Screw you, buddy.
Returning to the guest room, she searches again for personal items. Clues. There’s no laptop. Strange, considering Jenny told her he worked as a programmer or something. A new-looking black duffel sits empty on a chair beneath the window. The inside of the closet is more interesting. Among her racks of old shoes and suitcases on the closet floor is an unfamiliar shipping box about eighteen inches wide, though not quite as deep. The box’s flaps are layered shut, so she hooks a finger in the small opening to peer inside. She can’t see much, but it looks like it’s filled with packages wrapped in heavy black plastic and sealed with duct tape. Squatting down, she starts to slide it out.
A car door slams outside, and she stands up with a groan of pain to look out the window. The driveway is empty, and the garage door is still closed. Seeing it as a kind of warning, she decides it’s time to go. She has the pictures on her phone—all the proof she needs that Lance Wilson is truly some kind of criminal, in addition to not actually being Lance Wilson. Right now she doesn’t care if it’s not enough to get him out quickly. She’s in it to win and is okay with waiting. There’s no question that she’s going to take the box with her.
The box isn’t too heavy, but it’s a slow struggle to get it downstairs and into the basement. Her knee is a bit better, but she won’t be winning any races with Hadley any time soon. Hadley! She looks at the time on her phone and sees that she has a couple of hours before she has to pick her up from day camp. How is it still so early? She feels like she’s been in the house for hours.
Balancing the box on her hip, she’s about to close the busted door behind her when she stops and remembers the gun. Also her good jewelry. And the password on her computer.
She has to go back upstairs. Especially for the gun.
Chapter Thirty
The new pajamas are arranged on her bed, waiting for her, just as Lance Wilson told her they would be.
Of course they are.
Kimber ignores them. The only thing that gives her pause is the idea that he knew she’d eventually see them. But she shakes off the worry for now. She won’t be here much longer.
Taking a linen tote bag from a hook inside her bedroom closet, she goes to the drawer where she keeps her good jewelry. It’s all there: her mother’s small diamond engagement ring, her grandmother’s pearls, the gold charm bracelet that had been Michelle’s, and the diamond and sapphire wedding set from her marriage to Shaun. She stuffs it all—including a handful of everyday earrings and two necklaces—into a travel jewelry bag, which she puts in the tote. Remembering the debacle in the bra department, she grabs two bras from another drawer. Glancing around, she’s tempted to take more of her things. Shoes, scarves, suits, unread books, her vibrator, her favorite nail polish. It’s a frantic feeling. A greedy feeling. She’s back among her own things, and she feels like a starving woman in a well-stocked kitchen. But she grabs only a single scarf and a favorite pair of ballet flats. He could show up any minute, and she’d have no way out except a second-story window.
Taking a deep breath, she pulls open the bottom drawer of her bedside table. The loaded revolver and box of ammo are still there. By the time she leaves the bedroom, the tote is stuffed full.
On the stairs, she stops to peer out the window with the trees and sees the crape myrtles and Jenny’s house. Outside, just below where she stands, is the opening to the concrete stairwell. Lance Wilson might have stood right here, watching Jenny as she traipsed around after Mr. Tuttle in her bedroom slippers. How many times had Kimber wanted to avoid her when she wandered over to the house after Kimber had just arrived home, wanting only to settle with a glass of wine and the grocery store sushi or carryout she’d picked up?
Now a familiar noise comes from below. The basement door closing. Hard.
There’s no car in the driveway. How did she miss Lance Wilson coming home?
The front door has a new, keyed deadbolt, and there’s no key on the nearby table or hanging anywhere she can see. What if the back door has the same kind of lock? If she hides upstairs, there will be no way to sneak past the guest room and get downstairs—at least not until tonight. The joists in the old floors squeak.
The gun. I have the gun. Hiding is the only choice.
Kimber tiptoes from the landing to the living room, where there’s a door to the tiny cupboard beneath the stairs. It’s a gnome-sized space, perfect for her dumbbells, yoga mat, winter boots, and a giant exercise ball she never uses. Now she can hear footsteps in the back of the house, scuffing up the basement stairs. Why didn’t she close the interior basement door? Her mind rushes to the box she left sitting outside.
Shit, shit, shit.
A prolonged creaking announces her opening of the cupboard door, and she squeezes her eyes shut as though it’s causing her pain. The house is too damned quiet. Why couldn’t Lance Wilson be one of those people who leave the television blaring all day while they’re gone? Kimber shoves the exercise ball back into the narrowest part of the cupboard, then drags the tote bag in after her. There’s a loop of old picture-hanging wire attached to the inside latch of the cupboard door, and her fingers fumble as she pulls it closed. The outer latch clicks.
A half-inch strip between the bottom of the door and the floor is her only source of light. She gropes for the tote bag. The gun was loaded the last time she checked, but it’s too late, and too dark, to double-check. She’s not sure exactly what she’ll do if he confronts her, but she needs to be ready. Would a gun even intimidate him? He doesn’t seem to be afraid of much.
She waits for the closing of the basement door, but it never comes. Hearing his footsteps coming down the hall, she tries to breathe only through her nose and then very carefully because she can still hear herself.
“Hello?”
He knows I’m in here. Her heart thunders, and the memory of hyperventilating and fainting at Michelle’s tenth birthday party flashes into her mind. She can’t afford to faint now.
His footsteps pause in the living room, then cross to the stairs. As he climbs, his feet surprisingly light on the treads, she twists her head to follow the sound. When he reaches the upstairs, he calls out again. “Come out. I know you’re here.”
She uses both hands to take the .22 out of the tote bag, holding it as she might a small, fragile animal that might bite her. Don has taken her to the range to shoot many times. She’s not great but not too bad. At least she can scare the hell out of Lance Wilson. He deserves it.
I could kill him. If he were dead, I would be safe. I could fix my job. Live in my house. I’ve done it before.
But no. She’s never killed on purpose.
Above her head, he descends the stairs quickly. Is he leaving? The gun is cool against her chest, yet sweat beads at her hairline and drips down the back of her neck. She’s not sure how much time passes. When his footsteps start moving toward the kitchen, she silently exhales. Except they suddenly stop, and she can see the dark curve of his shadow in the light bleeding along the floor.
The latch scratches against the wood, but the sound doesn’t last more than a split second because she pulls the .22’s trigger. Immediately following the explosive shot, there’s only a flat, painful ringing in her ears. But it’s not the only pain. Her chin burns as though it’s been seared with flame. Oh God. Did I shoot myself?
She cries out, but the sound is distant. The cupboard door hangs open a few inches, but there’s also light showing through a jagged rip in the wood near the upper hinge.
“Kimber, is that you? Stop! You’re going to kill somebody!”
The voice comes at her through layers of pain. Why would Lance Wilson shout at her? Wouldn’t he drag her out or run away to call the police?
Mostly she doesn’t care because her body is frozen in an upright fetal position, her hands fused to the gun. Don always makes her use ear protection at the range, but the .22 never seemed all that loud.
“I’m going to get you out of there, but you have to put the gun d
own. Please put the gun down. It’s me, Kimber.”
It’s me, Kimber. Not Lance Wilson, then, but someone else. Someone who knows her.
She moves one finger, then another, and another, slowly peeling her left hand from where it meets the stock and the fingers of her right hand.
“Can you hear me?”
No, I can’t hear you, she wants to say. A joke in the middle of madness. She can hear but just barely.
“If you’re not shooting, then I can get you out.”
The sagging door opens, but this time she can’t hear the hinges creaking.
If she can’t hear, then at least she can see: two khaki pant legs and a pair of tan nubuck loafers. The loafers are familiar and certainly look nothing like shoes Lance Wilson might wear.
The man squats down and peers in at her. “Jesus, you’re bleeding. Let’s get you out of here before somebody calls the police.”
Seeing Gabriel’s face, she’s flooded with relief that quickly changes to horror.
I almost killed him!
Stiff from crouching, she crawls out as quickly as she can. Her knee and chin hurt like hell. Her throat closes, and she feels tears trying to push their way out, but her body is such a confusion that nothing happens. She wants to ask him what he’s doing there but finds she can’t yet speak. Her ears begin to ring.
Gabriel holds his hand out for the gun, and she gives it to him, her hand shaking so badly that he has to steady her. As she rights herself, her adrenaline-charged muscles crying out with pain, he unloads the gun and slides it into his pocket. She stares at the splintered door, then looks at the couch and the neat hole in its back. The damage weirdly complements what Lance Wilson has already done to the rest of the room.
How can this be happening?
“Let’s go,” Gabriel says, his face serious.
“God, I’m sorry. Are you okay?” Is she shouting or whispering? She can’t tell.
“I’m glad you’re a bad shot.” He points to the tote bag on the floor. “That too?” She nods.
Taking her elbow, he urges her down the hall and toward the basement stairs. Wincing, she makes her way down, for once happy to be leaving her house.
The box she set outside is still there. He touches her arm to get her to look at him. “Your stuff?” He gives the box a skeptical look.
“Yes. I mean no.” At least that’s what she thinks they are saying.
“If it’s Wilson’s, leave it. Larceny.”
“Mine now.”
“Dammit. You really do want to end up in jail, don’t you?” He bends to pick up the box. “You’re the last person who should be caught carrying this stuff out.”
The BMW is parked several houses away, which is why she didn’t see it out the window. As they walk, she holds his handkerchief to her aching chin. At least the bleeding has stopped. She can just hear what Gabriel’s saying without reading his lips.
“I saw your car by the church.” Gabriel puts the box in the BMW’s trunk. “I’ll take you over.”
Once she’s in the passenger seat and he starts the car, she sees the time. “Wait. Hadley.”
“What?”
“I have to pick her up.”
“We can get her,” he says.
Kimber shakes her head. “Booster seat’s in my car.”
When they reach the church a couple of minutes later, she opens her door, then turns back to him. “Let me get the box out.”
“Why don’t I take it to my place? I’m serious about you not being caught with his things. We’ll look at it together tonight if you’re up to it. Dinner?”
The mention of dinner surprises her, and he reacts to what he sees in her face. “Whatever. We both have to eat something.”
She’s anxious to see what’s inside the box, but does she really want to have dinner at his place? The idea of Hadley waiting for her after pickup time at day camp keeps her from arguing.
“All right.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Skepticism flickers in Diana’s eyes when Hadley exclaims that Kimber fell down and hurt her chin. It seemed a harmless enough assumption for Hadley to make when she got into the car, so Kimber went with it.
“Honey, maybe Kimber would prefer a plain bandage rather than the princess one.”
“Oh no. She likes princesses!” Hadley announces. She runs out of the room, Mr. Tuttle trotting after her.
Kimber touches the bandage lightly. “She’s quite the doctor. I also got a tetanus shot and a cookie.” She speaks slowly and has to be looking at the person talking to her because her hearing is still muffled.
“Hmmmmm. Yes. She’s thorough.” Diana goes to the refrigerator and opens it. “Maybe I’ll have Kyle bring home barbecue for dinner. Will you be here?”
“I’m sorry. What?”
Diana turns away from the refrigerator and repeats what she said.
The question takes Kimber off guard. Why wouldn’t she be here? Even though she’s not actually planning to be. She watches Diana for any sign of anger. That stupid shoulder kiss—what was he thinking? She and Kyle never flirt now, except for friendly, tipsy banter. Nothing suggestive or sexual because, while they’re no longer lovers, God knows they have plenty to hide.
“How was the meeting?”
Diana closes the refrigerator. “I had the time wrong. Didn’t even need to be there until noon, so I hung around in town and did some shopping before.”
An unpleasant thought occurs to Kimber. Where was Diana when the first picture showed up in her car? If she was still in town this morning, what about the second one? Diana knew she was going to the radio station. Or it could have been there since she left the house this morning. She rejects the thought. Diana doesn’t even know Lance Wilson.
She went to my house and asked him about the clothes. What if she knew him already?
But things seemed to be fine between them this morning. A little awkward but fine.
“So? Dinner?”
“Sorry.” Any other day, Kimber would spill all about the meeting at the radio station. She is about to lose her job and has no idea what she’ll do when that happens. It’s the kind of thing best friends are good at helping you deal with. “Going to Gabriel’s.”
“Oh, really?” Diana’s eyebrows aren’t raised, but they might as well be.
“Not like that. Seriously.”
“Are you taking your toothbrush? That might not be a bad thing.”
Not a bad thing for you. I’d be far away from Kyle, if that’s what you’re worried about.
The mention of a toothbrush makes her think of the one she’d stolen from her guest bathroom and hidden in the Mini’s glove box. Why had she even taken it? It had just seemed important at the time.
Kimber rolls her eyes. “You remember what he was like. The sex was great, but he wanted me around twenty-four seven.”
“I remember. But maybe it was you. Maybe you still can’t commit. You’ve said you don’t want a serious relationship.”
Is this payback for mentioning that Diana doesn’t like sex? Her words border on being cruel, and Diana has never been cruel before.
“Listen. First, I don’t remember saying that.” She really doesn’t, though she’s thought it often enough. “Second, it’s intense. He’s so OCD. He couldn’t deal with it if he didn’t know exactly when we were going to see each other next.”
Diana gives a wry smile. “Some people call that being in love.”
Kimber sighs. “You’re a hopeless romantic. I’m going to go take a shower.”
“Don’t forget mani-pedis tomorrow. We’ll leave about nine-thirty. Let me know if you have to meet us there.”
Ignoring the playful dig, Kimber stands. Her knee hurts much less, and she hardly favors it at all as she walks up the stairs. She’s already decided to dress casually, in shorts and a linen top, so Gabriel clearly understands that she doesn’t consider it a date.
Kimber stands at the picture window overlooking Forest Park, sipping the Chardonn
ay Gabriel brought her from the kitchen. It’s easily recognizable as the Meiomi label she loves. Did he have some left over from when they were dating or had he bought it especially for tonight? Either way, it’s fruity and spicy and just what she needs. Standing at the window, she traces the movement of three figures on bicycles as they disappear beneath the canopy of green.
“I hope there’s something really good in that box,” she says, “because this day has been the worst.” Her hearing has mostly returned.
“Agreed. Being shot at ranks right up there.”
“I feel like a moron. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
Gabriel takes a seat on the sofa, leaning back. “Did you really want to kill the guy? What if it had been him and you didn’t miss?”
She’s thought about this. It would definitely have been a way to avoid his blackmail, even if she had to go through a trial. Of course they might have charged her with murder.
“I freaked out. It was like my head was filled with…I don’t know. Just a bright red ball of fear.”
“Do you really think he wants you dead?”
“Yes. I do. And the police aren’t doing anything, even though it’s obvious he killed Jenny.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” he says. “He’d know to be careful around her. You only had to meet her once to know that she watched everybody. She wasn’t exactly Mata Hari.”
“I told you she said she saw a woman go in. What if she saw them trashing the house and they found out? She said he played music really loud. Probably to cover up the noise.”
“Maybe.” He sounds unconvinced.
She turns back to the window. The green leaves below are cast with gold from the sinking sun. Soon it will be September, and the leaves will change color for real.
“Hey, you went by work today. I got your message. How’d that go?”
“Actually, what happened there makes shooting at you look lame. They think I cheated on my expense accounts. Almost nine thousand dollars. They asked me to resign.”
The Stranger Inside Page 15
