Now
Wednesday, August 18
Woodstock, New York
I stared at the mark on Willa’s neck, red and practically searing.
For a moment, there was compassion. No man had ever touched me like that, and I wondered if she’d been scared, if she’d found it hard to breathe, if all of it had flashed before her . . .
“Who . . . who did that to you?” I asked. “Was it, was it Henry?”
Willa’s eyes closed a moment, then opened. She shook her head slowly. “No, Mary. No, it wasn’t Henry.”
Her eyes locked on mine, and for once, I was sure she wasn’t lying.
The thought was gut-wrenching. I’d been telling myself maybe George wanted to change, maybe he wanted to be a better man for me. Meanwhile, he was strangling another woman, leaving marks on her neck.
Then the other thought came, one that was impossible to ignore: That meant Willa had been at George’s that morning. She really had.
Willa stared at me, her eyes wide, her face pale (with shame? Fear?) and it was only then that I realized the other thing that was off.
Willa wore dainty hoop earrings, a silver bangle, and an oversized ring with a stone in the middle. I’d always loved her jewelry, loved the way she could balance something trendy with something classy, loved how her sapphire necklace tied it all together.
“Where is your necklace?” I asked. “Did you lose it, in the struggle?”
“Mary,” she said. “Please just let all this go. It doesn’t matter how I got hurt, okay? What matters is—”
“Then show me the necklace,” I said. “Prove me wrong.”
I stood over her now, domineering. Maybe George had hurt her first, but she’d killed him, hadn’t she? She’d killed him, and she wasn’t owning up to it, and that meant I might never see Alex again.
And that was something I could never, ever forgive.
“Where is the necklace?” I pressed. “Did he grab it, rip it off your neck? Was it left at the crime scene, tying the whole thing to you? Is that why you cozied up to me, so I wouldn’t tell the police it was yours? Just tell me—god, please, just tell me!”
“Mary,” Willa said, scooting even farther back on the sofa. “You’re scaring me. It’s in my things, okay?”
“Oh really?” I said. “Is it in there?” I snatched the velvet bag before she could stop me, then flipped it over, watching as all that jewelry—all that money—toppled down onto the ground with a thud.
“Damn it, that’s enough, Mary,” Willa cried, jumping up and scrambling to recover all the jewelry. “Just leave it.”
It was exactly what George said to me, every time he told me to stop asking about Cassandra, like I was a dog he could command. What Alex had even parroted himself.
But I couldn’t be controlled. Not anymore.
“I’m the pushover, right? The one that people like George—people like you—think you can screw over. Where’s the necklace, then?” I practically yelled. “Show me.”
I turned on my heel, went to her bags, one of them that I’d already gone through. I flipped the other one over, feeling the satisfaction of taking my anger out on something—anything.
Clothes went flying. Lacy things and ribbed tees. Birth control pills and facial serums.
“Mary,” Willa said again. “Don’t do this.”
I kept shaking, getting every last piece of clothing out.
Then I stopped, my eyes catching on something pale and white, tinged with red.
A training diaper, one she must have had on her in case Poppy had an accident.
One that had been used to soak up blood.
I looked up at Willa. For once, she had nothing to say.
“It really was you,” I said, my voice cracking.
Of course it was. The con artist was the killer.
And I was standing here with her.
My eyes scanned the room frantically, until I spotted my purse and car keys on the hall table.
I snatched up the diaper and then lunged for them, jumping over the pile of jewels, over everything, not stopping until the keys were in my hands, then ran for the door, pulling it and slamming it shut behind me.
Willa on my heels, I rushed to the car, frantically clicked the unlock button, scrambled to get the handle as the door to my rental car opened.
“Mary,” she said, but I slammed the door behind me, locked it, turned the car on, watched as she banged on the window, kept on calling my name.
I backed up, running into the car parked behind me as I did, then pulled forward, jerking at the wheel to get out of the spot, Willa moving away only at the very last second.
I turned left, then back, then forward again, righting the car around.
I pulled down the street, glanced in the rearview, saw her standing there.
Not running, not chasing, only staring.
I sped down the road, passing a cop car as I did, a man at the wheel. Should I stop him? No. I’d missed my chance. I had to get to Morales. I finally had the evidence I was looking for. She’d have no choice but to listen now.
I found the main road, turned left, then stepped on the gas, not caring about speed limits. About anything.
This was my only chance to clear my name.
To get my baby back.