“Maybe they are a thing,” he conceded as I handed him his sandwich. “Thanks,” he said, and took a bite.
“She’s obviously hiding something,” I pointed out. “She ran away from me like I was holding a grenade.”
Just then the doorbell rang. Andy was eating his sandwich, so I went to answer it. I figured it was the gardener. We hadn’t paid him in two months, no doubt he wanted to collect. I loved living in the hills, but the upkeep was massive. If we didn’t trim our trees and clear away the dead branches, the fire department would do it for us and then charge us a fortune. I had taken over the upkeep of the flower beds, trimming my roses every week and planting the annuals, but we still needed our gardener to clear the hillside, so I had to give him something. I grabbed my checkbook off my desk in the hall, then opened the door, an apology on my lips.
But it wasn’t our gardener. “Hi, Libby,” my neighbor Holly Kendrick said as she handed me a snow-white orchid in an onyx china pot. “Here. This is for you.”
Shame rose up from the pit of my stomach. “Wow. Thank you,” I mustered, tucking the checkbook in my waistband and taking the flower from her. It was from Gelson’s down the street—I could tell by how it was wrapped, in premium-grade cellophane and a ribbon made of hemp. I liked to linger in their flower shop, but even the smallest arrangements were expensive, and I never indulged. Holly had bought the biggest one, two feet tall with over a dozen budding flowers. I knew it cost almost $100. I loved having orchids in the house, but I silently wondered if I could return it to pay my gardener.
“I felt terrible after what I said to you the other day,” she began. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m just a little overwhelmed these days.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” I said. The plant felt heavy in my hands. Almost as heavy as the shame weighing down my chest.
“I’d love to have you over for coffee,” she offered. “I have scones in the oven, they will be ready in about twenty minutes?” She said it like a question, and it took me a second to understand.
“Oh! You mean right now?” I confirmed.
“Or we could do it some other time,” she said quickly.
“A scone sounds wonderful. I just have to finish something in the kitchen,” I said, which was true. Andy never cleaned up after himself, and I hated coming back to dirty plates and counters. “Five minutes?”
“Perfect.” She smiled and turned to go. As she started down my front path, I noticed she walked with a limp, as if her left knee couldn’t bend all the way. The shame in my chest hung so low I nearly tripped over it.
I closed the door. Andy immediately popped his head out of the kitchen. He was smiling. And not just because of the sandwich.
“Don’t,” I started, and he laughed.
“If you’re not back in an hour, I’ll call the SWAT team,” he teased.
“Maybe she’s not a murderer,” I conceded. “But I still bet her new boyfriend is the one buying me flowers.”
His smile turned sad. “Sorry it’s not me,” he said. And I could tell by his rueful expression that he meant it.
“I’ll fill you in after,” I assured him, ignoring his apology.
“I’m sure you will,” he said with a sly smile. And I was grateful that we’d have something to talk about that would not end in a fight.
JACK
Three months ago
The first order of business was to hide the car.
I had a four-car garage, so it was no problem just to stash the SUV in one of the spaces until we figured out our next move. Evan said the next forty-eight hours would be critical in terms of witnesses coming forward or the police finding evidence. The victims, he said, would be “dealt with,” then reminded me there were things we couldn’t control. So we would just have to sit tight.
Once safely inside the garage, I inspected the vehicle. Of all the cars I had bought in my lifetime, this one was by far the biggest—an oversize SUV with a full third row and enough horsepower to pull a boat. Not that I had a boat. I wasn’t really a boat person, but I liked having the ability to pull one if I needed to. My day-to-day car was a Porsche 911 convertible coupe, which was so compact it probably would have fit inside the SUV in its entirety. I shuddered to think what the collision would have been like had it happened in the convertible instead.
I walked to the front of the SUV to inspect the point of impact. The behemoth’s front bumper had taken the Cherokee’s door clean off, yet surprisingly barely had a mark. The headlights were both still intact, and there was no visible damage to the hood or passenger-side tire well. As far as I could see, there were no remnants of red paint anywhere on the car that could link the two vehicles together. Of course I wasn’t in the business of investigating, or covering up, crimes. A trained eye might very well have noticed something I didn’t.