“Lu, can you find us a phone number and address for a Labden Wentworth? He’s the father of pregnant Daisy Wentworth. She’s not at her home, and we have reason to fear for her and her unborn child’s well-being.”
“On it,” says Lu.
Mal hangs up and quickly punches the name “Labden Wentworth” into a search engine. A host of links associated with the name “Labden Wentworth” pop up. Ty Binty was correct—the Wentworth name is big.
Mal scans the linked articles. “Says here that Labden Wentworth founded TerraWest Corporation, which is a global developer and operator of luxury mountain resorts. The company also owns ancillary businesses, including a chain that sells outdoor gear. They employ more than fifty-five thousand employees worldwide. Annual revenues around 5.2 billion. Apparently Wentworth’s wife, Annabelle, is a big name in her own right, in luxury urban real estate. She owns her own company. They live on the North Shore, up in the British Properties area, but no phone numbers I can see so far.”
While they wait for the Rose Cottage surveillance detail to arrive, and for Lula to come up with contact details, Mal quickly texts Peter.
Everything okay?
No response.
Her worry about her husband deepens. This is probably going to be her last case. She’s going to need to step away sooner than she’d hoped in order to care for Peter.
Her phone rings. It’s Lula with Labden Wentworth’s number and address.
“Four four five six Eyrefield Drive, British Properties,” Lula says on speaker. As the details come through, a police cruiser approaches slowly down the street. Mal exits their unmarked and hurries through the rain to speak to the officer inside the cruiser. He winds down the window, and she bends in to talk to him.
“If Rittenberg leaves, call it in, and stay on him.” She explains the situation, then hurries back to Benoit, waiting in the unmarked. As she buckles in, he pulls out, and they start toward the bridge that will take them over to the North Shore. As they drive, Mal phones Labden’s number.
It goes to voice mail.
She calls Peter. When her husband answers, her relief is sharp. She consciously tempers her voice. She must remain calm with him.
“Hey, how’re you doing?” she asks.
“Good. You going to be late?” He’s forgotten already.
“Yeah, looks that way. Got a new case. You’re not checking your texts?”
“Oh. I . . . ah . . .”
“No worries. Did you manage to warm the lasagna?”
Silence.
“You got my note about the lasagna?” Mal curses at her framing of the question. She’s been getting advice on how to talk to Peter in ways that don’t force him into confronting the fact he can’t remember something, because it puts him on the defensive. It doesn’t help anyone.
“Yes, I warmed the lasagna, Mallory.”
She closes her eyes at his patronizing tone. “Great. Don’t wait up, okay?”
“A homicide?”
“Looks that way.”
“Who’s the victim?”
Mal feels a pang in her chest. She’s always discussed her cases with Peter. He was a brilliant professor of forensic psychology before he took early retirement last year due to his mental health issues. They were a team, and she feels her husband, their relationship, who they once were as a unit, seeping away.
“We’re not sure yet who the victim is,” she says. “But someone has sustained serious injuries—likely life-threatening. If they are still alive, time is not on their side.”
“Go get ’em, love.”
Emotion burns hot in her eyes. “Yeah. We will. We’ll do our best.” She says goodbye, kills the call. She feels Benoit’s curiosity and his empathy. It’s his empathy that makes it worse. Mal does not want pity. To Benoit’s credit he lets her be and says nothing. As they negotiate city traffic and feed onto the bridge, it’s Mal who finally breaks the silence.
“Is Sadie okay with your late nights?”
He smiles. “It’s not like a choice, is it?”
“There are admin jobs in the department, you know.”
He chuckles. “That’s not me, Mal.”
“Yeah, I know.”
A pause.
“Besides, it’s not like we have a homicide every day, right? On slower days I take the night shifts at home. And I do the baby minding on my days off.”
“Sadie still pursuing her degree?”
“Determined as ever. Correspondence right now. Can’t stop that woman.” He glances at Mal. “She’s going to make a damn fine immigration and refugee lawyer. I’m so freaking proud of her.”
Mal smiles. “The world is in good hands.”
He laughs loudly and darkly. “The world is not within our control, boss.”
“Well, at least my team will be left in good hands if you’re offered the helm.”
“You’ve got a few months yet,” Benoit says.
She gives a rueful smile. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
THE MAID’S DIARY
Dear Diary, I’m sorry I have not visited with you in a while. Not only have I not written, I have also officially quit therapy. My shrink said: “You’re regressing, Kit. By shutting me out, the damaged part of you is slinking into hiding again. Finding out what drives you is scary, I know, but it’s always most challenging right before we have a major breakthrough. You’re almost there, Kit.”
Maybe I am.
But I disagree about the hiding. I’m not pulling up the drawbridge. I’m not slinking away. This time I am holding my ground. I’m standing in my power. And where did I find power? From Charley. Then in Daisy’s safe.
I told you at the beginning of this journal I know where people tend to keep their secrets. I know where to search for them.
On this cleaning day at Rose Cottage, I finish the laundry, the dusting, vacuuming, and I wash and pack away the dishes in the kitchen. I set my timer for my snoop session.
I decide not to go into Jon’s computer today. It’s bathroom day. Pills and medical secrets are what I’m after. But the medicine cabinet offers nothing scintillating—cold meds, some uppers, downers, old prescription painkillers, wart remover, pregnancy vitamins, antiseptic spray, Band-Aids, aspirin, that sort of thing. I crouch down, and I open a cabinet below the washbasin on “her” side of the bathroom. There’s a drawer inside the cabinet. It’s full of female hygiene products. Sanitary pads, packets of tampons, a vaginal lubricant, intimate wipes. I feel the packets of pads and tampons. Women love to hide things in places like this—particularly secrets from their men. Husbands and boyfriends usually don’t go poking around in menstrual products. I feel something inside one of the tampon boxes. It’s small. Hard. Angular. Not a tampon. I open the box. Tucked into one of the tampon wrappers is a key.
My pulse kicks.
I extract the key. I know what lock it fits—I’m certain of it. On my last visit to Rose Cottage, at the back of Daisy’s underwear drawer, I found a document-size safe with a key lock and a handle. It’s pale blue. Many of my clients have lockboxes in varying shapes and sizes. Not only for secrecy, but for fire protection. The color of this safe, the fact it’s hidden at the back of Daisy’s underwear, that the key is with her tampons—it all screams, Wife wants to keep secret from her husband.