ITWAS TUESDAY MORNING, LATE IN JANUARY. I’D GONE BACK to work a few days before and was waiting at the door for Angela, who was late. As soon as she arrived, I’d have to rush off.
Molly was still in her pajamas on the sofa, reading Amelia Be-delia aloud to her dolls. Outside, the sun was trying to break through heavy blue clouds. Blackened crusts of snow lined the curbs, and someone was parking a big white van in front of Phillip Woods’s house, obscuring my view of the FOR SALE sign.
Phillip Woods. The man had worn tortoiseshell glasses, a cashmere coat, and tasseled shoes. He’d claimed to know celebrities; his handshake had been soft. It still seemed impossible that he’d attacked Beverly, much less killed the security guard, several other women he’d become obsessed with, the nannies, and who knew how many others? Then again, maybe he hadn’t killed the nannies. No one knew for sure who the Nannynapper was. Officially, the police still named Charlie. Unofficially, they suspected Woods. He’d had access to Charlie’s tools and basement and to each of the victims, and he’d had that recurring problem with “impostors”—which gave him means, opportunity and a possible motive.
Not a lot of effort was spent looking for the truth, though, since both suspects were dead. For weeks now, no nannies had disappeared—well, one, but her ex-boyfriend was suspected in that. The neighborhood was quiet again, if not the same. Life went on.
Meantime, where was Angela? She was fifteen minutes late. Molly held her book up to show the pictures to her dolls before turning the page. I leaned out the front door, looked up and down the frosty street, saw passing cars, pedestrians hurrying on their way to work, Victor coming out his front door. No Angela. What could have happened? Why hadn’t she called?
Wait a second. Victor? I looked again. Sure enough, across the street, Victor had opened his gate and was rushing down the street, disappearing behind a parked SUV My mouth fell open. Victor? How was that possible? Victor was outside?
He reappeared at the other end of the SUV I blinked, but he didn’t disappear. I’d never actually had a good look at Victor before, only glimpses. He was taller than I’d have imagined, and lanky, but the man definitely looked like Victor. He had Victor’s shaggy black hair, Victor’s pasty white skin. As he came across the street, I could see his face. There was no question. The guy was definitely Victor. Except that it couldn’t be; Victor never left his house. Never. Not in years. Victor was so phobic he couldn’t take his trash to the curb; neighbors had to carry it from his door. Victor never went outside. Ever. But there he was. Why? What could possibly make him come out now?
“Molly?” I called. “I’m going out front to wait for Angela. I’ll be right back.”
“ ‘Kay.” She didn’t look up from her book.
I waited until he’d crossed the street. He kept looking over his shoulder, left, then right, then left again, as if making sure no one was following. Or watching? When he stepped out of the line of sight, I went outside and down the steps. Where was he? He’d been headed toward the pair of newly renovated townhomes on my side of the street. But they were still unoccupied, not even finished. Why would he be going there?
Maybe he wanted to buy one. To move. Or invest. But it didn’t matter why. After all, Victor had every right to cross the street. It was none of my business. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder. Why would Victor venture outdoors to go to an empty house? From the bottom of my front steps, I saw him pass through the front gate of one of the new houses. Casually, as if out for a stroll, I wandered over. No one was around. No workers. No one. The place seemed abandoned.
It made no sense. Maybe Victor had recovered. Maybe he’d overcome his agoraphobia. Maybe, as part of his recovery, he actually went outside and took walks every day—after all, I hadn’t been watching him. Even so, why would he go into an empty house? I told myself to mind my own business, to stop staring at the windows and the open gate. I was about to go home when the front door burst open and out flew Jake. Jake? But what about Victor? Was he still inside?
Jake hurried down the front walk so preoccupied that he didn’t look where he was heading. If I hadn’t said hi to him, he’d have barreled right into me.
“Christ,” he exclaimed, hopping sideways.
I smiled. “Sorry—”
“My fault, no problem,” he muttered, still moving.
“I haven’t seen you lately,” I went on. “How’ve you been?”
He glanced back at the house he’d just left, ahead at the street, shifting from foot to foot as if running in place. “Busy. Haven’t been around much—I got some jobs in Jersey, so I’m wrapping things up here.”
Ask about Victor, I told myself. Ask if he’s seen him. But Jake had gone on his way, calling over his shoulder for me to take it easy. “See ya,” he yelled.
Strange, I thought. What was Victor doing in that house? Did Jake even know he was there? And why had Jake been so unfriendly and unsettled? Something wasn’t right.
Mind your own business, I told myself as I watched Jake hurry down the street and climb into his truck. Go home. But I didn’t go home. I stood on the sidewalk, thinking. What was bothering me? Something about Jake was rattling me. What was it? Think, I told myself. Figure it out.
Angela disliked him; he made her uneasy. And what did I really know about him? Nothing, really. Nothing at all.
I reminded myself that Molly was home alone—I had to get back. But I didn’t go. I stood on the sidewalk, staring at the house. Maybe I’d just check inside. Pop in briefly, quietly, see what Victor was up to, and leave. I’d be back before Molly even knew I was gone.
I watched Jake start up his truck and drive away. When he’d rounded the corner, I swung the gate and stepped onto the property. Trespassing. But the front door was open—it wasn’t like I was breaking in. I was just a neighbor, making sure another neighbor was okay.
I glanced around the interior. Unpainted drywall. A half-built fireplace. Exposed wiring. An unfinished stairway to the second floor. No Victor. Quickly, I went into what would become the kitchen. From there, a second stairway led down to the basement. There was a light on; maybe someone was down there, working. Or maybe it was Victor. I couldn’t hear him and wasn’t about to go look—I’d already gone too far, had no business being there. I didn’t want anyone to catch me snooping. I’d just leave. No harm done. Sneak out the way I’d snuck in.
I turned, stepping away from the staircase. That was when I noticed the hallway. The small scarlet puddle clotting on the hardwood floor.