THE LOCKSMITH SHOWED up within an hour of her call the next morning.
“Any friend of Wayne’s,” he said. “He kicks a lot of business my way. You can’t imagine how many women in this town have stalker exes.”
“I have an idea.” She had to defend the men in court, although such cases tended to be slam dunks for the prosecution, given reams of telephone records sometimes showing dozens of calls a day along with lurid texts and voice mails.
But knowing about them was one thing, being on the gut-twisting receiving end quite another. Before she’d finally fallen asleep, just a couple of hours shy of her alarm jolting her into resentful wakefulness, she’d gone online and ordered curtains for the kitchen and draperies for the living and dining rooms, heavy fabric designed to block a prying gaze. The house would feel like a tomb when they were drawn. Or maybe it would seem a shelter from whatever malevolent force lurked outside.
The locksmith handed her the new keys, shiny and sharp edged. She’d considered an electronic lock, but after the shocking damage to her credit card from the curtains and drapes, she’d gone old-school on the locks.
The locksmith bent and gently disentangled himself from Jake, who was doing his best to climb up his leg. “Cute fellow.”
“That’s one word for him.” While Julia had spent the night twisting her sheets into sweaty chaos, Jake had been busy in her closet, silently gnawing her only pair of pumps into drool-slicked oblivion. He tumbled from the locksmith’s knee onto the floor and scrambled to his feet, gazing up at her, head cocked, backside shimmying.
“If Calvin didn’t love you so much …” she said, which was pretty much how all of her conversations with the dog began.
The locksmith handed her the bill. She looked and did a double take. “This can’t be right. This counts as an emergency call, right? Isn’t there an extra charge for that?”
“Friend of Wayne’s,” he reminded her.
She should call Wayne, chide him about crossing a line. She couldn’t accept favors. But she was already late to work, and besides, Ray Belmar had finally agreed to an interview, and if she left that very minute, she could just make it.
She grabbed her things, turned the key in her new lock, listened for the solid, reassuring click of the new industrial-strength deadbolt, and headed for the jail.
Ray looked like somebody had shoved a tennis ball into his cheek, skin stretched taut and shiny in rotten-plum hues.
“Good God.” Just when Julia thought he’d lost any ability to shock her, he did so by his very appearance. “What happened?”
He started to shake his head, winced, and stopped. “Nothing.” He spoke out of the other side of his mouth.
Her hand flew to her own cheek. “That’s not nothing, Ray. It looks serious. Who hit you?”
He looked at the ceiling, as though the answer floated somewhere among the harsh fluorescent lights.
“Somebody I hit first.”
“What?”
Given the amount of time he’d spent locked up, Ray could have taught a master class on jail rules and regulations. Being in a fight was bad enough, but starting one all but guaranteed extra penalties.
“What’s going on with you? Starting fights here, getting into that argument with Billy.”
He twisted his mouth and forced more words out of the uninjured side.
“Never mind about me. What’s going on with you?”
Their old dance, Ray demanding some tidbit from her before handing over something in exchange. She usually offered up one of Calvin’s escapades.
“Let’s see. We have a puppy.”
“Awww.” A smile started but turned into a grimace. “That’s sweet.”
“Calvin thinks so. That dog eats everything within reach, whether it’s food or not. He murdered a pair of my shoes last night. Calvin barely managed to save the remote yesterday.”
Ray’s shoulders shook in a silent laugh.
“Your turn. What happened?”
Ray folded his arms across his chest. “You’re here.” He stopped, took a breath, and forced the rest of the words. “To talk about my case.”
“Right.” She tried to refocus, staring down at the table between them. It was easier than looking at his swollen jaw. She wondered if he’d lost teeth.
“What did you and Billy fight about?”
“Wasn’t a fight.” He made a fist, punched the air. “Not like that. Just a beef. Verbal, like.”
“Fine. But what was it about?”
“Stupid shit. Women.”
He could say anything and she had no choice but to believe him. Billy wasn’t around to contradict him.
“Angie?”
“Sure.”
Which was a lot less definitive than she’d have liked.
He squared his shoulders, twisted his mouth, and forced another sentence from its corner. “What else is going on with you?”
Her head jerked up. One anecdote was all he usually sought before they got down to business. She’d already offered up the puppy.
“Let’s see. I have a new house. Here—you’ll find this interesting. Leslie Harper lived there.”
“Fuck. Are you crazy? Aaaagh.” Ray sat up straight, then fell back in his chair, face contorting.
“Why? Why?”
“No reason.” His response was nearly unintelligible. He cradled his cheek in his hand. The old injuries from his encounter with the Rotarians—seemingly so long ago, almost charmingly mischievous in comparison to the dilemma he now faced—had faded, but new wounds knotted his fingers and purpled the back of his hand. Whomever Ray had hit, he’d hit him hard.
“Dammit, Ray, if you know something, you need to tell me. Some asshole called me last night, told me he could see me in the kitchen and that he knew Harper had died there. I just changed the locks today. If there’s more to this than just a creeper taking advantage of the fact I hadn’t put up curtains yet, I have to know.”
Ray rose stiffly to his feet and thumped on the door with his elbow, which at least appeared to be unhurt.
“’Member how I tried to call you? Wanted to meet with you? Before all this?” Blood leaked from a corner of his mouth. “Too bad we never got the chance.”
A guard led him away. He didn’t look back.