by Gregg Olsen
That was good, too.
In putting away his neatly matched socks in a top drawer that was only organized when she did the arranging, she noticed a flash of red and white, a greeting card. Its red heart with an arrow indicated a valentine. She opened it and read the message:
Our love is forever. I will wait for you. Will you wait for me?
It was signed, somewhat cryptically, Me.
Tears flowed freely as she thought of Alex and how they’d met on the stainless-steel dance floor at the Black Angus in Bremerton. He was young, handsome. Attentive. A naval officer with plans for the future that included getting a master’s degree in finance. The message on the card reminded her of their own love story. Alex was transferred to San Diego for a year.
And, yes, she waited for him.
When he returned to Bremerton the following year, he had a new tattoo on his chest and a diamond engagement ring for Laura’s finger.
Underneath the first card, she found a second one. This one featured the image of two swans, their necks forming the shape of a heart.
It was wrong to invade Parker’s space and his mom knew it. Yet she couldn’t help herself. Her son had been so unhappy, so wounded. Few mothers can resist the urge to learn more about the girl who had given her boy a reason to smile.
When one swan dies, so does the other. I can’t live without you.
The handwriting was a neat script, the same script as on the other.
Teenagers. Everything is so dramatic, she thought, closing the drawer.
Before Alex’s murder, Laura considered Parker’s eighteenth birthday as a personal and financial game changer. The substantial child support that Alex had faithfully sent each month since their divorce would cease. It was far from a gravy train, but its derailment was going to be tough. She was unsure exactly what she would do to get by. It was true that she had investments and a decent nest egg, but the cash flow that came from Alex’s account to hers was the kind of money that made the difference between being comfortable and having strained finances. She could buy what she wanted. Eat out whenever she liked. She could even afford to have her car detailed once a month.
All of that would be off the table when the support checks stopped.
Alex wasn’t blameless in all of that, of course. And, though she loathed to admit it to herself, she’d once hoped that Alex would drop dead of a heart attack. He had a sizable life insurance policy and she was the beneficiary. She could have lived nicely on that. She could have avoided the embarrassment of giving up a big house, European vacations, and platinum tennis bracelets. But Alex didn’t drop dead before they were divorced.
And there was clearly no stopping Tori. She popped into her husband’s life at a time when Laura and Alex were at odds, when the excitement of their marriage had faded into a world of obligation.
She saw Tori as a schemer who used her considerable charms to snare a man who wanted that last gasp of youth that comes in one’s forties. A wife the same age was only a mirror to the passage of the days and months of his life.
Laura hated Tori for coming into their lives. The blonde with the perfect body had wriggled her way into their affairs like a beautiful virus. She wanted what she saw—a husband with a bank account that would keep her in expensive clothes, a nice house, and a car that would be the envy of those who care about such things. Alex had other affairs during their marriage, but none lasted. None had morphed into anything other than sex and secrecy.
Yet Tori would have none of that. She played to win. As Laura saw her, Tori was one of those women who knew that the power in their beauty was a commodity that was never to be given away without something in return.
“Don’t worry, Laura,” Tori had said over the phone, when Laura had called to discuss Parker’s declining grades. “I don’t want to take your place.”
“Really? That seems to be exactly what you’ve done.”
“I mean with Parker. I don’t want to be his mother and I won’t even try. I want him to think of me as a friend.”
“He doesn’t need another mother, and to be frank, he doesn’t need a friend, either. He has plenty.”
“That’s good to know,” she said. “He seems a little lonely. He shares so much with me that I just want to be helpful. It isn’t easy being a child of divorce. I want to be there for him.”
Laura held her tongue, which was the only thing a decent person could do. Tori was Alex’s problem. Certainly she wanted to blast the bitch and say something about the fact that she had caused the divorce, but there was no point in that.
“Thanks for your concern,” she said before hanging up. She seethed a moment and went for a vodka tonic.
Absolut vodka today, Brand X tomorrow.
All of that had felt so foolish now. All of her worries about how she was going to survive after her son’s birthday were an embarrassment now. She’d never say a word to anyone what her hopes had been.
No one would understand.
CHAPTER TEN
Port Orchard, Washington
The Landing at Port Orchard was the newest assisted-living residence for seniors “who need a little extra care” in the small city on Puget Sound. The first floor was beautifully if predictably appointed: leather couches, wingback chairs with brass nailhead detailing, and a gas fireplace that was perpetually on. The river rock–faced hearth was outfitted with a raffia-bound bundle of birch twigs and an old-fashioned popcorn popper, the kind that would be used over a campfire. Above the fireplace, illuminated by a trio of halogen lights, was a three-foot model of a red canoe. Most of the design—from the colors of the fabrics and walls to the nostalgic artifacts placed around the entire first floor—was in what the center’s director called “memory chic.” None of it was real, but all of it was designed to help residents and visitors recall a time when they could remember. When they didn’t need a schedule or a prompt to remind them what to do next.
In reality, the ambiance of the Landing was that of a slightly overdone theme restaurant in which artifacts were used to suggest, rather than to recall, specific memories.
Bettina Maguire had been at the Landing for more than three years, having survived a car accident on an icy road in northern Kitsap County that killed her husband and Kendall’s father, Ben. A retired high school shop teacher, Ben had been driving when a deer stepped out of the shadows; he did what he told his daughter and wife never to do: he swerved, his own advice of “hitting the animal will kill it, but hitting a tree will kill you” unheeded.
Bettina’s brain had been damaged in the accident, as had her once indomitable spirit. She’d also taught school for decades, specializing in art. Before the accident, she often talked about the lovely mosaic that she helped the children create; it had been featured in the Seattle Times. Bettina’s depiction of Port Orchard’s history was told through the tiny shards of broken pottery, glassware, and one very upset student’s mother’s prized wedding platter.
Kendall arrived at the Landing feeling tired from a sleepless night full of thoughts about a criminal case in which she had no stake.
Tacoma PD can deal with the likes of Tori, she thought.
She had parked her SUV and headed inside to sign in when her cell rang. She looked down at the display. The incoming call was from Adam Canfield. She pushed the button to send it immediately to voice mail, then she reached for one of the pens embellished with roses that were stuck in a flower pot on the reception desk.
“How’s my mom?” she asked Samantha, the young woman whose name tag suggested she was a “Landing hostess” and not a desk clerk.
“You know the way it is around here. Good days, bad days. Your mom’s having a bad one.”
Samantha’s voice was chirpy and relentlessly upbeat.
“I’m sure.”
“One thing I’m sure about is that she will be so very happy to see you!”
So very happy.
Kendall made her way to Room 14, on the first floor of south side of the building. She pas
sed by a group of old women moving puzzle pieces on a tabletop and smiled at the one who looked at her. The building’s three floors told the story of an occupant’s status. Those on the upper floors were, generally, in better health. Mobile. Put together. Cognizant. Those attributes dwindled closer to the first floor. Bettina Maguire had stayed on the second floor for only two months before they moved her to the first floor, close to the medical staff. Her health had been failing, and failing fast.
“It’s better for everyone,” the director had said. “Easier, you know, if she needs help.”
The steel door that was more hospital than residential was open, and Kendall went into her mother’s room.
Bettina was in bed, her face turned away from the window. Her right hand held the steel tube of the bed rail. Her fingers no longer looked like the mother’s hands that had once caressed her daughter. They were gnarled sticks, dipped in a milky blue. Her once-marmalade hair was now white.
“Mom?”
Bettina’s head turned, her eyes flickering with recognition.
“Kendall, you’re here.”
Kendall bent down and kissed her mother’s rice-paper skin.
“You warm enough?” she asked, fussing with the pale yellow coverlet that had been her mother’s favorite.
“I’m fine, dear. Daddy and I were talking about you last night.”
A nurse had told Kendall that correcting her mother was not necessary and, if it didn’t bother Kendall too much, to play along.
“You can’t change what a person knows, even if it is wrong,” the nurse had said.
Kendall patted her mother’s feet.
“What were you two conspiring about?”
Bettina smiled. “Just how proud we are of you.”
Kendall shook her head and poured some water from a white plastic pitcher on a stainless-steel tray that the staff had brought in. She glanced around the room, noticing that her mother’s collection of miniature porcelain shoes had been boxed up. The room was looking more and more institutional.
Bettina lifted her head and sucked on the straw, her lips groping the tube as if she were feeling it instead of attempting to drink. Her eyes met Kendall’s with a look of warmth, appreciation. She nodded as she leaned back on her pillow, which Kendall had fluffed slightly in the moment that she had been able do so.
“You’re a good daughter, Kendall.”
“I try. Would you like me to sit with you?”
“That would be nice. Tell me, dear, what are you working on?”
“Same old, Mom. Bad people doing bad things.”
“Sending lots of people to jail, I hope. Might do them some good.”
“Some, not all,” Kendall said. “Remember, sending people to jail doesn’t make anyone better.”
Bettina smiled. “No, it doesn’t. But it makes me feel better.”
It was funny how that moment would recur between Kendall and her mom now and then. She was an officer of the court, a detective no less, and she could clearly see that her mother and she had both been right: sending someone to jail didn’t do much for the inmate, but it did make everyone else feel a little better.
She thought of Tori and Jason. She hadn’t been sure if she would bring it up to her mother. Bettina had known both of them back in the day. She’d be interested, for sure. She might even be a little judgmental. Her mom could be that way.
“Mom, we got some news that Tori O’Neal’s husband was killed.”
“That was a long time ago,” Bettina said.
Kendall shook her head. Her mother was having a very “good” day indeed. “Not the husband in Hawaii. Her new husband. He was shot in their home in Tacoma.”
“Tacoma?”
“Yes.”
“I never liked that girl,” Bettina said.
Kendall nodded. “I know, Mom. You’ve told me. Tori’s latest trouble made me think of Jason.”
“Jason was very handsome, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. He was.”
Kendall didn’t allow her eyes to tear up. She couldn’t start that now.
“I loved him, Mom,” she said.
Bettina’s washed-out blue eyes studied her daughter’s face, looking for something, but not seeing it. “I’m sorry that things turned out the way they did,” she said.
Kendall nodded. “I know. I’m just not sure about everything back then. If . . .” Her words trailed off.
“I know where you’re going, honey,” she said. “And we can’t talk about it.”
“Can’t we talk about it now, Mom? It has been such a long time.”
“Leave it alone, honey. Keep doing the right thing. You were made for doing the right thing.” Bettina closed her eyes, her signal that she was either tired or the conversation was over. Kendall couldn’t quite be sure.
“All right, Mom,” she said, leaning down to kiss her good-bye. They had never been able to talk about it. It was clear that no matter how much time had passed, there would be no good time to discuss Jason or any of it.
Heading out the door, she played her message from Adam.
“Kendall, you’ve got to find out what’s up with Tori. Don’t you have a friend over there in Tacoma? Someone you can call with some kind of police referral? I don’t know anyone, or I would. See you at the meeting. Only seven days to go and we get our freedom back.”
Kendall didn’t need a nudge to find out what was up in Tacoma with their old classmate. She’d already decided she’d do so as a professional courtesy.
After all, she thought, they probably have no idea who they’re dealing with. Tori was always pretty good at fooling people.
She had written down the name of the lead detective on the case: Eddie Kaminski.
A guilty conscience can be akin to a thermos of black coffee at midnight. Eyes cannot stay shuttered. Muscles cannot relax. Sleep is a quest beyond the grasp of those who wrestle with the wrongs they’ve done. The clock is a snare drum.
Darius Fulton couldn’t sleep. He’d tossed and turned the entire night. A loose bedsheet nearly encircled his neck and choked him. He’d wished that it had. Every time he almost drifted off to sleep, he saw the smear of red on Tori Connelly’s nightgown. It had pooled above her thighs in a swirling pattern that he was certain was caused by her hurried run across the street to his house. Her skin was white. Paler than he’d ever seen. She wasn’t a serial tanner like so many of the younger women he’d dated after his wife had dumped him. She had seemed classier, kinder.
And while her charms were more than just her physical attributes, those were unquestionably the reason why he’d slept with her.
It was only one time. It was a mistake and he knew it. She was married.
Yet it felt so good.
They’d come across each other at a lecture at the Washington State History Museum in downtown Tacoma. The museum was in a completely refurbished 1911 train depot and was considered—along with a new museum dedicated to glass arts—a cornerstone of the city’s rebirth. They’d noticed each other going inside.
“We’re neighbors,” she said, walking toward him, “at least I think so.”
“Welcome to the City of Destiny,” he said. “I guess I should have brought over a pie or something.”
“Oh, does your wife bake?” she asked, looking at the pale band of white skin where his wedding ring had once been.
“I’m separated. That’s why I’m here alone.”
“My husband is a workaholic,” she said. “That’s my excuse. And I’m sticking with it.”
Two days later, he was over at her house ostensibly because she was having problems with the alarm system.
Tori put her hand on his shoulder, letting it loiter as he peered into the wiring with a flashlight. She let her hand slide down his back, landing at the leather of his belt.
He turned around and looked at her.
Her touch was an unexpected invitation and Darius took it. He leaned closer and kissed her.
“I’m so lonely,” she said.
>
“I am, too.”
They kissed again.
“Tori, this isn’t right.”
“It seems right to me,” she said.
Ten minutes later, they were sprawled out naked under the canopy of a big bed in the guest room. She was, without question, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. It was as if he’d been captured by some kind of superior being from another world. Her touch was electric. Her voice, her breath, all of it made his body throb with pleasure.
“Tori,” he said, “you are an amazing woman.”
“Let’s not get carried away,” she said.
The next day, her husband out of town, Darius showed up with a bottle of wine. She met him at the door, but she didn’t invite him inside.
“Darius,” she said, “I think you might have the wrong idea here.”
“I wasn’t being presumptuous,” he said, before reading her body language and the cool expression on her face. “I mean, I’m sorry.”
There was no smile on her face, no trace of anything that indicated any kind of sympathy for the awkwardness of the moment.
“I’m not interested,” she said.
He lowered the wine bottle to his side.
“We’re not lovers,” she said. “What happened was fun, but only a little bit fun.”
His face went red. Tori Connelly was dismissing him. If he’d felt that he might have gotten his game back the night before ... if he felt that whatever his cheating wife had done to him was now erased by sex with a beautiful woman, he was misguided.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess I made a mistake.”
Darius didn’t know it at the time, but he was so right about that. So very, very right.
And now Alex Connelly was dead.
He dialed the number Detective Eddie Kaminski had left the night of Alex Connelly’s murder, the night that Tori Connelly had been shot. It went to voice mail and he did as commanded.
