It’s raining so hard the lotus pond’s flooding. The weeping willow looks defeated. I sit on the couch, staring out the window. Today’s paper is on my lap. Beyond the lawns, the sea’s seething.
The detectives just left. They showed up bright and early and were here, waiting, when I got home from dropping the kids off at school. No doubt I looked like a zombie. I barely slept after last night’s drama.
The police took another box of Stan’s stuff from his study, including his big black day planner. I consented to this. Even Bellows didn’t pretend to be charming.
Upstairs, I can hear Gloria vacuuming. I throw aside the morning paper. It’s the same old shit. The discovery of Stan’s decapitated body has returned us to front page news. Media from further afield have descended. So far I’ve been treated with sympathy, but the tide’s turning. Three days back, I was “private.” Today, an unnamed source, purportedly “close to the family,” described me as “aloof.” So it starts. I’ve disconnected the home phone.
I check my watch. My stomach’s hollow. It’s past time. I can’t put it off any longer.
I haul myself off the couch and walk to the front hall. It’s dark despite the chandelier’s twinkle. I imagine smashing it like a piñata.
I march to the closet and yank the door open. In spite of Gloria’s best efforts, it’s chaos, packed with coats, boots, hats, and umbrellas. Our house is full of stuff we don’t need. A glut of affluence. We keep buying more. It feels overwhelming.
Staring into the mess, I feel strung out: too much stress, not enough sleep, way too much coffee. I’m scared the police might return to search the house. Would they find anything? I’ve seen enough TV to know about luminol. How clean is the studio? And where’s the damn knife? I grab an umbrella and straighten.
It feels strange to fear the police. As a white, middle-class woman, I was raised to see them as allies, the ones you’d call in a crisis. Now I’ve switched sides. Except the bad guys aren’t safer. A blackmailer. Or several! And I don’t even know who they are.
It could be Gloria or the UPS man or the guy who fixed our dryer. It could be my son’s nasty girlfriend. Or my other son’s potential boyfriend. It could be someone I don’t know. I’m not sure what’s worse: a scary stranger or a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
I slam the closet door shut.
I’m near the front door when my phone rings in my cardigan’s pocket. I jump and claw it out. Damn. It’s another potential wolf in disguise: Ryan Reeve, my ex-lover.
My stomach fizzes, not with desire but misgiving. Ever since Jo saw us in the guesthouse and told me about him selling Owen spice, I’ve ignored Ryan’s texts and calls. It should be obvious, with Stan dead, that I can’t see him. Nor do I want to. Why is he calling?
I stare at the phone bleakly. I should speak to him, try to suss out if he’s the blackmailer. But I can’t face it. The sight of his name has my heart racing. How dare he sell drugs to Owen. I’m scared of him. Jo insists he’s the hit-and-run killer.
In the silent house, my phone’s as hard to ignore as a screaming baby. I set it to silent and shove it back in my pocket. I’ll deal with Ryan later. I unlatch the door. It feels extra heavy.
I want to stay inside and hide away. I want to go back in time, to when my normal problems seemed major. I want . . . I shake my head and recall something my grandma used to say: If wishes were horses, we’d all ride like kings.
I trudge through the door.
Stepping outside, the wind whips me. My hair flies into my mouth. It’s hard to raise my umbrella. I should get a raincoat but don’t. It doesn’t matter. I’m only walking to the end of the driveway.
I grip the umbrella with both hands and descend the wet stairs. Rain blows in sideways. The front lawn is sodden. All the oaks lie black and bare. The trees thrash and shimmy.
On days like today, Winderlea comes alive, like it’s fed by bad weather. All around, branches creak. And the sea, hissing at my back! It feels too close and angry. The wind drives me faster.
I’m partway down the drive, near the rhododendrons, when a voice says, “Dana!”
I twist and yelp. It’s Ryan Reeve, clad in a long green raincoat. A huge hood hides most of his face. He’s right beside me.
My heart pops. “Jesus!” I say. What’s he doing in my yard?
I think of Jo’s claim—passed on from Gloria and the gardener—that someone was hiding in the cedar bushes.
“What are you doing here?” I ask Ryan.
He steps closer. “I need to see you. You aren’t answering my calls.”
Instead of settling down, my heart pumps harder. Maybe it’s his petulant tone or Jo’s conviction that he killed that poor nanny.
I look around. My garden’s secluded.
For a second, I consider sprinting back toward my door. But that’s insane. Ryan’s a fitness fanatic. He’d catch me in a heartbeat. And this is Ryan. I know him. He rang every bell but alarm. I’m livid he sold fake weed to my son, but he can’t be a killer. Jo’s mistaken. My Ted Bundy radar can’t be that bad.
I start to walk toward the road. I need to act normally. “Why?” I say. “What’s going on?”
Hands thrust into his giant raincoat, Ryan strides beside me. “The cops keep coming round, asking questions.”
“You mean about us?”
“Yeah,” says Ryan. “And the night your husband was murdered.”
I’m not sure how to respond. What’s he implying? “What about it?” I ask.
He grins. “It’s cool. I have an alibi.”
“Oh,” I say. “That’s good.”
The slight softening of his tone makes me assume it’s some other woman. I should find out. If his alibi’s real, he couldn’t have been lurking nearby, watching me and Jo, which means he’s not the blackmailer.
I clear my throat. “Where were you?”
“On a friend’s boat.”
My chest ices up. Did he see us from a boat? Is this a hint or a threat so I’ll hurry to amass the payment?
“I’m sorry things are so fucked up. I miss you.”
I throw him a look. I’m not vain enough to buy this. Given his looks, he must cause traffic jams on Tinder. I’m forty-three, in good shape but past my prime. I’ve had three kids. There’s only so much you can fix with hot yoga.
“I know it was casual,” continues Ryan. “But”—his voice is deep and smooth—“we had something, Dana.”
I shake my head. What’s he playing at?
“Dana?” he says, when I don’t answer.
I want to stay cool but can’t. I feel a wild urge to hit him. “You sold drugs to my son,” I hiss. “He’s fifteen!” And a mess, as fifteen-year-olds are. Except for Chad. Although perhaps he’s a mess too, dating a girl like Gemma Costin.
Ryan goes quiet. He must have hoped I didn’t know.
His voice lowers, contrite. “I’m sorry. But it wasn’t a lot. Fifteen’s not that young.” His raincoat crackles. “What were you doing at that age?”
My lip curls. I don’t answer. It’s none of his fucking business.
Ryan’s a total creep, selling drugs to school children. I sidestep a puddle. The wind threatens to upend my umbrella.
Ryan’s talking again, about how he’s due to come into money, how he’ll invest it, how he’s stopped dealing.
I interrupt, alert. “How are you getting this money?”
He looks taken aback. “It’s a trust fund, set up by my grandpa.”
After that, I only half listen. Is this true or is his hoped-for windfall my blackmail money?
We’re nearing the end of the drive. I can see my mailbox. I tighten my grip on my umbrella. I scan the Winderlea sign and its environs. Nothing’s out of place.
Beside me, Ryan’s still talking. For a moment, the sound of his voice takes me back to the guesthouse, his smooth skin, his lips hot and insistent. It makes me sick how much I wanted him. Since when did I get so self-destructive? I’m too old to want bad boys. Was my life really that dull?
My pace slows. The mailbox lies straight ahead. Do I retrieve the mail in front of Ryan? Has he showed up now because I didn’t pay up last night?
He cocks his head. “Dana?”
“Um, yeah,” I say, undecided.
I check the mailbox three times a day. More than that would look suspicious. It’s also giving in to obsession, like checking and rechecking the oven. I’m prone to being obsessive. Like Owen.
“Dana, are you listening?”
My steps slow further. I could bypass the mailbox, tell Ryan I’m going for a walk. But my legs feel shaky, and the wind’s ripping through me. It’d be better to grab the mail without looking at it.
I stop beside the box, as does Ryan. There’s a weird look on his face, almost amused, like he’s watching me do something stupid.
I reach for the door, jammed half open or shut. Glass half empty or full. I don’t know what to wish for. Some yellow and red flyers jut out. The ends are soggy.
“What, you don’t believe me?” says Ryan. He sounds reproachful.
“W-what?” I ram my hand into the mailbox. There are envelopes further in. I pry them out, along with the flyers. I squash all the papers together and shove them under my cardigan’s flap. “Look,” I say. “I’m tired, Ryan. I haven’t been sleeping well.” I clutch the papers to my chest. “What were you saying?”
Beneath that grim-reaper hood, his nostrils flare. “Your friend, the one with short dark hair and glasses. What’s her story?”
“Jo?” As soon as I’ve blurted out her name, I regret it.
Jo insists he mowed down that poor lady on Elm Street. She thought he recognized her too, when she chased him down outside the school. What if she’s right? I’ve told him her name!
I swallow hard. “She’s an old friend. From way back.”
Ryan shakes his head. “I wouldn’t trust her.”
The hairs on my arms go up. Perhaps Jo’s right and he is the hit-and-run killer. Why else would he want to discredit her?
“Why?” I ask.
“I’ve seen her around here,” he says. “Sneaking around. When you’re out.”
Drips curtain off my umbrella. I squint through them. “What? That’s—” I bite my tongue. I wanted to say, “That’s crazy.”
“I’ve seen her here.” He sounds sullen. He nods at my mailbox. “And messing around there.” He points at the Winderlea sign.
My knees loosen. “W-what?” I repeat. “When?”
“Three? No, four days back.”
Part of me wants to collapse. That’s when I found the last note. Part of me wants to kick Ryan. He’s created a crack of doubt in the last solid thing I had: my longest and truest friendship. Jo. Could she be behind it? I think of her interest in Stan’s pricey paintings, her encouraging me to call the art dealer.
Ryan reaches for my elbow. I jerk back but relent. I’m scared to piss him off, scared I’m paranoid. I’m just scared, period. “I thought you should know,” he says. “There’s something weird about her.”
I manage a jerky nod.
“Dana?” His voice is low and urgent. “You’re under so much pressure. If you need anything, just remember I’m right next door. Maybe when this is over . . . we can . . .” In that dark hood, his smile’s white and canine.
If we were in a busy place, I’d tell him where to go. Even if my husband hadn’t been murdered and I wasn’t a suspect, there’s no way I’d rekindle our affair. Not after he sold that shit to my child.
But here, with no one around, I’m scared. His grip’s tight on my elbow. And those teeth. How did I not find him creepy?
Ryan’s smile widens. He raises a hand to brush a strand of wet hair behind my ear.
I jerk back, yank my arm free. My heart’s thumping.
I step away. “I have to go.”
I turn and run home.