by Sara Rosett
I stopped pacing and pushed my bangs on my sweaty forehead. I needed more. Waraday was a hard-evidence type of guy. He didn’t want hearsay and with Denise under arrest it was going to take a lot to convince him Henry was involved.
I glanced at the street. There were no cars on the road. My car wasn’t in the driveway. No one would know I was here. I glanced at my watch. If I was going to do it, I had to do it quickly because I had to pick up the kids soon.
I took a deep breath and punched the garage door button. As it clattered down, I pulled on a pair of gardening gloves from the labeled bin Megan and I had created. The door to the house might be locked. Mitch and I never locked the door from the garage into the house, but Megan and Henry might have locked theirs since they were both going out of town. I flexed my fingers in the stiff gloves and gripped the doorknob. It turned smoothly and the door swung open. I was enveloped in a gust of cool air-conditioned air, scented with lemon furniture polish.
Tips for Busy, Budget-Minded Moms
Keep these documents indefinitely
Education transcripts.
Loan discharge papers.
Wills and living trusts.
Insurance paperwork.
Mortgage deeds.
Paperwork associated with automobiles—title, registration, and warranties.
Birth certificates, marriage certificates, adoption papers, divorce decrees, and military discharge paperwork.
Social security cards.
Retirement benefit paperwork.
Chapter Twenty-five
I’d never been inside Megan and Henry’s house before. Megan and I had spent all our time organizing the garage. I stepped into a kitchen of pale wood cabinets and cream countertops. A package of rice cakes sat on the counter next to a collection of low-fat, low-calorie cereal boxes. I moved across the tiled floor into the breakfast nook between the kitchen and the living room. The house was a combination of contemporary furniture in the colors of the ocean—lots of blue, beige, and white accented with exercise equipment and baby paraphernalia.
I stepped around an ExerSaucer and baby swing next to a treadmill and surveyed the open floor plan, feeling at a loss. What could I hope to find when I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for? I spun in a slow circle, looking for anything that might be off or odd, but everything looked like the typical family home—slightly messy with mail and magazines on the coffee table and baby toys on the couch.
Now I felt a bit silly, but I was in and I might as well walk through. I took a quick tour through the living room around the pale blue sectional couch, then walked into the formal area of the house by the front door. A dining room and formal living room flanked the front door, and each room was perfect. No one lived in these rooms. A quick scan of the china cabinet revealed nothing except pale gold-rimmed china.
I walked to the bedrooms, flexing my fingers in the stiff gardening gloves and feeling more awkward by the minute. A linen closet contained nothing but sheets and towels. Tyler’s room was all boy with pale blue walls and a baseball-themed wallpaper border.
Megan was using the second bedroom as storage for more workout equipment. Bare white walls, no curtains, and mirrored sliding closet doors gave it a gym-like appearance. A stationary bike along with three weight-loss contraptions that I recognized from television infomercials filled one side of the room. A weight machine took up the rest of the floor space.
I entered the master bedroom last, feeling worse and worse. What was I doing poking around in this house? I wasn’t a trained investigator and I wouldn’t know what I was looking for, much less have the time to do an actual search. What if by just being here, I’d compromised the scene? I glanced around the room and didn’t see anything that screamed “murderer lives here.”
The king-size bed with a beige bedspread dominated the room. There was a dresser and two nightstands in blond wood. A doorway at the far side of the room led to a walk-in closet and master bath with a large garden tub and separate vanities. I stood on the threshold of the bedroom, debating whether I should leave. But I was also thinking about an interview I’d seen with a thief who’d served his time and now worked with a local television station for a segment called “How Safe Is Your House?” On the most recent segment, he’d broken into a house—with the homeowner’s permission—in under twenty seconds and headed straight for the bedroom, saying that most people keep the really valuable stuff close to them, in their bedroom or closet. So the master bedroom was where Henry would be most likely to hide something he didn’t want found.
I checked under the bed and found flat storage boxes of pictures and papers, including various certificates from military training classes. I paused over one, a marksman award for accuracy from a local shooting range. Each pilot had to spend time on the firing range and pass a shooting test. The fact that Henry was an accurate shot wasn’t going to help me. I replaced the document in the box and shoved it under the bed.
It was difficult to open the nightstand drawers wearing the gloves, but when I did slide out the drawers, I found only a phone book, notepad, and calendar in one and an assortment of socks and under-shirts in another. I pulled open each dresser drawer and saw clothes. I didn’t want to move things around too much, so I poked and prodded at the edges. As far as I could tell, the dresser only contained clothes.
I went to the walk-in closet and patted the top shelf. At the back, my gloved hands touched something rounded behind the shoe boxes. I dragged a step stool over from the corner of the closet and stepped up. I moved a few of the shoe boxes, exposing the long barrel of a rifle. My breathing sped up, but I told myself to calm down. A gun in itself was not that surprising. Lots of people hunted. But this was a rifle and I couldn’t help but wonder if Henry had aimed it at Dan in a mistaken attempt to shoot Mitch.
I didn’t touch it. I stared at it a moment before I stepped down and replaced the step stool in the corner. The closet was narrow with two tiers of rods running its length. Megan had taken over most of the space and I looked through the clothes quickly. There was nothing except the normal clothes, shoes, belts, and ties. The cabinets in the bathroom held towels and toiletries.
I walked back into the bedroom and removed the gloves, my hands sweaty. I might as well leave and try to figure out some way to tell Waraday about the rifle in the top of the closet. I walked toward the door, giving the room once last glance. A glimmer of gold in the change holder on top of the dresser caught my eye and I walked closer.
Amid the copper and silver of the pennies, dimes, and quarters, there was definitely a flash of gold. I put one glove back on and pushed the change out of the way. There were three squadron coins at the bottom of the dish. I had to work to get the thick finger of the glove under the edge of the coins, but I flipped them over, one after another. Each one had the familiar tiny black blob on the side with the replica of the squadron patch. When I leaned closer and squinted, I could see the black strokes formed a skull and crossbones. I pushed one coin out and picked it up by the edge. A movement at the window caused my head to jerk up. I closed my gloved hand around the coin and took a step closer to the window that looked out on the front lawn of the house.
A figure was walking to the front door, a man with a cell phone pressed to his ear. I shoved the coin in my pocket and stepped closer to the window. It looked like…I frowned. It couldn’t be Henry. He was in Atlanta. I leaned sideways, trying to see the man as he trotted up the front steps.
I heard the distinctive metal clicks as a key shifted the dead bolt from the locked position. The front door opened and I felt the subtle change in air pressure as the sheer curtains stirred by my face. It had to be Henry.
My first instinct was to hide. Where? The bed was a low profile and hugged the floor and I didn’t think I could get under there with the boxes. There were no heavy curtains to hide behind like in the movies. These were wispy, gauzy transparent things over blinds.
I spun around, practically flapping my hands as my breathing went cho
ppy. The bathroom? No, the shower was a clear glass cube and the cabinets were far too small for me to get into, even if they weren’t already full. I could hear his voice, a one-sided conversation, as he walked down the hall.
Should I brazen it out? Meet him in the living room, tell him Megan asked me to come over and pick up the package, but I heard a noise inside? I discarded the idea even before it was fully formed and scooted toward the closet. It had to be the closet. I wasn’t glib at the best of times and right now I was so stressed he’d probably take one look at my face and see something was up.
I stepped into the closet, shoved some clothes aside, and ducked under the double rod. I tried to squeeze myself into the back corner. At the last minute, I realized the closet light was on, but I didn’t dare move because Henry had entered the bedroom.
From my corner, I could see out the door of the closet to the mirror over the dresser. In the reflection, I saw Henry standing in the middle of the room. “It was fine. A typical flight,” he said into the cell phone. He was in civilian clothes, khaki carpenter shorts, a collared green short-sleeved polo shirt, and sandals.
He walked over to the dresser and bent down. I couldn’t see what he was doing. He stood up, holding one of the gardening gloves. I massaged the fabric in my hand and only came up with one glove. Shoot. I must have dropped it when I saw him coming up the walk. He frowned at the glove, then tossed it on the dresser. He didn’t even look at the coin dish and I breathed a tiny sigh of relief.
The closet was hot and stuffy. Beads of sweat were forming along my hairline and between my shoulder blades. I snuck my hand up and patted my forehead with the glove. It smelt dusty and sweaty. Of course, the section of clothing I was hiding behind was Megan’s winter clothes and a scratchy wool fabric brushed against my arms and face, making me feel even hotter.
Henry listened for a moment, then said, “No, I’m still in Atlanta.”
Liar, I thought, gently pushing the arm of a wool jacket away from my nose.
“Well, I’m glad you made it to California. Sure. Right. Okay. I’ll call you from Hawaii. Bye.”
He ended the call and stepped into the closet. I averted my gaze to his feet in a childlike effort to not attract his attention. I prayed he wasn’t able to either smell the sweat that seemed to be pouring off me or hear my heartbeat, which was pounding in my ears.
I watched his feet as he dragged the step stool over and climbed on it. He pulled the rifle down, replaced the step stool, then left the closet. He returned almost immediately and began rummaging through the clothes on the other side of the closet, muttering to himself about where something could be.
I swallowed as he transferred to the side I was on. I scrunched down the wall and tried to roll myself into a ball. What would I say if he found me? There really wasn’t an explanation that I could give him. His hand flickered through the clothing on the rack above me until he reached the end of the rack. He braced his feet and went back a few feet to the area where he’d just looked, but this time he went slower, moving each item individually, and I nearly had a heart attack as the moving hangers parted closer and closer to me, sending a shaft of light down into my hiding place.
He moved down to the lower rack. I was toast. What to say? What to do? Push him? Try and hit him?
“Finally,” he muttered, and snagged several hangers a few inches from my nose. As he left the closet, I saw he had camouflage clothes in one hand and a pair of stout boots in the other. I could hear him moving around in the bathroom, then he walked through the bedroom. I didn’t have the nerve to stand up again and watch him in the mirror. I strained to listen for more sounds, but there weren’t any.
I stayed where I was for another full minute, counting the seconds off in my mind. My legs were beginning to cramp. I worked my way up the wall into a standing position and rotated my feet one at a time until the pins-and-needles sensation died away. Once my legs were functioning again, I took a deep breath and eased out from between the clothes, bending over double to get out from under the lower rack.
I gently put the hangers back into place, then moved as silently as possible to the doorway of the closet and peered out.
Silence. I hadn’t heard the front door close. It was possible that I hadn’t heard it because I was in the depths of the closet, or Henry might still be in the house. The clothes he’d been wearing were dumped in a heap on the bathroom floor next to the sandals. I couldn’t stay in the closet any longer. The fact that he’d taken the rifle and changed into camouflage scared me.
Carefully, I stepped into the bedroom, then inched my way toward the door. I paused, scanning every inch of the house that I could see. Unfortunately, that encompassed only the linen closet door and the other two bedrooms. I waited for a few more seconds and listened to the air-conditioner unit run. I swallowed and eased out the door and down the short hallway. A quick peek around the corner as I came to the end of the hall assured me Henry wasn’t in that part of the house. With the open floor plan, I could see the living room, breakfast nook, and kitchen. All were quiet and still.
Everything looked exactly as it had when I arrived, except the door that opened onto a deck in the backyard was open. There was a screen on the door and it was closed. I inched over to the door. My gaze ran quickly over the empty deck, then to the stairs that descended to the woods behind the house. The house was situated on the ridge that ringed the valley. The land, covered in thick woods and undergrowth, dropped away steeply behind the house, then widened into the bowl-like valley that contained most of the houses of Magnolia Estates. From the deck, I could see through several gaps in the trees to other parts of the neighborhood, including the sliver of an opening at the peak of the road where Dan had been targeted.
My heart began to hammer.
He was going to try it again. Just like last time. He had an alibi—everyone thought he was out of town. And Mitch would be running through the newest part of the neighborhood soon. It was the last part of his run. I hurried over to the windows, searching the hillside below the deck, but I couldn’t pick out a figure of a man anywhere. In the thick brush, Henry could hide anywhere. It was no use to stand here and try and find him. It was like looking for a tiny object in one of the kids’ seek-and-find books.
I licked my lips and checked my watch. Maybe Mitch was already back home. I squinted through the gaps in the trees, searching for any movement on the road at the base of the valley. Two cars drove sedately down past, then I spotted Mitch, striding down the street. He flicked into view for a second, then disappeared behind the next thick clump of trees. He was almost at the base of the steep road that would bring him up to the open section at the top.
I grabbed the handle to the screen door, about to step outside, then stopped. Henry could still be close enough to see or hear me. I’d be an easy target on the deck. I stepped back from the door and hurried through the house. I had to warn Mitch. He was close, but I probably had a minute, maybe two, before he reached the top of the hill where Dan had been shot. Until he got to that wide gap in the trees, he’d be safe from Henry, because the trees were too dense to get a clear shot off until Mitch came to the clearing at the top.
I called Mitch on my cell phone. It rang four times, then went to voice mail. I slammed the phone closed with sweaty hands. He had on his ear buds and was listening to his music.
I raced to the front door, unlocked it, and slowed down enough so that I didn’t slam the door. I tossed the single gardening glove I was still carrying on the front porch, then took off at a run down the sidewalk to the street, with my cell phone still gripped in one hand.
My feet slammed against the pavement, sounding loud to my ears. In my shorts and T-shirt, I hoped I looked like a normal jogger, not a frantic woman.
I slowed my pace slightly and settled into a rhythm, surprised that my breathing didn’t become labored right away. I guess those stroller brigade workouts were helping me get in shape. Either that or it was the adrenaline. Definitely adrenaline,
I decided as my feet flew across the asphalt. I sprinted by the little playground, veering around the strollers parked near the street. As I reached the end of the flat section of the road, I slowed down, not wanting to run through the gap in the line of trees. I was sure Henry was in the woods with his gun-sight trained on the opening. I stopped while the trees and houses still sheltered me. The road twisted back on itself at the bottom of the steep slope. From above I could see bits and pieces of the road through the thick foliage. A flicker of white flashed through the gaps at a steady pace, a runner’s pace.
It was Mitch. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew it had to be him. And I couldn’t get down there to warn him. Even if I plunged down the steep wooded slope, I wouldn’t reach him in time and I’d probably get a broken ankle or poison ivy, at the very least. What should I do? I scanned the street…if there was a car…but it was quiet in this new section of the neighborhood. My heartbeat accelerated, like I was still sprinting. I spun in a slow circle. There was nothing but pallets of bricks in dusty yards and low plastic black fencing around the new construction sites. No good. The few completed houses on this stretch were quiet. No time to try and rouse anyone and even if I convinced someone to help, there wasn’t enough time. The bright colors of the strollers caught my eye.
The strollers! I shoved my phone in my pocket, sprinted to the park, and grabbed the handles of the red one.
One of the moms stood up. “Hey—”
“Sorry. I need to borrow this.” There was a diaper bag tucked into a pouch on the back. I transferred it to the front, strapping it in to weigh down the stroller.
“You can’t take that.”
“Sorry,” I yelled as I ran down the street, pushing the stroller in front of me. It was beautifully balanced with its big front wheel. It rolled smoothly and felt lighter than any stroller I’d ever pushed. Before I came even with the gap in the trees, I shoved the stroller and sent it flying down the slope.
