“God, I hate this,” Sheila whispered. Tears welled in her eyes.
“Sheila, no one blames you. No one’s ever blamed you. And we aren’t even sure how much Eden knows. Listen. If you want, I can find out what her mom might have told her. Okay?”
Sheila felt sick to her stomach. “Okay,” she muttered into the phone.
“I better hang up. She looks like she’s getting bored over there in paints. She’s already whipped out her phone.”
“She’s probably texting that creep. You’ve made it clear to her that we don’t want him around, right?” Sheila wiped the tears from her eyes.
“Yes, I told you, I did that yesterday, and it went over like a pregnant pole vaulter. She wasn’t pleased. Anyway, I better go.”
“Okay. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
“Bye,” he said. Then he hung up.
Sheila set the phone on the café table. Dylan usually finished their phone conversations with a “Love you,” or “Bye, babe.” But it was too soon to go back to that kind of sweet talk. And obviously, he damn well knew it.
Out of the corner of her eye, Sheila saw someone standing in the ballroom’s doorway. She thought she recognized the army jacket and the shaggy blond hair. Startled, Sheila got up, almost tipping over her chair.
But this man was about forty. Except for the hair and the jacket, he didn’t look a thing like that Brodie kid. “They told me downstairs that there’s a restroom up here,” he called to her across the room.
Catching her breath, Sheila pointed toward his left. “Just down the hall,” she said.
“Thanks!”
Her phone rang again. Sheila snatched it off the café table. There was no name on the Caller ID, just a number she didn’t recognize. She hesitated before answering: “Hello?”
“Hi, Mrs. O’Rourke, it’s Artie from Hilltop Auto. How are you?”
“Fine,” she said tentatively. She wondered why he was calling. “Ah, how are you?”
“I’m hanging in there, thanks. How’s the car working for you?”
“Great, thank you. No trouble with the brakes at all.”
“Are you missing a pair of driving gloves—brown, soft, and kind of fancy?”
She let out a little laugh. “Well, as a matter of fact, I did have a pair like that in the car, but I thought I’d mislaid them.”
“They ended up in our lost and found. I told the boss, ‘I’m pretty sure these are Mrs. O’Rourke’s.’ Anyway, I’m on my way to Northgate. I knew I’d be driving by your neighborhood, so I brought the gloves with me. Can I drop them off?”
“Oh, that’s so nice of you,” she said. “No one’s home right now, but if it isn’t any trouble, could you leave them in the mailbox?”
“Easy-breezy, I sure will,” he said. “I’m only a couple of blocks away right now.”
“Thanks so much, Artie. I really appreciate it.”
“No worries,” he said. “Take care, Mrs. O’Rourke.” Then he clicked off.
*
Artie slowed the pickup as he approached the O’Rourkes’ Craftsman-style house. Something wasn’t right. A sketchy-looking guy in a camouflage jacket was headed up their driveway toward the garage. He was too old to be one of her kids and too young to be the husband. The guy didn’t look like he belonged there at all. He kept glancing over his shoulder in a shifty way, like he was checking to make sure no one saw him. He ducked down a little walkway between the garage and some shrubs bordering the yard.
Artie pulled up in front of the house and parked. He shoved Mrs. O’Rourke’s gloves in the pocket of his lightweight jacket. Climbing out of the pickup, he quietly closed the door and hurried up the driveway to the stone footpath beside the garage. He wasn’t sure if the guy was cutting through the yard or what, exactly. But Mrs. O’Rourke was a nice lady, and Artie wanted to make sure this character wasn’t up to something. He sure looked suspicious as hell.
The narrow walkway led to the backyard. Artie noticed the beautiful, tiered garden. He also noticed the sketchy-looking creep kneeling by the kitchen door, trying to pick the lock.
“Hey!” Artie shouted.
The guy froze.
In that moment, Artie realized he should have kept his mouth shut, stepped back to the stone path, and phoned the police. He’d just instinctively shouted. Now the guy was going to run, and Artie would have to chase him down.
But the guy didn’t bolt. Defiantly glaring at him, the punk straightened up.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Artie asked. He took his phone out of his pocket, and Mrs. O’Rourke’s gloves fell to the ground.
Artie saw the guy had a gun in his hand—pointed at him. Artie’s heart stopped. He didn’t move a muscle.
“What am I doing?” the punk said, stepping away from the back door. He came toward him. “What did it look like I was doing, you stupid, cross-eyed fuck?”
“Hey, man, it’s cool, okay?” Artie said, half-raising his hands in surrender.
Next door, a dog started barking.
“Shit,” the guy muttered. He poked the gun at Artie’s neck, nudging the barrel against his Adam’s apple. Then he swiped the phone from Artie’s hand. “Turn around. Move it.”
Obedient, Artie started back down the stone path toward the driveway. He felt the gun tickling the back of his head. He couldn’t quite get his breath. He couldn’t believe this was happening.
The neighbor’s dog stopped barking.
Artie grimaced. He’d hoped the dog barking would draw some attention his way.
“Okay, hold on,” said the guy behind him. “Put your hands in your pockets, asshole.”
Artie did what he was told. They stood by the side of the garage for a moment. He figured if he simply did what the guy said, he’d get through this and have a story to tell his friends later.
“Who the hell are you anyway?” the guy whispered.
“I’m an auto mechanic. The lady who lives here, I fixed her car last week. Listen, you’ve got my phone. Take it and go. That’ll give you a good head start before I can find another phone to call the cops.”
“So you fixed the car, huh? How did you like the job I did on the brakes?”
“You did that?” Artie started to turn around.
But the dirtbag jabbed him with the gun again, scraping the back of his neck just above his collar. It stung. Artie wondered if he was bleeding. “Keep looking forward,” the guy growled. “Is that your pickup parked over there?”
Artie nodded. “Yes. You want the keys? Take it.”
“No, I wouldn’t do that to you. In fact, we’re going on a little trip, you and me. Now, take out the keys and start walking. And no funny shit. Don’t make me have to shoot you, asshole.”
Artie pulled the keys from his pocket and walked down the driveway toward the street and his pickup. He heard the distant laughter of children. He kept looking around, hoping to spot someone he could signal to. At the playground at the other end of the park across the street, he noticed the kids and a few adults. But they were too far away.
The punk was walking close behind him. Artie imagined the guy had the gun concealed in his pocket.
Approaching the pickup, Artie clicked the button on his key fob to unlock the truck. The parking lights flashed. “Listen, pal, take the pickup and get out of here,” he said. “Nothing serious has happened. The cops will never catch you. You can ditch the truck, and I’ll get it back eventually. Everybody wins.”
“No, I can’t have that,” the blond creep replied. “You’d tell Mrs. O’Rourke about me. You saw me trying to break into the house. You know I screwed with her car brakes. Guess I shouldn’t have told you that—me and my big mouth. Anyway, I can’t have you hanging around here. Now, get in behind the wheel. You’re driving.”
Artie walked around to the driver’s side. He watched the punk open the passenger door. One hand was still in his pocket. The guy waited until Artie started to climb into the car and got in at the same time. Then he took
his gun out. “So start the car already, dumb shit.”
Artie turned the key in the ignition.
“Looks like you’ve got practically a full tank,” the blond guy announced. “I want to see some scenery—trees, mountains, rivers and shit. I’m thinking maybe North Bend or Snoqualmie. Let’s take the interstate, south to 90.”
Artie swallowed hard, shifted out of park, and pulled away from the curb.
“You got a lot of tools in back of this heap?” the guy asked.
“Some,” Artie said.
“Got a shovel back there—and maybe a pick?”
Artie didn’t dare ask why he needed a shovel and pick.
He just kept his eyes on the road and shook his head.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Wednesday—2:48 P.M.
Staring at her phone, Sheila studied the cover of the leaflet for Antonia Newcomb’s memorial service, the one the anonymous caller had texted her on Monday. Sheila was still certain Eden or her boyfriend had sent it—along with the other text—but that didn’t matter right now. At the moment, she was looking for the name of the funeral parlor where Antonia’s service had been held. It was there on the bottom of the program cover: March-Middleton Funeral Services—Portland, Oregon.
She went on Google to find the funeral home’s phone number.
For the last twenty minutes, she’d been sitting at the same café table in the empty ballroom, looking at Antonia’s Facebook page. All those friends who wrote tributes, from “We’ll miss you, Toni!” to “Gone too soon,” to “I’ll treasure the memories of my dear friend,” how many of them really knew Antonia Newcomb that well? Hannah once told her that with Facebook, a lot of people haven’t even met their “friends,” or maybe the friends were former classmates or coworkers from years before. Sheila had spent the last twenty minutes checking, and the most touching tributes on Antonia’s Facebook page were from Debbie Akin in Boulder, Sandy Kohring in Clearwater, Florida, and Katie Reynolds in Oklahoma City. Sheila wondered if any of them could tell her what Antonia’s relationship with her daughter was really like. Did they have any special knowledge about Antonia’s affair with Dylan? Did they know any details about Antonia’s death that weren’t in The Oregonian article?
Sheila seriously doubted it. If she wanted to talk with someone who really knew Antonia, she’d need a list of the people who attended her memorial service.
She glanced at her wristwatch. She had about ten minutes until her dance lesson.
She dialed the number for the funeral home in Portland. It rang three times before a man answered: “March-Middleton Funeral Services, this is David Middleton speaking. How may I help you?” He had a perfect voice for his profession; the tone was warm and reassuring.
Sheila figured her name was on their Caller ID, so she might as well be honest with the guy. “Hi, my name is Sheila O’Rourke. My husband and I are looking after Eden Newcomb—pardon me, I mean, Eden O’Rourke. Her mother, Antonia Newcomb, died about three weeks ago, and her memorial service was held at your funeral home. My husband is Eden’s biological father.”
It didn’t seem too terribly humiliating as she explained it to a stranger over the phone—just a bit convoluted. This was the first time she’d said it out loud to anyone.
“Yes, how can I help you, Mrs. O’Rourke?”
“Well, Eden’s very reluctant to talk about her mother’s death. All my husband and I know about it is what we’ve read in a newspaper article published the day after Antonia’s accident. We haven’t been able to get any more details. I know it’s a strange request, but I was wondering if you could tell me the official cause of death.”
Mr. Middleton didn’t say anything for a moment; then he cleared his throat. “I believe the medical examiner concluded it was an accidental fall with multiple impact injuries. Is that any help to you, Mrs. O’Rourke?”
She wasn’t sure. “Yes, thank you,” she said with uncertainty. “There’s another reason I’m calling. My husband and I weren’t at the memorial for Antonia, but I was wondering if you kept one of those guest books—you know, with the signatures and the names and addresses of the people who attended the service.”
“As a matter of fact, we still have it, along with some paperwork that your stepdaughter didn’t pick up. Could we forward that to you?”
“Yes, please,” Sheila said. “Would it be possible for you to overnight mail that to us? We can reimburse you, if that’s a problem.”
“It’s no problem at all, Mrs. O’Rourke.”
“Thank you so much. If you could send it to—”
“The address your stepdaughter gave us was: Eden O’Rourke, care of O’Rourke, Five-seven-eight Roanoke Place East, Seattle, nine-eight-one-oh-two. Is that still correct?”
“Yes,” Sheila murmured. She was surprised to hear him read off the address. She was certainly glad she was getting the memorial service guest book. It was why she’d called. But it struck her as bizarre and unsettling that two weeks ago, Eden had already given their address as her residence.
It was like everything was falling into place for the girl—just as she’d planned.
*
The back seat and trunk of Dylan’s BMW were full of junk for Eden’s bedroom: a new bedspread, café curtains, a lamp, two big throw pillows, a clock radio, and other things from Bed Bath & Beyond. They had paint samples from True Value but no paint—which was just as well, since Eden had the worst taste. It was very Goth. Her first choice for a wall color was a dark purple that would have made the bedroom look like the inside of a tomb. Dylan imagined Sheila getting one look at it and throwing up. He’d talked Eden into considering some paler, more palatable colors. They’d taken samples of those, thank God.
Now they were on their way to Old Navy so she could buy some clothes. Dylan hoped he could talk her into purchasing at least a couple of items that weren’t black. He figured this shopping spree should have been the ideal situation for a biological dad and his surprise daughter to bond. But so far, after he’d spent four hours and over $500 on this girl, she acted like the whole thing was a major drag. And just two nights ago, she’d seemed so needy and desperate for them to take her in.
Dylan tried to engage her in conversation, but for most of their time in the car, she kept her earbuds in and listened to music on her smartphone. She plucked out the buds to answer the occasional question, but otherwise, she kept her eyes on the phone screen and the buds in her ears. Dylan figured he shouldn’t take it too personally. Hannah was just as bad.
He did manage to find out how much she knew about her mother and him. Toni must have been pretty candid with her because her information was fairly accurate. They’d met at the Hilton Portland, where Toni was working as a desk clerk at the time. She knew he was married. When he took her out, it was always to out-of-the-way places where they wouldn’t run into someone who knew him or his wife. At no point did Toni ever ask him to leave his wife, and at no point did he ever say he would leave Sheila. But in fact, their marriage had been in trouble at the time.
Dylan and Eden hadn’t talked about that part yet. And Sheila wanted him to find out just how much she knew.
It started to rain, and Dylan switched on the windshield wipers. He turned to Eden and spoke loudly so she could hear him over the music: “Are Hannah, Steve, and Gabe what you expected?”
She took out the earbuds. “What?” She looked slightly annoyed.
“I asked what it was like to meet Hannah, Steve, and Gabe. Were they anything like you’d expected? You said the other night that you’d googled me . . .”
“Yeah, but they didn’t come up in any of the searches. It was just your work shit that came up, Starbucks and all that. It’s where they had photos of you. My mother told me that you had a wife and three kids, but I didn’t know much else about your family.”
“How did she find out that I had three kids?” Dylan asked. “They weren’t born until long after your mom and I went our separate ways.”
Eden shru
gged. “Beats me.”
“Did your mom tell you anything about Sheila?” he asked carefully.
Through a Google search, she might not have come up with much about his personal life. But a search for “Sheila Driscoll O’Rourke, Portland” would have revealed some very distressing, personal details about Sheila. He wondered if Eden knew that.
Eden sat there, seemingly mesmerized by the motion of the windshield wipers. Dylan wondered if she was trying to think of just the right answer. She seemed pretty guarded. Sheila had said she didn’t trust her. Dylan wanted to give his daughter the benefit of the doubt, but Sheila definitely had a point. He didn’t even want to leave Eden alone in the house for now because it didn’t seem too unlikely that the rest of the family would return to find her gone and the place ransacked.
“Did you know anything about Sheila before meeting her?” he asked again.
“You must not have told my mom much about her,” Eden finally answered, “because she barely mentioned her—ever. All I know is that when you started seeing my mom, your marriage was on the skids. But then, things got better between you and Sheila, so it was adios, Toni. My mom said it wasn’t a big surprise. She saw it coming, and your parting was friendly enough. The only surprise was me.”
Dylan just nodded. It was a good answer. He wasn’t sure if it was a hundred percent truthful, but it was a good answer. And it was what he’d tell Sheila she said.
Eden started to put her earbuds back in.
“Speaking of relationships,” he said. “I hate to bring up a sore subject, but . . .”
She dropped the earbuds back in her lap and stared at him with her raccoon eyes.
“I was wondering about the boyfriend situation,” he went on. “Are you still communicating with him?”
“I thought the deal was that your wife doesn’t want Brodie coming over to the house. Now she doesn’t even want me to talk to him or text him?”
“Eden, this whole boyfriend moratorium thing was my idea, not Sheila’s,” he lied. He didn’t want her disliking Sheila any more than she already did. “And I wasn’t laying down any more restrictions. I was simply asking if you plan to keep in touch with him.”
The Betrayed Wife Page 16
