Jo’s anger fills the car, as overpowering as the stinky air freshener that sits on her dash. I sink deeper into my seat, wishing I could vanish into thin air.
To make matters worse, I’ve started to cry. I dig through my purse in search of tissues.
We make a sharp turn onto Emerald. Jo’s neck is ridged with tendons. In those wire glasses and dress, she resembles a mean old schoolmistress, the kind with a grudge and a ruler.
I bite my lip. Jo has a right to be angry. I lied that night and kept lying. I’ve put her in danger.
I should try harder to explain but can’t stop blubbering. It’s pathetic. I can’t stop remembering Stan’s body, his decomposing fingers . . .
For the past two weeks, I’ve been in and out of denial. I let myself pretend. That won’t work anymore. Stan’s officially dead. They’re doing an autopsy. Just the thought makes me gag.
Many houses we pass are decorated for Halloween. Orange pumpkins on porches. Paper ghosts and black cats in the windows. I usually make an effort but haven’t this year, for obvious reasons. You don’t celebrate symbols of death and witchcraft when your husband’s missing. Or murdered . . .
The decorations remind me of the kids. How will I tell them? Unless . . . What if they’ve already heard? It’s on the news! I should have gone straight from the morgue to the kids’ school. I should have been the one to tell them!
How could the police let the story leak out? Or did they do it deliberately to break me? Are they at the house, waiting to arrest me?
My nose is dripping. I dig deeper into my handbag. A tube of lipstick falls out. Damn it. I know I have tissues somewhere. I bend to retrieve the lipstick.
Straightening, my driveway comes into view. The swirly gates. The gold-lettered sign. The mailbox. That reminds me. It’s been six days since I got the last note. A long time. The other two notes were just three days apart. What’s the blackmailer doing? My anxiety spikes.
Jo slows and turns in. I lean forward and cry: “Stop!”
She slams on the brakes with a gasp. We jolt to a halt. “What?” says Jo.
I wipe my nose with my hand. “I need to check the mailbox.”
She turns and spits out the words: “You what?” Her face is pinched. “I thought we hit something!”
I undo my seat belt. Now’s not the time. I know that. But I can’t control my compulsion. The discovery of Stan’s body has pushed me into a higher gear. My motor’s spinning in panic. More bad news is coming. I just know it.
“Just wait!” I say and climb out of the car.
Wet, dead leaves plaster the asphalt. I look around. The pines and spruce press in, dark and claustrophobic.
Overhead a crow caws, mocking. I look up but can’t see it. It calls again and hops lower. I spot it, bright-eyed in a crooked Douglas fir.
According to Jo, crows and ravens can recall human faces for up to five years if seen in stressful situations. She read all about it in some scientific journal. Jo loves corvids. She would. They’re smart birds. This one might know my blackmailer. I wish I could ask it. The crow cocks its head and croaks out a laugh. Jerk. I doubt it would tell me.
I walk to the mailbox. Its door creaks and sticks midway. I forgot to tell the gardener to oil it. I smush my hand in. I already checked it at lunch. It should be empty. My fingertips brush the metal sides. It is empty.
Feeling stupid, I spin back to Jo’s car. She’s glaring through the window.
I’m near the car when I spy something white on top of the house’s name stone. It’s a piece of paper held down by a rock. I stop walking.
In the fir tree, the crow cackles. I stagger to the sign and grab the paper. A quick look confirms my fears. I peer up at the CCTV camera trained, uselessly, on the mailbox.
“Fuck,” I say. The crow takes flight. I stare up at the camera.
Jo taps her horn to rouse me. I totter back to the car.
I pry the car door open and collapse into the seat. I shut the door. It fails to latch. Jo pulls away. The door alarm beeps as we rattle up the driveway.
Jo glowers at the note, then back at the road. “It’s not.” She sounds incredulous. “Is it?”
I can barely respond. “Yeah.”
She brakes. We lurch to a stop. From here, the house remains hidden but for its roof, dark and steep, over the treetops. “Let me see,” demands Jo.
I unfold the note.
midnight fri nov 2. put 3 million $ in the octopus at myers point. come alone or this will get worse.
The Octopus is a huge cement sculpture in the playground at Myers Point. It’s as high as a bus and painted bright Pepto-Bismol pink. Kids climb its meandering limbs and hide in its hollow head. It smells of urine in there, dog and human.
The Octopus wouldn’t meet any modern safety standards but has been there since the 1950s. Trying to demolish it would be like trying to wipe In God We Trust off the dollar bill. It’s part of Glebes Bay. Everyone who grew up here has played there.
The block letters blur. “I can’t get it,” I say. “Not by Friday.”
Jo jams the car into gear. “What about that Russian guy?” Stan claimed the art dealer who wanted the gumballs was pretty shady. I wonder if that’s true or if Stan was being a bigot. I called the guy—Oleg something—on Jo’s phone after getting the last note, then texted him photos of Stan’s entire collection. He’s interested in the Cleggs and a few other abstracts.
“Maybe, but it would take time.” I refold the note and shove it to the bottom of my handbag. “What if I left some money? With a note, explaining. Like a goodwill gesture?”
Jo snorts. We start to rattle toward Winderlea. “You mean a down payment? Do you really think that would help? It’s not a new sofa set on layaway.”
I nod, feeling sick. The house looms into view. We round the bend. Gloria’s car is in the guest parking lot. As is a matte gray Caprice. My heart stops. That’s the detectives’ car. There are two people in it, waiting.
Jo slows. She’s seen the cops too. “Shit,” she says. “If they ask to search, demand a warrant.”
I feel too sick to even nod. What if they have one?
“Dana?” Jo’s glaring at me. “Is there anything they could find? Anything I don’t know about?”
I shake my head. “No. Except if we missed something cleaning up.”
Jo parks and kills the engine. For a second, she looks relieved. Then her face goes taut. “Wait!” She speaks through locked teeth. “The knife you used. Where is it?”
I bow my head. “I . . . I don’t know.”
Incredulity cracks Jo’s voice: “You don’t know?”
“I . . . It was near Stan when I ran to get towels. But I . . . I . . . When I came back it was . . . gone.” Stress makes me babble. “It was my favorite knife. Matte silver.” Outside the car, a crow caws. Is it the same one I saw by the mailbox? I stop talking.
“Gone?” All color has leached from Jo’s face. She stares straight ahead, out the dusty windshield. At the cedar bushes. Like she can’t bear to look at me.
When she turns my way, her eyes are hard and flat. If I didn’t know her, I’d say she hates me. I’ve never seen her so livid, not even at her deadbeat ex, who deserved it.
“We’re dead meat if the cops have a warrant,” she snarls. She unbuckles her seatbelt. “I hope you know that.”
She shoves her door open and stands. Detectives Shergold and Bellows are exiting their car.
I’m still sunk in my seat, clutching my handbag.
Jo leans back into the car. Her voice is soft but harsh as she says to me, “Dana, you’ve done enough damage. Look pretty, and let me do the talking.”