He points his finger into her face, almost touching her nose, and says with a sneer, “You know I’m right. As long as she’s alive, that woman is a danger. A monster.”
“A monster of your making. Please get out of my way.”
He refuses to move. Daisy doesn’t like the thunder on his face. He’s frightening her. She glowers at him, trying to show power. And she attempts to push past him.
His hand clamps onto her arm, hard, his fingers digging into her. She grabs the carving knife on the island, points it at him.
“Get the hell back. Get out of my way.”
He lets go in shock and steps aside. Clutching the knife in a death grip in one hand, facing her husband, Daisy backs slowly away from him toward the front door, pushing her suitcase with her other hand.
“Where are you going?” he yells as she steps out the door.
She slams the door shut and hurries through the rain to her BMW with her case bumping behind her. She opens the passenger’s-side door, throws the knife onto the floor, and hefts her bag onto the seat. She goes round to the driver’s side, climbs in. She starts the engine. Shaking, she backs out of the driveway as Jon comes barreling out of the front door and starts running toward the car.
Daisy clips the mailbox with her bumper as she wheels out of the drive. She leans on the gas and overcorrects, taking out the neighbor’s recycling bins with a crash. Trembling like a leaf, panting, Daisy rights her car and drives back toward the North Shore.
JON
October 31, 2019. Thursday.
Three hours and eleven minutes before the murder.
Jon watches Daisy’s car reverse at speed out of their driveway. She smashes the mailbox and then rams the trash cans on the neighbor’s verge in her haste to flee from him. He curses and storms back into Rose Cottage. He paces up and down the living room. He grabs a bottle of tequila and slams back several shots in a row. He has a few more shots. He’s desperate. Getting more and more angry. More irrational. He still doesn’t know if Katarina had him sexually assaulted. Raped, even. He never asked Katarina about the needle mark in his arm because he was too scared to let Daisy know about that. What did she inject into him? Will he need blood tests? Should he be tested for sexually transmitted diseases?
He drags both hands over his hair. Daisy is right. He’s lost everything. His job. His wife has walked out with his baby. Daisy has gone to her parents—he’s sure of it. Which means he’s toast. Done.
Labden Wentworth will come after him with everything in his arsenal. They’re going to cut him loose and hang him out to dry. That way, if he does go to trial, if he goes to jail, they will have washed their hands of him.
He has more shots. Once the tequila is finished, he looks for whisky. There is none. He finds some brandy. He pours himself a fat glass and drinks it. He paces some more, tries to call Daisy. She doesn’t answer her mobile. It goes to voice mail.
Jon tries the landline to the Wentworth house. No pickup. He calls Annabelle Wentworth’s mobile. To his surprise, she answers.
“Annabelle, thish ish Jon.” He’s slurring his words. How much has he had to drink? How much time has passed since Daisy left? He catches sight of his face in the hall mirror and is shocked at what looks back at him.
“Ish Daisy there?”
“What?”
He fights to form the words properly. “Daisy. I want to speak to Daisy.”
“Are you drunk, Jon?”
“Daisy—”
“She’s not here.”
“Where ish she?”
“I don’t know. Isn’t she at home? You have me worried, Jon. What’s happened?”
Jon hangs up quickly. Either Annabelle is lying or Daisy has gone somewhere else. He believes Annabelle is hiding Daisy.
He’s done.
And if that Katarina-devil-woman sends that footage to the cops, he’s going to prison on top of it all. What will happen to a man like him in the slammer? Oh God.
That is one thing he can still stop.
It’s the only thing still within his control.
He can stop her going to the police.
Jon grabs his jacket and hurries out to his Audi. He climbs in and takes a few deep breaths, trying to focus. If he’s pulled over, he’s going to get a straight-to-jail-do-not-pass-go card. He must drive carefully. He also needs to get there fast.
He starts the Audi engine and pulls out into the street. Jon squints through the rain and wipers, peering intently at the yellow and white lines as he drives toward the bridge and crosses over to the North Shore. Traffic has thinned. This miserable weather has driven the trick-or-treaters home and into their beds.
Jon turns into the seaside lane. Instantly he sees all the lights in the Glass House are still on. Hands tight on the wheel, shoulders stiff, he kills his headlights, and the Audi crawls slowly through the fog and darkness toward the house. His heart blips as he sees her yellow car is still there.
He’s got her.
Tires crackling on the wet paving, he drives past the house and pulls up onto a verge diagonally across from the property. He turns off his engine and watches the house. Now that he’s here, he’s unsure of his plan. He reaches for the hip flask he brought with him and takes a swig, building courage. He’s thinking about the cameras. He needs to be careful not to be caught on the CCTV. There’s a yard gate off the side of the driveway near her Subaru. If he goes in that gate and creeps around the side of the house by the pool, maybe he can gain entry through the big glass sliders.
He tenses as another car turns onto the street. Headlights beam toward his car, momentarily blinding him. Jon sinks down into his seat, waiting for it to pass.
But it slows. The headlights turn into the driveway of the Glass House.
Jon edges up. Surprise washes through him. It’s another Audi. Same model and color as his. Muddy plates.
He watches as someone in black rain gear exits the driver’s seat and hurries in through the yard gate. Jon’s heart begins to hammer. He sees shadows moving inside the house. Fifteen minutes later, as the clock on his dash glows 11:21 p.m., an ear-piercing scream cuts the air. A woman’s scream. Jon catches his breath. He’s suddenly afraid. He stays low in his seat and observes through his fogged-up window.
He sees two figures in rain gear, coming out of the garden gate. Dragging something big.
It’s a rolled-up rug.
Fuck.
He’s too drunk to think straight, to do anything. Too drunk to call the police because his brain is suddenly so thick he can’t figure out what to safely say without incriminating himself. All he knows is that he doesn’t want to be here.
He doesn’t want anything to do with this.
The figures heft and heave and push the carpet onto the back seat of the Audi. One person gets into the driver’s seat of the Audi. The other rushes to the Subaru and climbs in. The cars speed away. A light comes on in the upstairs window next door. He hears the car tires squealing as they turn the corner at the end of the lane.
Jon panics. He starts his engine. Without putting on the headlights, he drives slowly away. A little farther down the lane, he sees an off-street parking space. The branches of a large tree hang down low over it. He hesitates, then pulls in. He kills his engine and slinks down into the seat. He’s afraid now. He’s too drunk to drive without being caught.