CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
She thanked God the receptionist was a
temp. If it was Juliet, the usual receptionist, then she would have
to hear her condolences and explain that she was feeling better—and
saner—than she’d been yesterday at the funeral. She probably would
have gotten emotional and cried. And Juliet would have called this
coworker or that coworker of Jeff’s so they could give their
condolences, and the whole damn thing would have gone on for an
hour.
All she wanted to do was pick up the
package Jeff had bought for his mistress, and then sneak out of
there.
At the reception desk just inside the
glass double doors to Kendall Pharmaceuticals, the temp explained
that Peter had to run an errand. But yes, indeed, he’d left a
package for her. She reached under the desk and then pulled out a
large UPS box—about two by two feet. She set it on the desktop.
“It’s not too heavy,” she said. “But if you’d like some help
carrying it out, I can get someone. . . .”
Molly carefully lifted the box to get a
feel for the weight. It was bulky, but weighed only about five
pounds. “No, that’s all right,” she said. “Thank you.”
“I heard about your husband, Mrs.
Dennehy,” the receptionist said, getting to her feet. She opened
one of the glass doors for Molly. “I’m very sorry for your
loss.”
“Thank you,” she said again, working up
a smile as she peered at her over the top of the box. She made her
way to the elevator, and managed to press the Down button. The
package felt a bit heavier and more awkward as she waited for the
elevator to arrive. She couldn’t help remembering the last time she
was here, when Jeff’s mistress had called to taunt her—just hours
before his death.
The elevator finally arrived, and she
stepped aboard. It was crowded and stopped five times before she
finally made it down to the lobby. As she walked to the garage
elevators, Molly was sweating, and she felt a little dizzy. Some
woman on a cell phone bumped into her and almost knocked the box
out of her hands. Molly wanted to scream at her to watch where she
was going, but she said nothing. The woman moved on without even
looking at her, not a break in her conversation.
By the time Molly stepped off at
Parking Level D (for Dalmatian, the sign
said, with a photo of the spotted dog), she was so upset and sick
that she just wanted to drop the box on the floor and kick it all
the way to her car. But even though her arms ached, she carried the
package to her car. She heard her own footsteps on the concrete,
echoing in the dark, winding garage. In the distance—perhaps a
level or two levels up—someone’s tires squealed as they turned the
corners from one ramp to another.
Molly set the box down on the hood of
her Saturn and caught her breath.
She couldn’t wait until she got home.
She had to see what Jeff had secretly picked up while antique
shopping with his mistress in La Conner last month. Molly took her
keys out of her purse and ran one across the box’s taped top
flaps.
But she heard something that made her
stop. It seemed to come from the elevator alcove, but an SUV parked
in the next row blocked her view. She heard a woman snickering. The
laugh was kind of husky and scratchy.
Molly froze and listened to that
voice—and the set of footsteps. All she could think about was that
crazy woman on the phone, and how she seemed to know everything.
Did she somehow know that Molly would be picking up this package
today—her package? Had she somehow
orchestrated it?
Molly heard the snickering
again.
“Who’s there?” she called. Her heart
was racing. The footsteps came closer.
“Oh, you have a dirty mind,” she heard
the woman whisper. Then Molly saw her come around the corner and
down the ramp. It was another woman on a cell phone. She snickered
again. “I mean it, stop,” she said into the phone. “Now you’re just
being gross. . . .”
Watching the woman climb inside her VW,
Molly slouched against her car for a few moments. Her heartbeat
finally started to slow down. She felt so stupid—and vulnerable,
and angry. Taking a deep breath, she turned and tore open the top
of the UPS box. It was full of Styrofoam peanuts. They stuck to the
lower sleeve of her pea jacket as she clawed her way to another box
within the box. Some Styrofoam peanuts fell out as she pulled out
the smaller parcel. It was about half the size of the outside box.
She used her key to cut away at the tape sealing it
up.
Molly found an item wrapped in tissue
paper. It felt heavy in her hands. As she tore away at the thin
paper, she could discern the jade green color.
Then she saw the tusk.
She knew the jade piece wasn’t for his
mistress. It was an elephant for her collection, and it was
beautiful. Molly broke down. Hugging the figurine, she leaned
against her car and sobbed.
For a few minutes, she didn’t feel sick
or stupid or angry or scared. For those few minutes, she just
missed her husband.
In only her bra and panties, the woman
who called herself Rachel Cross mopped up the trail of blood on the
basement floor. The crimson streak went from the corner of her
secret workroom through the laundry room and into the bathroom.
Natalie’s body was behind the fogged glass door of the shower
stall, curled up on the floor. The drain now caught all the
blood.
Jenna had gotten blood on her sweater
and her jeans. She’d thrown them in the washing machine. The
clothes were churning through the spin cycle now. She’d already
rinsed the spattering of blood off her hands, face, and
hair.
She’d changed her mind about making a
doll for Natalie. There just wasn’t any time. For the last twenty
minutes, she’d contemplated chopping up the body. She’d even gone
through the box of tools on the workbench and took out two
different saws, wondering if they could cut through bone. She
imagined taking sections of the body outside in lawn bags, and then
burying them in the forest in back.
But she decided it was best to leave
the body in the house. From what Molly had told her, Natalie wasn’t
supposed to be staying at the Nguyens’. According to the driver’s
license Jenna had found in the wallet inside her fatigue jacket
pocket, Natalie’s most recent address was on Mercer Street on
Capitol Hill in Seattle. In that same pocket, Jenna had also found
her own engagement ring, the pearl necklace Ray gave her on their
tenth anniversary, some cash, and several of her blank checks.
So—in addition to trespassing, Natalie was a thief. Jenna had met
enough of her daughter’s street friends at Tracy’s shoddy little
memorial service to recognize a crystal meth addict when she saw
one.
Natalie’s mysterious presence on the
block had actually bought Jenna some time yesterday and today. When
after the funeral, her old friend, Laurie Bauer, rode by the church
on her bike and called to her, Jenna had thought it was all over.
But then Molly assumed Natalie was Jenna Corson. She thought
Natalie was responsible for all the recent deaths, accidents, and
tragedies on Willow Tree Court. Natalie was the perfect
suspect.
But Jenna knew it was only a matter of
time before Molly figured her out. She’d already suspected her. How
long before Molly realized the peppermints she’d given her—along
with those ginger capsules she’d picked up for her—only made her
sicker, more sleepy, and a bit delirious? Molly had already stopped
taking them.
And yesterday, when Molly uttered her
name as she was leaving the bedroom, it was all Jenna could do to
keep from reacting. She’d stifled the same natural instinct to
react an hour before when Laurie had called to her in front of the
church. She’d gone to a lot of lengths to become Rachel Cross—with
forged driver’s licenses from Florida and Washington, a birth
certificate, and other documents. Once she met up with Aldo, the
killer-for-hire connected her to all sorts of criminals, who in
turn provided her with so many illegal services. She’d had a
computer hacker create an exceptional credit history for Rachel
Cross. She’d already started getting junk mail for Rachel Cross
before even moving into Kay’s old house.
She’d also sent herself that anonymous
note and slipped it in Molly’s mailbox just minutes after the
mailman had delivered the mail one day last month. Several pieces
of her junk mail had made their way into the Dennehys’ mailbox with
no help from her. Mail mixups just happened when people lived next
door to each other. It somehow forced neighbors to look out for one
another and get closer.
That had been why Kay was the first to
die. Jenna wanted the house.
But she couldn’t stay. Laurie almost
outing her wasn’t the only reason why Jenna had to wrap things up.
Someone had murdered Aldo. They’d slit his throat the same day
she’d killed Jeff. Of course, getting murdered was probably a
professional risk in Aldo’s business. But if the police dug deep
enough, they might find evidence linking Aldo to her and her late
husband. After all, Ray and she had both employed his
services.
Jenna had to finish everything tonight.
After she killed Molly and Chris, she would set fire to all the
houses on Willow Tree Court, including this one. She’d already
reported a possible arson to the police a little over a week ago.
Of course, no one knew she’d set her own toolshed on fire. She’d
worked out the delay. She’d left a lit cigarette inside a pack of
matches on a stack of old newspapers, half-soaked with gasoline.
She’d been talking with Chris Dennehy for over ten minutes before
he smelled the smoke.
So it was in police records that Willow
Tree Court had a potential firebug.
Standing in the doorway to her
workroom, she hated the idea of having to torch all her dollhouses.
But she couldn’t afford to be sentimental. And it would be
appropriate to start the fire in this room with the model of the
cul-de-sac.
They’d expect Jill’s, the Hahns’, and
the Nguyens’ houses to be empty.
Jenna fiddled with her bra strap as she
sauntered back to the bathroom. She stared at the corpse behind the
fogged glass door of the shower stall.
They would be expecting to find a body
in this house. And they would find one. It might take a day or two
before they realized it wasn’t Rachel Cross, and that Rachel Cross
didn’t exist. By that time, Jenna, her son, and her new
stepdaughter, Erin, would be far, far away.
Natalie was buying her some more
time—again.
Jenna glanced at her wristwatch. She
had to go pick up Erin from school and then buy
gasoline.
Chris looked at the lighted numbers
above the door.
He stood alone in the elevator with the
bouquet of dried flowers in his hand. This was his third time in
the building, and he still didn’t know his way around. But he was
pretty sure he was headed to the right place.
He couldn’t think of anywhere else to
go—or anyone else he could talk to.
Roseann had confirmed for him that
Molly was right. His dad had been set up by some woman, and she’d
most likely left him dead in that hotel room. Was Molly right about
the rest of it, too? Had the same woman, this Natalie person,
arranged his mother’s murder—along with Larry’s and Taylor’s? Had
she murdered Mrs. Garvey, too—and made it look like an accident?
Then that meant the same woman had rigged Courtney’s cell phone to
explode. She’d broken into his locker and left him that note about
Molly’s brother. She’d set fire to their next-door neighbor’s
toolshed. And she’d seen to it that the police and reporters knew
where and when to find Mr. Hahn with a teenage prostitute and a
stash of drugs and porn.
Why was she doing all these things?
What did she have against his family and his neighbors on Willow
Tree Court?
He couldn’t go to the police without
getting Roseann in trouble. So he’d come here. On the way, he’d
driven past the Arboretum, where Mr. Corson was murdered. Chris
kept thinking how much he could have used Mr. Corson’s guidance
right now.
The elevator stopped and the doors
opened on the fourth floor. Chris started down the hospital
corridor toward the Intensive Care Unit.
Courtney was the only one he could
think of who might have some answers. She’d survived an attempt on
her life. If nothing else, at least they could commiserate with
each other over what had happened to their fathers. He hated
comparing his dad with Mr. Hahn, who was pretty damn perverted—and
pompous. But his dad and Mr. Hahn had both been exposed in similar
sleazy situations.
As he turned the corner for the ICU, he
heard someone’s cell phone go off.
“Mrs. Hahn,” he heard a woman say. “I’m
sorry, but you’re not allowed to use cell phones in
here.”
“Oh, leave me alone. Don’t you have
anything better to do?” Mrs. Hahn replied, all huffy-sounding. And
then her voice took on a sweet tone. “Hello?”
Chris almost bumped into a nurse, who
was emerging from the ICU visitors’ lounge. She was shaking her
head. “Arrogant bitch,” she muttered.
He saw Mrs. Hahn, sitting alone on one
of the two tan, cushioned love seats in the small lounge area. A TV
bracketed high on the wall was muted and tuned in to some afternoon
talk show. The coffee and end tables all had magazines and boxes of
Kleenex on them. The window looked out to the parking
lot.
Mrs. Hahn had her cell phone to her
ear. She suddenly stood up. Her purse dropped off the edge of the
love seat and fell to the floor. “Goddamn you!” she yelled. “Who
are you? Why are you doing this? Goddamn it!” She hurled the cell
phone against the wall, and it smashed into several pieces that
scattered on the carpet.
His mouth open, Chris stopped at the
edge of the lounge area. Mrs. Hahn turned and flopped down on the
love seat. She buried her face in her hands and
sobbed.
“Mrs. Hahn, are you okay?” Chris asked,
gently. He put down the dried flowers, picked up a Kleenex box, and
offered it to her.
Without looking at him, she plucked a
tissue from the box, wiped her eyes, and blew her
nose.
“What was that about?” he
asked.
“It’s this awful woman,” Mrs. Hahn
said, her voice strained. “She hasn’t called since Jeremy—since
before Mr. Hahn was arrested. I couldn’t tell anybody about the
calls, because she kept saying Jeremy was . . .” She took a deep
breath. “Well, she said all these filthy things about him that I
didn’t think were true at the time. I still don’t think it’s
true—despite what everyone says.”
His brow furrowed, Chris gazed at her.
“You mean, she told you ahead of time that he was involved
with—”
“Yes,” she interrupted impatiently.
“ ‘Lynette, did you know your husband likes to fuck
teenage girls?’ ” she said in a scratchy, singsong, mocking
voice. “I thought the calls started because some nut had seen me on
TV when your mother was killed. But this woman kept calling. For a
while there, I thought it was Molly. I couldn’t go to the police,
because of what she was saying about my husband. He still hasn’t
gone to trial. So I still can’t go to the police, and she knows it,
goddamn it.”
“Molly was getting phone calls,
too—about my dad,” Chris pointed out. He sat down on the arm of the
love seat across from her. “Molly said my mom was getting harassed,
too—by the same woman.”
“I knew about the calls to your
mother,” Mrs. Hahn muttered, wiping her eyes. “But I didn’t know
Molly was getting them, too.”
“You said it stopped for a
while?”
She nodded. “After Mr. Hahn was
arrested. This is the first one since then.”
“Can I ask what she said?”
“She said, ‘So,
Lynette—’ ” Mrs. Hahn took on that crawly, mocking voice
again. “ ‘How does it feel to have everything taken
away from you?’ ”
Chris frowned. “That’s
it?”
“No,” Mrs. Hahn whispered. “And then
she said, ‘Now you know what you did to me.’
”
“What does she mean by that?” Chris
asked numbly.
“I have no idea.”
Chris got up and started collecting the
broken parts to her cell phone. The battery had fallen out, and he
put it back inside. The screen was cracked and the casing was in
shards. He set everything on the coffee table in front of her. Then
he picked up the flowers. “Is it okay if I see Courtney?” he
asked.
Slouched in the love seat, Mrs. Hahn
wiped her eyes again and nodded. “She was asleep earlier, but she
should be up now.”
Chris walked down the corridor toward
Courtney’s room. He wondered what the woman caller meant when she’d
told Mrs. Hahn, “Now you know what you did to
me.” Had Mrs. Hahn gotten this woman’s husband arrested in
some kind of sex scandal? Did this woman have a daughter who was
disfigured, maimed, or almost killed?
The last time he’d seen Courtney had
been the afternoon before his dad had died. She’d been totally out
of it, pumped full of drugs and painkillers. Her face had been so
red and swollen that it had seemed almost twice its normal size.
He’d barely recognized her.
The drapes in her room were closed now,
but the TV was on—a Friends rerun. The light
from the television flickered across her bed, which was raised near
the headboard. Courtney was sitting halfway up. A bandage covered
her right eye, but the other one was open. The swelling had gone
down. Past the staples in her face and the shiny red skin, Chris
could see a little bit of the old Courtney. But her blond hair had
been shorn off, exposing a dark hole and pink scars where her right
ear used to be. A tube was stuck in her nose, and she had another
one in her arm. A third tube ran out from under the covers. That
explained why one of the three bags hanging on a contraption at her
bedside was full of urine.
Courtney’s uncovered eye seemed to
catch sight of him, and a tiny smile flickered across her chapped,
blistered lips. Her right hand rested on her stomach. The bandage
didn’t quite camouflage the fact that her first two fingers were
missing. The other hand worked the volume on the TV control. She
put it on mute.
“Oh, crap, don’t look at me, Chris,”
she murmured. She blocked his view of her face with her good hand.
“I’m like something out of Night of the Living
Dead.”
Chris tried to smile. “Actually, you
look better than you did the other day when I was here. The
swelling’s gone down.”
“You were here?”
He nodded. “You were pretty well
medicated.”
“Are those dead flowers for me?” she
asked warily.
“Yeah, they’re dried, not dead.” He set them down on the dresser across
from her bed. He noticed a big card with a cartoon nurse on the
cover leaning against a vase of flowers.
“Actually, they’re very pretty,
thanks,” Courtney said. She finally took her hand down. “I got a
card there from Madison. Can you believe it?”
Chris picked up the card and opened it.
Inside, Madison had written: Get well soon! I
really miss you! XOX—Madison. He carefully put the card
back. “So—are you in a lot of pain?”
“It’s not as bad as it was,” she
muttered. “They have me on a ton of drugs. I’m going to be a
Vicodin addict when I get out of here—and I’ll be a circus freak,
too.”
“Don’t say that,” Chris
whispered.
The uncovered eye glanced toward the
drapes. “Why not? It’s true.”
“Do you know if they’re any closer to
figuring out who did this to you?”
“Nope,” she said, her ravaged face
still turned away from him. “All they know is someone broke into my
gym locker and rigged my cell phone. They think it might have been
another student, pulling a prank that went too far. They’re not
really sure.”
Chris hadn’t heard that about the
locker. So on two separate occasions, someone had broken into both
Courtney’s and his lockers.
She finally turned toward him again. “I
heard about your father. I’m really sorry.”
“It was a lot like what happened with
your dad,” Chris said. “They found him in a hotel room—with drugs
and porn. Some woman set him up to overdose.”
“Only difference is your dad’s dead,
and mine’s out on bail, living in a Best Western in Lynnwood.”
Courtney sighed. “I’m not sure which one is better
off.”
“Remember the morning you had your
accident, when you were driving me to school?” Chris asked. “You
said that you told Mr. Corson about your dad. You said we all
spilled our guts to him. And you were right. He knew my dad had
screwed around on my mom.”
“Yeah, Corson was wise to all our
family secrets,” she said.
“Did he know about Madison’s mom and
her drinking problem?”
“Sure,” Courtney said, with a weak
nod.
“It’s kind of like he came back to
haunt us,” Chris heard himself say. “Every secret we told Mr.
Corson has been exposed. Our parents are getting killed or thrown
in jail. It’s like his ghost has come back to get even with every
one of us on Willow Tree Court who did him wrong.”
Courtney sighed. “I guess you blame me
more than anyone else for getting him fired.”
Chris didn’t say anything. But he was
thinking, Yes, you and your
iPhone.
And that was what had exploded in her
face.
He stepped up to her bed. “Mr. Corson
used to scribble down notes when I was talking to him in his office
for those formal sessions. Did he do the same thing with
you?”
“Yeah, sure, he used to take a lot of
notes,” Courtney said. “He probably collected some juicy stuff
there, too. Who do you think has those notes now? The
school?”
Chris remembered, and he slowly shook
his head. “No,” he replied. “Not anymore.”
“Hi, Molly, it’s Rachel
calling at around three-thirty. . . .”
Molly stood in her kitchen with the big
UPS box on the counter. She hovered near the answering machine,
listening to the voice mail.
“I got your message
earlier,” Rachel went on. “I’m fine. Don’t
panic when you see my car isn’t in the driveway. You asked me to
make sure if Natalie comes back that she doesn’t leave again. And
I’ve done that. But I really need to go to the store. I know you’ll
be home soon, because Erin’s bus drops her off at a quarter to
four. I’ll be back before then, okay? I really don’t think you’re
going to see Natalie again. But you’ll see me—very soon. Okay?
Bye.”
Rachel knew her very well by now. When
Molly had driven up the cul-de-sac and noticed there wasn’t a car
in her driveway, she’d thought for certain something was wrong. But
now that she’d listened to Rachel’s message, Molly felt better. It
was 3:35, so she must have just missed her. Natalie couldn’t have
come back, packed up, and left again in that short a
time.
Molly still had some Styrofoam peanuts
stuck to the sleeve of her pea jacket when she took it off. More
peanuts fell out of the UPS box and onto the kitchen counter as she
dug out the smaller parcel again. She took out the jade elephant
and carried it up to her attic studio. She was going to clear a
space on her shelf for it. But thanks to Erin, there were some
recent vacancies.
Setting down Jeff’s elephant, Molly
stopped and stared at her cola ad painting with all the characters
through the ages—and the big, yellow X
slashed across it. She hadn’t really assessed the damage yet. Nor
had she cleaned up the mess Erin had made. She figured it might
take a day or two, but she could fix the painting. As for the
yellow paint on several of her elephants, a little turpentine could
get that out.
Molly carefully put the cap back on the
tube of Naples Yellow Light and returned it to the drawer with the
other paints. She set the brush in some paint thinner. Then she
bent over and picked up the putty knife Erin used to break three of
the more fragile elephants. Molly put the knife back in the jar,
where she kept it with a couple of old brushes and a sponge
brush—on the second to top shelf of her supplies
cabinet.
Before closing the cabinet door, Molly
hesitated, and then glanced around.
She stored a stepladder in the other
corner of the room, and it was there now. The stool was near the
easel, where she usually kept it. And there was a chair against the
wall in another corner of the room, where it always was. None of
those things had been moved close to the cabinet.
Frowning, Molly glanced up at the putty
knife in that jar—on a shelf that was almost six feet
high.
Erin was only about three and a half
feet tall.
Despite the November chill, she kept
the window of her Honda Accord rolled down. It smelled like
gasoline in the car. Two full five-quart canisters sat on the floor
of the backseat. She had a grocery bag back there, too—with juice
for Erin. She also had a blanket on the seat, in case Erin got
cold.
Drumming her fingers on the steering
wheel, she watched the children file out the main doors of the
two-story elementary school. One set of windows in the front had
pictures of turkeys, pumpkins, and Pilgrims for
Thanksgiving.
Along with several other mothers, Jenna
was parked in the line of cars behind three buses in the school’s
loading zone. As the mob of kids moved closer to the bus, Jenna
stepped out of the car and started looking for Erin.
“Aunt Rachel?” she heard someone
say.
She’d persuaded Erin to start calling
her that a few days ago. And she was pleased to hear it
now.
Lugging her book bag, Erin broke away
from the crowd of youngsters and ran to her.
Jenna squatted down, kissed Erin on the
cheek, and then zipped up her open jacket. “I’ve come here to pick
you up,” she whispered. “Molly wants me to take care of you this
afternoon. She—well, she just doesn’t want to see you. I don’t
understand her sometimes, I really don’t.”
Her big eyes staring, Erin gave her a
sort of puzzled, wounded look.
Jenna shrugged. “Let’s not think about
Molly. She’s so awful. It’s like I was telling you the other day,
the only reason I’m Molly’s friend is to make sure she doesn’t try
to hurt you. I’m never going to let that happen, honey.” She took
the book bag from her.
“Erin?”
Jenna glanced up and saw a stocky, pale
woman of about forty waddling toward them. She had short hair,
studded earrings, and wore a trench coat. Jenna smiled at the
woman. “Hi, I’m Rachel Cross,” she said, holding out her
hand.
The woman eyed her warily, but shook
her hand anyway. “I’m Shauna Farrell, vice principal.”
“Molly said she’d call the school,”
Jenna whispered. “Something tells me she didn’t. The poor thing,
she’s going through a lot right now. She wanted me to take Erin for
the afternoon.” She put a hand on Erin’s shoulder. “Honey, could
you introduce me to Ms. Farrell?”
Erin spoke past a finger crooked on her
lower lip. “This is Aunt Rachel from next door,” she announced.
Then she reached over and tugged at Jenna’s sleeve.
“If you’d like, I can call Molly,”
Jenna offered. “Only I think she’s resting.”
The vice principal’s expression
softened. She smiled and shook her head. “That won’t be necessary.
Please give Mrs. Dennehy my condolences.”
“I’ll do that,” Jenna said. “Thank
you.” She took Erin’s hand and walked her to the car.
She made sure Erin was buckled in the
front passenger seat. Then she reached back, took out a box of
Juicy Juice from the bag, and offered it to her.
Erin took it, but then frowned at the
box with the straw in it. “It’s already open.”
Nodding, Jenna started up the car.
“Yes, I opened it for you, honey.”
“I want one I can open up myself,” Erin
said.
“Don’t be silly,” Jenna said. “Now,
drink up. . . .”
“But I want one I can
open—”
“Goddamn it, don’t be such a little
brat,” she growled.
Erin gazed at her. She looked a bit
scared.
Jenna shook her head, and clicked her
tongue against her teeth. “You know, that’s what Molly’s always
saying. She says you’re a very bad girl, and that’s why God made
your mommy and daddy die. Isn’t that a horrible thing for her to
say? I don’t believe that for one second. She’s just being mean. I
think you’re wonderful, Erin. I wish you were my daughter.” She
reached over and stroked her hair. “You have pretty blond hair,
honey. But sometime soon, we should change your hair. In fact,
we’ll both change our hair. I could use a different style and
different color—nothing permanent, mind you. We could both be
redheads for a week or so. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
Erin shrugged. “I guess. . . .” She
still eyed her juice container suspiciously.
“Of course it would be fun,” Jenna said
firmly. She pulled into traffic. “Now, drink up. It’s your
favorite. . . .”
Fifteen minutes later, no one noticed
the black Honda Accord parked in back of a strip mall, where half
the stores were shut down. There, by the Dumpsters, no one saw
Jenna take something wrapped in a blanket from the front seat of
the car. She carefully transferred it to the trunk.
Then she ducked back inside the car and
drove away.
He didn’t have the address anymore. It
had been nearly eight months since he’d gone there by cab that one
time. He remembered it was in Kent on Forty-second Avenue, one of
those boring-looking new apartment complexes.
As Chris drove his father’s Lexus
through rush hour traffic on Interstate 5, he kept thinking about
that call to Mrs. Hahn. “How does it feel to have
everything taken away from you?” the woman had asked.
“Now you know what you did to
me.”
Mrs. Corson’s husband lost his job and
his family because of a sex scandal. Mrs. Corson had lost her
daughter, too. Tracy Corson had run away and didn’t even come back
for Mr. Corson’s funeral. “Because of you,”
Mrs. Corson had told him, “our lives were
destroyed.”
He and Molly had started it all when
they’d reported to the principal about Mr. Corson hugging Ian in
the varsity locker room after hours. The whole thing might have
blown over, but his dad and mom had both become so worked up over
the incident. Then Mrs. Hahn and Mrs. Garvey got involved. And
between Courtney and Madison, it was suddenly all over the
Internet, Twitter, and Facebook about Mr. Corson and
Ian.
In a matter of eight months, all of the
people responsible for Mr. Corson’s firing had had their lives
snuffed out or destroyed.
Mrs. Hahn was wrong. The rash of
deaths, accidents, and tragedies on Willow Tree Court didn’t start
when Molly had moved onto the block. The devastation began shortly
after Mr. Corson was murdered. And his death was still
unsolved.
Chris gripped the steering wheel so
tight that his knuckles turned white. He anxiously watched for the
Kent exit and saw it was in the left lane of the Interstate. A car
horn blared as he switched lanes to make it over in time. His
stomach was in knots. He wished he had an exact address. He only
had a vague recollection of how the taxi had taken him to Mrs.
Corson’s apartment complex.
But he remembered Mrs. Corson very
well, and that part didn’t quite make sense. She was kind of dumpy
with frizzy brown hair and a birthmark on her cheek. Plus she
looked older than Mr. Corson. According to Roseann, the woman with
his dad at the hotel bar on Friday had been cute, with a good
figure. Maybe Mrs. Corson had toned up, but most birthmarks
couldn’t be removed.
The other thing that didn’t seem right
was the toolshed catching on fire next door at Rachel’s house. She
hadn’t even been living on Willow Tree Court at the time of Mr.
Corson’s firing or his death. Why would Mrs. Corson pick on
her?
Hunched close to the wheel, Chris
watched for the street signs. He was pretty sure this was the same
road that led to her apartment complex. He’d just passed
Forty-seventh Avenue Southeast, and he could see a forest just
beyond the new townhouses and apartment buildings. Just five more blocks, he told himself.
Another thing that didn’t quite make
sense to him had been how his mother had been murdered—along with
Larry and Taylor. Those two had nothing to do with Mr. Corson. Why
did they have to die? Had they just been in the wrong place at the
wrong time? He remembered how he’d planned to spend that night at
Larry’s with his mother. Larry and Taylor had been scheduled to go
on some overnight trip to Olympia, only it had gotten canceled at
the last minute. Had the killer been planning to find his mother
alone in that house?
Wrong place, wrong
time.
He saw the street sign for Forty-third
Avenue, and the layout was beginning to look familiar. Chris turned
left onto Forty-second and noticed the NO
OUTLET sign. He could see the gate ahead—and the four
identical beige buildings beyond that. He remembered Mrs. Corson
lived in the second building on the second floor, but he had no
idea what apartment number it was.
Parking in an alcove near the entrance,
he climbed out of the car and checked the directory by the
pedestrian gate. It was one of those phone intercom-directories.
The instructions on how to use it were embossed on the steel plate
that had the touch keys and phone cradle. He hated these damn
things. He pressed *99, and then selected 2 for the ABC listings.
It was hard to see the names past the glare reflecting off the
dirty glass to the display window. With the pound sign, he scrolled
down the tenant roster to the C’s. But he
didn’t see Corson listed there.
Was Molly right? Had Jenna Corson moved
onto their block? Was she calling herself Natalie now? He’d never
seen Natalie. She’d probably been avoiding him, knowing he’d
recognize her.
He heard a car approaching. He still
had the phone in his hand, and pretended to talk into it as a woman
in a station wagon pulled up to the entrance. He noticed her reach
for something on her sun visor. With a click and a mechanical hum,
the gate slid open. Chris watched her drive through and head toward
the first building. He waited until she was far enough away; then
he quickly hung up the phone and snuck through the entrance just as
the gate started to close again.
Second building, second
floor, he told himself. Maybe the current tenant knew where
Mrs. Corson had gone.
The wind kicked up, and he hiked up the
collar to his school jacket as he made his way to the second
building. He glanced up at the overcast sky. It would be getting
dark soon, he could tell.
Chris was pretty sure it was the second
alcove with a stairway that had a sign: UNITS
E—H. He climbed up only one flight, but he was short of
breath as he stopped in front of apartment 2-F. Under the doorbell,
he noticed a piece of white tape with Yeager
scribbled on it. But he could see there was another piece of tape
beneath that. Chris carefully peeled it back, and saw the
handwritten J. Corson.
He rang the bell. He could hear
movement on the other side of the door. He waited a few moments,
then rang the bell again and knocked. The door opened as far as the
chain lock allowed. Peering out at him was a slightly chubby woman
with brown bangs in her eyes and a thumb-sucking toddler in her
arms.
“Hi,” Chris said. “Sorry to bother you,
but I’m trying to find the woman who used to live here, Jenna
Corson.”
The woman shook her head. “She didn’t
leave a forwarding address. I can’t help you.” She shut the
door.
Chris felt a huge letdown.
Slump-shouldered, he stood by that door for another
moment.
Suddenly, it opened again. “Hey,” the
woman said, peeking out at him. She bounced the toddler in her
arms. “Try Monica Ballitore in three-G, one flight up. She was a
friend of hers. She might know where you can find
her.”
“Thanks a lot,” Chris said. Then he
hurried up the stairs to apartment 3-G and knocked on the door. He
heard footsteps, and then someone’s voice on the other side. “Yeah,
who’s there?” she called.
“I’m looking for Monica Ballitore!”
Chris replied loudly.
The door swung open. “That’s me,” she
said. “Who are you?”
Chris stared at the fortysomething
woman. She had frizzy brown hair and a birthmark on her cheek. An
unlit cigarette was in her hand.
“Your name’s Monica Ballitore?” he
asked.
She nodded. “Have we met?”
“Yes,” Chris said steadily. “Jenna
Corson sort of introduced us. Do you know where she
is?”
“I don’t have a clue. I haven’t heard
from her since she moved. You look really familiar. Just where did
Jenna sort of introduce us?”
“In her apartment,” Chris replied. “You
pretended to be her.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Oh, Christ,
you’re the little shit who caused all that trouble for her
husband.”
Chris remembered calling Mrs. Corson
from his cell phone. In order to get in and see her, he’d said he
was a floral delivery guy. But he’d been uncertain whether or not
she’d figured out his ruse. With a little help from caller ID,
she’d have found him out.
Obviously she had. He never met Jenna
Corson. He’d met her friend.
“Why did Mrs. Corson make you pretend
to be her?” he asked.
Monica Ballitore sneered at him. “I
don’t have to answer any questions from you.”
“She didn’t come to her husband’s
funeral,” Chris said. “Is it because she didn’t want anyone to know
what she looked like? Did she already have some sort of plan to get
even with us? Was she making sure she could move onto our block,
and no one would figure out who she really was?”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re
talking about,” she replied, frowning. “You’re gonna have to leave
now.”
“Please, listen to me,” he begged her.
“I need to know where Mrs. Corson is. It’s urgent.”
“Well, good luck,” she said. “A while
back, I asked the apartment building management company if they had
a forwarding address or contact information for her, and they’ve
got nothing, nada, zilch.”
“You still haven’t told me why you
pretended to be her that day,” he said.
“Because, Jenna asked me,” Monica
Ballitore replied edgily. “She didn’t want to see
you—”
“All that stuff you said to me about
how I destroyed your family, and how you didn’t want to see me
again—did she tell you to say that?”
She nodded. “Yeah, and considering what
you put her through, you have some nerve coming back here, sniffing
around.”
Chris glared at her. “My parents were
both murdered, and your friend Jenna Corson is the one who had them
killed. That’s why I’m ‘sniffing around’ here. I need some help
finding her. You owe me at least that much. Do you have a picture
of her?”
The woman let out a defiant laugh. She
put the cigarette in her mouth and stepped back to close the door.
“Fuck off,” she muttered.
“Don’t you tell me that,” Chris
growled. “Don’t you dare tell me that. . . .” He shoved the door
open.
The woman staggered back. The cigarette
fell out of her mouth, and she screamed. “Get out of here! Get out
right now, you son of a bitch!” She reeled back and slapped him
across the face.
It stung. Chris stopped himself. He
realized he’d barged into the front part of her apartment. It
smelled like stale cigarette smoke. His hands were clenched in
fists at his sides. He took a deep breath and backed out of the
doorway. “I won’t ask you any more questions, lady,” he said
evenly. “But the police sure as hell will.”
He turned away and the door slammed
shut behind him.
His heart racing, Chris started down
the stairs. He had tears in his eyes. As he reached the bottom of
the stairwell, his cell phone went off. He didn’t realize how much
he was shaking until he pulled out the phone and checked the caller
number. It was home. He clicked on the cell. “Molly?” he said, out
of breath.
“Hi, Chris, I’m glad I caught you.” She
sounded tense. “Listen, did you—did you decide to pick up Erin from
school?”
“What do you mean?” he
asked.
“I just came back from the bus stop,”
Molly said. “I was going to meet her. But the bus just zoomed on
by. I figured maybe you’d picked her up at school.”
“No,” he said numbly. “No, I
didn’t.”
“Damn, I was hoping she’d be with you,”
Molly said. “I suppose she’s still angry at me. Did she say
anything to you? Maybe she went home with a friend. . .
.”
“She didn’t mention it to
me.”
“Okay, well, then I—I’ll call the
school,” she said in a shaky voice.
Chris felt a pang of dread in his gut.
“Let me know as soon as you hear anything,”
“I will. Listen, Chris, I’d feel a lot
better if you were here. Come home as soon as you can,
okay?”
“I might be a while,” he said. “I’m way
down in Kent.”
“What are you doing
there?”
“I was looking for Mrs. Corson,” he
admitted.
There was a silence on the other end
for a few seconds. “Why are you looking for her?” Molly asked
finally.
“You know why, Molly. I think you’ve
been right all along. I’ll be home soon, okay?”
“Good,” she said. Then she hung
up.