I slipped off my shoes and padded through the grand entryway, under a wagon wheel chandelier with bulbs the size of tennis balls. I wondered where you bought bulbs like that. And how on earth I would change them.
The dining room—it has a dining room!—was straight out of Downton Abbey, with a thick wooden table and eight high-back chairs. Four additional chairs—dinner for twelve, anyone?—stood guard beside the lowboy buffet. I wondered if there was china inside. I didn’t dare look.
I continued on to the kitchen, which had an island you could sit at. There were only three stools, but room for twice as many. Not that I would need more than three. It was only Savannah and me, and I didn’t plan on having any guests for breakfast. If we were a normal family, we would probably eat in the nook, which was enclosed by walls of glass with rugged pine trees just beyond.
There was a formal living room I would never use, and an office with built-in bookcases I likewise wouldn’t need. They would look silly if I didn’t fill them, so I’d either have to keep the door closed or take up reading.
The stairs to the second floor were carpeted, but I took them slowly. My physical therapist had told me not to baby my knee, my leg needed to get stronger, I should push through the pain. But I still leaned on the railing a bit, noting how smooth and wide it was under my palm.
There were three bedrooms upstairs. The first two were regular-size, except that they had bathrooms and balconies, which made them feel grander. The master was at the end of the hall. I pushed open the double doors and stood at the threshold.
I knew they had to furnish it with a king-size bed—the space would have looked ridiculous with anything smaller. But I’d never had a king-size bed in my life. It felt at once both lavish and cruel.
There was a quilted storage chest for blankets at the foot of the bed. Just past that, a shabby chic sofa faced a fireplace lined with little glass rocks that looked like what happens when a windshield breaks. It was more like an apartment than a bedroom, and I wondered what I was supposed to do with two walk-in closets now that I wasn’t a “two” anymore. Will my allowance be enough to fill them with new clothes? And what do I need with new clothes?
I sat on the bed and looked out the double french doors leading to the balcony—more like a porch, really—which was decked out with a grass mat and twin lounge chairs. The view was all trees and sky. I couldn’t help but wonder . . . Dream house? Or private prison?
There were certainly plenty of secrets to keep locked inside.
EVAN
Three months ago
A small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk. It was a narrow residential street with boxy single-story homes sprinkled between aging stuccoed apartment buildings. A pair of sneakers hung on the power line over my head. Someone once told me that meant “drugs sold here,” but I don’t know if I believed that. I mean, if that guy knew it meant drugs, surely the DEA did, too?
I parked my Range Rover a safe distance away and walked toward the scene. I inventoried the lookie-loos: a bare-legged couple dressed for jogging, an elderly woman gripping a shopping caddie, a woman in a sundress and sandals with tattoos up her arms, three teenage boys who probably should have been in school.
A few more spectators gazed out at the street from front porches and stoops. I counted nine in total. One of them, a dark-haired man in a shiny tracksuit, had his phone pointed toward the wreckage, probably hoping to earn some Twitter love with his livestream of the carnage. Though I didn’t peg him as an influencer, I knew this kind of stuff could go viral, so I kept my distance.
I eased my way toward the uniformed police officer standing guard at the scene. An ambulance was parked diagonally a few feet behind him, rear doors open to receive. And then I looked down.
Nausea bubbled up the back of my throat. I understood then why they covered the dead. No question the man was killed on impact. His head was indented like a partially inflated basketball, and the way his legs were bent made him look like a Muppet, with limbs of cloth instead of bones.
I tripped over my own feet as I backed away, nearly falling on two paramedics loading a woman onto a stretcher.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. The woman’s shirt was ripped, and I could see her bare breast. One leg was wrapped in bandages at the knee. Her head was bleeding through a brick of gauze at her hairline. Her eyes fluttered a little, like she was going in and out of consciousness. One hand flexed open and closed as if she were trying to grab on to something that should have been there, but inexplicably had been taken away.
“Excuse me, Officer,” I said to the uniformed cop closest to the body. My voice shook, but not for the reasons he probably thought. “The woman, I . . .” I paused. I didn’t want to lie to a cop, but I needed information he wouldn’t give to a stranger. “I think I may know the family. I want to help if I can.” Part of that was true. I did want to help someone. I never said it was the victim. “Please, can you tell me her name? I just want to be sure before . . .” Before what? Jesus, where am I going with this? “Before I reach out.”