Patricia
The thing with modern houses—especially some of the McMansions like the one the Phillipses lived in—they look nice and all—they cost a load of money—but they’re junk. Cheaply made. Thin doors. Thin walls. I wanted to hear what those detectives had to say to Brenda, and after I bowed my way out of the room, I had to come up with some sort of plan to listen. I had all sorts of thoughts starting with the old-fashioned glass pressed to the wall, but then I realized I didn’t need to do any of that. Because just standing outside the office, even with the door closed, I could hear every word.
And I did stand there, ready with the excuse—should anyone ask—that I was making myself available for beverage services. And if I incidentally heard whatever was said—hey, this servant doesn’t squeal.
I might kill them—but I don’t squeal.
I’d recognized the women—both from the stable trip with the kids and from my admittedly impulsive visit to check out Georgina Crane’s home. The striking Black woman and the beautiful blonde. You’d think it’d be a disadvantage in their line of work to look like that, wouldn’t you? Or to drive that car? I mean, how do you do surveillance when you and your car are so memorable? Half of why I’d gotten away with what I’d gotten away with because I was pretty much invisible. An older, motherly-looking woman. No one gives me a second glance or a second thought.
If I had much of an ego, it might have bothered me. But I didn’t care. Being invisible has its uses.
And Christina and Kevin seemed to be attached to me, maybe because I was more concerned about them than about myself or my own appearance—unlike their mother.
So, there I stood, just outside Brenda’s office. A motherly invisible nobody.
With a gun tucked under her apron.
Yes, I still had it. I hadn’t managed to sneak that gun into Brenda’s safe. The problem was finding a moment when no one was around on the second floor so that I could put it back until needed.
And no such moment had presented itself.
I had worked on French with Christina. I had checked on Kevin, who asked me to play a board game with him—which I did. All the while keeping my ears open for Brenda’s movements. But she didn’t budge. She’d stayed in her bedroom until the doorbell rang, and I trooped downstairs to open the door.
Then back up the stairs to ask if she would speak with them.
I could see that she was uncomfortable, but for some reason she decided to meet with them in her office.
Had I not wanted to hear what the detectives had to say, I could have scooted upstairs and replaced the gun. But as it was, it was imperative for me to listen. After all, the women and I had had two close encounters—and now that I knew their profession, I was a little suspicious and concerned about them turning up at the Phillips home. While I’d accepted that eventually I’d either be killed or sent to prison for life, I still had places to go, things to do.
People to kill.
Brenda, for example. She was now on the schedule.
I very much needed to know whether these detectives were investigating me. If they were, I had a few options—given that I had that gun under my apron. Although I didn’t want to shoot two perfectly innocent women.
Brenda, no problem.
My other option would have been for Mindy Black to walk out the front door and disappear.
If they were after me.
But if they weren’t, I needn’t do anything.
Yes, there were a couple of questions about Tom Martin and Brenda’s relationship with him. Good ole Brenda lied through her teeth, of course, denying that she’d changed records or had an affair with Tom. Brenda also lied about advising Tom Martin on what to do about Ashley or about changing the medical records.
They didn’t ask about me.
But they did ask about John Petersen and that was, in some ways, almost as upsetting as their suspecting me. But for different reasons.
Because I heard what Petersen was up to. How he’d kidnapped a pregnant young woman with a heart condition and her child to prevent her from getting an abortion. A young woman whose pregnancy could kill her. That the young woman had managed to get away last night, but this morning, he’d found her and her child.
And the pain—that Ashley had died needlessly—hit me. If she’d had an abortion when she’d started to bleed, everything would be different. She’d still be here. She’d still be texting me goodnight.
She’d be doing those human-interest videos for her television station. And in time, she would have tried again for the child that I knew she wanted. I still would have been a mother and maybe eventually a grandmother.
I wouldn’t have become a killer.
I wouldn’t have this ache in my heart. The ache that was, to be honest, lessened when I interacted with the kids, Christina and Kevin, but that never completely left me.
I would never stop mourning Ashley.
You don’t, you know. Mourning never really stops. It changes over time as you change, but you never get over it. Especially not when it’s your child who died.
And here was another young woman—this one with a child—who was at risk.
I had made a mistake. I had prioritized killing the wrong people. Tom Martin and Brenda Phillips were guilty but NOT as guilty as people like John Petersen.
I’d been face-to-face with Petersen the previous night. I’d even thought about killing him. And I’d let him go. Because I didn’t have a plan how to do it and get away with it. And I hadn’t wanted to traumatize either Christina or Kevin. If I’d gone with my gut instinct, that young woman and her child would be safe.
An old man would be alive.
But the interview sounded like it was drawing to a close. It was time for me to relocate from the living room area outside her office. I didn’t want Brenda to know that I was eavesdropping.
Fortunately, the kids were coming down the stairs for lunch, which gave me an excuse for lingering in the front hall. Just in time, too.