NOW
Danger.
The word hangs in the air between them. Aimee looks at the woman in front of her. She thought she knew Gwen. How as a girl she had wanted to be a writer, but realized she didn’t have the temperament and settled for public relations. That her favorite flowers are orchids. That she likes pale-pink nail polish from Olive and June, and Bellinis with fresh peach slices, and rewatches Sex and the City whenever she’s sick. That her first concert was Hootie & the Blowfish in 1995, but she told Anton it was Mazzy Star to seem cooler. That she grew up lonely and counted her horse, Shadow, as her best friend. That she won’t let any non-organic food in the house yet keeps a stash of Cokes hidden in the pantry.
But what did it all add up to? If Gwen could keep a secret like this, Aimee realizes that she doesn’t know this woman at all.
“He said that Noa might be in danger? Why?”
Gwen shrugs sheepishly. “He didn’t say, exactly.”
“Cathy’s a retired teacher, she’s in her sixties, in what way is she dangerous?”
“I don’t know, I swear! It had something to do with Scott’s past.”
Aimee blanches. “His past? What about his past?”
“Aimee, if I knew I would tell you. Anton was upset. Drunk. He said she was dangerous. That Scott needed to know. That Noa might be in danger.”
“And you said nothing to me?” Heat erupts across Aimee’s skin, like an instant sunburn. A mother’s rage at the thought of her vulnerable child in harm’s way.
“Friday night was the first I knew about any of it,” Gwen says, tears wetting her eyes. “You have to believe me.”
Gwen’s theatrics leave Aimee cold. If anything, her display of emotion makes Aimee angrier. How dare Gwen break down, feel sorry for herself. She endangered a child. “But on Saturday, and on Monday, Noa went back there,” Aimee says.
“I didn’t know that! Anton was murdered on Friday night! I’ve been out of my mind. You have to believe me.”
Aimee takes a step back from Gwen, astonished at her attempts to make herself the victim. “This is not about you right now. This is about my daughter. You want me to believe that at no point in the past few days, with the police questioning you about that night, at no point did it occur to you to tell me that Anton warned you about Cathy?”
“You’re being unfair. You know how distraught I’ve been. You don’t know what I’m going through. I can barely remember the most basic things, like brushing my teeth. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Noa, about that woman, but I have been struggling just to function.” Gwen’s voice has taken on a wheedling tone. “Not to mention that I learned Anton was sleeping with Lisa.”
“Lisa? I don’t want to talk about Lisa. I want to know how Cathy is connected to Scott. What did he mean, she was someone from his past?”
Gwen shrugs. “He didn’t say.”
Hot, sweaty, dizzy with anger, Aimee pivots and walks back into the living room.
“Where are you going?” Gwen calls after her.
“To Cathy’s. I’m going to confront her. If you won’t tell me then I’ll find out for myself what’s going on.” Aimee yanks the door open.
“Is that a good idea?” Gwen asks. “She could be dangerous.”
Aimee chokes down a laugh. An image of the older woman pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose springs to mind. “I think I can handle Cathy.”
Aimee storms outside, adrenaline pushing her forward. She gets in her truck and slams the door. Gwen runs out after her, Sababa right behind her with his leash in his mouth. Aimee starts the engine at the same time Gwen yanks open the passenger-side door and climbs inside as the dog jumps in, as well.
“What the hell are you doing?” Aimee asks.
“I’m coming with you.”
She takes a good look at Gwen. Her two-hundred-dollar jeans have a coffee stain on the knee, and there’s a small hole in the sleeve of the short-sleeve cream sweater she is wearing. Her face is blotchy from crying, a bit of eye makeup smudged. She’s crumbling; her veneer as fake as her friendship. “No. You’re not coming with me.”
Gwen clicks her seatbelt. “I know you hate me right now, and I don’t blame you, but I can’t let you do this alone. So, if you want to go to Cathy’s house, you’re going to have to take me with you.”
“I don’t need your help, Gwen. No offense, but you’ve done enough damage. I’m perfectly capable of talking to Cathy by myself.”
Gwen doesn’t respond, but pulls the dog onto her lap.
“Fine. Have it your way,” Aimee says and yanks the steering wheel hard to the left as she stomps on the gas, forcing the truck into a screeching hard turn and slamming Gwen against the door.
They drive in silence toward Cathy’s house. All she can think of is Noa, her daughter who thinks everyone is a friend and doesn’t understand why people are mean to each other. Who believes what others tell her, even when it hurts her. Like the time three of her former friends told her there was a wounded puppy in the woods behind the school, and Noa wandered off to find it during recess and missed the bell to return. She got in trouble for not coming in on time but remained convinced for days that there was a puppy in the woods that needed her help. Aimee reminds herself that Noa is safe, unhurt. Cathy hasn’t harmed her in any obvious way. But what about in less obvious ways? What really went on at Cathy’s house?
At Huntington Parkway, she swings a quick left off Old Georgetown as a car zooms toward her.
“That was kind of close,” Gwen says, as the other driver honks at them.
Aimee slows down a little over the speed bumps. She has to get her emotions under control. If she wants Cathy to tell her the truth, she can’t come in with guns blazing. She needs to play nice. Cathy will respond to nice. But Aimee doesn’t feel very nice right now.
“I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” Gwen says. “Just showing up like this.”
“Why are you trying to talk me out of this? You’re the one who told me that she was connected to Scott’s past, that Noa might be in danger with her. Are you sending me on a wild goose chase?”
“No, I swear.”
“If there’s any chance that Cathy might know something that could help me find Scott, I want to talk to her. I’d think you’d want to, as well. She might know something about Anton’s death.”
“I want to know the truth just as much as you do. I just don’t think we should barge in like this.”
“Next time we can send engraved invitations.”
As the familiar house comes into view, Aimee’s heart begins to pound. She shoots a hard side glance at Gwen, in no mood for debate. She doesn’t want to be talked out of this. There have been a few times in her life when, deep in her soul, she knew things.
Like how she knew when her mom went into the hospital that it wasn’t going to be all right. She knew when she hugged her and kissed her that last time and everyone promised she would be fine after she got some rest, she knew in her gut it wasn’t true. Mom will be fine, her father had said. She only broke a hip. People break bones all the time.
He had made it seem routine, but Aimee knew it was anything but. Her mom’s bones had been hollowed and made weak by the cancer medications she was on. Once she was in a hospital bed, unbeknownst to everyone, an undetected blood clot loosened and began traveling from her leg. Aimee didn’t know about the blood clot, of course, but she sensed things were not right.
She begged her dad to let her spend the night. She offered to sleep on the floor. But her father insisted she go home. Her mother died that night of a pulmonary embolism.
It’s taken years for Aimee to learn how to speak up when that little gut instinct kicks in. But she’s not a child anymore. She doesn’t need anyone’s permission. Outside Cathy’s, she puts the car in park and turns to Gwen.
“I didn’t ask you to come here. If you’re not comfortable, call an Uber and go home.” Aimee gets out, astounded at her own directness, slams the door, and stomps up the front steps. She is grateful she is wearing her heavy work boots and pants, that she has a sharp knife inside her jacket’s left pocket. Not that she anticipates using a weapon on Cathy. But she doesn’t feel vulnerable. She feels infused with some kind of superpower. She bangs on the front door.
As she waits on the porch she looks around and notices what she didn’t see before. A sleek blue BMW at the far end of the driveway, about ten feet in front of the old barn. Not Cathy’s usual green Subaru.
Gwen appears beside her, holding one end of Sababa’s leash. The dog, nose to the floorboards of the porch, sniffs loudly.
“What is it?” Gwen asks. “What are you looking at?”
“That car. I’ve never seen it here before.”
“Maybe she has company. Do you want to leave? It’s not too late.”
Just then the front door swings open, and a woman in her midfifties with a choppy dyed-red bob answers. “Hello, may I help you?” She looks at the two women and the dog with obvious confusion.
Aimee pulls back, startled. “Hi, is Cathy home?”
The woman’s penciled-in eyebrows arch in surprise. She’s dressed in a style that reminds Aimee of Cathy—a flowy gray silk top, black skirt, and chunky acrylic necklace. Aimee wonders if she is a friend or coworker of Cathy’s.
“Cathy?” The woman shakes her head. “There’s no Cathy here.”
“Cathy Stocker,” Aimee says with more urgency. “She lives here.”
“Oh, Catherine Stocker.” She nods in recognition. “Of course, Catherine, my cat sitter. But she no longer works for me. And I can assure you she has never lived here.”