Jordan walked to school every morning with two friends, the parents rotating who made the walk with them. It was the Colins' week. This arrangement had always driven Dave nuts. In his day, Dave would whine, you just walked to school with your friends--no helicopter parents necessary. "It's three blocks away!" Dave often cried. "Let them have some independence." But you just don't do that anymore. Kids were under constant surveillance. It was easy to bemoan and criticize, but Megan still did it because the alternative was too horrible to contemplate.
How had Dave known about her being in Atlantic City?
She hadn't used the E-ZPass. She hadn't even used her credit card. So how did he know? And if he knew where she was, what else did he know?
Dread filled her chest. Once Jordan was out of the house, she called Dave's cell phone. No answer. She called again. Still no reply. She knew that he was just ignoring her. His car had Bluetooth, and she had called it enough times to know that the cell service was fine for his entire drive. She called one more time. This time she waited until she got his voice mail.
"Call me," she said. "Don't be like this."
She hung up. On one level, Megan realized that she just had to give him space, let him blow off steam, whatever. But another part of her didn't like this at all. Dave knew that his wife hated the silent treatment. She tried his phone one more time. Nope, no answer. Terrific. So that was how he was going to play it. Anger started creeping in. Figured. He was all Mr. Understanding last night. He probably just wanted some. Men. In a sleazy nightclub or the comfort of a suburban mini-mansion, it didn't really matter--men are the same. People are shocked when politicians or celebrities blow themselves up, but regular men do it too. It is a constant, and so maybe Dave was being nice to her because...
No, she wasn't being fair.
She was the one who had vanished. She was the liar, after all.
So now what?
Megan started to clean up the kitchen--Dave might cook on occasion, but the job of cleaning always seemed to fall on her. She had her tennis group in an hour--doubles at the indoor Kasselton Tennis Club. She wanted more than anything to skip it, but you can't play doubles with only three, and it was too late now to find a replacement. How bizarre. From the club called La Creme to the club called Kasselton Tennis--quite the leap.
She started up the stairs to change into her tennis whites. The club was old-world with a strict dress code--all players had to wear only white. Ridiculous, really. She thought about her mother-in-law, Agnes. Maybe after tennis she'd go over and see how she was doing. Agnes had been so agitated during Megan's visit yesterday. Wow, was it only yesterday? It felt as though she hadn't seen Agnes in a month.
She let herself think of Ray. The warmth started so she pushed it away with the important logistics: If Ray hadn't killed Stewart Green, then what had happened that night?
Forget it, it didn't matter anymore. It wasn't her concern. She had to put it behind her. She took another step, as if to signify the distance that she was putting between herself and that horrible night, when the doorbell rang.
She stopped. No one just came to the door nowadays. People called or texted or e-mailed. No one just stopped by except maybe the FedEx and UPS guys but it was too early for them.
The doorbell sounded again, and Megan knew, just knew, that whoever was ringing that bell was going to tell her something horrible, that all her attempts at self-comfort were nonsense, that now that the past had found her again, it would not be so easy to shake.
The doorbell rang a third time. Whoever it was, he or she had no interest in patience or waiting.
Megan headed back down the stairs and reached for the doorknob.
23
THE DOORBELL RANG A FOURTH TIME. Megan looked out the window by the door, frowned, and opened it.
"How did you find me?" she asked.
He took his time replying. "Harry Sutton's phone records," Broome said. "Can I come in?"
"You promised."
"I know."
"The last thing you said to me was that you wouldn't track me down."
"I know."
"You should have gone through Harry."
"I would have," Broome said, "except Harry's dead."
Another body blow. Megan actually stumbled backward. Broome didn't wait for an invitation. He stepped into the house and closed the door behind him.
Megan managed to say, "How?"
"We don't have an official cause yet, but it looks like heart failure."
"So he wasn't... ?"
"Murdered. He was. I mean, it may technically be manslaughter, but there's no doubt someone is responsible."
"I don't understand."
"Harry was tortured."
Megan's stomach fell anew. "How?"
"You don't want to know. Nothing lethal, but..." Broome shook his head. "The strain was too much. His heart gave out."
It was odd how the mind worked. For years she had believed that Ray had killed Stewart Green in an effort to protect her. Now she knew (or at least, strongly believed--wasn't there still a little doubt?) that it wasn't true. But still, despite that, the first thought when she heard about Harry Sutton was a simple, horrible one:
Dave had known that she was in Atlantic City.
She dismissed the thought immediately. It was one of those outrageous thoughts that just jump out, and you know right away the thought is ridiculous and unworthy of further consideration.
The second thought--the more dominant thought--was, well, Harry. She thought about that sweet, comforting smile, his simple honesty--and then she thought about him being tortured to death.
Third thought--one she couldn't shake--was the simplest of all: It was her fault.
She cleared her throat. "Where did you find him?"
Broome took a second on this one. "In his office. He was found first thing this morning."
"So wait, when I stopped by his office and the door was locked..."
"We can't say for certain, but he was probably already dead."
Megan met his eye. Broome turned away. Her fault, yes, but now she could see that Broome felt guilty too. Megan had come to him last night. She had warned him that Harry Sutton might be in trouble. He hadn't really listened.
"Interesting," Broome said.
"What is?"
"How you knew something was wrong."
Whoa. So much for the guilt theory. Megan took a step back. "Hold up a second. You don't think--"
"No," he said quickly, but she wasn't sure whether she believed him or not. "That's not what I'm getting at. I'm just wondering what made you so suspicious?"
"He didn't show up at the diner, for one."
"Yeah, okay, but that wasn't the only thing, was it? You said something about the receptionist answering the phone?"
"Right," Megan said. "You know Harry's operation."
"Threadbare."
"Right. He didn't have a receptionist, especially one who'd answer his cell phone. And her voice, that cheery tone--it just gave me the creeps."
"So somehow a woman is involved in this."
"I guess."
"Okay," Broome said, "so let's go through this step by step. We know that Harry spoke to you on the phone."
"Right. He said you wanted to show me that photograph."
"Okay, then he was supposed to meet us. He never showed and never called to cancel. So for the moment we can assume that sometime between the time you called Harry and the time he was supposed to leave for the diner, someone grabbed him."
"You said he was found in his office," Megan said.
"Yes."
"So whoever did this probably grabbed Harry there."
Broome nodded. "Makes sense. So go back a second. When Harry called you, where were you?"
"What difference does that make?"
"Humor me."
She didn't like it, but if it could help find Harry's killer, she was willing to play along. "At La Creme."
"Why?"
"I was visiti
ng old friends."
Broome frowned. "Who?"
She shook her head. "It's not important."
"Like hell it's not."
Megan wouldn't tell him about Ray, but then again he hadn't been at La Creme anyway. "You know Lorraine."
"Right. Who else?"
"That's it."
He looked doubtful. "Okay, so you were at La Creme. Did you learn anything?"
"No."
"And how about after the diner? Where did you go then?"
"I went to a bar called the Weak Signal."
"Why?"
She hated to lie, but she knew that this was not the way to go. "It was an old haunt of mine, okay? I was just taking a tour of my past. What's the difference?"
"And you were there when you called Harry and that receptionist answered?"
"Yes."
Broome rubbed his chin. "Tell me again about the receptionist. Leave nothing out."
Megan recounted the phone conversation again. She explained how the woman on the phone sounded young, how she tried to get Megan to give her real name and address. Broome raised his eyebrow at that.
"What?"
"I don't know if I want to scare you," Broome said.
"Lying scares me," she said, which was both true and ironic. "What?"
"Well, think about it. Harry was tortured. Maybe someone did that for kicks, but more likely, there was a purpose to it."
"Like what?"
"Like trying to get information from him. Maybe they got the information before he died, I don't know. But they took his phone, right?"
"I guess."
"And then you call and what does this woman do? She pretends to be a receptionist to solicit information about you. She wants to know your name and where you live."
Megan felt a fresh spike of fear. "You think, what, they're after me?"
"Could be."
"Why?"
"I don't know, but think about it. After seventeen years, you show up in town. On that same day, Harry gets tortured, and then this woman who stole his phone tries to get you to give her your name." Broome shrugged. "I think it's worth considering."
"And if these torturers have his phone, they have my number in the call log."
"Yes."
"How hard will it be for them to track me down?"
"You know the answer to that."
She did. Everyone did. It would be ridiculously easy. Megan shook her head. She had thought that she could simply pop down to Atlantic City and escape it again.
"My God," she said. "What have I done?"
"I need you to focus with me for a few more minutes, okay?"
She nodded numbly.
"After the phone call, you went to Harry's office, right? Before you came to see me."
"Yes."
"I don't want to creep you out any more than I already have, but think about the timeline for a second."
"Are you saying they could have been torturing Harry while I knocked on the door?"
"It's possible."
She shivered anew.
"But what I need you to do right now is tell me everything about the visit to Harry's office. Leave nothing out. It was late by then. Most of the offices were closed down for the night. So the most important question is who did you see?"
She closed her eyes and tried to think. "There was a janitor by the stairwell."
"What did he look like?"
"Tall, skinny, long hair."
Broome nodded. "Okay, that's the regular janitor. Anyone else?"
Megan thought about it. "There was a young couple."
"In the corridor? Near Harry's door? Where?"
"No, they were coming out as I was coming in. The man held the door for me."
"What did they look like?"
"Young, good-looking, preppy. She had blond hair. He looked like he just stepped off a squash court."
"For real?"
"Yes," she said. "They didn't look like torturers."
"What do torturers look like?"
"Good point."
Broome mulled it over for a few moments. "You said a young woman answered his phone."
"Right."
"Could she be the same age as this blonde?"
"I guess." Something crossed Megan's face.
"What?" Broome asked.
"Well, now that you mention it, they didn't fit. You know? I mean, you know Harry's office."
"A dump."
"Right," she said.
"So what was a good-looking, preppy couple doing there?" Broome asked.
"You could ask the same about me."
"You're not what you appear to be either," he said.
"No. So maybe they have secrets too."
"Maybe." Broome looked down at his feet. He took a few deep breaths.
"Detective?"
Broome looked up again. "We already questioned everyone in Harry's building."
He stopped.
"So?"
"So the only offices that were still open at that time of night were the bail bondsmen on the third floor and the CPA on the second." Broome met her eye. "Neither one of them had clients like you just described."
"You're sure?"
"Yes. Which begs the obvious question: What was that couple doing in that building at that time of night?"
They both fell silent. Broome glanced around now, taking in the vaulted ceilings, the Oriental carpets, the oil paintings.
"Nice house," he said.
She didn't reply.
"How did you do it, Megan?"
She knew what he really meant--how did she escape? "You think these worlds are really that far apart?"
"I do, yes."
They weren't, but she didn't feel like explaining. She had learned the biggest difference between the haves and the have-nots. Luck and birthright. And the luckier you are and the more doors open to you because of your birthright, the more you need to convince others that you made it because of intelligence or hard work. The world is, in the end, all about bad self-esteem issues.
"So what now?" she asked.
"For one, I need to take you back with me so you can talk to a sketch artist. We need to make an ID on that young couple you saw. You also have to be honest with me."
"I am being honest with you."
"No, you're not. This all comes back to the same person. We both know that."
She said nothing.
"Everything circles back to Stewart Green. You said someone saw him recently."
"I said, someone maybe saw him."
"Whatever. I need to know who."
"I promised I wouldn't say."
"And I promised I wouldn't bug you. But Harry is dead. And Carlton Flynn is missing. You come back to town. Someone spots Stewart Green. Whatever it is, whatever is happening to these men, it is all coming to a head now. You can't run away anymore. You can't hide in this big fancy house. Like you just said, Megan, the worlds aren't that far apart."
Megan tried to slow it down, tried to think it through. She didn't want to make a mistake here, but she got it. Stewart Green was a suspect here. Broome had to do all he could to find him.
"Megan?"
She looked at him.
"There are others."
A fresh cold shiver crossed her heart. "What do you mean?"
"Every year on Mardi Gras someone vanishes. Or dies."
"I don't understand."
"We can talk about it in the car. And you can tell me who saw Stewart Green."
24
SITTING IN THE WEAK SIGNAL, Ray Levine went over and over the last few hours in his head. Under the dark skies over Lucy, Ray had watched the only woman he ever loved get into her car and drive away. He didn't move. He didn't call after her. He just let her leave his life without a word or a whimper. Again.
When her car was out of sight, he stared down that same street for another full minute. Part of him thought that Cassie would come to her senses, turn around, drive back, throw the car door open, run toward him. The
re, under the watchful eye of Lucy the Elephant, Ray would sweep her in his arms and hold her tight and start to cry and never let her go.
Cue the rain machine and love ballad, right?