Anne puts Cora back down in her crib, hoping this is the last feed of the night and that now the baby will sleep through till morning. It’s late—very late—but she can still hear Cynthia moving around restlessly in the house next door.
It has been a day of shocking revelations. After her father had been taken away from the family home in handcuffs, her mother had pulled Anne aside while Marco held the sleeping baby in his arms in the living room.
“I think you should know,” she said, “who your father was seeing.”
“Does it matter?” Anne asked. What difference did it make who her father was seeing? She would be younger and attractive. Of course. Anne didn’t care who she was; what mattered was that her father—actually, she remembers, her stepfather—had kidnapped her baby to get millions of dollars of her mother’s money. Now he would go to jail for kidnapping and murder. She still couldn’t believe it was all real.
“He was seeing your next-door neighbor,” her mother said. “Cynthia Stillwell.” Anne looked back at her mother in disbelief, still capable of being shocked by this news, in spite of everything that had happened. “He met her at your New Year’s Eve party,” her mother said. “I remember her flirting with him. I didn’t think too much of it at the time. But the private detective found out everything. I have photographs.” Her mother’s face showed disgust. “Photocopies of hotel receipts.”
Anne asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I only found out recently,” Alice explained. “Then Cora was taken, and I didn’t want to upset you with it.” She added, rather bitterly, “That detective was one of the best investments I ever made.”
Now Anne wonders what’s going through Cynthia’s mind. Graham is away. She’s alone next door. She must know that Richard has been arrested. It’s been on the news. Does Cynthia even care what happens to Richard?
The baby is sound asleep in her crib. Marco is asleep in their bed, snoring deeply. It’s the first time he’s really slept in more than a week. But Anne is wide awake. And so is Cynthia, next door.
Anne slips on some sandals and lets herself out the kitchen door. She quietly walks the few steps over to Cynthia’s backyard, careful not to let the gate bang shut. She crosses the patio and stands in the dark, her face a couple of inches from the glass, looking through the sliding glass door. There is a light on in the kitchen. She can see Cynthia moving around at the counter near the sink but realizes Cynthia probably can’t see her. Anne watches her for a while in the darkness. Cynthia is making herself some tea. She is wearing a sexy nightgown, pale green; it’s very provocative for a night spent at home alone.
Cynthia obviously has no idea Anne is there watching her.
Anne knocks lightly on the glass. She sees Cynthia jump and turn toward the sound. Anne presses her face up against the glass. She can tell Cynthia isn’t sure what she should do. But then Cynthia walks over to the door and opens it a few inches.
“What do you want?” Cynthia asks coldly.
“Can I come in?” Anne asks. Her voice is neutral, even friendly.
Cynthia looks warily at her but doesn’t say no, and steps back. Anne opens the door wider and comes inside, closing the door carefully behind her.
Cynthia returns to the counter and says over her shoulder, “I was just making some tea. Chamomile. Would you like some? It seems neither of us can sleep tonight.”
“Sure, why not?” Anne says agreeably. She watches Cynthia busy herself making another cup of tea; she seems nervous.
“So why are you here?” Cynthia says bluntly, handing Anne the cup.
“Thank you,” Anne says, settling in her old spot at the kitchen table, as if they were still friends, sitting down for some tea and a chat. She ignores Cynthia’s question. She looks around the kitchen, blowing on the hot drink to cool it, as if she has nothing particular on her mind at all.
Cynthia remains standing at the counter. She’s not going to pretend that they are still friends. Anne studies her over the rim of her cup. Cynthia looks tired, less attractive. For the first time, Anne can see hints of what Cynthia might look like as she ages.
“We have Cora back,” Anne says blithely. “You probably heard.” She cocks her head toward the common wall; she knows that Cynthia must be able to hear her baby crying through it.
“How lovely for you,” Cynthia says. There is a kitchen island between them, with a wooden knife block full of knives on it. Anne has the same set at home—it was on special at the grocery store not long ago.
Anne puts her cup down on the table. “I just wanted to be clear about something.”
“Clear about what?” Cynthia says.
“You won’t be blackmailing us with that video.”
“Oh, and why’s that?” Cynthia says, as if she doesn’t believe it for a moment, as if she thinks this is all just posturing.
“Because the police know what Marco did,” Anne says. “I told them about your video.”
“Really.” Cynthia looks skeptical. She looks as if she thinks Anne is bullshitting her. “And why would you tell them that? Won’t Marco go to jail? Oh, wait . . . you want him to go to jail.” She gives Anne a superior look. “I can’t say I blame you.”
“Marco’s not going to jail,” Anne says.
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“Oh, I’m sure. Marco’s not going to jail, because my father—your lover—has been arrested for murder and conspiracy to kidnap, as I’m sure you also probably know by now.” Anne watches Cynthia’s face harden. “Oh, yes, I know all about it, Cynthia. My mother had a private detective watching you two. She has photos, receipts, everything.” Anne takes another sip of tea, enjoying herself. “Your secret affair isn’t so secret after all.”
Anne finally has the upper hand, and she likes it. She smiles at Cynthia.
“So what?” Cynthia says finally. But Anne can tell she’s unnerved.
“What you might not know,” Anne says, “is that Marco’s cut a deal.”
Anne sees something like alarm flit across Cynthia’s face, and Anne comes to the reason she’s here. She says, ominously, “You were in on this all along. You knew all about it.”
“I knew nothing about it,” Cynthia says scornfully, “except that your husband stole his own child.”
“Oh, I think you knew. I think you were in on this with my father—we all know how much you love money.” Anne says, with a trace of venom, “Maybe you’re the one who’s going to go to jail.”
Cynthia’s face changes. “No! I didn’t know what Richard had done, not until I saw it on the news tonight. I wasn’t involved. I thought Marco had done it. You can’t prove anything against me. I haven’t been anywhere near your baby!”
“I don’t believe you,” Anne says.
“I don’t care what you believe—it’s the truth,” Cynthia says. She looks at Anne with narrowed eyes. “What happened to you, Anne? You used to be such fun, so interesting—and then you had a baby. Everything about you changed. Do you even realize how dull and dumpy and boring you’ve become? Poor Marco, I wonder how he stands it.”
“Don’t try to change the subject. Don’t make this about me. You had to know what my father was up to. So don’t lie to me.” Anne’s voice shakes with anger.
“You’ll never be able to prove that, because it simply isn’t true,” Cynthia says. Then she adds, cruelly, “If I’d been involved, do you think I would have let the baby survive? It would probably have been better for Richard just to kill it at the beginning—and a lot less trouble. It would have been a pleasure to stop that brat’s endless crying.”
Then Cynthia looks scared—she realizes she’s gone too far.
Anne’s chair falls suddenly backward. Cynthia’s habitual smugness is replaced by a look of blind terror; her china teacup shatters on the floor as she lets out a hideous, earsplitting scream.
• • •
Marco has been deeply asleep. But in the middle of the night, he wakes suddenly. He opens his eyes. It is very dark, but there are red lights flashing, circling around the bedroom walls. Emergency vehicle lights.
The bed is empty beside him. Anne must be up again, feeding the baby.
He is curious now. He gets up and walks over to the bedroom window, which looks out over the street. He pushes the curtain aside and peers out. It’s an ambulance. It is parked directly below him and to the left.
In front of Cynthia and Graham’s house.
His whole body tenses. Now he sees the black-and-white police cars on the other side of the street, more arriving as he watches. His fingers on the curtain twitch involuntarily. His body is shot through with adrenaline.
A stretcher appears from out of the house, carried by two ambulance attendants. There must be someone on the stretcher, but he can’t see for sure until the medic moves. There is no urgency about them. The medic shifts position. Marco sees that there is someone on the stretcher. But he can’t tell who it is, because the face is covered.
Whoever is on the stretcher is dead.
All the blood rushes from Marco’s head; he feels he might pass out. As he watches, a lock of long, jet-black hair escapes and falls down below the stretcher.
He looks back at the empty bed. “Oh, God,” he whispers. “Anne, what have you done?”
He runs out of the bedroom, glances quickly in the baby’s room. Cora is asleep in her crib. Panicking now, he races down the stairs, stops dead in the darkened living room. He can see the side of his wife’s head; she is sitting on the sofa in the dark, completely still. He approaches her, filled with dread. She is slumped on the sofa, staring straight ahead as if in a trance, but as she hears him approach, she turns her head.
She is holding a large carving knife in her lap.
The red, pulsing light from the emergency vehicles outside circles the living-room walls and bathes them in a lurid glow. Marco can see that the knife and her hands are dark—dark with blood. She is covered in it. There are dark splatters on her face and in her hair. He feels sick, like he might throw up.
“Anne,” he whispers, his voice a broken croak. “Anne, what have you done?”
She looks back at him in the dark and says, “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”