Pamela smears a glob of white Daily Care diaper ointment on Jason’s bare bottom, her eyes focused on the window.
Outside, Elizabeth is mowing her lawn. She’s wearing her usual outfit of shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers, but somehow, the casual clothes seem to emphasize her exquisite figure. There seems to be a bounce in her walk as she pushes the mower over the grass, as though she’s lighthearted.
In the years since Pamela has been her neighbor, Elizabeth has never seemed lighthearted.
No, she’s always been skittish, withdrawn, uptight.
The kind of woman who, as Frank would say, could use a good—
Don’t even think it.
That’s the last combination of ideas Pamela wants running through her mind.
Her husband, and Elizabeth, and sex.
Unfortunately, that’s all that’s been on her mind for the past twenty-four hours.
Discovering the porn magazines may not have been proof of Frank’s affair, but they are proof that he hasn’t lost interest in sex. And if he’s not getting it from Pamela, then he must be getting it someplace else. A few girlie magazines would never provide enough stimulation for a man whose sex drive is as strong as Frank’s has always been.
Anyway, she had caught him sneaking back from Elizabeth’s house the other night, when he was supposed to be watering the grass. Who knows how many times he’s crept next door under cover of darkness, even in the middle of the night, after she and the kids are asleep?
That has to be why he’s been sleeping on the couch—so that he can come and go as he pleases.
And all those midnight shifts he’s been working lately … has he really been out on patrol? Or has he been snug in Elizabeth Baxter’s bed, yards away from his unsuspecting wife?
The thought of it makes her sick.
“Mommy?”
Hannah’s in the doorway of the nursery, chocolate smeared all over her face, along with a guilty expression.
“Hannah, what are you doing?”
“Eating choc-o-late. Mmmm. Yummy chocolate, Mommy. Get more for Hannah?”
“No, I’m not going to get you more. Where did you get it?”
She hurriedly slips a fresh diaper beneath Jason’s bottom, lifts the tapes, and expertly attaches the sticky strips to the cartoon-illustrated front panel.
“Where did you get the chocolate, Hannah?” she repeats.
“In Mommy’s room. Under Mommy’s pillow.”
So Hannah had discovered Pamela’s secret stash. Had she also eaten the snack-sized package of Raisinettes? Pamela had been saving them for tonight, planning to eat them while watching 20/20 on television.
What a thrilling way to spend a Friday evening.
“Hannah, that was a very bad thing to do.” Pamela begins snapping the crotch of Jason’s onesie. “You need to ask Mommy before you go around eating things.”
“Can Hannah eat more chocolate, Mommy?” the toddler asks obediently.
“No.”
Hannah makes a face, pouts, reaches a sticky hand out toward the pale yellow wall of her brother’s room.
“No! Stop that!” Pamela hollers, but it’s too late.
There’s a streak of chocolate on the wall.
Pamela dashes over, grabs her daughter’s hand, and fights the urge to smack it.
She has never hit her child.
Never.
But she’s about to.
Only a sound from the changing table stops her.
She turns in time to see Jason making a movement, appearing as though he’s about to roll over, off the table.
“No!” Pamela dashes over, grabs him.
Her heart is pounding.
He wasn’t in danger.
He can’t roll over yet. He can’t. He’s only two months old, and Hannah hadn’t rolled over until she was in her fourth month.
Still, she hadn’t been thinking when she’d left him alone on the table.
You’re losing it she tells herself, clutching the gurgling baby to her breast. You left Jason on the table without thinking he could fall—
But he couldn’t have fallen.
And you almost slapped Hannah.
She lets out a shuddering sigh.
“What’s wrong, Mommy?” Hannah asks, sucking on her chocolate-covered hand.
“Nothing, Hannah.”
Your mommy’s just losing her mind.
And it’s all Daddy’s fault.
She glances at the window, sees her shapely neighbor pushing her lawn mower up a slight incline in the lawn.
Frank’s fault, and Elizabeth Baxter’s fault.
Elizabeth puts the mower and rake into the shed at the back of her property and turns to survey her work.
The grass is still brown, but at least it’s no longer straggly. It took her two hours to mow it and rake up the clippings.
She closes and locks the shed, then starts toward the house, wiping a trickle of sweat from her neck. It’s another hot, humid day, but the sun isn’t shining as brightly as usual and the sky is a milky color. The weather forecast had called for rain tonight and tomorrow.
Good. Maybe the grass will turn green again.
It looks pretty bad, in contrast with the Minellis’ lawn next door. They must have been watering it—maybe the ban has been lifted, though she hasn’t heard anything. Frank is a cop. He wouldn’t break the law, would he?
She had seen Pamela leave a while ago, driving off in a hurry with the two children in their car seats, but her neighbor hadn’t so much as waved. She was lugging her usual diaper bags and other paraphernalia out to the car, looking preoccupied.
Elizabeth had been partly relieved to have escaped a meaningless conversation …
And maybe a little disappointed too.
Having Harper around last night made her realize how much she’s been missing, cutting herself off from the world the way she has. Maybe it really is time to venture out, to allow herself contact, maybe even friendship, with other people.
Of course, Pamela isn’t Harper.
And the contact Elizabeth wants with him isn’t necessarily just friendship.
That’s why she found herself saying yes when he asked her out for tonight.
She had done it against her better judgment, had done it even though she had fully intended to say no.
It’s too late to back out now.
That’s the tiling about Harper.
Every time she tries to disentangle herself from him, he manages to snare her further into his beguiling web.
“Elizabeth! How goes it?”
She turns to see Frank Minelli stepping out of his patrol car in the driveway, wearing his police uniform.
“Hi, Frank,” she calls, waving.
“Your lawn looks good.” He walks over, jangling his car keys in his hand as he inspects the grass. “Did you cut it?”
“Just now.”
“Looks like it could use some water too.”
“Is the watering ban still on?”
He nods. “But maybe things will start getting back to normal if it rains tonight and tomorrow the way it’s supposed to. They’re predicting severe thunderstorms for the coastal area.”
“Sure, the one night I’m going out,” she murmurs, mostly to herself, but Frank lifts a brow.
“Hot date?” he asks, flashing his good-natured grin.
She shrugs.
“Where are you going?”
“To dinner.”
“Who with?”
She’d rather not tell him, but can’t figure out how to get around it.
So she says, “Harper Smith.”
“The locksmith?”
She nods, suddenly feeling wary. She thought she saw some fleeting, unsettling expression in Frank’s eyes when she mentioned the name, but it’s gone, and she isn’t sure what it was.
“What’s wrong?” she asks him.
“Nothing,” he says, but she knows with a sudden, chilling certainty that he’s hiding something.
Something about Harper.
“Do you know something about him?” she asks Frank, watching his face carefully.
“Nothing concrete …” The reluctance in his tone and the cagey expression in his brown eyes makes Elizabeth’s stomach turn over with a sickening thud.
“Look, it’s nothing,” he says. “You just be careful tonight, okay?”
“What is it, Frank?”
He hesitates, clearly uncomfortable.
“Listen, this is off the record. I could get into big trouble for saying anything about official police business. But you’re my neighbor, and—”
“What?” Her voice is high-pitched now, almost shrill. “What do you know about Harper?”
“I don’t want to scare you, Elizabeth. But he hasn’t been in town for very long, and … well, we’re just keeping an eye on him. That’s all.”
“Why?”
Again Frank hedges, looking over his shoulder as though afraid he’s going to be overheard. “This isn’t something I’m supposed to talk about.”
“You’ve got to tell me, Frank. Please.”
“Okay. I’ll tell you. And remember, it’s probably nothing …”
“What is it?”
“Harper Smith matches the description of a fugitive from California, that’s all. And he showed up here last year right around the time the guy disappeared from L.A.”
“L.A.?”
Frank nods.
“What’s he wanted for?” she manages to ask even as she thinks this can’t be happening.
“Violating a restraining order, officially. It was filed against him by some actress, someone I never heard of—I can’t remember her name. Not anybody you would have heard of. But he’s also wanted for questioning in a murder case. He’s suspected of killing his former girlfriend and threatening her fiancé. He went off the deep end when he found out she was engaged to someone else, that he couldn’t have her.”
“Oh my God.”
“Take it easy, Elizabeth.” Frank lays a hand on her arm. “I’m not saying Harper Smith is the same person. In fact, we’re doing our best to rule it out. It’s just that there’s a resemblance, and the timing is right. And our locksmith tends to keep to himself, which isn’t helping matters. Neither is the fact that his last name is Smith. Hardly a creative alias, if it is one.”
She’s shaking her head, a trembling hand pressed against her lips.
“Don’t get all upset, okay? Oh, man, I shouldn’t have said anything. Look at you.” Frank peers into her face. “Are you going to be okay?”
“I’m … fine. I’m glad you told me. Frank—”
She hesitates.
Part of her wants to confess everything to him. She’ll tell him who she really is, and that Harper Smith must be the stalker who terrorized her in Los Angeles five years ago. He must have followed her here, posing as a locksmith, and …
Oh, Christ. She had played right into his hands.
The break-in had to be a carefully orchestrated part of his plan—he’d broken the lock on her basement door and stolen her spare keys, knowing she would need a locksmith, that she would be nervous and frantic enough to call the first one listed.
And now he intends to make his move, as soon as he gets her alone tonight.
If she tells Frank, Smith can be taken into custody.
Or can he?
She has no evidence against him.
And neither do the police, or they would already have arrested him.
The fact that he’s asked her out means nothing.
Telling Frank her secrets won’t help to save her life.
The only thing that will save her is leaving town.
Immediately.
She turns abruptly and heads for the house.
“Elizabeth?” Frank calls behind her.
She had forgotten all about him standing there.
She pauses, turns to see him looking distressed.
“I didn’t mean to spoil your date. Please don’t get all bent out of shape about this. Chances are, Smith isn’t the guy they’re looking for. Go out with him. Try to relax and have fun. Just don’t let him get you alone until you know him better.”
She nods, clears her throat, tries to sound normal. “I’ll be careful. Thanks for the tip, Frank.”
“And don’t forget … please don’t say anything to anyone. I could get into a lot of trouble for telling you.”
But I could have gotten into far worse trouble if you hadn’t.
It’s raining.
The storm clouds that have hovered over the Connecticut town all afternoon have finally opened up, sending fat, wet drops toward the parched earth.
Gretchen Dodd sits in the window of her room as always, her elbows resting on the windowsill as she watches the rain starting to fall, wishing it had brought cooler air with it.
But the day is still hot, without the slightest gust of breeze to stir the frilly white priscillas at the window.
The children next door are still frolicking on their wooden swingset, undaunted by the precipitation.
Finally, their mother opens the back door and hollers, “Ashley! Jennifer! Ryan! Get in here! Can’t you see that it’s pouring out?”
It’s hardly pouring.
Not yet.
But a rumble of thunder in the distance promises that this won’t be merely a passing shower.
Gretchen listens, rolling her eyes as the three children protest that they’re not ready to come inside yet, then watches in amusement as they scramble toward the house when their mother threatens not to let them watch Pinky and the Brain tomorrow morning.
Only when they’re safely inside, the back screen door slamming shut behind them, does she stand and turn away from the window.
She moves slowly across the room, stopping to pull a slicker over the plain gray athletic T-shirt she wears every day.
There had been a time when she wouldn’t be caught dead in either this T-shirt or the cheap yellow vinyl slicker. She had always been impeccably dressed, painstakingly building a wardrobe the way her mother had built her collection of Lladro figurines.
“They’re an investment, Gretchen,” her mother would say each time she splurged on a new piece to display in the lighted glass shelves of the hutch in the dining room.
Just as Gretchen’s wardrobe had been an investment.
An investment in her future as an actress.
She had prudently stockpiled her baby-sitting money as a teenager, spending it on classic designer clothing purchased at the upscale mall over in Stamford. When she moved to L.A., her luggage was filled with cashmere sweaters, velvet skirts, Italian leather shoes—every item meticulously chosen to flatter Gretchen’s figure, compliment her complexion, and coordinate with the rest of her wardrobe.
Now it’s a sloppy gray T-shirt, day in and day out, worn with plain cotton elastic-waist shorts in the summer, jeans in the winter.
Wearing anything else would be a joke.
Like decorating a Christmas tree whose top has been raggedly hacked off.
Gretchen leaves her room, moving down the familiar staircase, past the ticking grandfather clock in the foyer and through the silent parlor, dining room, kitchen. In the sunroom at the back of the house she slips her feet into a pair of sandals and opens the door.
She steps out into the yard, tilting her head up, toward the sky.
Raindrops splatter against her ravaged face, and she closes her eyes and breathes deeply, inhaling the scent of damp earth.
How she had loved the outdoors …
But that was so long ago.
She used to jog, and Rollerblade, and go to the beach.
Now she spends day after day shut upstairs in her bedroom, venturing out only under cover of darkness, or on stormy days like this, when—
A nearby shriek abruptly interrupts her thoughts.
She opens her eyes, spins around …
And sees one of the little towheaded girls who lives next door.
She’s standing by a bush that separates the two yards, clutching a soggy rag doll that had apparently been inadvertently left out in the rain.
Her eyes are wide, terrified, focused on Gretchen’s face …
Rather, on the battered purple mess that had once been Gretchen’s face.
“Mommy!” the little girl screams, turning and running toward the house. “Help! Help! There’s a terrible scary monster next door! I told you I saw it before, in the window! I told you it was real! Help!”
Gretchen turns and scurries back into the house, slamming the door behind her with an anguished curse.
Elizabeth stands at the edge of the woods, gazing at the pavilion, where the children of Windmere Cove’s day camp are rehearsing next weekend’s big play.
From where she’s standing, with her sunglasses on and staring into the hazy sun, she can’t seem to spot him.
She takes a few steps closer, away from the shelter of the trees, one hand in her mouth as she nervously bites her nails.
The other hand is clutching a plastic shopping bag that holds the two costumes she hurriedly finished that afternoon.
She can’t leave town without giving them to him. She had promised.
And anyway, she needs to see him one last time, to make sure he told his grandparents about his mother’s threats, the way he promised he would.
She scans the children in the distant shadows of the park pavilion, seeking the familiar, slightly built figure with the cap of glossy dark hair.
He isn’t there.
Her gut twists, her hand tightening on the plastic handles of the bag.
Where is he?
Maybe he’s already on his way home. Maybe his part is over.
Except he has the lead role. And the rehearsal appears to be in full swing.
Well, maybe his grandparents kept him home that morning because they’re worried his mother will show up at the park and abduct him.
Or maybe she already has.
Please, Manny … please don’t do this to me now. You have to be all right. I can’t worry about you too.
She turns away, heading back toward the path through the woods, uncertain of her destination.
She could go by Manny’s grandparents’ house, just to—
“Excuse me! Excuse me, miss?”
She realizes someone is calling after her, and turns to see a pretty teenaged girl with light brown hair hurrying toward her.
“You’re Manny’s friend, aren’t you?”
Elizabeth is unable to speak, her mind racing.
“I’ve seen you with him,” the girl adds, coming to a halt a few feet away from her.
Elizabeth nods, then finds her voice and says, “I’m his friend, yes. I was bringing his costumes for the show.” She lifts the bag in her hand, shows it to the girl, vaguely needing to justify her presence there.
Because the girl is looking at her with what appears to be suspicion.
“Where is he?”
They have uttered the same question, perfectly in unison.
Startled, Elizabeth stares into the girl’s worried, slightly accusing brown eyes.
“You don’t know where he is?” Elizabeth asks, a surge of panic rising in her throat.
The girl shakes her head. “He hasn’t shown up for rehearsal all day. We called his grandparents’ house, and they said he’s supposed to be here. He left home before eight this morning, on his way to the park.”
“Oh, God. Oh, Manny …” Elizabeth clutches the bag to her chest, against her racing heart.
The sun goes behind a thickening cloud, and Elizabeth glances up at the sky, wondering if it’s a sign.
Where’s Manny?
Is he in trouble?
“You mean you don’t know where Manny is?” The distrust has vanished from the girl’s face as she stares at Elizabeth, who shakes her head.
“I’m Rhonda,” the girl says abruptly, as though to make up for what she had been thinking.
Elizabeth doesn’t volunteer her own name, and the girl stumbles on with the rapid-fire speech of a teenager who’s terribly upset.
“I can’t believe this is happening. I mean, I thought maybe … I’ve seen him with you in the park, and I, you know, I knew you weren’t his mom or anything. When he didn’t show up today, and his grandparents said he’s missing, I thought—God, I’m sorry. I can tell you’re really worried about him.”
Elizabeth nods, distracted. She asks, “What did his grandparents say when they found out he hasn’t shown up here? Did they call the police?”
“They were going to look for him, I guess. I don’t know if they’ve reported it yet. We’re all just really worried about Manny, and when I spotted you hanging around over here, I thought—”
She cuts herself off, then continues. “He’s a great kid. He was working so hard on the show, learning his lines. What if some psycho child molester grabbed him and—oh, God. I can’t even think about it.”
Or what if his crack-addict mother intercepted him on his way to the park and abducted him?
Elizabeth is seized by a vivid memory of Manny’s mother’s drug-crazed, hateful eyes.
She swallows hard, turns away from Rhonda’s concerned young face.
“I have to go,” she murmurs, taking a step away, then turning back abruptly, remembering. She thrusts the bag containing the two finished costumes into Rhonda’s hands. “Take these, okay? And if Manny shows up, give them to him. Tell him …”
Tell him I said good-bye?
Tell him I’ll call?
She won’t be able to call him. She can’t possibly dare to take that risk, to make any connection to Windemere Cove once she’s gone …
And so she’ll never know where Manny is, whether he’s all right.
Unless …
Unless she doesn’t leave until she finds him.
“Where are you going?” Rhonda calls behind her as she takes off, practically running.
Elizabeth doesn’t answer, just keeps fleeing along the path leading through the woods, toward the edge of the park.
Harper stands in front of the mirror, shaving cream lathered on his face, a towel wrapped around his waist.
He isn’t meeting Elizabeth for a few hours, but figured he might as well get ready now.
You’re not too anxious for tonight, he thinks wryly, reaching for his razor.
It’s just that it’s been so long.
He tilts his head forward and moves the blade over his skin, wondering how long it’s been since he has held a woman, any woman, in his arms.
Then he realizes he doesn’t have to wonder.
He knows exactly when the last time was.
Over a year ago, back in Los Angeles, before …
No.
He doesn’t want to ruin his exhilarated mood by thinking about that.
Instead, his mind conjures Elizabeth Baxter, with her big brown eyes and her skin that looks so soft and smooth, skin that is faintly scented with subtle perfume that reminds him of a glorious spring bouquet.
He smiles, wondering if she’s found his little surprise yet …
Then winces as his blade slips, slicing into his flesh so that a stinging trickle of crimson runs down his neck.
The traffic on 1-95 is snarled as usual. What else would you expect on a Friday afternoon before the last true weekend of the summer, especially outside a coastal city like Boston?
It’ll get better when the traffic for the Cape branches off in a few miles, she thinks, moving her foot from the brake to the gas and inching the Toyota forward a few feet before braking again in sync with the red pickup truck in front of her.
On the radio, the traffic copter reporter says blithely, “And it’s a snail’s crawl into and out of the city this afternoon, with a slow go on the Mass Pike and routes 128 and 93. And if you’re unfortunate enough to be out on 95 south of the city, it’s bumper to bumper all the way to the split, with a serious car-tractor-trailer accident tying things up at Exit 11. Back to you, Steve.”
Pamela reaches out and turns off the radio, which she had turned on a few minutes earlier to drown out Hannah’s whining from the backseat.
Sure enough, as soon as the car is silent, her daughter cranks it up again. “Hannah’s hungry, Mommy. Hannah needs something to eat. Eat now.”
“Hannah, when we get to Nana and Papa’s, then you can eat something.” If they’re around.
She had tried to reach her parents before leaving home earlier, but there had been no answer. She hopes they’re only out to lunch or shopping, that they haven’t decided to go up to their house in Maine for the weekend. Not wanting to wait until she’d spoken to them, she had left a message on the machine telling them that she and the kids were coming for the weekend, but hadn’t told them why, of course.
She isn’t about to let them know that she’s left her husband—maybe temporarily, maybe for good. That depends on his reaction to the note she’d left him on the kitchen table.
Dear Frank,
I’m taking the kids to my mother’s for the weekend. Call or come if you want to talk to me.
Pamela
That’s it. No further information. And not Love, Pam the way she usually signs notes to him.
Had the note been straightforward enough?
She hadn’t mentioned how upset she’s been, or that he’s the reason she’s left. But he’ll have to know. He’ll have to come after her. After all, she’s never left town to visit her parents without first discussing it with him.
He probably found the note when he stopped home, as he often does, while out on patrol.
She used to think it sweet that he did that—that he would check up on her and the kids during the day, to say hello and make sure everything’s okay.
But now she wonders about his true motive for coming around like that.
Is he hoping for a glimpse of their beautiful neighbor?
Hoping to impress her with his patrol car, his uniform?
Is it Pamela’s imagination, or have his visits home become more frequent lately?
It’s not your imagination. You saw him sneaking back from her place the other night, she reminds herself.
The pit of rage ignites in her stomach once again.
She stares out the windshield, realizes they’ve been at an absolute standstill for several minutes now.
In the backseat, Hannah’s whining has turned to crying, and, of course, Jason has awakened and has joined in. The din is deafening.
“Cut it out, you guys,” she yells. “Quiet down. I’m trying to drive!”
“Mommy not driving. Mommy park car,” Hannah stops crying long enough to observe.
“We are not parked!”
Pamela jams her hand down on the horn.
“Move, dammit!” she yells vainly at the cars clogging the road in front of her. Her voice is tight with frustration, despair. “Move!”
Elizabeth drives slowly down Green Garden Way, wondering if she should have stopped at Manny’s grandparents’ house. She had driven by several times, looking for a sign of … Something.
A sign of Manny, a sign of a police investigation, anything that would tell her what’s going on.
But there was nothing to see.
She has to do something. There has to be some way of finding out if Manny’s okay without involving herself with the authorities.
Now, of all times.
“Manny, where are you?” she mutters aloud.
On the seat beside her is a large zippered canvas bag, a bag she brought to the bank so that she could empty out her safety deposit box.
The bag is bulging now.
She rounds the curve at the end of the street and sees her house up ahead.
This is it—the last time you’ll ever do this.
The last time you’ll ever come home here.
And it has been home, she realizes
Not the one she would have chosen for herself years ago, nothing like Gran’s big, cozy Nebraska farmhouse or as grand and comfortable as the Malibu mansion she had abandoned.
But this little Cape has sheltered her for half a decade; within its simple clapboard walls she has felt as safe as she ever could have under the circumstances.
Now she’ll be cast adrift once again, roaming in search of a new refuge.
She doesn’t feel like going, dammit. She doesn’t want to run again. She’s tired of running, exhausted from fear, weary of the tedium, the loneliness of her existence.
But you have no choice.
If you don’t go, you’ll die.
She’d been so damned wrong about Harper Smith.
How could she have imagined that he might be someone who could rescue her from the nightmare, when in reality he’s the one who has caused it?
How could she have been imagining what it would be like to kiss him while he, most likely, had been fantasizing about killing her?
She pulls into the driveway and looks at the house.
Something has captured her attention, something she glimpsed just now, out of the corner of her eye.
For a moment she can’t put her finger on what it is.
Then she sees it.
On the front step.
Some sort of package, wrapped in green tissue paper.
The kind of tissue paper florists use.
She jerks the car to a halt, staring at it, a roaring in her ears as panic rushes through her veins.
“Elizabeth?”
She gasps at the distant sound of her name, turns to see Frank Minelli poking his head out his front door.
She can’t reply, only looks at him, one hand still clenched on the steering wheel, the other on the gearshift.
He’s saying something else, but she can’t hear him through the glass. She should roll down the window, but she can’t move.
She can’t move …
You have to roll down the window, she commands herself. You have to pull yourself together.
She reaches for the lever, cranks it so that it opens halfway, enough for Frank’s voice to reach her ears.
“Have you seen Pam?”
Have you seen Pam?
Have you seen Pam?
It takes an eternity for her to decipher the question, to find her voice, to conjure the correct response.
Have you seen Pam?
“Earlier,” she manages to say in a strangled tone. “With the kids. Leaving.”
“Did she say anything to you about where she was going?”
Elizabeth shakes her head, looks back at the ominous package on the front steps.
“She left a note saying she went to her mother’s in Boston, but I’ve been trying to call and I keep getting the machine. She should have been there by now.”
Elizabeth tries to focus on what he’s saying.
“Hey, are you all right?” he asks, coming closer to the car, peering at her face. “You look terrible.”
“I’m …” She can’t seem to speak coherently.
“You’re not still spooked by what I told you about Harper Smith, are you?”
She can’t reply.
“Listen, relax,” he tells her. “You’re only going to dinner with him, right? You weren’t planning to be alone with him, were you?”
Planning to be alone with him?
Wishing, yes.
Hoping, yes.
Yes, she had allowed herself to imagine that dinner at Momma Mangia’s would lead to something more …
Until Frank had told her that Harper Smith is suspected of stalking an actress in L.A., and killing two other people.
You don’t know it, Frank Minelli, but you’ve saved my life, she thinks, looking into his warm brown eyes.
No. You’re not safe yet. You won’t be until you get out of here.
But she still has a few hours until she’s supposed to meet him at the restaurant.
He won’t realize she’s on to him until she doesn’t show up, and by then she’ll be …
“Elizabeth?”
She shakes her head, focuses on Frank again.
“You look very upset. Do you want to come over to talk? I took the rest of the day off, and I’m waiting to hear from Pamela, so I’ll be around.”
She shakes her head, again looks at the flower arrangement on the step.
He follows her gaze.
“What is that?” he asks, looking at her.
She shrugs. “I have no idea. I guess … he sent it. Harper.”
“Aren’t you going to check?”
She shakes her head, numb.
“Do you want me to go look at it?” Frank asks kindly.
“No! No, Don’t touch it!” she calls, but he’s already striding across the lawn.
She leaps out of her car, calling, “Frank, Don’t—”
But he’s already picking up the green tissue-wrapped package …
And nothing’s happening.
No explosion.
No screams of pain.
No blood.
He walks back over to her, holding the package in one hand, and offering her a small square cardboard rectangle with the other.
“This card was attached. It’s a floral arrangement. See?”
He tilts it toward her, and she flinches.
She takes the card gingerly, turns it over, sees the printed note and signature.
Looking forward to tonight. Harper.
“This is a woman’s handwriting,” she tells Frank, studying it in disbelief.
“He must have ordered them over the phone. Whoever took the order at the florist shop wrote the card. The delivery person must have left them there when you weren’t home.”
“Oh …”
Of course.
The person in the shop had written the note. A woman.
And there is no bomb planted among the fresh summer blooms.
Not this time.
Looking forward to tonight …
She’s filled with foreboding.
Just, she’s certain, as he had intended.
He wanted the flowers to trigger the memory of what had happened in L.A.
He had known she would be paralyzed with fear at the sight of that arrangement sitting on the steps.
You bastard, she thinks, and thrusts the card at Frank.
“Take this,” she says, “and the flowers. Get rid of it for me, will you?”
He looks hesitant. “Elizabeth, I told you, when I said that about Harper I didn’t mean to—”
“No,” she says emphatically, “get rid of it for me. Please, Frank.”
He shrugs. “Okay, sure. No problem.”
“Thank you.”
He turns toward his house, then looks back at her. “You sure you’re going to be all right?”
She nods.
“Well, if you need anything, you holler. I’ll be around all night, so if your date tries anything funny …”
She nods again, thanks him.
She isn’t going to tell him that she’s not going on any date with Harper Smith.
That she’s leaving town as soon as possible …
Now.
She can’t even stick around to find out what’s happened to Manny.
Her life depends on getting out of there as fast as she can, and not looking back.