Wednesday, August 18
Woodstock, New York
I didn’t stop looking in my rearview the entire drive to the station, scared Willa was following me, even though that was impossible. She didn’t even have a car with her.
There was no denying it now. Not with the lies. The jewelry. The missing necklace. The damn diaper sitting in the passenger seat by me right now.
The parking lot was near-empty, and I turned haphazardly into a spot near the front and grabbed my purse, stuffing the blood-soaked diaper inside. Then I jerked the car door open, slammed it behind me, and locked it twice.
I looked back, scanned the lot, jolted at a figure in front of me, a shadow, the outline blown out by the midday light.
I lifted a hand to block the sun, and that was when I saw him clearly. The tanned skin, the silver-fox hair, the deep-set, deep-brown eyes.
“Jack?” I asked, stopping short. “What are you doing here?”
His shoulders jolted up, and then his eyes caught mine. Recognition. “Mary?” he asked. “Willa’s friend?”
I nodded.
Jack stared at me. He cocked his head to the side, like he was sussing something out. After a beat, he sighed. “Willa’s been using my credit card. I’ve stopped the account, but I want to press charges. The company said I had to speak to the local jurisdiction. I tried calling but didn’t get very far. I figured it was worth the drive up. I have to talk to the restaurant where she used it, get them to confirm it was her. But then I can help make sure she doesn’t do this to somebody else,” he said. “You know she does this to every guy she’s with? Pretends to love them. Dotes on their kid. Steals what she can. I heard from someone from her past. He’s getting in contact with all of us. Telling us who she really is.”
I thought of Rich, on the stairs, just this morning.
She makes you think she cares about you.
But she doesn’t in the end.
“I know you’re friends,” Jack went on. “But she’s not a good person. I know she makes up excuses. Tells herself we all deserve it, because we have money that she doesn’t. But it’s not okay.”
“I’m not friends with her anymore,” I said. I took a deep breath. “I know who she is, maybe even more than you do.”
Jack looked back to the station. “They hardly had time to speak with me anyway. The police said there’s a murder investigation, someone up from the city?”
“Yes,” I said. “My husband. Well, we were separated.”
“My god,” Jack said. “I’m so sorry.”
“I trusted Willa, too, you know,” I said, tears in my eyes now. “It’s not only men that she’s duped.”
Jack reared back. “Wait, you don’t think—could Willa have had something to do with it?”
I swallowed. “I don’t think she had something to do with it. I know.”
“Really?” he said. “Willa.”
“She hides it well, but like you said, she’s not a good person.”
“Oh my god,” Jack said, shaking his head in disbelief. “She was living with me, you know. She was around my kid. Jack Junior loved her. And I just let her in. I let her come into my home. I left them alone, so many times. Christ.”
“I know,” I said. “She was around my kid, too. It’s horrifying. I have to go now. Just stay away from her, okay?” I said. “Protect yourself.”
Jack nodded, and then he stepped forward, pulling me into a hug. “I will, and I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry she hurt you, Mary.” He stepped back. “I’m sorry she hurt all of us.”
“I am, too.”
Inside the station, I pushed past the people at the desk, threw my hands against the counter. “I have to talk to Detective Morales.”
“Ma’am,” the woman at the desk said.
“It’s urgent,” I said, my voice raising to a fever pitch. “Please. I need to see her. Now. It’s about the murder of George Haywood,” I said. “I know who did it. And I know I might have thought that before, but I have proof this time. I need to talk to Detective Morales. Please.”
A raised eyebrow. A lifted phone. A mumbled conversation.
Then the click of heels. Detective Morales.
“Mrs. Haywood?” she asked. “How can I help you?”
“It was her,” I said frantically. “The woman from the call log. She killed him. She had the jewelry, Cassandra’s jewelry. She used George, she used me, so she could get it. His blood, it’s on a diaper she had in her purse. I have the evidence,” I said, pushing my bag toward her. “Look.”
Morales’s eyes shot up, and she took the bag from me, stealing a glance inside.
“There’s more,” I said. “Willa—I mean, Charlotte—she has marks on her neck, like there was a struggle. She wasn’t wearing her necklace, the one she always wears. I think it was there, where George was.”
Morales stared at me, eyes widening.
“Did you find a necklace?” I asked. “At the crime scene?”
The detective’s hand found the edge of a counter, as if steadying herself.
“A sapphire one?”
Morales didn’t answer, only turned away from me, rushed down the hall.
“Where’s Carson?” she yelled, at anyone who would listen.
“He’s gone to interview the woman from the call list,” another officer said, popping out to meet her in the hallway.
“Call him,” Morales said. “Now. Tell him to apprehend the suspect. And someone come process a new piece of evidence,” she said, setting my bag on the counter. “It’s in Mrs. Haywood’s bag.”
Then she turned around, ran back out the door without looking back.
Going to get the woman responsible for all of this.