“So do I.”
She glances at him. “You do? Then why do you live in New York City?”
“I’m a writer,” he says, as though that explains everything.
“And . . . ?” Rory prods. “I mean, you can write anywhere.”
“Nah. Writers belong in New York. That’s what I always thought, anyway. I figured, if I wanted to make it big in this business, I should move to the place that’s the center of the publishing industry. I came to the city ten years ago this fall, when I graduated from college—”
“Where’d you go?”
“Bennington. You?”
“Berkeley.”
“Actually, I already knew that,” Barrett tells her. “Mrs. Shilling mentioned it. She said you’re an artist.”
“I wanted to be. But it’s not like I’m doing masterpieces or having gallery showings or anything like that. When it comes to a career, I’m still trying to get my act together, I guess.”
Let’s face it. I have no ambition. I’ve spent my whole life doing my best not to settle down.
“So am I.”
“You? Trying to get your act together? But you write books.”
“I’ve published exactly two. This will be my third.”
“What were the others about?”
“Remember that prostitute in Philadelphia who was killing johns and stuffing their bodies into Dumpsters a few summers ago?”
Rory nods. That case was all over the papers. “The Spanish Rose?”
“That was her street name. She was the subject of my first book, Deadly Spanish Rose. I know, I know—cheesy title.”
She laughs. “I didn’t say that. How did you happen to write about her?”
“I don’t know . . . it hit the papers right around the time I got interested in doing a true-crime novel. Plus, my college roommate happens to live in Philly, so I had a free place to stay while I was doing research.”
That makes sense, Rory thinks. Everyone knows writers are always broke. Although now that Barrett Maitland has had some success, he clearly isn’t having money problems. That shirt he has on looks pretty basic, but she knows it must have cost at least a hundred bucks.
“What was your second book?” she asks him.
“It was called Devil and the Deep Blue Sea.”
“Catchy title.”
“Especially since it was about that cult of Satanists on Fire Island—the ones who were making human sacrifices on the beach and letting the tide wash the body parts away.”
“Nice. Very uplifting.” Rory shakes her head, sipping her drink through the straw and adding, “How can you write about such gory stuff?”
“Hey, don’t blame me. I’m not responsible. I mean, I don’t dream this stuff up, or participate. I just tell what happened.”
“Both of those cases were solved,” Rory points out, putting down her cup and looking him in the eye. “Why do you want to write about what happened in Lake Charlotte? That’s still a mystery.”
“Maybe that’s why,” he says, not wavering under her gaze, though she senses that he wants to look away. “I’ve always been drawn to mysteries. I’m a big Amelia Earhart buff, you know? Maybe I’ll write about her next. About how she started out to fly around the globe and vanished off the face of the earth.”
“Just like my sister did,” Rory comments flatly.
Now he does break the eye contact, lowering his gaze to the almost-empty cup of coffee in his hand.
“Why did you choose this particular case? Why Lake Charlotte?” Rory asks, deliberately adding, “I mean . . . have you ever been here before? Did you want to come back? Is that it?”
“No, that’s not it. I told you, I’m always intrigued by mysteries. And this was a mystery. My editor suggested it, so I followed up.”
“Oh.” She notices that he managed to sidestep her question about whether he’s been here before.
There’s definitely something suspicious about Barrett Maitland.
“Listen,” she says, standing and facing him. “I have to go now. It was nice talking with you—”
“Rory—”
“I really have to get home. My mother—”
She breaks off, realizes there’s nothing she can say about her mother without giving away that Maura Connolly isn’t exactly normal.
“Your mother . . . ?” he prods, when she doesn’t finish the sentence.
“She’s expecting company. An old family friend. And I promised I’d be there to say hello.”
“Okay,” he says, not bothering to keep the disappointment from his voice. “Maybe we can get together again?”
“I told you, I’d really rather not discuss my sister with you.”
“And that’s okay with me . . . although, I’m hoping you’ll change your mind about that. What I mean, though, is maybe we can get together again just to . . . hang out.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t trust you,” she says evenly. “You might say you want to see me just for casual conversation, but you have a job to do. You’re here to snoop into the past, and that’s someplace I just don’t want to go, ever again.”
“I guess I can’t say I blame you,” he says after a moment, regret plain on his features. “Okay, Rory. Maybe I’ll see you around the neighborhood.”
“Maybe.”
I hope not, she thinks as she walks out onto the sidewalk, the heat wrapping around her like a wet, hot towel.
She turns toward the back parking lot where she left Kevin’s beat-up Honda, wondering, as she walks through the narrow, shadowy alley, whether Sister Theodosia is going to show up tonight, and what she’s going to do with her now that she’s summoned her.
There’s no way she’s going to be able to help with any of this mess, Rory thinks, fumbling in her pocket for the keys and unlocking the door.
She finds herself wondering if Sister Theodosia knows the truth about Molly—that she’s Carleen’s illegitimate daughter. Is that the kind of thing her mother would confide in a nun, even if she is her closest friend?
With a sigh, she gets into the car and turns on the engine just as thunder rumbles faintly in the distance.
A storm is supposed to roll in later tonight, she remembers, rolling down the window with one hand as she shifts into gear with the other. Good. The air is terribly oppressive tonight. Maybe some rain will cool things off.
Molly sits at the kitchen table, clenching the phone so hard her fingers ache, bracing herself as it rings once . . . twice . . .
“Hello?”
“Hello, is Ryan there?”
“This is.”
“Oh. Hi, Ryan, it’s me. Um, Molly. From last night?” she adds, feeling like an idiot the moment that part comes out. Of course he remembers her.
“From last night? Molly? I’m sorry . . . who is this?”
Her empty stomach roils. This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. What had she been thinking, calling him?
“Molly . . . Connolly,” she says haltingly. “I . . . we go to school together, and last night—”
A burst of laughter cuts her off.
“I know who you are, Molly. I was just busting your chops.”
“Oh.”
A twinge of anger makes its way in. He thinks it’s funny to tease her? Does he have any idea what kind of nerve it took for her to pick up the phone and call him? Does he care?
“So what’s up?” Ryan asks easily.
“Not much.” She’s about to say I should go, but he cuts her off.
“Want to come over or something?”
“Come over?”
“Sure.”
She hears a protest in the background, an indignant, “Hey, what about me?”
“Han
g on a second,” Ryan says, and she can tell he’s covering the phone with his hand as he holds a muffled conversation with someone.
“Who was that?” she asks when he comes back on the line.
“Oh, that? Andy. He and I were hanging out, but he was just leaving.”
“Are you sure you want me to come over? I mean . . . it’s kind of late.” She glances at the stove clock and sees that it’s past nine.
“It’s not that late,” Ryan replies. “Besides, my parents are away, remember?”
“What about your brother?”
“Oh, please. He’s up in his room with his girlfriend. They never come out.”
“Oh.” Molly ponders that. Is it a good idea to go over to a boy’s house alone at night, with no adults around?
Who’s going to stop me?
“Okay,” she tells Ryan abruptly. “I’ll be there in a little while. See—”
“Hang on, don’t you want to know where I live?”
“Oh . . . sure.”
She knows exactly where he lives. Over in Green Haven Glen, on a quiet cul-de-sac called Marsha Court. She’s worked up the courage to ride by on her bike once or twice, sneaking furtive glances at the big blue Colonial sitting on a neatly landscaped yard—so modern and upscale and well maintained, his house. So different from her own.
The last thing she wants is for him to realize she’s made it her hobby to know every detail about his life, so she says, in what she hopes is a convincing tone, “Wait, I’ll grab a pen and paper out of this drawer and you can tell me your address.”
She leans over to open the silverware drawer and close it audibly, then says, “Okay, go ahead.”
“It’s in Green Haven Glen. Twelve Marsha Court. Third house on the right. Blue with white shutters and a basketball hoop over the garage.”
“Okay. I’ll find it. I’ll be there in . . . forty-five minutes?”
“That long?”
“Well, it’s not like I can just drive over. There’s no one here to give me a ride.” Except my crazy mother, and she doesn’t drive, anyway. “I’ll have to walk.”
“Don’t you have a bike?”
“Yeah.”
“So ride it. I’m only, like, a mile away. You’ll be here a lot faster.”
She can’t help but feel flattered that Ryan’s so eager to see her. She hadn’t wanted to go riding her bike to that party last night at the Curl because, as she had told Rebecca, there was something vaguely uncool about that. But Ryan had ridden his bike—how well she recalls that moonlit ride home on his handlebars—so obviously, that particular mode of transportation wasn’t as cheesy and immature as she’d thought.
“Okay, I’ll ride my bike,” she tells him. “I’ll be there in a half hour.” That’ll barely give her time to change her clothes and put on some makeup.
As she hangs up, Molly hears the sound of a car in the driveway. Rory?
Damn.
Looking out the window, she sees not Kevin’s little red car, but a big black monster with chrome trim. For a moment, she’s perplexed. Then she recognizes the car.
“Sister Theodosia?” she whispers incredulously. “What’s she doing here?”
But she knows. Rory summoned her. Great.
She watches as the door on the driver’s side opens and the familiar figure of a woman steps out. The nun is tall and angular, clad in a severe black habit that flaps around her head and her spindly, black-stockinged legs. Molly has never seen her wear anything else, though the nuns at Holy Father here in Lake Charlotte dress like regular people when they’re not in church. Sister Carlotta, her CCD teacher, even wears jeans sometimes.
Molly can’t imagine Sister Theodosia in jeans. Not in a million, trillion years.
I’m outta here, Molly thinks, scurrying toward the stairs before the nun can come in and waylay her. I’ll just run up and get ready to go to Ryan’s and I’ll sneak out without anyone realizing it. Mom’s here. She can deal with Sister Theodosia.
“Mommy! Funda!”
Michelle jumps at the shriek coming over the baby monitor. Ozzie was sound asleep when she left him in his room less than fifteen minutes ago.
“Funda!” he screams again as she heads up the stairs as fast as she can in her bulky condition.
Funda, she knows, is toddler-speak for thunder. The distant rumbling must have awakened him. Ozzie’s terrified of thunderstorms, and Michelle knows there’s a big one on the way. She peeked out at the twilight sky just before sitting down and saw massive dark clouds on the gray horizon.
In Ozzie’s room, in the soft violet glow of the Barney nightlight, she finds her little boy cowering with his blanket over his head.
“Don’t worry, Ozzie. Thunder can’t hurt you,” she says, pulling the blanket off and patting his sweat-soaked hair.
“No! No funda!”
“Let me show you something,” she says, lifting him out of his crib and carrying him to the window. “See those clouds in the sky? They’re filled with rain. They’re going to open up and let the rain fall down and wash the whole world clean.”
“No!”
She sighs. “Ozzie, it’s so hot. The rain will help cool things off so that we can all get some sleep tonight.”
For a change.
“Where’s Daddy?” Ozzie asks abruptly, looking around.
I wish I knew.
“Daddy’s at work,” she tells Ozzie.
Or so he says.
She just tried calling the office, and there was no answer. Granted, there’s probably a good explanation. He might have stepped out to get something.
When he called home earlier and he said his research was taking longer than he expected, she told him to make sure he got something to eat for supper.
“You can’t keep skipping meals, Lou,” she said. “You’re going to get too run-down.”
“I’ll get something from Talucci’s later. You want me to bring anything home for you?”
In this heat, Italian takeout wasn’t particularly appealing, so she told him not to worry about her. “Just come home,” she’d told him. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too, babe. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
Now, as she stands in the window holding her sleepy two-year-old awkwardly against her ungainly belly and looking out at the summer storm building, she allows herself to wonder, for the first time, if her husband is having an affair.
“Sebastian!” Rebecca hisses into the darkness. “God, where are you, kitty?”
Rebecca glances up at the foreboding sky, knowing the heavens are going to open up any second. The storm has been building for some time, now. She cringes, seeing a flash of lightning out in the direction of the lake.
If Mom and Dad knew she was out here again, they’d be angry. She snuck down from her room and tiptoed past the living room, where they were sitting in front of the television, sipping iced tea and engrossed in some video they rented from Blockbuster.
It amazes her that nobody seems worried about Sebastian but her. Everyone acts as though it’s perfectly normal for him to have taken off for two whole days.
But Rebecca simply has to find her kitten. She can’t let poor little Sebastian stay outside, especially with the storm coming. He might get struck by lightning, or hit by a falling tree if it’s one of those fierce storms that blows in off the lake with high, gusting winds.
“Sebastian!” she calls out loud in frustration, not caring that it’s late and people might be sleeping, or that her parents might hear.
Where can he be?
Out gallivanting, without a care for his worried mistress?
Lost in the woods?
Or somewhere nearby, crouched, watching her, thinking this is a game, like when he hides behind the potted ficus tree and she throws his catnip mouse into the ce
nter of the floor for him to stalk and then pounce.
Maybe that’s it.
She moves toward the Randalls’ yard without thinking, deciding it would be just like playful little Sebastian to lie in wait, perhaps in the tangle of trees and bushes at the back of their property, watching her frantic search. Any second now, he’s going to jump out at her, meowing happily, purring and rubbing against her legs.
“Come on, kitty . . . let’s get inside before we both get drenched,” Rebecca coaxes, crossing into the next yard, forgetting to be afraid of the haunted house, almost certain now that she feels her cat watching her.
But where is he?
Maybe the woodpile by the berry bushes. It’s probably filled with mice and spiders. She shudders at the thought, but moves toward it, knowing Sebastian would find those things palatable.
“Come on, kitty.”
Nothing.
“Come on, Sebastian, there’s a storm coming.”
She glances up at the sky. The clouds are closing in fast and the air is hushed and expectant. She steps around a big patch of dirt next to the woodpile and hears the leaves on a nearby lilac tree rustling, signaling that a storm is approaching.
Then Rebecca realizes there’s not a breath of wind to stir the dense green foliage. No, the night is absolutely still.
“Sebastian?” she calls expectantly, slowly turning in the direction of the rustling sound.
It takes her a moment for her eyes to adjust so that she realizes a face is looking back at her from amidst the foliage.
An oddly familiar face, and it’s wearing an expression that fills her with panic.
Panic, and utter shock, as she recognizes those features, and the evil intent in the piercing eyes.
She opens her mouth and screams just as a deafening clap of thunder booms overhead, drowning her out. The figure pounces, clapping a hand over her mouth to curtain the scream, and simultaneously bringing a chunk of firewood down on her head.
With that, a smothering shroud of silent darkness swoops in to claim Rebecca Wasner.
All the Way Home Page 14
