I bit my lip. “But then why were we attacked?”
He paused. “It’s quite likely that your rape and today’s assault on your friend are unrelated to the murders.” His voice was still gentle, as if he were talking to a child. “It’s doubtful that they were committed by the killer.”
I repeated his words in my head, tried to understand. “So the killer hasn’t struck at me or Becky yet?”
Stiles said nothing.
“And the attacks on us—what are you saying? That they’re only a coincidence?”
He blinked a few times, then nodded. “For lack of a better word. Probably.”
I heard his voice vaguely, telling me to stay with a friend if I could, to be alone as little as possible. To take precautions, keep him informed of any suspicious contacts. By the time his voice stopped, I was icy cold. I couldn’t sit there another minute. Had to get to the hospital to check on Becky.
Stiles reached for my hand to help me up. I stood, heard a crash, reflexively jumped into his arms. Looked down to see the shattered glass apple. For a heartbeat or two, I stayed where I was, safe in the arms of a strong, handsome man. I wanted to stay there. But I felt Stiles’ discomfort and thought of Charlie. Took a breath and let go. Stooped to clean up the mess.
“No,” Stiles said. “Don’t bother. Stan will take care of it.”
Again, he offered me his hand.
I raced to my car and took off for the hospital. Sped through a stop sign in my hurry to get to Becky. Kept hearing Detective Stiles say that the assault on Becky and my rape had nothing to do with the list or the murders. He seemed sure, but how could he be?
I stopped for a red light. Drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. Considered that Stiles might have been wrong about Becky. The killer might have intended to follow his pattern and cut her but had been interrupted when Stan showed up.
Except, no. Becky’s name came after mine on the list. If the killer followed his pattern, I’d have been murdered first.
So was Stiles right? I blew through another stop sign, heard a honking horn. If not the killer, then who’d slugged Becky? And who’d raped me? Why couldn’t I remember anything but the vaguest hovering shadow of a man, a slimy touch, stale hot breath? My throat clenched and a wave of angry sorrow rose in my chest. Charlie sat in his study, holding a glass of Syrah, winking. Damn. If he hadn’t died, he’d have been home with me that night and no one would have dared to rape me. And I wouldn’t have been selling the house, wouldn’t have had to deal with Jerry.
Jerry?
I cringed at the thought of him. Saw him standing uninvited at my door, holding wine and roses, and the cringe expanded. My chest burned, stomach twisted with loathing. And right then, I knew. My whole body knew—my bones, my teeth, my breasts, my scalp. It had been Jerry.
Oh God oh God oh God. Jerry. He must have drugged the wine, waited for me to drink it, and come back later to rape me. My skin contracted at the thought. My lips twisted in a revolted grimace. Ugh. The pig, the creep, the repulsive lowlife dirtbag. I wanted to call Stiles, but realized I had no proof. Not a trace, nothing.
Still, I was sure.
So now what? How could I sit with him at settlement? How could I be in the same room, the same building with him? And how could I even be thinking of Jerry when Becky was in the hospital with her head bashed? I saw her again, lying unconscious on the floor. Hot rage seared my veins. I stepped on the gas, changed lanes, zigzagged through traffic.
My phone made a gong sound. Someone was texting me.
Caller ID said Becky. Even though I was driving, I opened it, anxious to find out how she was. The text said that she’d been released. She was fine except for a mild concussion, and she’d be staying at Susan’s to rest.
Good. I’d go over there in a while and make sure she was all right.
I turned around, headed my car toward home. But my hands were shaking. Images swirled. Jerry, his shadow, his shape. Becky, motionless on the floor. I told myself that she and I were both going to be fine. I turned on the radio, listened to some country station. Tried to pretend my life was normal like the world outside my windshield. A driver in the next car was talking on his phone. A woman walked a Doberman. A guy pranced around with a leaf blower. Everyone seemed at ease as if breathing didn’t hurt, as if their mouths weren’t dry.
But I wasn’t like them. I’d been raped by my real estate agent. Plus my best friend had been assaulted. And some sick bastard was planning to hunt us down and carve us up. Mrs. Marshall smiled at me from the sidewalk, from the passenger seat in the car beside me. From the hood of my car. She and her bloody grin crawled toward me, dripping blood on my windshield. She wasn’t really there, I knew that. She was only my imagination. Even so, I sped up, swerved, then braked hard, trying to escape her image. A horn blared and brakes screeched. My car lurched as the tires scraped the curb. I slammed on the brakes. Turned off the engine. Tried to stop shaking.
Someone was pounding on my window. For a nanosecond, I thought it was Rose Evans.
“Are you all right?”
I didn’t know the man. He was stocky, had thick black hair. I nodded, yes. I was fine. I opened my window.
“You cut right in front of me. I almost rammed right into you.”
I nodded. “Sorry.” What else could I say?
“You turned right from the left lane. You didn’t even look where you were going.” He leaned over and shouted into my face. His nose was speckled with big black pores. “Don’t you know how to drive?”
“I bet she’s drunk,” a round woman behind him suggested. Was she his wife? She was short, wore her hair cropped short.
“No,” I said. I didn’t want them to call the police. “I’m not drunk.”
They sputtered, staring at me.
I needed to stop shaking, to find words. “Sorry.” It was all I could think of.
“You shouldn’t be on the road.” The man turned to the woman. “You ready?”
They got into their car and drove off. When they were out of sight, I started my car, edged away from the curb. Tears blurred my vision all the way home.
When I got home, I locked my new door lock, took my phone from my bag, ran upstairs to my bed, and climbed under the covers. I lay there absorbing the tenderness of down pillows, the protection of a comforter. When my breathing was calm and my pulse slowed, I called Susan to find out how Becky was. Susan was in the middle of making dinner and lecturing one of her daughters about the consequences of leaving food in her bedroom. Pots clanged and Susan chided, but I gleaned from broken sentences that Becky had a headache and didn’t remember being attacked.
“Do you want vermin?” Susan scolded. “In your room? Because that’s who you’re inviting, Julie. Rats. Voles. Mice.”
In the background, Julie yelled, “Mom. Relax. It was only some popcorn.”
“Sorry, Elle. Julie’s not happy with just having a dog. She apparently wants other pets.”
“Lisa left a bag of cookies in her room. You didn’t say anything to her!”
“Liar! I did not!” Lisa shouted.
“Lisa has nothing to do with this. I’m talking to you about what you did.” Water ran. Julie answered back that Susan always picked on her, never on Lisa.
“Susan?” I tried to get her attention.
Lisa chimed in. “Me? What did I do?”
Paper, maybe plastic wrapping rattled. Julie whined. Susan told her to stop, and then finally addressed me. “Elle, listen. I can’t talk now. But I’ve heard from Stiles so we should talk. Come for dinner and stay the night.”
“Mom—Julie cursed!”
“Quiet, both of you!” Susan shouted. “Becky can’t be around loud voices. Here. Hold on, Elle.”
Hold on? I heard cloth rustling, movement. A door opening.
“Elle?” It was Becky. She sounded sleepy.
“Are you all right?” I saw her lying on the floor, not moving.
“My head feels like a bowling ball.”
Yikes.
“They told me I can’t work for a week, maybe longer. I can’t even read or watch television. What am I supposed to do?”
I thought about it. Take long baths? Binge eat? Lie in bed under a comforter?
“So did they arrest Stan?” She thought he had to be the one who’d hit her. The last thing she remembered was standing at the bulletin board, hanging leaf collages. And then she was lying on the floor, looking up at Stan.
“Stan said he found you.”
“Of course he did. Was he going to say that he knocked me out?”
She had a point. But Stiles hadn’t suspected him. “Stiles doesn’t think it was Stan.”
“Stiles?” Becky’s voice rose in pitch, became soprano. “Why is Stiles involved? Isn’t he homicide?”
Oh damn. I’d worried her, hadn’t meant to. “He came because it’s another attack at the school. He thought it might be related to the other cases.”
She paused. “I think it’s Stan. He’s always been so creepy strange. I think he tried to kill me.”
“Becky.” I tried to sound soothing. “Listen. Stiles doesn’t think Stan or anyone else tried to kill you. He doesn’t even think what happened to you was connected to the killings.”
“Not related? Is he serious?” Her voice was too high, too tight. I thought it might snap. “Then how does he explain what happened? Oh God. My head.”
I pictured her face pinched with pain, her hand covering her forehead. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” I waited a beat. “Look, you’re perfectly safe at Susan’s. And you need to rest, not get riled. Nothing bad is going to happen.” I went on talking in nursery rhyme rhythm, until I couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Thanks, Elle.” Her voice was back at alto. She sounded calm.
When we hung up, I turned onto my side. Thought I should stay the night at Susan’s. Thought about her scrapping daughters. Reconsidered and thought about staying home. But Stiles had warned that Becky and I should take precautions, be alone as little as possible.
I got up. Put my overnight bag on the bed, tossed in a t-shirt, a pair of sweatpants. Had déjà vu, remembering that I’d been packing for Susan’s the night of the rape. Stopped packing. Sat. Remembered that I’d told Jen I’d call her back.
Jen had already talked to Susan and knew all about Becky. “You shouldn’t stay alone, Elle. Shit, come stay here with me and Norm.”
I thanked her, said I was going to Susan’s. Jen said that I was an effing moron to stay with Susan’s monster offspring and that her invitation would remain open in case I came to my effing senses.
The truth was that I would have rather stayed with Jen but didn’t have the energy to trek out to the suburbs to her house. I didn’t have the energy to go anywhere, wanted to stay home in my own space. Even though that space wouldn’t be mine much longer. I went into the hall, down the stairs. Walked through the living room, the dining room, the kitchen. Pictured myself there with Charlie, cooking dinner. Charlie pouring wine. Dicing onion or eggplant. Coming up behind me while I stood at the sink, wrapping his arms around my waist, startling me so I’d splash water all over the counter. Turning me around for a kiss.
Charlie. I smiled. We’d liked the same wine. I went to the bar in his study, opened a fresh bottle. Poured a glass. Imagined him in his leather easy chair, feet up on the hassock, drinking with me. Toasting our life together. I imagined his smile. His arms reaching out for me. His kiss, warm on my neck.
Damn, why was I remembering these sweet moments? Why wasn’t I remembering the woman I’d caught him with in the shower? The money he’d stolen from my inheritance? His slippery charming manipulative lies and other reasons I’d filed for divorce? Why, after all this time, did I still picture him everywhere, in every room of this house? Was it the house? Had it somehow absorbed the moments that had passed within its walls? Did Charlie’s energy remain there despite his death?
No, ridiculous. Besides, it didn’t matter. I was done with the house and with Charlie. Saying good-bye, moving out. I chugged my wine and stomped out of the study, marched upstairs to finish packing. A sweater, a bra. Black slacks.
And stopped.
Somebody was scratching. Trying to use a key at the front door. Not aware that I’d changed the locks?
I listened, heard nothing for a while. Tossed underwear into the case.
And there it was again. Louder, more distinct. Coming from downstairs.
Someone was fiddling with the new lock, trying to get into the house. I stepped into the hallway, looked down the stairs. My bag was down there with my mace. And my phone—I’d had it with me in the study. Had I left it there? Damn. Who was out there? The rapist? The killer? Either way, if I hurried, I’d have time to go downstairs, get my phone and my mace. And a carving knife.
Go, I told myself. Move. I took a deep breath and, eyes on the front door, raced down the stairs to my bag, rutted around for my mace, dashed into the kitchen, and grabbed a large serious knife. Kept going, ran to the study. The sun was setting, and the furniture cast long, ominous shadows on the bar. But I found my phone and grabbed it, began to punch in 911, but my hands were full with the mace and the knife, and I fumbled, dropped the phone. Knelt to pick it up and the knife slipped from my grip. My hands jerked unsteadily, but finally I got to my feet, fingers tight around the knife handle, arms juggling the mace and the phone. I shoved the mace under my arm and was repositioning the phone, trying to dial 911 when the doorbell rang.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I held still. The person who’d been scratching at my lock must have given up on breaking in. Was he hoping I’d open the door and welcome him? I froze, remembering the silhouetted man in my bedroom. Had it really been Jerry? I should call the police. Tell them that someone was ringing my doorbell and it was probably a rapist or serial killer.
That sounded nuts.
I held onto the knife, the mace, and the phone, trying to convince myself that a serial killer wouldn’t announce his presence by ringing the bell. That the person at my front door was probably a fund-raiser, collecting for clean air or green electric power. Or a delivery man? Maybe someone had sent me a package.
Unless the killer was disguised as a fund-raiser or delivery man.
The bell rang again. I couldn’t remain frozen in Charlie’s study. Wasn’t going to let someone stand on own my front porch and terrorize me. No. I’d had enough. If this dude wanted to kill me, I might as well fight back. I got up, tucked the mace under my arm, the knife in one hand, phone in the other, and I started down the darkening hall toward the door. But wait. Shouldn’t I switch the phone with the mace? If someone lunged inside attacking me, what good would it do to hold onto the phone? I rearranged. Put the phone under my arm, the mace in one hand and the knife in the other, and ventured to the front door, where I silently peeked out the peephole.
At first, all I saw was the empty porch. The edge of someone’s head and shoulders slid into view. Whoever was out there had moved to the side of the porch, out of range from the peephole.
I clutched my weapons and watched, preparing to pull the door open and charge at him, taking him by surprise, spraying him in the eyes and holding the knife to his throat. Before he could grasp what had happened, I’d call the police.
I visualized it. Held my finger on the spray button. And stood at the door, watching through the peephole. My heart slammed my rib cage, my stomach contorted.
The guy reached an arm out, but I didn’t anticipate the bell and when it rang, I was jostled, almost dropped the knife. Why would he ring the bell three times, especially after trying to break in? Had breaking in been his Plan A, but having failed, was he moving on to Plan B?
My breathing was shallow, my palms clammy. I couldn’t just stand there, waiting for him to come up with Plan C. On the count of three, I would open the door with mace ready. But first I checked the peephole one more time.
Damn. I didn’t bother to count.
“Go to hell, Jerry!”
I shouted.
“Open up, Elle.”
“How dare you come over here after what you did! Get off my porch or I’ll call the cops!”
“We have to talk. Just for a minute.”
“I mean it. I’m dialing 911.” I wasn’t, but he couldn’t know that.
“I swear. It’s important.”
“Talk through the door.” I clutched the knife and the mace.
“Elle, you want the whole neighborhood to hear your business?”
Fine. I grabbed the knob with the hand that held the knife, turned and pulled the door open, ready to spray the mace and thrust the knife. “What do you want to tell me?”
“What the hell, Elle?”
I hesitated for the briefest moment, just long enough for him to reach out and slap the can of mace out of my hand and grab hold of the arm that held the knife. My phone slipped from under my arm, onto the porch. I stood helpless, face-to-face with Jerry, his face distorted by rage.
“You locked me out!” Jerry thundered. He gripped my wrists tightly, strangling them. “The key from the lock box doesn’t work. You changed the locks. When, yesterday? Because my key didn’t work yesterday, either. How do you expect me to get in?”
“The house is sold, Jerry.” I squawked, sounded hoarse. “There’s no need for you to come in anymore.” I tugged my arm.
“I’m the realtor,” he roared. “I decide when there’s no need to come in. Until settlement, I need access to this house. At all times.”
Was he crazy? “Let go of me.” Jerry had transformed. He’d become the shadow man. I couldn’t breathe, but tried to sound unafraid, authoritative.
“What are you doing, coming at me with a knife? And what’s that? Pepper spray? Are you insane?”
“I heard someone trying to break in.” I twisted my wrists, trying to get free. “Jerry, let go—you’re hurting me.”
“No one was breaking in, Elle. I was legitimately trying to get inside.”
Legitimately? I glanced around him, hoping to call out to a passing neighbor, even a passing stranger. Saw no one. Why wasn’t a single soul out on the street? Usually, at this time, people were still coming home from work. Walking their dogs.
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