The GPS was flashing. Leigh zoomed out on the screen. She saw the grounds of the Capital City Country Club, which belonged to one of the oldest private social clubs in the south. The neighborhood was dripping with money. Hip-hop stars and basketball players lived alongside old-school Biffs and Muffys, which Leigh only knew because a few years ago Maddy had talked her into trying to find Justin Bieber’s house when he’d lived in the area.
She turned off the guidance. She pulled back onto the road. The mansions that rolled by were breathtaking—not in their beauty, but in their audacity. Leigh could never live in a house where it took more than thirty seconds to lay eyes on her child.
The golf course rolled along on her left as she wound her way along East Brookhaven Drive. She knew the road turned into West Brookhaven on the other side of the course. If she’d been on foot, Leigh could’ve cut through the greens, skirted around the lake, walked past the tennis courts and club house and found herself within a few blocks of Little Nancy Creek Park.
Andrew’s $3.1 million house was on Mabry Road. The deed was held by the Tenant Family Trust, the same trust that held the Canyon Road dump the Waleskis had lived in. Leigh hadn’t been willing to wait for Callie to get around to finding the information, then to get around to passing it along. She had run the search herself before leaving her condo this morning. If it left a trail that came up later, she could say she was looking into Andrew’s real estate holdings in case it came up at trial. No one could fault her for being too thorough.
Leigh slowed so she could read the numbers on the mailboxes, which were almost as stately as the houses. Andrew’s was a combination of white-painted brick, steel, and cedar. The numbers were lighted neon because it made sense to spend more on mailbox construction than most people spent on their actual houses. Leigh pulled her Audi through the open gates. The driveway whipped around to the back, but she parked in front of the house. She wanted Andrew to see her coming.
Predictably, the house was one of those ultra-modern glass and steel structures that looked like the murder mansion in a Swedish thriller. Leigh’s heel left a black scuff on the pristine white driveway when she got out of the car. She put a grinding twist into her step, hoping that Andrew would be out here with a toothbrush when she pulled away.
Square shrubs served as the only landscaping. Tombstone-like white marble slabs led to the front door, sprigs of dwarf mondo filling the breaks. The green was too bright against the high white of everything else . If there had been a way for Leigh to get the jury here OJ-style, she would’ve jumped at the chance.
She walked up the three low steps to the glass front door. She could see straight into the back of the house. White walls. Polished concrete floor. Stainless steel kitchen. Swimming pool. Cabana. Outdoor kitchen.
There was a doorbell, but Leigh used the palm of her hand to slap the glass by way of knocking. She turned around to look back at the street. A camera was mounted in the corner of the overhang. Leigh remembered from the search warrant that the police had been authorized to take any recordings from surveillance devices out of the house. Andrew’s system had conveniently been offline for the entire week.
She heard the faint clack of chunky heels across the polished concrete floor.
Leigh turned around. She had the full effect of Sidney Winslow doing an Elle Macpherson down the walkway toward the front door. The goth had been toned down for the day. Sidney’s make-up was light, almost natural. She was dressed in a tight gray skirt and a navy silk blouse. Her shoes matched the color of the shirt exactly. Without all of the leather and attitude, she was an attractive young woman.
The door opened. Leigh could feel the chill of air conditioning mixing into the morning heat.
Sidney said, “Andrew’s getting dressed. Is something wrong?”
“No, I just need to go over some things with him. Is it okay if I come in?” Leigh was already inside by the time she finished asking permission. “Wow, what a spread.”
“It’s crazy, right?” Sidney turned to close the door.
Leigh made sure she was halfway down the hall by the time the latch clicked. There was nothing more unsettling than someone pushing their way into your private space.
But this wasn’t Sidney’s private space. At least not yet. According to Reggie’s cursory background check, Sidney kept a condo in Druid Hills, where she was a graduate student at Emory University. That the girl was studying psychiatry was something Leigh would find time to laugh about later.
Leigh walked down the hallway, which was at least twenty feet long. The expected artwork hung on the walls—photos of half-naked women, a painting by an Atlanta artist known for painting veiny, sweaty horses for bachelor pads. The dining room was stark white. The study, the front parlor, the living room were all so blindingly monochromatic it was like glancing behind the closed doors of a 1930s insane asylum.