t call him—I don’t want to be that kind of wife. The nagging, where-the-hell-are-you kind. No man wants to come home to that.
Changing out of my clothes, I climb into our oversize bed, tunnel under a mountain of covers, and zone out in front of a flickering TV while watching E! News. My sister’s ex always teased me for caring about what celebrities are up to, but the real news is too depressing. Missing people. Unsolved murders. Politics.
No thanks. Mom practically force-fed that shit to us when we were younger. To this day, I’m convinced it’s why Greer is so cynical and untrusting.
I’m perfectly happy in my little Glacier Park bubble, where nothing bad ever happens and breaking news is when Beyoncé and JAY-Z vacation at the Cerulean Sky Ski Resort up the mountain.
Now that I’ve had a little bit of distance from Ronan, I feel foolish. A smart woman wouldn’t let herself get caught up in daydream affairs all because a handsome man shows a little bit of interest. She wouldn’t let herself entertain those kinds of thoughts. And she wouldn’t use boredom as a way to justify it either.
I can’t let it happen again.
Andrew may not be 100 percent perfect, but he’s pretty damn close. And I love him. So much. Even when he frustrates me. Even when this perfect little life makes me so bored I think about hopping a plane to Peru or Grenada and never coming back because an adventure sounds magical right about now.
But I married him in front of all our friends and family.
I took vows.
Till death do us part.
CHAPTER 14
GREER
Day Four
“Oh, Jesus, you scared me.” I startle in the middle of the kitchen when Andrew appears out of nowhere. “I came down for some water.”
“Can’t sleep either?” Andrew asks.
It’s odd to see him sitting in the dark, staring blankly ahead. No laptop. No iPad. No Wall Street Journal. No chiming cell phone.
I almost consider the fact that he might be sleepwalking.
“Nope,” I say, quietly retrieving a crystal glass from the cupboard. Running it under the filtered water dispenser in the fridge door, I turn back toward him and take a swig. Good Lord, this water tastes like it was sourced from a spring in heaven. “Can I ask you something?”
Four in the morning might not be the best time to bring up the things that’ve been burning in my mind the last several days, but I don’t know when I’ll be able to get Andrew alone again. Could be tomorrow. Could be next month. There are always people here, coming and going, all fucking day.
“Sure.” He leans back in his chair, arms folded, already on the defensive.
I do that to people: put them on the defensive. Meredith always said it is because I always look so tense, like I’m in desperate need of a massage and an all-expenses-paid vacation. And she says I talk too fast, but I can’t help it. My mind is constantly running, never stopping. It’s a wonder I can get my mouth and brain on the same page half the time. When I was little, I used to garble my words together because my little mouth couldn’t keep up with my warp-speed thoughts. My mother used to sigh, roll her eyes, and tell me to “slowwwww downnnn.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police to talk to Meredith’s best friend?” I ask.
“I wasn’t aware she had a best friend.”
“Bullshit.” My jaw tightens, head tilting. “She’s one of your neighbors. They were together all the time.”
“If they were, it was during the day, when I was at work. She probably mentioned her a few times, but never in any detail.”
“I find that incredibly hard to believe, Andrew.” I call his bluff despite the fact that I’m beginning to accept that I didn’t know her as well as I thought I did . . . and that maybe none of us truly knew her.
His nostrils flare. “I don’t care if you believe me or not. I’m telling you, I had no idea she had any friends, at least not any friends around here. Always took her as more of an introvert, a loner. She was always doing her own thing. We’d see each other in the evening. I never asked how she spent her days, and she never volunteered the information.”
“Sorry. Not buying it.”
Our eyes lock, and his fist clenches on the table. I’ve never seen him like this before. Is he upset because I’m pointing out cracks in the case that might paint him in an unflattering light? Is he upset because I’m onto him? Because I’m the only person unafraid to call him out when shit doesn’t add up?
“What’s her name?” he asks.
“Allison,” I say. “Allison Ross. She lives in that cabin-looking place on top of the hill.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. That Allison,” he says, sighing. “They had a falling-out last year. They hadn’t spoken in months.”
“That’s not the impression I got,” I say.
“You talked to her?”
“I’ve spoken to most of your neighbors,” I lie, but it’s for the greater good. I want him to know nothing’s going to get past me.
Nothing.
“I mean, maybe Mer made up with Allison? If she did, she didn’t tell me,” he says. “I just know they were close, and then they weren’t.”
I try to imagine how Andrew is as a father to Isabeau and Calder and how he would be to Meredith’s baby. He strikes me as the kind of man who lets his wife do all the worrying and tending to details.
“Allison saw a bruise on Meredith’s wrist once.” I cut to the chase. “Said she was trying to hide it.”
“No idea what you’re talking about,” he says. “But I know what you’re getting at, Greer, and you need to watch yourself.”
My jaw hangs, my blood pumping.
“I’m not saying you had anything to do with this. But I’m saying if you did, it’s going to come out. The truth always does.” I keep my voice low, but I don’t soften my brusqueness.
“What reason would I possibly have to hurt my wife?” he asks, dragging his hand through his hair and tugging. “I love her. I love her more than you could possibly begin to understand. And she’s carrying my child. Don’t you think I want her home safe? With me? There’s a reason I’m sitting out here, alone in the dark at four in the morning. Can’t get a single goddamn minute to myself during the day. I’m so busy fielding calls and giving interviews that I don’t have a spare second to actually miss my fucking wife or worry about her. So I stay up. I don’t sleep. I lie in bed and think about her. I think about where she is. Who she’s with. If she’s cold or hungry or scared. If she’s thinking about me. If she knows how badly I want to find her.”
Taking a seat across from him, I bury my face in my hands, exhaling. Maybe I’ve been too hard on him. Maybe I’ve pointed the finger in his direction because right now, there’s no one else to point the finger at.
“I’m sorry.” I groan my apology before meeting his misty gaze from the other side of the table.
“You don’t think I’m aware that I’m already under a microscope?” he asks. “That the police, the media, the public . . . they’re all watching my every move? I’d much rather be out there looking for her, but when Connie Mayweather wants to do a sit-down, do you know how bad that would look if I declined? If I kept to myself, the media would have a field day with that, and you know it. They’d focus on how guilty I look instead of enlisting people to find her.”
“No, you’re right.” I hate that he has a point, but I can’t deny it. “This entire thing is so fucked up.”
“Our next-door neighbor, Mary Jo Bosma,” he says, “the one whose driveway I shoveled all last winter when her husband had hip replacement surgery, we
nt to the police the other day to tell them about a fight she witnessed once. We were yelling, fighting over something stupid I’m sure, but I guess the windows were open. Anyway, she took time out of her day, drove down to the police station, and gave a report about a fight she saw between us a year ago. A goddamn argument. Every couple has their disagreements. Doesn’t mean I did something to my wife.”
He’s right. Technically speaking.
“I’m sorry.” I exhale. “That’s not fair to you.”
“So that’s what I’m dealing with, Greer. And when you keep taking these little digs, suggesting that I had anything to do with this, don’t think I don’t notice.” Andrew stands, shoving his chair out. “You’re lucky you’re her sister, or you’d be sleeping in the street tonight.”
It’s a little harsh, but I deserve it. Kind of. I resolve to cut him some slack going forward, keeping my suspicions to myself until I have good, hard proof that my worries have merit.
“Good night, Greer,” he says, jaw clenched. “Try to get some sleep.”
“You, too.”
Finishing my water, I place the glass in the dishwasher, moving slowly and quietly so as not to make a sound. When I pass the butler’s pantry on my way to the stairs, I stop when the calendar catches my eye.
The last day of the month is circled in red, not once but twice.
Meredith’s twenty-sixth birthday.
The day her $5 million trust fund is to be endowed.
The timing of this entire thing is a little too curious for me to believe Andrew’s innocent pleas . . . just yet.
CHAPTER 15
MEREDITH
Twenty-Six Months Ago
“Did I tell you we were invited to the—” Andrew stops talking when he glances up from his tablet and sees me hovering over a stack of mail, a single white envelope clutched in my hand. “What is it?”
“This was in the mailbox,” I manage to say.
There’s no postage stamp.
No return address.
Just my name scribbled in blue ink on the front.
Meredith Gretchen Price.
“I don’t want to open it,” I say, dropping it on the cold marble counter and stepping back.
Andrew heads toward me, swiping the envelope and ripping it from the side. Blowing a quick breath inside the torn edge, he pours the contents into his other hand: Ronan’s business card, a postcard advertisement for the Peaceful Bean, and a folded slip of paper with the words “always watching” scribbled across the front in coordinating script.
“What the hell is this?” Andrew asks, examining each item. My heart stops when he studies Ronan’s card.
“He must have seen me go to the police station that day,” I say. “He must have figured out I talked to Detective McCormack.”
Good save.
“The Peaceful Bean?” He flips the postcard over and back. “Never heard of it.”
“I had coffee there last month. With a friend,” I say. A half-truth isn’t the same as a full lie, but it still feels wrong.
“So the lunatic’s still following you.” Andrew’s mouth presses flat, the way it did when I told him about the note on my car a while back. It seemed to hardly bother him at first, but eventually he took precautions, calling me more and checking on me. But when nothing happened after that, things returned to normal, and Andrew was convinced the only bone-chilling thing about Glacier Park was the north winds in January. He assured me it was probably some teenagers pulling some prank, and when I asked how they knew my name, he said they were probably friends of Calder’s.
It made sense at the time.
Or maybe I just wanted to believe his explanation.
It was the least terrifying of them all.
“Should I call the police?” I ask, recalling Ronan’s instructions to notify the department right away. Though I have no idea how long this has been sitting in my mailbox. The only things that get delivered anymore are bills and junk catalogs I never read since I do most of my shopping online or in Glacier Park Commons. I’m lucky if I check the box more than once a week.
“It’s late.” He frowns, glancing at the time on his phone. “I doubt the detective’s working right now, and if they dispatch an officer, all we have is this letter that’s been sitting in the mailbox for God knows how long. Just go in the morning.”
Andrew yawns, coming around the island toward me. Cupping my face in his hands, he presses his lips into my forehead, like I’m a sullen child whose irrational fears can be comforted with a kiss.
“Bed?” he asks, his hands lowering to my waist. I breathe him in, a feeble attempt to soothe myself, but I feel nothing.
No safety.
No security.
“None of this worries you?” I ask, biting the inside of my bottom lip until I taste blood.
“No,” he says, his tone uncompromising. “This place is Fort Knox. You’re safe here. Nothing’s going to happen to you. I promise. Not with me here.”
Half the time, I wake up at night and find the security system unarmed. He forgets, and when I bring it up, he laughs because Glacier Park was voted the “safest city in America” nine years in a row in People magazine.
“Contrary to what you might assume, I don’t sit around all day eating Dove chocolates and watching The Price Is Right.” I roll my eyes. “I’m probably gone more than I’m home. What if something happens when I’m outside of your impenetrable fortress?”
“Keep your phone on you,” he says. “Be aware of your surroundings. Stay away from places you’ve never been before.”
“So that’s all I have to do, and nothing will ever happen to me?” I’m being facetious, but he doesn’t pick up on it, or if he does, he’s not playing along.
Sliding his hand into mine, he tows me behind him, heading to our master suite.
“Let’s stop with the worrying, Mer,” he says. “It’s really getting old. This is some lunatic who probably escaped from the mental hospital in Glen Falls who just wants to mess with you because he gets off on it. No one’s going to hurt you.”
“You don’t know that.” The fact that he hasn’t suggested Calder’s friends this time around concerns me. He has to know this is more than some silly prank.
“You’re right. I don’t. But I do know I’m never going to let anything happen to you.” His expression relaxes and our hands loosen as we climb the stairs. I stay a few steps behind him. “If someone really wanted to hurt you, don’t you think they’d do a little more than send you creepy letters that make no sense?”
“The letters do make sense. He’s trying to let me know he’s following me.”
“He’s just trying to freak you out. Don’t let him get to you. Pretty soon he’ll get bored with this little game.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“I’m just saying, if you ignore him, he’ll probably go away,” Andrew says. “He wants your attention. He wants to get to you. And so far, it’s working.”
“And what if he doesn’t go away?”
“Then I’ll hire a private investigator, and I’ll personally see to it that he’s dealt with properly.” Andrew exhales, cupping my face in his left hand. “You’re getting yourself all worked up, Mer, but what you need is some rest.”
I refuse to meet his condescending gaze.
Turning to head back downstairs, I resolve to sleep in one of the guest rooms on the main level. For the first time, I can’t bear the thought of sleeping next to a man who claims to love me so much yet cares so little about my concerns.
Stopping on the sixth step, I turn back. “If you truly believe nothing bad is going to happen, why can’t you at least respect that I’m terrified right now?”
“Meredith.” His tone is stern, like the way he speaks to Calder when he forgets to shut off his video game or Isabeau when she doesn’t put her dirty clothes in the hamper. “I respect that you’re getting yourself worked up. Why can’t you respect that I’m not worried because I’m going to do eve
rything in my power to protect you? Besides, what good would it do you if we were both worked up over this?”
Maybe he has a point, but I still feel slighted.
He hears me, but he’s not listening.
Raising my hand, I silence him. “Forget it. We’ll finish this conversation tomorrow.”
He doesn’t argue.
When I reach the bottom landing, I listen for the soft creak of our bedroom door, and I watch for the light beneath it to turn to dark.
I can’t fight with him tonight.
I don’t have the energy.
Fixing myself a cup of decaffeinated Earl Grey, I grab my copy of Wuthering Heights and lie on the sofa in the formal living room, spreading a throw across my lap. I’m not a reader, but I could use a distraction. My eyes scan the words on the pages of a book I picked out because I’d overheard some women discussing it at the gym last week. But nothing registers. I can’t focus or concentrate.
Even in my own home, I could swear I’m being watched.
For some inexplicable reason, I glance up, toward a small break in the curtains that cover a picture window. Flicking off the lamp on the side table, I pad across the carpet and peek outside.
The moonless sky casts no shadows, and the only light comes from the Gardeners’ elaborate solar-powered landscaping display across the street.
But I notice something out of the ordinary.
A black sedan is parked in front of our house.
From here, I can make out the shape of a person positioned in the driver’s seat.
The Gardeners have an elegant circle drive leading to a two-story porte cochere, with a fountain taking center stage. Anytime they have company, they insist that their visitors park there and not on the street.
Besides, their house is dark.
They’re either gone or asleep.
Within seconds, the taillights on the sedan glow red, and the driver guns the engine. Before I have a chance to get a better look or a single number off the plate, it’s gone.