She opened the door and pulled the knitting needle out from under her arm. She told herself, if she saw an intruder, she’d aim for the eyes or the neck.
From the darkened hallway, she peeked into her sons’ room. The door was open, and beyond it, blackness—except for a faint line of moonlight coming through a break between the window curtains. With trepidation, she reached in and switched on the light by the door. The bedroom was vacant. Messy, but vacant.
It was like that for each room in the house: a little messy, but empty, with no sign of a break-in. She didn’t check the basement because it was unfinished, and too cluttered and creepy. The basement door off the kitchen had a lock on it, and Miranda double-checked to make sure it was secured. She also checked the locks to the kitchen and the front doors. She was fine.
Miranda went back to bed, but now she was too wired to sleep. She decided to read an article or two in People magazine until her eyes got tired. She left her phone and the knitting needle on her nightstand. She was halfway through a story about how a hunky TV star had kicked his drug addiction when she heard another noise. It seemed to come from right outside her closed bedroom door—another creak of the floorboards.
She hadn’t checked the boys’ bedroom closet. Someone could have climbed in through the window and hidden in their closet amid the clothes and toys.
Her cell phone rang, giving her a start.
She automatically thought something must have happened to one of the boys. It was almost four in the morning. Why else would anyone call at this hour? She figured it had to be her ex-husband. She snatched up the phone. “Yes? Gary?”
“Is this Ms. Warren?” It was a woman’s voice. She was whispering.
“Who is this?” Miranda asked. Her heart was racing.
“It’s Mrs. O’Rourke,” the voice growled. “You look like a whore walking around in your underwear like that.”
Horrified, Miranda stared at her phone—and at the Caller ID. It was her landline. The call was coming from the extension in the kitchen.
“What—what do you want?” Miranda said into the phone. She could barely talk. She could barely even breathe.
“I won’t let you ruin my family,” the woman said.
Miranda could hear the voice inside her house now.
She dropped the phone. Paralyzed with fear, she heard the footsteps coming closer, loud and quick. The light went on in the hallway. Miranda saw it under the crack in the door.
“Leave me alone!” she screamed, grabbing the knitting needle from the nightstand.
The bedroom door flew open. The light was behind the woman, leaving her face in the shadows. But Miranda could see she had dark hair. She wore a purple coat with the collar raised. She had a gun in one gloved hand. The other hand held something behind her back.
Miranda sprang up so she was kneeling on her bed. Tears in her eyes, she held the knitting needle in her shaking fist. But it seemed utterly useless. “No,” she whispered. “Please, wait . . .”
From behind her, the woman pulled out Miranda’s son’s pillow, the one with the X-Men pillow case.
“Finn’s pillow,” Miranda whispered, dazed. “What—what are you doing with that?”
“They say it muffles the sound.”
The woman held the pillow in front of the gun and fired twice. In the silence, the muffled shots still seemed loud.
Miranda screamed as those first two shots went off—and missed.
The third shot silenced her. She flopped back on the bed. The knitting needle flew out of her hand.
The woman dropped the tattered pillow and took a step toward the bed.
Miranda lay perfectly still, with her eyes open and a bullet in her throat. Beneath her neck and shoulders, a crimson stain began to bloom on the blue quilt.
And all the while, feathers whirled around the room like snow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Saturday—9:22 A.M.
Seattle
Steve stopped raking leaves for a moment. He watched his dad, with a saw, cutting up the small Japanese maple tree that had been ripped out of the garden. Steve’s mom had said the tree couldn’t be saved. So his dad was dividing the battered-looking thing into sections so it could be bundled for the garbage collectors to haul away.
They wanted to get a head start on today’s garden rebuilding project—and surprise Steve’s mom, who was still asleep. She usually didn’t stay in bed this late. Steve figured she must have had another bout with insomnia last night.
It was just he and his dad out there for now. Gabe had to conserve his energy for an “away” football game in Kent. Hannah would be there to cheer him on and represent the family, although her motives were actually self-serving. She had a crush on the older brother of one of Gabe’s teammates. Apparently, he was going to the game as well, and she’d finagled a ride from him.
Eden had said something about helping with the garden today, but she’d slept in, too.
Between the leaves and the morning chill in the air, it really felt like fall. Steve could even see his breath. He and his father worked together without saying much. He wanted to ask his dad what Ms. Warren had said about Eden last evening, but he figured it was none of his business. And his father wasn’t volunteering any information. So they were quiet.
Besides, half the time, whenever they started talking, the dog next door would bark.
Steve was only mildly curious about the parent-teacher conference anyway. He’d been there for the whole showdown between Eden and Ms. Warren. So he didn’t need to hear a recap.
What he really wanted to ask his father about was Aunt Molly.
Last night, after looking through the family album, Steve had gone online in search of anything about Molly Driscoll. It turned out there was a journalist with that name, so Steve kept coming up with articles she’d written. He’d been on Google for nearly an hour, but he couldn’t find anyone he could connect to his mother. It dawned on him that maybe Molly was just a good friend of his mom’s. Though he’d grown up without any actual aunts or uncles, as a kid he’d called a few of his parents’ close friends Aunt This or Uncle That. His godparents, Aunt Judy and Uncle Bill, were actually his parents’ next-door neighbors from when they’d first moved to Seattle. Maybe this Molly person had a totally different last name.
Whatever the case, it was obvious there was someone in his mother’s life named Molly. And for one reason or another, she was a big secret. Steve kept wondering what had happened to her—or what she had done that was so horrible. It must have been pretty bad if they’d cut her out of all those family photos.
Had she murdered somebody? Steve’s mind couldn’t help going there, what with all the grisly true-crime stories he’d read. Among the many Google search variations he’d tried were “Molly Driscoll Murder” and “Molly Driscoll Killer.” But he’d found nothing.
His mom hadn’t been the only one unable to sleep last night. His mind racing, Steve had tossed and turned for at least an hour. At one point, he’d thought he heard someone come and go in the middle of the night. But maybe he’d dreamt it.
Abandoning his rake, Steve helped gather up the branches and sections of the small tree so his dad could tie them in a bundle. “Hey, Dad,” he finally said. He spoke in a quiet voice so he wouldn’t be heard inside the house—and so he wouldn’t trigger another barking fit from the neighbor’s dog. “Can I ask you something?”
Hunched over his work, his father stopped to look at him. “This sounds serious.”
Steve shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe it is.”
His dad straightened up and took off his work gloves. “What is it, Stevie?”
He hesitated.
“You know, you can ask me anything,” his father whispered. He smiled, reached over, and rubbed Steve’s shoulder.
Steve couldn’t quite look him in the eye. “Did—did Mom have a sister? Someone named Molly?”
The smile faded from his father’s face. His hand dropped to his side. “What m
akes you ask that?”
Steve could tell he’d hit a nerve.
“I got this weird text yesterday,” he explained. “Someone—I don’t know who—sent me a message: Ask your mom about your Aunt Molly.” He shrugged. “But Mom was so upset about the garden yesterday, I didn’t want to upset her any more. I kept thinking the message must be about something awful.”
His dad said nothing. Frowning, he wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.
Steve told him about the cut-up photos in the family album—and the one with the writing on the back.
His father nodded soberly. “So this text you mentioned earlier,” he said. “You don’t have any idea who sent it?”
“I thought maybe it was Eden, but when I asked her, she didn’t know a thing about it.”
His father said nothing. He just twisted his mouth over to one side as if baffled and slightly ticked off.
“Did Mom have a sister named Molly?” Steve pressed. At the same time, he thought maybe he should stop asking. His dad obviously didn’t want to answer him.
He glanced down at a chunk of the tree, then sighed. “Yes, Molly was her younger sister,” he whispered. “But your mom doesn’t like talking about her. It’s still a very painful subject. I’m glad you came to me about this, Stevie.”
Yet he didn’t seem glad at all. He rubbed Steve’s shoulder again. “Please, don’t ask your mom about her, okay? Your instincts were right. You’d just upset her. For your mother, it’s easier to pretend Molly never existed. I don’t completely agree with that, but I have to respect it. Anyway, that’s why we didn’t say anything to you kids about her.”
Steve thought of all those photos Molly had been cut out of. “Was she at your wedding?”
His father nodded. “She was the maid of honor. She and your mom were very close growing up.”
“And now she’s dead?”
“Yes, she died before you were born.”
“How? What happened to her?”
His father sighed. “Molly had a lot of problems. Your mom did the best she could to help her. She’s always blamed herself for what happened to Molly. They were never sure if it was an accident, or if she jumped . . .”
“Jumped?” Steve repeated. “What do you mean?”
“It was like what happened to Eden’s mother,” his father whispered, so quietly that Steve barely heard him. “She fell several stories off the roof of an apartment building.”
Dazed, Steve stared at him. “When did this happen?”
“About seventeen—almost eighteen years ago,” his father answered. He glanced toward the house. “You aren’t going to say anything to your mother about this, are you?”
Steve quickly shook his head.
“Good. Let’s just keep this between us, okay?”
“Sure,” Steve murmured.
His father gave him a hug. “Thanks, Stevie.”
For a moment, Steve’s arms remained at his sides. He was so stunned that he forgot to return the hug. He smelled his dad’s aftershave and felt his hand patting him on the back. Steve finally put his arms around him, but only briefly.
Breaking away, Steve squinted at him. “So that’s weird Eden’s mom died the same way as Molly.”
His father put the work gloves back on. He knelt on the stack of cut branches as he tried to tie it up with a rope. The branches snapped under his weight. “Yeah, I know,” he muttered. “What are the odds?”
Steve knew his father didn’t expect an answer.
And he didn’t expect any more questions, either.
*
The clock on the microwave read 9:58 A.M.
In her bathrobe, Sheila stood by the window in the kitchen door, a freshly poured cup of coffee in her hand. She’d put milk in it instead of cream because the cream had been opened earlier in the week, and it was one of those items she’d told Eden that she alone consumed.
In a sweatshirt that belonged to Hannah, Eden was raking leaves in the backyard with Steve. The two half-siblings were talking, but Sheila couldn’t hear what they were saying because Dylan was mowing the lawn. With her face clean and her hair in a ponytail, Eden looked pretty. She seemed like one of the family out there.
Sheila wondered how many other items in the house had been tampered with. Was the girl impatiently waiting for her to drink, eat, or swallow something else? Maybe right now, Eden imagined her dead in her bedroom upstairs. Perhaps she was hoping a fatal dose of something or other had finally done the trick.
Sheila now realized she’d taken a big chance swallowing an Ambien last night. It could have been a tablet of arsenic, or some other kind of poison.
The doorbell rang.
No one in the backyard heard it because of the lawnmower. But obviously Trudy had, because she started barking next door.
Putting down her coffee cup, Sheila headed toward the front door. But when she realized it could be FedEx with that package from the funeral home, she started to run. Unlocking the door, she flung it open. She saw the FedEx delivery woman climbing back into her truck. On the front stoop was a package about the size of a gift box for a sweater. The package was addressed to Eden O’Rourke.
Sheila scooped up the box. It must have weighed about five or six pounds. As the delivery truck started to back out of the driveway, Sheila glanced at the return address on the package, just to make sure it was what she’d been waiting for: March-Middleton Funeral Services.
Ducking back inside the house, Sheila closed the door and returned to the kitchen. She peeked out the window again. The three of them were still working in the yard. Sheila was pretty certain they hadn’t heard the truck.
Grabbing a knife from the rack on the counter, she cut the tape along the sides of the parcel. Then, with her coffee and the package, she retreated upstairs to her room. She locked the bedroom door, sat down on the floor, and opened the box.
She felt a bit guilty when the first thing she saw was a note to Eden, signed by the man Sheila had spoken to on the phone the other day. But then she thought of the ground glass in her bourbon last night and quickly got over any qualms she had. The note thanked Eden for using the funeral home’s services and explained that the enclosed materials were being provided to her free of charge. There was a sleek folder, full of paperwork, and a box with fifty thank-you cards for people who had attended the service, sent flowers, or made donations. There was also a stack of memorial prayer cards and leftover programs. And finally, there was the guest book. The cover was black, with GUESTS & TRIBUTES embossed in swirly silver script.
Sheila opened the book to the first page and read a note in very neat penmanship:
The tribute on the next page was pretty terse:
Sheila imagined some neighbors from Antonia’s apartment building must have carpooled over to the funeral home together because the first five signatures were all from people who had followed Eileen’s lead and written “Bristol Apts.” after their names. Like Eileen, none of them seemed to know Eden’s name.
Some people merely signed their names. Most kept it brief, as Sid had.
In addition to Antonia’s neighbors at Bristol Apartments, there was a set of mourners from a different camp. Close to ten coworkers from the Portland Hilton had signed the book. But only one of them seemed to know Eden’s name. Another one had called her “Erin.”
There were about thirty signatures in the book, and Eden’s boyfriend, Brodie, wasn’t among them.
Sheila figured, with a little research online, she could get the phone numbers for some of these people. The Hilton coworkers would be easy to contact. All she had to do was phone the hotel and ask for them.
But it wasn’t as simple as all that. After looking up the number for the hotel, Sheila called and got the hotel operator. She asked to talk to Nancy Abbe but was told that Nancy didn’t work weekends. Neither did Jay Simmons. She tried the next one on the list, Barbara Riddle, and found out she was no longer employed there. Sheila could tell the operator was getting i
mpatient with her.
“I’m trying to track down some people who were friends with Antonia Newcomb—Toni,” Sheila told her. “Maybe you knew her?”
“No, actually, I didn’t,” the operator said, a bit snippy.
“Do you know someone there who was close with her?”
“No.”
Flustered, Sheila glanced at the book again. “Is Debra Barnes working today?”
“I’ll connect you.”
Debra Barnes wasn’t at her desk. But Sheila got her voicemail. She left a message: “Hi, Debra. My name’s Sheila, and I was hoping you could give me some information about Antonia—Toni—Newcomb, specifically about Toni and her daughter, Eden. Could you call me? It’s rather urgent. I promise not to take up much of your time.” She left her number and clicked off.
Sheila didn’t want to call the hotel and risk getting that same officious operator again. So she went online to look up the phone numbers for some of Antonia’s neighbors. The site that was supposed to locate people seemed fairly accurate with the Pendleton Street Northwest address, but the phone numbers listed must have been old landlines. Sheila’s first three attempts to call residents of the Bristol resulted in two wrong numbers and one number no longer in service.
She was about to try another neighbor’s phone number when she heard the lawnmower stop. Getting to her feet, she padded over to the far window and glanced down at the backyard. Dylan was emptying the lawnmower’s bag. Eden and Steve were still raking leaves.
As she sat down on the floor again, Sheila threw everything back into the box except for the guest book. She kept that, along with her phone, and then shoved the package under her bed. She heard Gabe in his room down the hall, playing the theme from Captain America on his computer, which he always did to psych himself up before heading to a football game.
The Betrayed Wife Page 25
