“We understand your wife is heavily pregnant, sir. She and the baby might be in jeopardy. It’s important that—”
He begins to shut the door. Mal blocks it with her boot. She’s treading toward a fine line she can’t cross without a warrant, but her pulse hammers hard, and she fears for the well-being of this man’s wife and unborn child. “Is that your Audi in the driveway, sir?”
Rittenberg glowers at her in silence.
“Were you at a house called Northview yesterday evening? In that Audi?” Mal asks.
He doesn’t respond.
“We have a witness who places you and your wife at Northview, sir. Also known as the Glass House—home of Vanessa and Haruto North.”
He tries to pull his door shut, but Mal’s boot is in the way.
She presses. “Who is your house cleaner, Mr. Rittenberg?”
“What in the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“Do you use Holly’s Help cleaning services, sir?” Benoit asks.
Rittenberg’s eyes flick up to Benoit’s. Distaste fills his face. “I have no idea. My wife handles that.”
“Do you know Kit Darling, the maid from Holly’s Help?” Benoit asks.
Rittenberg swears, his eyes still fixed on Benoit. “What’s wrong with you people? I told you—my wife, Daisy, handles the cleaning service, and I doubt even she knows which maid comes on cleaning days. She isn’t home when they come. Now get your fucking foot out of my doorway.”
Very calmly, Mal says, “Mr. Rittenberg, when you and your wife arrived in your Audi at Northview around six fourteen p.m., with a bouquet of flowers from Bea’s Blooms and a blackberry pie ordered from the Pi Bistro, did you see a yellow Subaru Crosstrek with Holly’s Help logos parked in the driveway?”
“There was no other car in the driveway.”
“So you do confirm you were at the house?”
“Get the hell off my property before I sue your asses off, and if you want anything else from me, get a fucking warrant or speak to my lawyer.”
Mal steps back, removing her boot. “We need to know where your wife—”
He slams the door.
They hear a lock click.
She glances up at Benoit. His face is tight, the whites of his eyes stark. She can see he’s also thinking about that carving knife found at the bottom of the infinity pool, and the blood spatter all over the white interior of the Glass House, the evidence of a violent struggle. And they’re both thinking about the fresh injuries on Jon Rittenberg’s face and hand.
“We need to lay eyes on his wife,” she says.
“And we need to find that maid,” Benoit says.
JON
November 1, 2019. Friday.
From an upstairs window in the baby’s dark room, Jon watches the detectives leave his front doorway. His heart gallops. He tries to sober up, to pull himself together. He’s panicking. Shaking. Sweating.
Focus. Focus.
Keeping one eye on the cops moving down his driveway toward his Audi, Jon tries to call Daisy’s mobile. It rings and rings, flips into voice mail.
“Hi, this is Daisy. Leave a message.”
“Daisy, pick up for God’s sake! Call me. Wherever you are. Please. We need to talk.”
As he speaks, he watches the two cops circling his Audi with flashlights. They bend down to examine his muddy tires and plate. The female cop wipes the plate and takes a photo with her phone.
The next call Jon makes is to his lawyer.
THE MAID’S DIARY
Today I’m cleaning a luxury condo unit high above the city in the trendy Yaletown area, where shimmering towers of glass look out in all directions. So many people on top of one another in glass boxes. This unit is used as an Airbnb. Holly has several of these nightly rentals on her books. This time around, it’s a superquick job. The recently departed solo guest appears to have done nothing but sleep in the bed and shower and shave. Probably a businessman in town for a day. No signs of wild sex like the last time. Booze bottles everywhere. Evidence of cocaine use. Used condoms. A discarded vibrator. I even found a pair of padded handcuffs under the bed last week.
I yank back the drapes, letting in the pale sunlight. Across the street is a flashing neon sign above a club called CABARET LUXE. It’s a new “it” venue. I have no idea how that 24-7 pulsing pink neon sign doesn’t annoy the hell out of all these people living in their glass boxes.
I make the bed while thinking of my Glass House job yesterday and how I caught Horton Brown spying from behind the hedge into the bedroom window where I was vacuuming. The memory gives me a small shudder. Horton always makes my skin crawl. I shake the memory off, finish cleaning, and use my bit of spare time to sit at a table by the window and jot down my thoughts.
I have not journaled in a little while. I’m rethinking this whole journaling thing. I also skipped my last therapy appointment. I guess I’m afraid my psychologist will confirm what I already know: I’m on increasingly dangerous ground now. Both mentally and physically. And the very fact I want to quit the diary is probably a warning sign that I’m also getting close to something my unconscious wants to keep hidden.
I spoke to Charlotte “Charley” Waters yesterday.
I found her after calling the nightclub mentioned in the Silver Aspens newspapers—Club Crimson. She still works there. Just like I still work for Holly’s. Girls like Charley and me—we tend to stick. We stay where society thinks we belong. The club manager wouldn’t give me her number, of course, but said if I called back during one of Charley’s shifts, I might get lucky.
After many tries over the past days, I finally got lucky.
So, Dear Diary, this is how it goes:
I get Charlotte Waters on the phone, and I tell her I’m an ex-employee of Jon Rittenberg’s and I have reason to believe she can help me.
She’s immediately suspicious. This is not surprising.
“I read about you in the newspapers,” I say carefully. “Women like us, we need to have each other’s backs. Do you know what I mean?”
She’s silent for a while. I hear music in the background. I hear voices.
“What did you say your name was?”
I hesitate, clear my throat, and say it: “Katarina Popovich. But everyone calls me Kit. My married name is Darling, but I’m divorced now.” It’s been a long time since I’ve introduced myself as Katarina Popovich, and it has a strange effect on me. I feel something shift inside—the old Katarina taking up more space, trying to meld herself with the newer, happier “Kit.” I worry I’m making a huge mistake in reawakening Katarina. I fear I won’t come back from this—that this right here is my point of no return. My hill I will die on. But finding myself inside Jon Rittenberg’s house—seeing those big paintings of him coming down the mountain at me—it’s fundamentally changed everything. There can be no turning back now. Even if I try. I know this instinctively.
“Kit.” Charley repeats my name, and I sense the wheels of her brain churning, trying to figure me out. But she hasn’t killed the call yet. This is a positive sign. She says, “I don’t have a lot of time. I’m on a smoke break. Make it quick.”
So she’s curious. Good, this is all I ask. She can take it or leave it, but I just want her to listen, and to consider my questions. If she balks, maybe she’ll still talk at a later date after the idea sits with her awhile.