“Oh, Angie. It’s just a little love pat.”
I spin around to face him and get a big whiff of his aftershave. The scent of pine is so overwhelming I feel like I’m about to tackle a Christmas tree. Jonas is a fine-looking man, no doubt about it, tanned with straight teeth and a thick mane of silver hair. And those muscles. But this is way over the line.
“You do know I have a boyfriend,” I say.
“You mean that Korsak fella? Haven’t seen him around lately.”
“He’s visiting his sister in California. Soon as she recovers from her hip operation, he’ll be back.”
“Meanwhile I’m right here. Right now.” He moves in for a smooch.
I snatch up the corkscrew and wave it between us. “Okay, you open the wine.”
He looks at the corkscrew, looks at me, and sighs in disappointment. “Oh, Angie. Such a gorgeous woman, and you live right across the street. So close and yet so far.”
“So very far.”
To my relief, he gives a good-humored laugh. “Can’t blame a fella for trying,” he says with a wink and opens the bottle. “C’mon, babe, let’s go get clobbered again by Larry.”
* * *
—
Long after everyone leaves that night, I’m still flustered by Jonas’s pass at me. I have to admit, I’m also feeling pretty darn flattered. Jonas is a few years older than Vince, but he’s both trimmer and fitter and I have to admit, there’s something about a navy man that can turn a gal’s head. I load dirty wineglasses into the dishwasher, turn off the kitchen lights, and head to my bedroom. There I glimpse myself in the mirror, my face flushed, my hair a little out of control. That’s exactly how I’m feeling: A little out of control. On the verge of…what? A flirtation? An affair?
The doorbell rings. I freeze in front of my mirror thinking: Jonas is back. He knows he’s got me off-balance and he thinks I just might tip right over for him.
My face is tingling, nerves buzzing, as I go to the front door. But it’s not Jonas standing on my porch; it’s Rick Talley, and he looks exhausted. He sees me through the foyer window so I can’t pretend I’m not home. Nor can I gracefully refuse to open the door. We women are too damn polite; we hate to hurt anyone’s feelings, even if it means getting strangled.
“Angie,” he says when I open the door. “I was on my way home and saw your lights were still on. I thought I’d stop and just tell you in person.”
“Tell me what?”
“I got a text message a while ago, from Tricia. She says she’s staying with a friend for a while. So you can tell Jane she doesn’t need to get involved.”
“Does Jackie know this?”
“Of course she does! I called her as soon as I got the text. We’re both relieved, naturally.”
“She texted you but not her mom?” I can’t keep the skepticism out of my voice.
He pulls out his phone and holds it in front of my face, shoving it so close that I flinch. “See?”
What I see are words that anyone could have typed on Tricia’s phone. Sux at home, staying with a friend. Will tell u everything when I’m ready. Luv U.
“So there’s nothing to worry about,” he says.
“With teenagers, there’s always something to worry about.”
“But the police don’t need to. Let Jane know that.” He gets back in his Camaro, which he had left idling at the curb, and roars away, toward his own house.
I stand on my porch, frowning at the receding taillights. Wondering if I should call Jackie to check on his story. But of course he would’ve told her the same thing, would’ve shown her the same text message from Tricia.
If it really is from Tricia.
Across the street, a slit of light shines in the window. One of the Greens is peering through the blinds, and I can almost feel a pair of eyes watching me through the slat. At once, I retreat into my house.
Looking out the window from my dark living room, I see the same row of houses that’ve always been here, the same street I’ve lived on for forty years. But tonight everything seems different, as if I’ve crossed into some parallel world and I’m now looking at the evil twin of my old neighborhood. A neighborhood where every house, every family, hides a secret.
I slide the deadbolt shut. Just in case.
Three burglaries in four months did not constitute a crime spree in the neighborhood, but it did establish a pattern. Jane sat at her desk comparing three police reports, looking for any similarities between those break-ins and that of Sofia Suarez’s residence. One was the robbery that Lena Leong had told them about, a daring entry through an unsecured window while the occupants were asleep in bed. The burglar had netted a purse with cash and credit cards and a Lenovo laptop, but had not touched the jewelry and cell phones in the bedroom where the owners were sleeping. Perhaps that was a feat too brazen even for him. In the soil beneath the point of entry was the shoe print of a size-ten Nike. Fingerprints left on the window frame remained unidentified.