Professionals would normally pack up the art, but with this work, I’m taking no chances. I sink back on my heels to admire my copied Cleggs. I tried to buy back the original, but the owner declined to sell.
I touch the red dot. Perhaps my shoddy replacement means more.
Some movement behind me makes me turn. Toonces has hopped into a cardboard box, curious as ever. Cats don’t like moving. He won’t be happy. He leaps back out, his gaze disdainful. He’s gained more weight, eyes small and piggy. Toonces always preferred Stan.
I gaze around the den, littered with junk and half-packed boxes. I’ve spent the morning sorting and packing up valuables. We need to vacate the house by the end of the month.
My stomach growls. I should stop for lunch soon. On cue, the grandfather clock starts to chime twelve.
Three months ago, I found Stan’s USB banking keys hidden in that clock. It was a relief, to say the least. While Stan lost a fortune, he still had a fortune. Now it’s mine. His art collection’s smaller, minus all the ugly pop art and abstracts.
I don’t need to sell Winderlea, but I want to. It’s time for a fresh start, still in the Oaks, but not on the water. The ocean creeps me out. Stan’s empty-eyed skull is somewhere on the seafloor.
I rummage through a drawer. It’s full of junk.
I pull a garbage bag off the roll and slide it between finger and thumb. Opening found, I start to toss in unwanted items. It’s amazing how things build up. The new place we’re moving into is smaller: just four bedrooms, with a shed I can use for my studio. It feels good to downsize.
When the bag’s full, I drag it out the front door.
I sniff appreciatively. The lilacs are in bloom.
I consider leaving the bag on the porch for the gardener to toss tomorrow, but I don’t want to leave things half-done. I carry the bag toward the road. I refuse to fetch the wheelbarrow. It reminds me too much of that night when we dumped Stan.
By the time I lug the bag down the driveway and through the gates, my breathing’s heavy. Beneath my quilted vest, I’m sweating. I stop on the sidewalk to unzip it.
I’m turning to go when I spy a police car parked out front of the Reeves’. Two uniformed cops emerge from their driveway. Ryan staggers between them, head down. Hair hides his face. His hands are behind his back.
I stand transfixed. Ryan’s being arrested! Was he caught selling drugs again?
Two other men appear behind Ryan. One is in his midthirties, the other closer to sixty. The younger one has red hair. I recognize them from Jo’s description: the hit-and-run detectives.
Ryan’s head swings my way. He glares at me. I can’t move.
After Angie’s arrest, he tried to relaunch our affair. I rebuffed him. Like the spoiled child he is, he took it badly.
I recall Jo’s fear of him. He does look scary: snake-eyed and shaggy like a fairer Charles Manson. My former attraction to him is inexplicable, like I was on drugs. What the hell was I thinking?
The uniformed cops bundle him into their car. They shut the door.
I rub my palms on my jeans.
A tow truck pulls up behind Ryan’s parked Audi. Its driver gets out. He joins the detectives as they examine the Audi’s left front headlight. They’re clearly excited, leaning close and nodding. The younger detective snaps photos.
The dots connect in my head. Detective Shergold told me the police divers found a broken car headlight in the ocean out back. Ryan must have tossed it!
I watch the tow truck driver hook up Ryan’s car.
The marked police car drives by. Ryan’s hunched in the back, white-faced. He looks scared, a small boy trying not to cry.
I feel a moment’s sympathy but remind myself that he killed that poor lady! If Jo hadn’t stopped to help, she might have lain in the street for hours in the rain.
Jo. Did she turn Ryan in? Or did the cops finally crack the case on their own?
I check my watch. Jo should be on her lunch break. I should phone and tell her. She’ll be thrilled to hear of Ryan’s arrest. If only she’d answer my calls.
I walk up the drive. The trees have bright new buds. The rhododendrons are in flower, a party of hot pink and orange. Spring. I breathe deeply. The air smells fertile. Everything feels possible, except another grim winter. And what a winter it was! I really must talk to Jo. Ryan’s arrest marks the end of a dreadful chapter.
I spent months worrying the truth would wash up, like Stan’s corpse. I feared a trial. Luckily, thanks to Jo, the case against Angie was too strong. Her lawyers convinced her to plead guilty to second-degree murder. In exchange, the DA dropped the obstruction and illegal disposal of a corpse charges against Gemma. They didn’t have that much on her, although Gemma did herself no favors by insisting she’d never been in my guesthouse, which was smeared with her DNA. She and Chad were obviously sneaking in there.
With no prior record, Angie will be up for parole in fifteen years—if she behaves.
I stop to admire the Chinese wisteria, heavy with blue blossoms. I knew Jo was smart. Just not that smart. Or that ruthless. She stitched Angie up so neatly you couldn’t even see the thread.
The police found traces of Stan’s blood on the driver’s seat of Angie’s car. The murder weapon was stashed in her closet. Sheets matching the one used to wrap Stan’s body were found in Angie’s garage in a bag meant for Goodwill. Two menthol cigarette butts were retrieved from the bushes outside my guesthouse. A third was wedged into a crack in my dock, somewhere Angie swore she’d never been. All three bore her DNA.
I touch the wisteria, such a delicate lilac blue. I should buy a tree for the new place.
Staring up at the blooms, I feel sorry for Angie. There are no flowers in jail. She’ll be close to sixty by the time she’s freed, if she’s lucky. That’s pretty harsh, given that she’s innocent of murder.
Except she’s not innocent, I remind myself—not of blackmail. Or of fucking my husband. It still rankles, her stealing my spouse and my money. Luckily, I’m not broke. She can’t spend it in prison. Wherever she’s stashed that cash, by the time she gets out, she’ll be ancient.
I walk around the driveway’s bend. The wind rises off the sea, swishing through the pines and cedars. Winderlea appears, dark and austere.
A Chinese family bought it. Apparently, they made a fortune in poultry. I cross my arms against the chill and wonder what the old coal baron would think. I reckon he’d approve. He was an immigrant too.
Staring up at the house, I recall that night in Zoe’s room. My sleeping daughter, too still. The ripped-off dolls’ heads . . . Shergold was right about one thing: my sense of safety was shattered. Even now, I don’t sleep well.
I think of Angie in a jumpsuit and a cell. She’s not innocent. She threatened me and my children.
Fury quickens my footsteps. Who knows how far she’d have gone? Angie deserves this. Thank God she’s in jail.
Entering the house, I double-lock the door. I walk to the kitchen, where Gloria is kneading sourdough.
I’m pouring myself a glass of Chablis when I spy her phone on the counter. “Gloria, do you mind if I borrow your phone? Mine’s dead.”
This is a lie. But Jo won’t pick up if she knows it’s me. I’ve tried everything. Notes. Gifts. She looks right through me when I go to Stanton House. I feel awful for Zoe and Ruby too. They didn’t deserve to lose their friendship. Jo’s being selfish and petty.
Gloria looks up. “No problem,” she says. “There’s no passcode.”
I carry her phone into the hall. I know Jo’s number by heart. I hold my breath as it rings. Once, twice. She picks up. “Hello?” She sounds tired.
“Hey, Jo. It’s me! You won’t believe what I just saw.”
She hangs up.
I lower the phone. Shocked tears cloud my eyes. I had good news—news she’d want to hear. It’s been seven months! I can’t believe she hasn’t come around! After everything we’ve been through together. And things turned out fine. How could she dump me?
I tell myself it doesn’t matter. Who does she think she is? I don’t need her. But that’s bullshit. I stare up at the chandelier’s feeble twinkle. This house feels too big and quiet. Too lonely. The cat swishes past, evading me when I try to pet him.
I miss my best friend.