It was an accident, Jenny, just one of those things.
Liar.
Liar.
Liar.
CHAPTER SIX
A splatter of raindrops on the windshield became torrential as Jo turned in to her condo complex. The leaden sky had finally opened up after threatening all day. She was glad that it had waited.
Headlamps sliced through the gray as the Mustang crept forward, wipers frantically skidding back and forth. She could hardly see far enough in front of her to distinguish the road from the grass on her dead-end street. The pounding drops drowned out the dying purr of the engine as she parked in the first open spot, nearest her door.
For a few minutes, Jo sat and watched the storm outside the windshield, waiting for the rain to lighten up. She felt drained, like she was operating on half a battery. She’d gone back to the station after leaving Lisa Barton’s house, made sure the department got out a bulletin on Jenny Dielman’s car, and ran background checks on Barton and on Patrick Dielman.
Now all she wanted was something to eat and a hot bath. When the downpour continued without pause, she said, “To hell with it,” and got out of the car, scrambling onto the sidewalk toward her steps.
Water sluiced from above like an enormous pail turned upside down, drenching her as she climbed to the safety of her tiny portico.
Her porch light glowed feebly as her numb fingers grabbed the mail from the box that hung on the railing. Once inside, she shut the door hard behind her and paused to catch her breath. The storm seemed so distant from here. Warm air hissed through the vents and enveloped her. She shivered.
Jo turned the dead bolt, then stamped her feet on the mat. She deposited her mail and keys on the hall table, extracting the Warehouse Club security DVD from her bag and adding that to the pile.
Shrugging off her coat, she breathed in the stuffy air and wished it wasn’t cold and damp so she could crack a window. The scent of lavender emanated from a potpourri bowl on the sofa table. Terry had given it to her along with some candles. Jo had first stuck them away in a drawer but had started to use them, little by little. They did make the place smell good, even girlish, which wasn’t a bad thing, considering most of her belongings were practical, not frilly.
She hadn’t owned much before she moved to Plainfield and bought this place just over two years ago. She’d wanted to begin anew, and she’d pretty much done it from scratch, though she had brought with her the framed Impressionist prints from the Dallas Museum of Art gift shop. She’d worked everything else around them: the colors, the furniture, and knickknacks. The deep-green walls were straight from the hue of the trees and leaves in the blur of brushstrokes that depicted Camille Monet in the Garden at Argenteuil and the lush pads in a panel from Water Lilies. The cherry bookshelves nearly matched the touches of red in Manet’s In the Garden of La Villa Bellevue, which showed a woman reading in a garden, a rake and watering can nearby. She had always assumed the model for that was Madame Manet herself, enjoying a bit of Balzac, perhaps?
I believe in the incomprehensibility of God.
What was that from?
It would probably come to her when she’d forgotten why she’d wanted to know.
She pulled the Warehouse Club disk from the plastic case and pressed the power button on the DVD player. She inserted it but hit “Pause.” She was hungry and cold. She wanted food and a bath before anything else.
She went into the bathroom and got the water running hot enough for steam to rise from the spewing faucet. She shook in some vanilla-scented bath salts to soften the water and fill her head with their sweetness.
Undressing down to her bra and panties, Jo pulled on her robe and padded into the kitchen to slap together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She poured a glass of milk and carried both back to the bathroom. Perched on the toilet seat, she consumed her dinner well before the tub had filled.
After shutting off the faucet, she put a hand to the water, testing it before she got in. Hot but not too hot. Like Baby Bear’s porridge.
Just right.
She braced herself as liquid warmth enveloped her body. Her skin prickled as gooseflesh melted into heat, and she slipped all the way beneath the surface, holding her breath as she wet her hair and face. With a gasp, she emerged, heavy curls stuck in clumps to her head. Sighing, she closed her eyes and leaned against the curve of porcelain, resting her neck so her chin skimmed the water.
Now this was therapy.
She breathed deeply, in and out, focusing on that and nothing else. It worked to slow the frantic pace of her heartbeat, but her thoughts still swirled like hummingbird wings. However hard she tried, she couldn’t seem to quiet her brain. Even with sleep came vivid dreams, though her nightmares were less frequent. She’d begun to embrace the sense of being safe, locked in by dead bolts and storm windows.
It wasn’t so much the idea of holding the world at bay but more of being the gatekeeper. She could decide who came and went. Maybe she was trying to regain the power she’d lost—had never had—when she’d lived in Mama’s house.
That was the past. This was the present.
Everything was different now.
She pushed her hands against the water, creating tiny waves, the current pulling gently at her beneath the surface, gliding over her skin. Her whole body ached with fatigue, and her head felt heavy with so many bits and pieces that didn’t seem to connect in any way that made sense.
It had been one of those days that felt like a week.
She rubbed at her eyes, willing herself to forget everything that had happened: Patrick Dielman sitting at her desk, stolen yarn, high school pranks, picking at scabs with Terry, Lisa Barton’s broken window.
Let it go, she told herself. Let it go.
She inhaled, putting a hand on her belly until she felt it swell; then she exhaled. She lay motionless, willing her tendons to loosen, her head to empty. When she closed her eyes, she saw Adam’s face, his head on her pillow, her hair brushing his skin as she lowered her mouth to his, his hands drawing her against him. Her fingers touched the place on her neck where he had bruised her with his rough kisses, then traced the line around her jaw to settle on her lips.
She sighed, shivering.
She stirred the water again so it washed gently over her exposed knees, eliciting a whiff of vanilla bean. She swallowed down a taste that wasn’t near as inviting.
Uncertainty.
She made herself stop. Don’t.
Don’t ask too many questions. She’d only make herself crazy.
She lay back in the water, blowing out slow, deep breaths, shutting her eyes.
She felt a touch on her head, fingers ruffling her hair.
A sweet, low voice called her name. “JoJo? You ready, sweet pea? Time for us to go.”
“Go where?” She looked up into his face, but he stood so tall. His features blurred no matter how hard she tried to see them.
“Away.” His hand swooped down to catch her tiny fingers, holding them firmly in his grip, like he would never release her.
They walked somewhere she didn’t recognize, a road that led away from home, away from Mama. They cut through a copse of trees so thick, she couldn’t pick out the blue sky. Quickly, it turned dark, the forest around them denser, but she didn’t feel afraid so long as his fingers were wrapped around her own.
“Wait here. I’ll be right back, sugar,” he said, but his voice sounded far away already, and then he let her go, her hand reaching out in the air, finding nothing there.
Nothing but fear.
Noises enveloped her: creaking boughs, breaking twigs, cries of animals. But she didn’t know where to go, and the trees closed around her.
“Daddy!” she cried, over and over.
But he didn’t come back. The air grew thick and filled her nose until she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe!
Jo jerked awake, pawing at the water, finally gripping the rim of the tub. How real the dream had seemed, enough to make
her pulse race.
She rubbed her eyes with a wet hand, water dripping down her cheeks.
JoJo.
That voice, so sweet and low: it was the only thing about her daddy that still existed in her mind. She couldn’t even picture him.
She wasn’t yet five when he’d taken off. Mama had told her he was gone for good, that he’d left them because he didn’t love them like he should. Jo hadn’t understood except to think she must’ve done something wrong. Then the photographs had disappeared from the walls, from the vinyl-sleeved albums, and her mother had never spoken of him again.
After a while, Jo had stopped asking.
She didn’t know where her birth father was, or if he was even still living.
What am I doing, playing a lone hand of This Is Your Sorry Life?
The water had turned cool around her. She shivered and rubbed her arms.
Then she pulled the plug and listened to the gurgle as her bath—and her bad dream—disappeared down the drain. With a grunt, she hauled herself up from the tepid pool, dried off, and drew her terry cloth robe around her. She wiped the heel of her hand on the mirror to clear the condensation, squinting at the face that peered back. Her dark hair tangled against her narrow brow; slim shoulders sagged with fatigue.
She tipped her chin to expose the curve of her neck. The frown on her mouth softened as she studied the spot where Adam had kissed her so aggressively.
She was almost sorry it would fade.
In the living room, she snatched up the remote. Sitting back on the sofa, she curled her legs beneath her and pressed “Play” on the Warehouse Club security footage.
She fast-forwarded through yesterday morning and early afternoon, slowing down when she neared 5:00:00 on the time stamp in the lower right corner. If Jenny Dielman had spoken with her husband by telephone around that time, it likely would have taken her another ten minutes to get to the store from their residence. She fast-forwarded again, stopping when the numbers read 5:10:00.
Her finger poised above the “Pause” button.
She watched people pushing through the doors, entering with empty arms and exiting with bags in hand or a dolly crowded with boxes. Then the woman appeared, brown hair to her shoulders, wearing a dark coat and blue jeans. Her purse swung from her arm by a strap.
Jo hit “Pause.”
She came off the couch and crept closer, kneeling before the screen.
She resumed play and watched the woman pass through the second set of double doors into the store. Squinting hard, she scrutinized those who came after: a pair of older women wearing headscarves; a large man in a parka holding a cane in his right hand; a pregnant lady pushing a child in a stroller.
She stopped and started over, not sure what she was looking for but feeling triumphant nonetheless. Jenny Dielman had made it to the store. Whatever had kept her from returning home had happened afterward.
Jo settled back onto her heels and let the DVD roll through more customers coming and going, half an hour’s worth, before she saw Jenny Dielman again.
There she was, pushing out the glass doors. She carried a large plastic bag in one hand, the glint of keys in the other, her purse slung over her shoulder.
She exited alone.
Jo watched intently, checking those who emerged after her—an elderly woman, a mother tugging a child’s hand—but no one appeared to be stalking Jenny.
After replaying Jenny’s entrance and exit half a dozen times more, she shut off the TV, the sudden quiet enveloping her.
She sat on the floor, chewing on her cheek.
If only the store had working cameras in the parking lot, maybe she’d understand what came next. Could Jenny have been jacked, forced into her car and driven somewhere? What if she’d been abducted by a rapist, a killer?
But Jo did have something now, more than she’d had this morning. She knew that Jenny had done exactly what she’d told her husband she was going to do: she’d gone shopping at the Warehouse Club shortly after 5:00 p.m. She had left a half hour later.
“You don’t know her. She never would have stayed out all night without telling me.”
“Jennifer is very vulnerable. I’d hate to think that someone took advantage of that.”
“She had a lot going on in her head. Some of it was real, and some was pure fiction. Maybe that’s what happens when you hurt as much as she did.”
“I hardly knew Jenny at all, except to say that, whatever Jenny’s done, I’m sure she brought it on herself.”
Jo drew her knees up to her chin. She wanted to get inside Jenny’s head, to feel as she’d felt. She’d tragically lost her only son. She’d found Patrick Dielman while on the rebound from a fractured first marriage. She was on medication for PTSD with a possible history of a suicide attempt or OD. Her current husband had controlled their money and their relationship.
Had Jenny decided she’d made another mistake? That her second marriage wasn’t any better than the first?
“I hardly knew Jenny at all.”
Was she suicidal or a victim of circumstance?
“Patrick wouldn’t break his vows . . . he’s a decent man.”
Jo had run Patrick Dielman through the system, and Lisa Barton, too, coming up with zilch. Neither of them had a criminal record. There was nothing to make Jo doubt they were anything but what they appeared to be.
She let out a slow breath.
She’d done enough for one day. She needed sleep.
Getting to her feet, she switched off the lamps. Then she went into the bedroom and took off her robe. Adam had left a white T-shirt behind, tossed over the back of a chair. Impulsively, she pulled it over her head. Before she crawled into bed, she ran a brush through her mess of nearly dry curls; then she shut off the lights.
The rain tapped on the roof and the windows as she sat in bed and tackled phone messages. The first was from Terry, checking up on her and inviting her for Thanksgiving. She thought of Hank’s invitation and groaned. Was she on everyone’s pity list?
The second voice mail was from Adam.
“Man, but you’re a hard woman to get ahold of,” he said in that rumbly voice. “I feel like I dreamed you last night. When you get a chance, call, okay? Tell me that I didn’t make you up.”
Despite how tired she was, Jo dialed Adam’s number. He picked up on the first ring.
“I’m real,” she said, not even bothering with hello.
“You sure?”
“Do dreams have hickeys?” she asked, and he laughed. “Can you come over?”
“I wish I could.” He sounded beat. “I’m working late. You’d think the bad weather would slow things down, but I haven’t seen it. How about tomorrow night?”
Jo bit her lip. “Yes, please.”
“You still like music without words?” he asked, his voice graveled.
“You still like sauce so hot it turns your ears purple?”
He laughed again. “Damn, but I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too,” Jo whispered.
Then she switched off the table lamp and closed her eyes.
I was shelving at the library yesterday when I smelled it: the baby powder and little-boy scent that was Finn. I stepped around the stacks to see a woman leading a child toward the picture books, and the rush of hope I’d felt vanished as I realized my mistake.
I came home to a quiet house. Patrick would be at work for hours. I dug a pair of Finn’s pajamas from a box in the closet and drew them to my face. His scent was still buried in the fabric. I held them and rocked back and forth, just as I’d rocked him so many times as an infant. I let myself cry until I couldn’t cry anymore.
Patrick wants me to give away Finn’s things, but I can’t do it.
I took Finn’s teddy bear to bed with me last night, despite Patrick’s protests. I had another of my unsettling dreams and awoke in the dark, reaching for Pat, but he wasn’t there. I heard his voice, as faint as a whisper, and I wandered up the hallway, looking for him.
He was in the kitchen, standing in the dark.
“She’s so broken,” he was saying. “I’m not sure I can do this. Can you help me?”
Was he talking about me? Who was he on the phone with?
I must have made a noise, because Patrick suddenly got quiet.
“Jenny?” he said, and he switched on the light above the kitchen sink.
“Who was that?” I asked as he palmed his phone.
“Wrong number,” he said, but I knew that wasn’t true.
Dear God, did I marry another liar?
CHAPTER SEVEN
WEDNESDAY
The local news with its perky morning anchors babbled from the television as Jo perched on the sofa and tugged on her boots. In between the right foot and the left, she glanced up, catching the blonde on Channel 8 mention a Plainfield woman gone missing.
She’d hardly blinked, and a photo of Jenny Dielman appeared to the right of the talking head. It was the picture that Patrick Dielman had given her, only cropped to zero in on Jenny’s face and the cat tucked beneath her chin.
Jo let her boot fall to the floor and reached for the remote to turn up the sound.
“According to Plainfield resident Patrick Dielman, who contacted our ‘On Your Side’ reporter, his wife, Jennifer, never returned home from a shopping trip to the Warehouse Club in Town and Country Center on Monday evening shortly after five p.m. Jenny is five feet five inches tall and weighs approximately a hundred twenty pounds. She has shoulder-length brown hair and brown eyes. She was wearing a black coat, a gray fleece pullover, and blue jeans at the time of her disappearance. She was driving a dark red Nissan 240SX. If you’ve seen Jenny Dielman or know of her whereabouts, please contact the Plainfield Police Department at—”
Jo quickly flipped channels and found similar reports airing on several other stations. She wasn’t usually a big fan of the media—she didn’t know many cops who were—but in this case, getting the story on the air and into every house in the metro area at this juncture might make a difference in tracking down Jenny sooner rather than later. The more awareness there was about the missing woman, the better chance there was at finding her alive.
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