by Dan Padavona
Cutting the engine, she sits and breathes. There’s still time to back out. A knock on the window brings her head around.
There he is again, grinning into the car with perfect white teeth to match the blonde hair draping over his eyes.
“It’s all right,” he says through the glass. “I don’t bite.”
Jennifer tucks the keys inside her pocket and climbs out of the car. Her heart thumps faster, palms glistening with sweat as a weird electricity thrums through her body. She hopes he’ll lead her through the back door. He strolls up the driveway instead.
“Have any trouble finding the place?”
“None.” Her voice cracks, and she clears it.
His eyes travel from her legs to her halter top, then pull to the yard.
“This is the Braden estate,” he says with a sweeping gesture. His laugh disarms her. “Don’t worry. It’s homey inside.”
The Braden home is a Craftsman bungalow with alabaster siding and a porch covering the front of the house.
“Grandma and Grandpa Braden purchased the home fifty years ago and sold it to my parents after they moved to California.”
As they climb the steps, Jennifer tugs her skirt down when he’s not looking. When he swings his gaze back to her, she casually flips her hair.
“Is that where your parents are now? Visiting your grandparents in California?”
“My grandparents live in Simi Valley and wouldn’t be caught dead on the busy streets of So Cal. How did you know they were in L.A?”
“Uh, I didn’t. Just figured they were visiting.”
He holds her stare and knows she’s lying. As he punches another code into the front door, Jennifer bounces on her toes and glances over her shoulder. A senior man in golf pants and a crew neck aims his key fob at a sports car.
Hurry, Sean. Damn, the man saw her.
The cool breath of the house rolls out and greets Jennifer in the entryway. She follows Sean into the home. The inside appears immaculate. A fountain gurgles at a window off the living room. She’s afraid to touch anything.
“Get you anything to drink?”
“A glass of water would be fine.”
He looks at her through the tops of his eyes.
“My father collects wine bottles from California, Arizona, and the Finger Lakes of New York. You still want water?”
She shrugs.
“I’d better not try the wine. I still need to drive home.”
“Don’t be in such a hurry. We have the entire day. Unless you’re afraid I’m a vampire or something.”
He gnashes his teeth like a drive-in movie monster, and this gets her giggling. A bay window off the kitchen looks into the backyard and the neighbor’s property. A flower box hangs below the window as bees hop from one flower to the next. Sean hands her a glass of filtered water and pours one for himself. He studies her over the glass, a smile in his eyes.
“So, what do you want to do first?”
Jennifer scratches her shin with the tip of her sneaker.
“I don’t know. You have any movies to watch?”
“Sure. What do you like? Comedies, action, scary stuff? I’ll order it off Amazon.”
“No scary movies,” she says, looking down at her sneakers.
She hasn’t watched a horror movie since a serial killer kidnapped her in Georgia and murdered another girl in front of her. Sandy Young. She keeps the name fresh in her head, as though forgetting Sandy will cause the teenager to die again. He notices her consternation and slaps his forehead.
“Sorry. What the hell was I thinking?”
“It’s okay.”
Her voice sounds soft in her ears, little more than a whisper.
“You went through so much. Why would you watch a horror movie?”
“Sean, I’m not broken, okay?”
He sips from his glass and wipes his lips with his forearm, his stare wandering around the room as if searching for a safe place to settle.
“I’m not the most sensitive person sometimes. Mom’s always telling me to think of others before I open my yap.”
She nods, and they drink their waters amid a tense silence that grows more uncomfortable by the second. What is she doing? He’s perfect, and she’s blowing it, dredging up all these stupid memories. Jennifer tips her head back and drains the glass. Setting it down on the table, she meets his gaze.
“I changed my mind. I’ll try some of that wine.”
“You sure?”
“Just a little.”
“What shall I get you?”
“Surprise me.” As he turns for the basement, she adds, “make it something sweet.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sunday, September 13th
1:10 p.m.
The wheels squeak and wobble as Nadia pushes the rolling cart down the long rows of the Smith Town library. She stops at one stack and runs her finger over the binding of a mystery novel. Memorizing the call number, she counts across the top row, finds the book’s home, and slides it beside an Agatha Christie mystery. Then she starts the cart rolling again, the ancient, heavy monstrosity in severe need of an update. The cart always requires she lean forward, legs stretched behind her like a sprinter in a runner’s box. Now the wheels squeal and whine in protest, drawing a perturbed stare from a middle-aged male reading in the corner. She whispers an apology and pushes on, stopping every several feet to slide another book into the stacks.
Two high school teachers work with students in the study room. She recognizes Mrs. Kiplinger. Stopping outside the doorway, Nadia waves to Mr. McHugh, her eleventh grade science teacher at Smith Town High. Local teachers tutor students in the library’s study room, and familiar presences in the building help Nadia steady herself after the fight with Kealan.
As she places a Stephen King hardcover on the bottom shelf of the horror section, a man passes her on the other side of the shelf. She wouldn’t give the man a second thought, except the same man followed her past the periodicals before appearing outside the children’s section. Why would he browse children’s books? Nadia chides herself for passing judgment. He’s probably picking out a book for his kid.
She hasn’t steadied her legs since Kealan screamed. After the breakup, Kealan tried too hard to win her back. She’d loved him once, even considered marriage long before the trouble started. Then he made his ill-timed proposal.
As Nadia rises out of her crouch, she notices the man vanished while she mulled over the Kealan argument. The stacks grow taller as she moves toward the rear wall where the over-sized tomes go to die. Shelves loom over her and appear to lean in her direction. She half-expects a haunted house monster to reach for her. Why can’t they add a strip of LED lights across the ceiling? The back of the library feels like a crypt.
A footstep behind her causes Nadia to swing her head around. But there’s nobody there.
She muscles the cart forward again, throwing quick glances over her shoulder as she hustles down the row. The sooner she returns to her desk, the better.
“Nadia.”
The whisper comes from the next row. She stops and listens.
“Hello? Is someone there?”
No answer.
The climate control breathes a chill off the ceiling. Maybe that’s all she heard. Just the whisper of the fan turning on.
After Nadia unloads the last book, she abandons the cart at the end of the aisle and hurries through the stacks, hands cupped to elbows, pulse racing. In the front room, a confused look comes over her face when she sees Mandy grinning and pointing in her direction.
“What?” Nadia mouths, afraid to raise her voice inside the library.
Mandy gestures with added emphasis at Nadia’s desk. A bouquet blooms on the corner. Though the bouquet wafts pleasing fragrances and lends an explosion of color to an otherwise dreary setting, Nadia’s stomach turns. Kealan must have sent these. Sorry, but flowers won’t fix what shattered between them after Kealan cursed at her. Mandy can’t understand why Nadia isn’t thrill
ed to see the bouquet.
Plopping down on her rolling chair, Nadia slides the drawer open and removes her purse. She rummages through the contents until her fingers close over the gum pack. She unwraps the paper and slides the gum into her mouth. Leans her head back and chews. The damn bouquet glares at her insistently.
Fine.
Nadia reaches for the card. Let’s see what Kealan has to say for himself. The apology had better be a good one.
Except there isn’t a card. Mandy pulls a chair beside Nadia’s and lifts her palms and shoulders.
“It’s a long story,” Nadia says, not wanting to divulge more at work.
There’s something draped over the flowers. A stray thread that glistens when the light hits it. What is that?
Pulling the flowers toward her, Nadia recoils when she recognizes the spider web. Silk covers the flowers like a macabre bonnet. What kind of sick joke did Kealan play on her? If this is his idea of revenge…
The black widow crawls out of the flowers and descends like a parachutist toward the desktop. Nadia screams. It takes a second before Mandy notices the spider and shrieks too. Frozen to her chair, Nadia watches the disgusting arachnid—red hourglass against midnight black—clamber across the papers and books stacked beside the vase. Its legs make clicking noises as it arrows toward the two women.
Nadia grabs the first book she sees, a seven-hundred-page encyclopedia, and slams it on the spider. The collision sounds like thunder, echoing down the corridors as a group of patrons cross the room to see what caused the commotion.
The color drains from Mandy’s face.
“You killed it, didn’t you?”
Nadia lifts the encyclopedia. The spider’s insides coat the cover.
“Mandy, who left the flowers?”
“They were on your desk when I returned from the bathroom.”
Huffing, Nadia pushes away from the desk and grabs a handful of tissues from her bag. Doing her best to tidy the encyclopedia, she glances at the vase. The cooling vents blow as the web undulates with the breeze.
Nadia grabs the vase to toss it in the trash when another black widow skitters out of the flowers.
CHAPTER NINE
Monday, September 14th
6:05 a.m.
Darcy rises before Jennifer and Julian. Donning her workout clothes, admitting two hard runs without a day off isn’t a terrific idea, she pulls a hooded sweatshirt over her head.
She steps into an ethereal, misty morning. Fog blankets the neighborhood, heavy with ocean scents. Edging the door shut, she hears Jennifer’s mattress squeak as her daughter rises for school. Then Darcy vanishes into the mist, a ghostly silhouette gliding through the sleepy neighborhood. It takes two minutes for Darcy to run through the aches and cramps gripping her thigh muscles. Her ankles feel brittle as her sneakers pound the blacktop. After the initial pain, the soreness subsides and allows her to pick up the pace.
Darcy’s lungs open as she rounds the bend and jogs down the pathway to the cove. The fog thickens. She doesn’t see the ocean, only hears it whispering against the shoreline. Trees appear as alien beings in the mist. She almost expects to see Frodo dragging his tired feet through the sand.
The run fills her with energy. As she pumps her arms and legs, the years fall off her body. She’s twenty-nine again, invincible. Except her conditioning will be better in two weeks than it was at twenty-nine. She’s shattering plateaus, running faster for longer periods each session.
Ocean spray wets her face. She missteps, not realizing how close she was to the tide, and plunges a sneaker into shin-deep water. Darcy stumbles and catches herself, refusing to break stride. As the mist thins and affords her clarity, she navigates the beach and runs beyond the reach of the shallows.
The phone buzzes on her arm. She ignores it. The caller will give up, or the voice mail will kick in after six rings. A moment after the phone stops ringing, it buzzes again. Dammit. She rips the Velcro apart and slows her pace. Another unknown caller.
Despite her consternation, she presses the answer button.
“Who is this?”
Silence.
“I’m an FBI agent. It won’t be difficult to figure out who you are.”
The caller hangs up.
Darcy pulls to a stop and stares at the phone, daring it to ring. She contacted the cell company during her last shift at the office. The hangups are coming from a prepaid phone. Close to the public beach, the waves crash with building fervor. Somewhere a gull calls. When the caller doesn’t bother her again, she sets the phone inside the holder and reverses course.
Her legs feel like rubber bands when she returns to her neighborhood. An SUV backs out of a driveway as a man dressed in a business suit heads for work. By now, Jennifer will be finished with breakfast and waiting for Kaitlyn to pick her up for school. Darcy wants to run another thirty minutes. Going home now will guarantee an argument—Jennifer has lobbied for a car since summer. Julian and Darcy discussed buying Hunter and Jennifer used cars before the Phillip O’Grady attack during the Doll Face Killer murders. Money is tight now. Too many medical bills. And Julian missed three paychecks before he regained enough strength to drag himself to work. He’s confined to a desk job, and Darcy sees the frustration and defeat in his eyes every time he returns home. Maybe it’s time to put Julian in touch with Ketchum. When Julian hears Ketchum recount his injury experience, he’ll understand this won’t last forever. Before long, he’ll return to full duty.
“Good morning again, neighbor.”
Darcy cringes. She hadn’t seen Harold Gibbons hiding in the fog, and she’s surprised he’s up this early. It’s almost as if the son-of-a-bitch was waiting for her to run past. She raises a hand and keeps jogging. Then he lurches off the driveway and blocks her in the street. Darcy pulls up before she runs him over.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m watching you, Gellar, and I know what your kids are up to.”
“It’s Haines now, and you better stay away from Hunter and Jennifer.”
She smells the taint of coffee and eggs on his breath. His thinning hair is a rat’s nest, and the stench wafting off him tells Darcy Gibbons hasn’t showered this morning. Then it hits her. The strange calls and hang ups. Harold Gibbons has Darcy’s phone number. Did he give her number to Gail Shipley?
“I don’t want any trouble, Harold. But if you start in with your insane conspiracy theories—”
“Your son murdered Amy Yang, Mrs. Haines. I have sources inside the GCPD, and Detective Ames never believed your son was innocent. That sleazy lawyer you hired got Hunter off the hook. But your boy showed his true colors when he attacked the Torres kid.”
“How many times must you throw around baseless accusations? Give it up, already. You’re painting yourself into a corner by blaming the Darkwater Cove murders on my family. And what do you have against my daughter?”
His smug expression and curled lips conceal a secret.
“I know where your daughter goes when she borrows the car.”
“Wait, are you following my daughter?”
“I wouldn’t think of it. Let’s say I have eyes in Genoa Cove. People tell me things about your family, Mrs. Haines.”
“If I catch you near Jennifer, I’ll call the police. And stop calling me, Harold. Crank calls aren’t befitting of a man your age.”
“What—”
Before he can accuse her children of additional crimes against humanity, she turns on her heels and resumes her run. She fumes with pent up energy when she unlocks the door. Jennifer rushes around the kitchen, tossing an apple, orange, and a bottled water into a knapsack.
“Is that all you’re eating for lunch?”
Jennifer rolls her eyes.
“I ate a big breakfast.”
“Really? What did you cook?”
“Uh, eggs, toast, and a glass of orange juice.”
“I thought you were a vegan again?”
She scoffs and drops the bag at her feet.
“Do you need to give me the third degree before I leave for school? I’m not one of your criminals, so stop with the interrogation.”
Darcy waits until the steam stops pouring from her daughter’s ears. She’s not trying to corner Jennifer, just concerned her daughter isn’t eating. If Jennifer made eggs and toast, the smell would linger inside the house. An unwashed glass lies in the sink, so the part about the orange juice might be true.
“Jennifer, are you eating enough?”
Eye roll.
“Yes,” she says, drawing the word out. “You always think the worst. So freaking negative. Why can’t you be more like Cynthia?”
Darcy swallows.
“Why are you bringing Julian’s partner into this?”
“I bet when Cynthia has kids, she’ll take them to shows and let them breathe.”
“I give you plenty of space, hon.”
A horn honks at the curb, ending the argument.
“That’s Kaitlyn,” Jennifer says, tossing the knapsack over her shoulder. “I need to go before you make us late.”
CHAPTER TEN
Monday, September 14th
7:45 a.m.
These quick turnarounds kill her.
Nadia taps her foot and waits for the coffeemaker to finish making magic. When the light turns green, she fills her travel mug, grabs her phone and bag, and heads for the door, only to whirl back to the kitchen when she realizes the keys are still on the table. The mug clamped between her forearm and chest, she fumbles with the chain until she locates the key fob. Then she slips behind the wheel and deposits her belongings on the passenger seat.
Last night she closed the library and didn’t arrive home until after ten. Sleep refused to come. Whenever her skin itched, she plunged her hand beneath the blanket, fearing a black widow. Last she recalled, the clock read three in the morning. Then the alarm yanked her away at seven. A quick shower, a plain bagel without cream cheese or butter, and she had just enough time to start the coffee maker so she could open the library doors at eight.