Back at my house, Vera got me settled, made sure the heat was on, the milk in my fridge was still good, before leaving me alone. I went straight to bed, though I knew I needed to get Dusty, but I hardly had the energy to move; I was exhausted from two nights in a hospital, from the accident, from the pain still searing my neck.
My phone was finally charging properly—the hospital chargers had been shit—and I allowed myself one check before attempting to sleep. On Instagram, I found Davis’s page. There it was, another photo. Him in Brooklyn. He’d posted one yesterday—as well as the day before—after more than two months of silence on the platform.
He’s finally given up, I told myself again. You’re okay.
Still, I slept fitfully. Between dreams I couldn’t quite remember but that were unsettling all the same, my mind turned to the photos of John, the note he’d left me, the scarf of my mother’s. Why had Sam taken them, and what did he plan to do with them? Could he do anything, now that he’d been arrested? Was I, for once, actually safe?
Around two, a knock on the door jostled me out of sleep. Through the window, I saw Maggie, and at her feet—
“Dusty,” I called as I whipped the door open.
He bounded toward me, his leash trailing against the floor, jumping onto my knees and covering my face with kisses. He was so warm, so fuzzy, he reminded me that not everything in the world was bad. I scooped him into my arms and stood. “Thank you so much for taking care of him. You want to come in?”
Maggie nodded. “Only if you don’t mind.”
I made her tea as Dusty circled my feet, begging for more scratches. When it was done, I set the cups on the coffee table, and Dusty hopped into my lap.
“Was he good, I hope?”
She smiled crookedly. “He’s a quick learner,” she said. “And I’ve always been good with dogs.”
“I’m sure.”
I sipped my tea the liquid warm, bolstering.
“Are you in pain?” Maggie asked. “My daughter—she was actually in a bad accident a few years ago.”
“Oh god,” I said. “Really? And after your husband, too. I’m so sorry.”
Maggie shook her head. “I didn’t mean it like that. She’s okay now. It just took a lot of rehabilitation and physical therapy to manage the pain. She lives in L.A. with her husband. She’s your age, actually, or maybe a little older. I don’t see her as much as I’d like, but who does, when we all live so far apart?”
I smiled. “I’m glad you have her. And my pain isn’t too bad,” I said. “It’s manageable, at least. I have a prescription for some hard-core painkillers if I really need them, but I’m trying to hold off.”
Maggie’s eyes flitted around the room. She wanted to talk about it, only didn’t know how.
“You heard what happened?” I asked.
“Well . . .”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I figured you had. About Sam.”
“I’m glad he’s caught,” she said. “No one deserves to be murdered, no matter what they’ve done.”
“I’m glad, too.”
Maggie dug deep in her pocket. “By the way,” she said, tossing a silver key onto the table between us. “I was organizing, and I found this.”
I reached for it, fingering the edges of the metal.
“It’s the old spare key I had,” she said. “Rachel gave it to me when she lived here.”
“Oh,” I said, pausing. “I don’t think it works anymore. Ms. Moon”—I raised my eyebrows—“or Mrs. Alby, I guess, said the locks were changed when Rachel moved.”
“Yes, I’m sure they were,” Maggie said matter-of-factly. “You can get rid of it if you want, but I felt weird having it. I used to water her plants and things when Vera wasn’t able to.”
“Vera had a key, too?” I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before, that Rachel’s neighbors might have a spare. Ellie had had one of mine in Brooklyn. So did the lady upstairs, just in case Davis or I ever got locked out.
Maggie folded her hands in her lap. “Oh, of course Vera had a spare key, same as me. Those two were thick as thieves, popping back and forth between each other’s places constantly—until things went sour.”
Claire was pregnant.
“Right,” I said. “Because of everything with Claire.”
“Yes,” Maggie said. “It’s a shame how Vera handled everything. She took it all out on Rachel, who didn’t deserve it. It’s not Rachel’s fault John got the girl pregnant.”
“You knew about that?” I asked, my cup nearly slipping from my hand.
“Course I did. Rachel told me as soon as she found out. She was torn up about it, didn’t know what to do, what to tell Vera.”
I raised the cup to my lips, took another sip of tea. “I wish Rachel had told Vera the truth about Claire being pregnant. Then maybe Vera wouldn’t have cut Rachel out like she did. I know Rachel didn’t want to hurt her, but—”
Maggie’s eyebrows furrowed. “Vera knew Claire was pregnant.”
I froze, the cup hovering in front of my face. I set it down, trying to stop my hands from shaking. “What are you talking about? Vera only just found out, when I told her.”
“No,” Maggie said. “That’s not true.”
Heat rose to my face. “How do you know?”
Her eyes fixed on her teacup, fingers tracing the edge, before catching mine.
“When Rachel refused to tell her, I told Vera myself.”