Jon clears the rest of the table, and Daisy reaches for the mail he left on the counter. As she opens bills and junk mail, Jon’s mobile pings. Daisy reaches for the last item, a brown manila envelope. But a sudden stillness in Jon makes her glance up. He’s studying a text on his screen, his body tense. Daisy sees her husband’s features change. For a moment it appears as though he’s not even breathing. He suddenly notices her watching, quickly pockets his phone, and moves swiftly to pour the remainder of the wine into his glass.
“What is it?” Daisy asks.
“Nothing.”
“Well, who sent ‘nothing’？”
“Just a junk text. Spam.” He doesn’t meet her gaze.
“Jon?”
“What?”
“We don’t hide things. We’re not that couple. Not anymore.”
“Jesus, Daisy. It was spam, okay? Relax.”
“Can I see it?”
“What?”
“Can I see the spam?”
“I deleted it.”
She regards him steadily, recalling how quickly she deleted her own troll messages without even thinking. Just reflexively. Why can’t she just believe him? Why is she mistrusting everything right now? She hears Vanessa’s words again: Pregnancy can even make you fearful, or paranoid.
“Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“It’s okay.”
Daisy realizes she’s clutching the letter opener like a dagger in her fist. She carefully resumes opening the manila envelope, but her heart is hammering. An image slices through her brain like a piece of glass—the GIF. In her mind she sees the knife stabbing up down, up down, up down. She can almost feel herself holding it, jabbing it into white flesh.
Jon’s phone pings again. This time he doesn’t check it in front of her. He says he needs to send a work email. He excuses himself and takes his wine up to his office.
Jaw clenched, Daisy slices the plain brown envelope open. An A4-size glossy photo slides out and falls onto the table.
It’s an image of a bloody Chucky doll. Knife in fist.
Daisy drops the letter opener with a small gasp.
Beneath the image are the words:
I KNoW WHaT YOU aRE.
I KnOW WhAT YoU DId.
I wilL DEStROY yOU.
DIeDiEdIeDIEBaBYdiE
Daisy can’t breathe. Her baby kicks. In slow motion she turns over the envelope to see what’s written on the front. She was so absorbed with Jon she never checked.
No name.
No address.
Nothing.
Someone came to their house—right up to their home—and hand-delivered this into their box.
First her car. Now her home.
She shoots her gaze to the stairs, where Jon disappeared.
She’s terrified. She should tell him. Report it to the police.
But then they will all know what she did.
JON
October 18, 2019. Friday.
Thirteen days before the murder.
Jon sets his wineglass on his desk and locks his office door. A thrill rushes through him. Mia Reiter has found his mobile number. She must have gone to some effort to hunt him down. She wants him. This rubs Jon in all the right places.
He seats himself, takes a big sip of wine, and opens the text message, which he did not delete, contrary to what he told Daisy.
Was so great to meet you last night, Jon. Can’t stop thinking about you.
Jon swallows, aroused. He brings images of Mia to mind. Those bloodred lips. Those clear green eyes. The way she looked at him as though he were the only person in the universe at that very moment. That smile—how he felt the power of it right inside his chest. The matching red nails. The feel of her slender, cool hand in his. Her seductive accent. The way she carried herself on those high heels—hips sashaying as she walked along the pavement, the city lights glinting on her hair.
This is what it is to feel alive. To thrive. His marriage, this little family growing, this “cottage”—it’s stifling something in him.
He opens the second message sent from the same number.
Would love to meet again. Hope we bump into each other. Soon. Here’s to serendipity. Mia. Xoxo
Jon opens a drawer and takes out his special whisky and a glass. He pours himself a few fingers. He takes a sip. It’s better than the wine. He begins to type a reply.
Let’s meet. Same pub? Or we can go somewhere quieter. When are you back in town? JR
Jon hesitates with his thumb over the SEND button. He thinks of Daisy downstairs in the kitchen. Guilt expands in his chest. Conflict torques through him. A kind of resentment, too—because he can’t lose Daisy. If he gives Daisy grounds for divorce, he loses everything.
But if something “happened” to Daisy?
Jon curses. It’s the wine. The whisky. It’s the promise of this woman, Mia Reiter from Switzerland, who skis and is sexy as hell and also a brainy banker. She looks and smells like money, too. Maybe she’s even wealthier than Daisy and her trust fund. He closes his eyes, heart thudding. He’s got a devil on one shoulder, saying do it. An angel on the other who is truly trying to protect him from himself. But then the devil whispers into the secret part of his soul . . . The world doesn’t end at Daisy. What harm will a little fling bring if you keep it quiet? No foul if no one finds out, right? A man like you, Jon, you need an outlet. You need to release some of that pent-up alpha energy.
Jon hits SEND.
MAL
November 1, 2019. Friday.
With their flashlights, Mal and Benoit pan the exterior of the Audi S6 sedan parked in the Rose Cottage driveway. Rain drips from the bill of Mal’s cap. Rivulets run down their jackets. The air is cold. The foghorn sounds mournfully in the Burrard.
“No dents,” Benoit says. “But it could have been off-road, given the mud.”
Mal shines her beam in through the car windows. She can’t see anything unusual inside.
A slash of yellow light upstairs in Rose Cottage catches Mal’s eye. She glances up at the second story. A drape falls back into place, cutting the light.
“He’s up there. Watching us,” Benoit says. “The guy is lying through his teeth, and I don’t like those wounds.”
“You can smell the fear on him,” she says. “Never mind the alcohol.”
“We need to get inside that house, and we need to impound and search this Audi,” he says.
“Yeah, but we also need something solid in order to secure the warrants.” Mal crouches down, wipes mud off the rear plate. She takes a photo of the registration and a few more shots of the Audi exterior and tires.
Once back inside their unmarked vehicle, she sends the images to Lula. Benoit starts the engine, and Mal tries once more to call Daisy Rittenberg. Again, it flips to voice mail.
Mal says, “Ty Binty at the Pi Bistro claims the Rittenbergs moved back to Vancouver to be closer to Daisy’s parents. What did he say her father’s name was?”
“Wentworth,” Benoit says as he backs their unmarked into the residential street. “Labden Wentworth.”
“Pull over across the road. I want to wait here until we can get surveillance on Rittenberg. He looks ready to bolt.”
While Benoit parks under trees across the road from Rose Cottage, Mal places a call requesting surveillance detail for Rose Cottage. She gives the Rittenberg address, then asks to be put through to Lula again.