Not. In. My. Whole. Life.
A million thoughts are colliding in my brain, each more thrilling and terrifying than the next. And all of them are variations on the same theme: Now what? Alone in My House, with Nowhere to Be Till Two Thirty, I think. It sounds like the title of a country song.
And as he pulls me down to the couch, I think of another one: I Want Him Out of My Life, But I Can’t Stop Kissing Him.
His fingers cup my face, stroke my neck. Then he gets more adventurous. His hand wanders down and fondles my breasts, and I let him. I think I am going to die of desire. We sit there for a while, making out (do they still use that expression?) like teenagers.
“Please don’t go away,” he whispers. He’s practically pleading. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“You should get out more,” I say, trying to make him laugh. It doesn’t work.
“Since I met you, I’ve felt more alive than I have in years,” he says. “But if I’m hurting your marriage or causing you pain…”
“No,” I say. Who am I kidding? He’s the kindest, gentlest, loneliest man I ever met. I could never give him up. Not now.
His hand moves to my thigh, but I swat it away. Yes, I’m firing on all cylinders. And if my heart and my hormones had their way, I would give myself to him in an instant. Except—I can’t. Not yet. Not until—
Until what? I don’t know. Something is stopping me.
There are so many things I want to ask him—Why did his wife leave? Why, with all his money, is he renting such an old run-down place?—but I don’t. I tell myself it’s because I don’t want to ruin the moment.
But maybe it’s just that I don’t want to know the truth.
Chapter 28
Another Monday. Almost Halloween, and today’s to-do list reads like a scavenger hunt. A black cape, a blindfold, and a pair of nunchucks for Ben, who wants to go as a ninja. White face paint for Joey, who’ll dress up as a ghoul. A silver headpiece, blue cape, and red tube dress and wristbands for Caroline. (She wanted to go as a cheerleader. I argued for Madame Curie. We finally compromised on Wonder Woman.)
As I’m pulling out of my garage, Darcy comes running over, waving her hands.
“Wait up!” she yells. “Great news!” I roll down my window. She’s all smiles.
“They dropped the case!” she says. “I just spoke to Jake. That malpractice suit? Done, done, and done!”
“That’s wonderful,” I say. “What happened?”
She shrugs. “Nobody seems to know. Jake’s lawyer got a call from the other lawyer. The guy just changed his mind.”
“Just like that? I wonder why?”
“Who cares! Where you headed?” she asks.
“To the party store to buy Halloween costumes. Want to come?”
“Thanks, but no. I’ve got a celebratory dinner to plan.”
“Well, congratulations,” I say. This really is good news for them. The trial had been hanging over both their heads.
The party store is jammed, of course. A veritable wonderland of glitter, polyester, and hideous rubber masks. I am debating between two pairs of nunchucks (would Ben want plastic or polystyrene foam?) when my cell phone rings. A man identifies himself as Karl Wallace, an assistant pharmacist at Walgreens.
“I’m calling to let you know we’ve taken over all the prescriptions from Monahan’s Drugs, now that it closed.”
Monahan’s is closed?
Monahan’s has been a fixture in the community since…well, since forever. It still has the same dark wood paneling, the same old-fashioned wooden ladder that slides across the floor on little wheels. Even the same soda fountain and green leather stools since it first opened. When the kids were little, we used to take them to Monahan’s every Sunday for ice cream cones. And now it’s closed. The end of an era.
“Is Mr. Monahan retiring?” I ask.
“I don’t know what his plans are,” the new druggist says. “But we have all your family’s prescriptions on file here, when you need them.”
“Thanks for calling,” I say.
Monahan’s is located right on the main street in town. It’s what’s realtors would call Prime Retail Property. Once I finish at Party House, I decide to drive by and see if there’s any indication of what the store is going to become. I hope it’s not another bank. We could use a good restaurant in this town. A hip shoe store. Maybe even a Trader Joe’s.
As I drive past Monahan’s in search of a parking space, I see a sign on the door.
TO ALL MY VALUED CUSTOMERS it says, in big black letters. I am surprised to see that Archie has decorated the shop for Halloween. There’s a huge spider web in the window, the entire height of the store. How odd that he would bother doing that if he was planning to close.
But as I get out of the car and get closer, I see it’s not a decoration at all. The entire front window is completely cracked—shattered in the shape of a spider web, radiating out from the middle.
My eyes wander down. A chill goes through me.
Right in the very center is what looks like a bullet hole.
Chapter 29
Reinhart, Wilson, and Slade has its offices in one of those angular steel and glass buildings that looks like it might topple over at any moment.
But inside, the financial services firm is as sturdy as a rock.
The company has two thousand employees worldwide and manages twenty-seven billion dollars in private money. Its offices are sleek, elegant…and very, very quiet. The thick beige wall-to-wall carpeting makes every noise as silent as a handshake.
Alice, the seventh-floor receptionist, makes it a point to remember every name and every face she comes in contact with.
But today, there’s a new one.
“Welcome to RWS. How may I help you?” she asks.
“My name is Parker Paulsen,” the man says. “I’m here to see Ned Sherman.”
“Do you have an appointment?” Alice asks.
“No,” he says. “But I don’t want to impose on your good graces. If you could just point me in the direction of his office…”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir,” she says. “We have strict rules about unescorted visitors.”
“See, the thing is, I’m an old fraternity buddy. Ned and I haven’t seen each other in, gosh, must be twenty years. I’m just in town for the day and wanted to surprise him.”
Alice frowns. Cold-calling is against company policy. But this man looks—well, like a potential client. Nicely dressed. Oxford button-down shirt. Brooks Brothers tie and jacket. She’s waffling.
“Take a look at this,” he says. He pulls out an old photo of himself in his college days. The photo is dog-eared and worn. “That’s me on the left—and there’s Neddy,” he says. He points to another young man in the picture.
Is that Ned, with hair down to his shoulders? He’s wearing a baseball cap that says “Chicago Cubs.” And she knows Ned went to Northwestern.
“Well…all right. Whom shall I tell him is calling?”
“Just say it’s an old fraternity brother from Phi Ep.”
She rings Ned, who picks up on the second ring.
“Mr. Sherman—one of your old fraternity buddies is here. He says he wants to surprise you.”
Ned is intrigued. He knows a lot of his frat brothers have done very well over the years—better than he’s done. Could it be Corky Ballentine? Nico Ross? Or that Parker guy—what was his last name again? All Ned remembers about him is that he was independently wealthy.
“I’ll be right out,” he says. You just never know where a new client might come from these days.
As Ned gets to reception, he sees the man has his back to the door.
As he gets closer, the man turns and comes rushing at him. He swallows Ned up in a bear hug.
“Ned Sherman!” he says. “You old son of a gun. Why, you haven’t aged a day!”
Ned freezes. He turns pale. The man sees the shock registering on Ned’s face. He looks at Alic
e.
“You see? I told you he’d be surprised! Well, c’mon man,” he says to Ned. “Let’s not just stand here. Take me to your office. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do!”
Ned looks around. The security guard is nowhere in sight. But even if he was…
They walk down the hall to Ned’s office. Ned is sweating. What is Vince doing here? What does he want? Up till now he’s been able to keep his dealings with Vince separate from his professional life. But now…
Ned walks into his office. Vince follows and shuts the door behind them.
“Listen,” Ned says in a loud whisper. “You can’t just waltz in here like this.”
“Oh, no?” Vince asks. “I already did!”
He lunges at Ned and grabs him by the throat, spinning him around till he has him in a powerful choke hold. Ned begins gasping for air. He can’t breathe. And he can’t scream—but even if he could, should he? That would bring people in, asking questions. And that’s the last thing he needs.
“I got your message,” Vince tells him, tightening his grip on Ned’s neck. “But I gotta tell you: It’s too late. Nobody walks away from me. You got that?”
Ned tries to answer him. He can’t. His head is wedged tight between Vince’s arm and his body.
“You’re in too deep, my friend. And there’s no going back. Understand?”
Ned starts to nod yes…but Vince is closing off his windpipe. Ned feels himself start to faint.
Then just as quickly, Vince lets go. Ned begins to sputter. Is he going to throw up? God, he hopes not. He knows his face is red.
Vince takes out a pocket comb and begins combing Ned’s hair back in place.
“So don’t go getting any fancy ideas. Y’hear? I need to know I can count on you. You’re like my right ball. And Ned…”
“What?”
“Whatever crap you’re using on your hair,” Vince says, looking at his comb in disgust, “get rid of it. It’s way too greasy.”
Chapter 30
I am trying to make sense of all the changes in my little suburban world. But the more I try to sort it out, the harder it gets.
A beloved coach, arrested. A bullet hole in Monahan’s window. Ned’s secret slush fund. A bunch of random things, happening all at once, totally unconnected.
Or are they?
So I start doing what I usually do when I need to keep my body as busy as my mind: I clean. With a vengeance.
Armed with a spray can of Pledge, Windex, a few dust rags, and a half gallon of Mr. Clean, I slowly make my way around the house. As all the how-to-clean manuals advise, I start at the top (mirrors, picture frames) and work my way down (tabletops, kitchen counter) till I get to the bottom (rugs, floors).
Next, the kids’ rooms upstairs. Now I really have my work cut out for me. All three of them are slobs. I tackle Joey’s room first. It’s a jungle of clothes, electronic gear, sports equipment, and leftover food, surrounded by posters of various rock groups—all of whom look like serial killers. I strip the bed and use lemon-scented polish on his dresser. At least part of the room will smell good.
On a whim, I start to organize his closet. Starting at the top, I pull down a shelf’s worth of T-shirts and fold them, then straighten out the clothes on hangers. The bottom of his closet is filled with sneakers, tossed in a heap. Like a good mother, I pull them out to sort them into pairs. That’s when I see the bag tucked way in the back.
Like a not-so-good mother, I open it and look inside.
The bag is filled with pills. There must be thirty bottles in all. All of them have labels hand-written in pencil. Some names I recognize: Percocet. Oxycodone. Some are just initials: R2. G. C. Big O.
My first thought: These are all candy pills. The kind that used to come in Fisher-Price medical kits, when the kids were young.
My second thought: Who am I kidding? These pills are real, all right.
But what are they doing in Joey’s closet?
There’s got to be a logical explanation. Joey’s a good kid. Maybe he doesn’t even know they’re there. It’s possible, right?
Oh, please, God, tell me it’s possible…
I collapse on his desk chair, pushing aside all the clothes on it…and all thoughts of what this could mean.
Suddenly, Joey walks in the room. He sees me holding the bag.
“Where did you get these?” I ask.
“What are you doing in my room?”
“These are dangerous drugs, Joey. Who gave them to you?”
“Who gave you permission to go through my things?”
“Did Coach Mike give you these?”
He snickers. He throws his backpack on the bed, turns to me, throws his head back, and starts to laugh.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “I gave them to him.”
I am suddenly terrified of the tall, lanky teenager standing in front of me. My firstborn. My baby. When he was an infant I tied a red ribbon to his stroller—an old superstition to ward off evil spirits. I guess it worked for seventeen years.
But now…
There’s so much I want to say. So much I need to ask. But all I can manage to blurt out is the dumb threat I used when they were little. “Just wait till your father gets home!”
And then I hear it again. That mean, awful, evil laugh.
“Yeah. Ask Dad,” Joey says. “He’ll tell you aaall about it.”
Does Ned know about this? Is he somehow involved? Oh God. The money for the new car! Suddenly, it all begins to make sense.
I’ve got to call Ned. Now. No. I can’t. I have to wait till he gets home so we can deal with this in person.
But I’ve got to talk to someone…
Of course. Vince. He’ll know what to do. How to make sense of all of this.
I text him. He doesn’t answer. I text him again a few minutes later. Still no response. So I dial his number. He doesn’t pick up.
I’m about to leave a message when I get a better idea: Go to him. Sit on his doorstep until he gets home.
This time, I don’t care how many neighbors might be watching.
Chapter 31
I run to Vince’s house and ring the bell. Nobody answers. Maybe he’s in the back, I think. Or in his garden. Not gardening, of course. Pulling up weeds? Well, it’s possible.
I go to the back. He’s not there, either. And I can’t tell if his car is in his garage.
I peer in his windows to see if I can spot him. No luck. I even yell his name. Nothing.
I’m desperate. I’ve got to talk to someone. So I cut across Vince’s backyard to Darcy’s.
Just as I am about to ring her bell, I see a caravan of police cars heading my way.
Oh God—they’re coming to arrest Joey!
But as I run back home, I see the cars have stopped in front of Darcy’s house. Good, I think. They got the address wrong. This will buy Joey and me a little time to figure out what to do next.
And what should we do?
Do I help him escape? Does he turn himself in?
Inside the house, I call Joey’s name. No answer. Did he see the caravan? Is he gone already? I go to my living room window and look out. A dozen policemen are standing on Darcy’s front lawn, as well as two men in business suits. One of them holds a bullhorn and talks into it. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I see Darcy’s door open. Several cops rush in. A few minutes later, they come out again. But they’re not alone.
They’ve got Darcy’s husband, Jake, in handcuffs!
As they push him into one of the squad cars, Darcy runs out of her house, yelling. She jumps into her car to follow them. Then one by one, all the cars drive away.
All except one.
The door to that car opens, and a man gets out. I feel myself break out in a cold sweat. I know that walk, that suit. It’s my Man in Black. The Statue of Liberty stalker.
Who is he? What is he doing here? He’s not a cop. Is he a plainclothesman? A reporter?
As I hide behind the curtain, I watch h
im. He pulls a small piece of paper out of his pocket and checks something on it. He looks around slowly.
Then he walks to my front door and rings the bell.
Chapter 32
I don’t answer. I won’t answer. I can’t answer.
Not until I figure out what he wants. And what I need to say.
So I stand behind my curtain and watch the Man in Black ring my bell. He rings several times and waits. Did he see me duck into my house? I’m not sure. Whoever he is, he’s the soul of patience. He stands there for quite a while. Finally, he turns and gets back into his car and drives off.
It’s almost six o’clock. Still no Vince. No Ned. No Joey. I go into the kitchen. On an ordinary day I would be getting dinner ready right about now.
But today has been anything but ordinary.
As I pass the refrigerator door, I see something scrawled on the calendar. I get closer. It says PTA Meeting 6:30. I have to smile. Months ago, when life was normal, I signed up to chair the annual Kiddie Carnival at the kids’ school. And tonight is the kickoff meeting. Great. A couple of hours to argue the merits of face painting versus dunk tanks.
And try not to think about your whole family in jail.
I pull into the school parking lot. But just as I am about to walk up the steps to school, I hear a voice say, “Mrs. Sherman?”
I turn. It’s the Man in Black.
Chapter 33
This time there’s no escaping him.
“Yes?” I say. I’m too frightened to be afraid.
“I’m Special Agent John Witten. With the FBI,” he says. He pauses a minute to let that sink in.
“We’re trying to nail a drug dealer who’s been working the area. His name is…”
I hold my breath. Oh, please, God, don’t let him say Joey Sherman. Or Ned Sherman.
“…Nick Milligan.”
I laugh. Did he see how terrified I was? Did he read anything in my eyes?
“Sorry,” I say. “Can’t help you. I don’t know anybody by that name.”
I knew this whole thing was a mistake. My husband, my son, involved in something sinister? What was I thinking? The feds are going after somebody named Nick Milligan. A total stranger.
The House Next Door Page 8
