by Shari Lapena
Now she opens up her phone and clicks on the Tesla app. She studies it and decides there’s some valuable information on here. She can see right now that her husband’s car is parked at 111 Bleeker Street—he’s at the office. She realizes that she can open the app at any time and see exactly where his car is. That might come in handy.
* * *
• • •
ERICA LEAVES HER spartan apartment and climbs into her car. Despite what he said, she doubts Patrick has told his new wife anything at all. He’s always been the secretive type. No, his wife probably doesn’t have a clue. She won’t know what’s hit her, if and when it all comes out. She should be grateful, Erica thinks—maybe he was going to try to kill her and her babies one day. A man like that. Erica tells herself that really, she’s doing the woman a favor.
She turns onto the highway to Aylesford, consumed with curiosity about Patrick and his new little family. She already knows where they live, what they look like. She’s been there. She’s even viewed a house for sale a couple of doors down from the Kilgours’ on Danbury Drive. It’s one of the nicest suburbs in Aylesford, according to the real estate sites. She knows they’ve got money. She’ll drop by again today, to Danbury Drive. Take another look at his new wife.
* * *
• • •
STEPHANIE WAKES WITH A START. She has no idea how long she’s been asleep—it could be minutes, or hours. She looks at the digital clock to orient herself. It’s 2:37 p.m. Someone is calling her name. Who is it? She sits up, thinking she’s imagined it.
“Stephanie?”
She recognizes Hanna’s voice, calling her from downstairs. What is Hanna doing in the house? Is something wrong? Stephanie remembers the fire in the kitchen and gets out of bed and rushes to the stairs—no smell of smoke; she’s halfway down when she sees Hanna in the front hall, the door wide open behind her. “What are you doing here?” Stephanie asks, confused.
Hanna looks up at her, her face showing concern. “I saw your front door was open. I came by to check on you.”
Stephanie reaches the front hall. She thought she’d locked the door on her way in from the grocery store—but maybe she hadn’t. She can’t remember.
“Maybe I forgot to lock it,” she says, worried, one hand to her forehead. “I must be losing my mind.” She shakes her head and frowns. “Honestly, if these babies don’t start sleeping soon, I’m going to completely lose it.” She hasn’t told Hanna about the incident with the stove. She hasn’t told anyone but her husband. Hanna only has one baby, and his sleeping habits are excellent; she might judge, even if she doesn’t mean to.
“Sorry to wake you,” Hanna says, “but I was worried.” She closes the door now.
“No, it’s fine,” Stephanie says, giving her a wan smile and looking dully at the area near the door. She’d dropped her purse there on the floor, by the narrow table in the entryway. She’s sure of it. “Where’s my purse?” she says, looking around for her large black bag.
Hanna’s eyes sweep the vestibule, following her anxious gaze.
“I left it right there,” Stephanie says. It’s obviously not there now. She goes into the kitchen and checks the counter and the table. The floor. She doesn’t see her bag anywhere. Hanna has gone into the living room to look, and now comes back to join her.
“Could it be upstairs?” Hanna suggests.
Stephanie shakes her head, but charges up the stairs anyway, looks in her bedroom, then goes swiftly down the hall and checks on the still-sleeping twins. But the purse isn’t there either. She’s getting upset now. It’s dawning on her: someone was in the house and took her purse. They could have taken the babies, too, and she wouldn’t have known. And it’s her own damn fault for not locking the front door properly. And she left her purse right there on the floor, by the front door. “How could I be so stupid?” she fumes at Hanna, back downstairs once again. “My wallet was in there, all my ID. Everything! I’ll have to get it all replaced.” Just the thought of the effort that will require is enough to flatten her.
“Don’t blame yourself,” Hanna tells her. “You should be able to leave your door unlocked and not expect someone to come in and steal your purse.”
“You said it was wide open.”
“It was when I saw it,” Hanna admits.
“Patrick will be upset. He worries about me,” Stephanie says. “I’m so absentminded these days, so forgetful.”
“I’ll help you get your ID replaced,” Hanna offers. “I’ve done it before. I had my purse snatched once in New York City.”
Stephanie manages to swallow her dismay. “Thanks, Hanna. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Then she realizes something else. “I had a spare house key in there too. I’ll have to get the locks replaced.”
She wants to invite Hanna to have a cup of coffee and tell her everything—about Patrick’s past and the woman who is threatening them. But she can’t. She must keep it to herself. Even if it feels almost too heavy to bear.
11
Stephanie struggles to get the double stroller out of the trunk. It had rained overnight, but now it’s cleared and it’s going to be a nice day. It’s not even 11:00 a.m. but she’s already been up for hours. She’s had two coffees to clear the fog in her head. But today it’s more than sleep deprivation that’s bothering her, making her forgetful and distracted as she packs for an outing with the twins. She and Patrick are both on edge, waiting to hear again from Erica Voss. And Patrick had been upset last night when she’d told him about the theft of her purse. He’d insisted she be more careful and called a locksmith immediately.
Her exhaustion makes everything seem even more unmanageable, more overwhelming. How can life throw such curveballs at you? She’s just a normal wife and mother, but now she and her husband are the subject of attempted blackmail. That Patrick had cheated on his first wife was bad enough—she can hardly believe it. And the rest of it . . .
Last night, they’d discussed going to the Aylesford police. Patrick wasn’t in favor of it. But to her it seems the most sensible plan. Maybe they could charge this woman, or at least frighten her off. For now, they’ve agreed that when Erica gets in touch again, Patrick will tell her that Stephanie knows everything and they’re not going to pay her a cent. Maybe then she’ll go away.
She’s keeping her phone close, waiting to hear from him.
The babies are dressed in their adorable complementary outfits. She has to get out of the house. The best thing is to go for a walk in the fresh air, showing Jackie and Emma the butterflies and the flowers, and then stopping at the park nearby. There, they’ll sit on a blanket by the sandbox with the toys she’s brought and she’ll do her best to keep them entertained. Most days she runs into someone she knows at the park, something she usually looks forward to. She’s not sure she wants to see anyone today, though. She can’t tell anyone what she’s dealing with—not even Hanna, her closest friend.
She lifts the babies into the stroller, buckles them in, and locks up the house. Then she gives her girls a smile and a little chuck under each chin, talking to them as she pushes them along the sidewalk. Then she pulls out her cell phone, takes a cute picture of the twins in the stroller, and texts it to her husband.
He doesn’t respond. Maybe he’s in a meeting. She imagines how difficult it must be to focus on work with all this going on.
When she finally gets to the park, there are a couple of other mothers sitting with their babies on blankets beneath the trees while their older children play in the nearby sandbox. No one she really knows except by sight. She lifts the babies out of the stroller onto their blanket. She has to keep her eye on them, but she quickly glances at her phone. She hasn’t heard from Patrick, and she’s getting more and more nervous. Has he heard from Erica? She threatened him on Wednesday, and now it’s Friday. Is she trying to make them sweat?
She hears her phone ping and takes a quick l
ook.
Haven’t heard from her. Will keep you posted.
She puts her phone away, unhappy. She thinks they should go to the cops. They’re law-abiding citizens, victims of an attempted crime. Patrick hasn’t done anything wrong. The police here won’t be interested in reopening a case in Colorado. She thinks they are their best option.
“So adorable,” a woman says, sitting down near her on the ledge of the sandbox.
Stephanie glances at her, pulled out of her thoughts. “Oh, thanks,” she says, smiling absently. She gets this a lot, especially with twins, but no woman ever tires of hearing some stranger tell her how adorable her kids are. The woman looks familiar.
“Do I know you?” Stephanie asks.
“No, I don’t think so. No—wait—I think I saw you yesterday in the drugstore. In the line for the cashier.”
“Oh, that’s right. I remember now,” Stephanie says.
“You were buying diapers and dark chocolate,” the other woman says.
Stephanie is a little taken aback that this woman noticed what she bought.
“How old are they?” the other woman asks.
“Four and a half months, just about,” Stephanie answers, wondering absently where the woman’s own kids are. She doesn’t appear to have any with her. Why is she here at the sandbox, then? Stephanie looks at her more closely. She’s very pretty, with blond hair in a loose ponytail, snug jeans, and a smart blouse. Stephanie is suddenly aware of her own untidy hair, the spit-up on her T-shirt, and the fact that she’s still wearing maternity jeans. It’s going to be a while before she gets her body back, and she has a momentary twinge of jealousy, even regret, looking at the trim, attractive woman in front of her. But then she glances at her babies, and she doesn’t care what she looks like. It’s totally worth it to have Emma and Jackie. They’re everything to her. So what if she’s put on a few pounds?
“Twins are so cute,” the woman says.
Stephanie nods. “Yes, twice as cute and twice as exhausting,” she says ruefully.
“My sister has twins,” the woman says. “Her husband is a lawyer, and he says it’s like serving your sentence concurrently rather than consecutively.”
They laugh. “Do you live around here?” Stephanie asks, curious.
“Not yet. My husband and I are looking. I thought I’d walk around and check out the neighborhood and shops and hang out in the parks and coffee shops a bit before we buy. I don’t think you should just fall in love with a house without knowing what you’re getting into, the bigger picture.”
“No,” Stephanie agrees, although that’s what they had done—looked at the house, fallen in love with it, and taken everything the real estate agent had told them about the neighborhood as gospel. Fortunately, they have been happy here.
“How long have you lived here?” the woman asks.
“About two years,” Stephanie tells her. “We moved in right after we got married.” She notices that the other woman isn’t wearing a wedding ring.
“And you like it here?”
“Oh yes, we love it. It’s been great.”
At that moment, the other woman takes out her phone and the pleasant expression seems to disappear momentarily from her face as she types a brief message.
“A problem?” Stephanie asks lightly.
“No, not really,” the woman says, and looks up at her again, smiling, as her phone rings. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
* * *
• • •
PATRICK CAN’T STOP THINKING about Erica and his situation. It creeps into his mind every minute, even when he’s talking to a client. He checks his messages obsessively, but there’s been no word from Erica. He needs to deal with this. Get it over with.
Finally, a text comes in from Erica.
Call me
He stares at his phone. He realizes he’s clenching his jaw tight; his entire body is tense. Is this the right thing to do? Does he dare call her bluff? He has a terrible moment of doubt. It’s her word against his. And she’s such a brilliant liar.
He calls her cell. “Erica?”
“Yes.”
He says, “I’ve told Stephanie everything. And she’s agreed—we’re not going to pay you a dime.”
He waits for her response. When it comes, it’s not what he was expecting.
12
She disconnects. Then he gets the ping of a text message.
I’m at the park, talking to your wife. The twins look like you.
Patrick feels dizzy, as if all the blood has left his head. For a moment he can’t think at all. Then his mind clears and the thoughts come quickly. Would Erica harm Stephanie and the babies? She’s not violent—as far as he knows. But she is manipulative. She knows this is going to get to him—that’s why she’s done it. She must have followed Stephanie when she left the house. He realizes that his breathing is irregular and tells himself he must calm down. He takes a deep breath, in and out, and again, staring at the message, trying to figure out what to do.
His phone pings again.
I really think your wife and I could be friends.
And attached to the text is a photo. Of Stephanie and the twins, sitting on a blanket. Stephanie is turned away, lifting one of the smiling babies, probably unaware of the photo being taken. Does Stephanie know who she’s talking to? He texts his wife urgently.
It’s her. You’re talking to Erica. She just sent me a picture of you. Take the babies and get away from her!
But he gets no answer. The lack of a response is maddening. He’d told Stephanie to keep her phone close. Has she got her hands full with the twins, or has something happened? He tells himself that the park must be full of people this time of day. Nothing can happen to his family in broad daylight.
But the silence from both of them is making him crazy. Finally he hits speed dial to Stephanie’s cell. He hears the phone ring and ring. He’s starting to panic when his wife answers. She sounds out of breath.
“What’s going on?” he demands frantically.
“What? What’s the matter?” she answers, sounding normal but defensive. “I was just getting the twins into the stroller.”
He lowers his voice. “That woman with you, is she still there?”
“No, she left a minute ago. How do you know about her?”
Patrick closes his eyes. “That was Erica.”
* * *
• • •
STEPHANIE TURNS AND LOOKS in the direction that the blond woman had gone, just moments before. Stephanie can no longer see her.
As Patrick explains everything, she feels a chill.
“She didn’t say who she was?” Patrick asks.
“No,” Stephanie says, her voice hollow. “She just chatted with me, then she got a call on her cell.” It unnerves her that she was here with Jackie and Emma while her husband was talking to his blackmailer and she didn’t even know. “She seemed so nice,” Stephanie says, faltering.
“She’s not nice, Stephanie,” Patrick says adamantly. “She’s trying to mess with us.”
“I’ve seen her before,” Stephanie says. “Yesterday . . . I was in the drugstore, and she was behind me in line.” She adds, “She even remembers what I bought.”
“Jesus,” Patrick says under his breath.
“I’ve got to get the twins home and fed. I’ve got to go,” Stephanie says shakily.
“Okay, I’ll let you know if I hear anything else from her.”
Stephanie adjusts the twins in the stroller, now casting nervous looks over her shoulder. The woman who Patrick is convinced was Erica seemed perfectly harmless. But people can seem harmless and be anything but. You can’t judge people by appearances—they can fool you. She pushes the stroller rapidly along the sidewalk, eager to get home and inside, where she will carefully lock the door. She thinks anxiously about how things stand. Pat
rick told Erica they wouldn’t pay her—while she was sitting six feet away from his wife and babies. Stephanie feels more certain than ever that they should go to the police.
When she gets home and gets the twins fed and changed and down for their nap, she’s too wired to crawl into bed herself. Instead, she goes into the living room and opens her laptop and does something she hasn’t been able to bring herself to do until now. She opens a Google search, and it doesn’t take her long to find what she’s looking for. There’s an article in a Denver newspaper.
TRAGIC ACCIDENT CLAIMS LIFE OF PREGNANT WOMAN
January 10, 2009
A tragic accident this morning has claimed the life of Lindsey Kilgour, aged twenty-one, in the Colorado mountain town of Creemore. The Grant County Coroner has determined that the woman, who was eight months pregnant, died of carbon monoxide poisoning. She was in the running car while her husband, Patrick Kilgour, dug out the vehicle from the recent snowstorm. The couple had been intending to visit family in Grand Junction.
The husband found his wife unresponsive and called emergency services. Emergency personnel tried to revive the victim at the scene but were unsuccessful.
The death has been ruled accidental. Carbon monoxide is a colorless, odorless gas that can kill within a matter of minutes. The authorities are again reminding everyone of the dangers of being inside a running car surrounded by snow. Especially in times of heavy snowfall, care must be taken to ensure that the exhaust pipe is not blocked, as the deadly gas can seep up beneath the floorboards of the vehicle.
Stephanie feels numb. Worst of all, there are photographs. One is of a small car in the snow, a thick layer of it on the roof. She stares at it. Her husband’s first wife died in that car. She feels a shiver along her back. But it’s the second, larger photo that she studies the longest. It’s a picture of her husband. It’s blurry, but it’s a close-up, and his face is a grimace of pain. He looks so much younger, thinner, with longer hair, but it’s unmistakably him. She feels overwhelmed by it for a moment, absorbing his obvious pain.