She walked through the house anyway, to be sure. Glanced into the bedrooms, the closets, the bathroom. While no one else was here, she still felt the echoes of those who’d lived here, felt their gazes watching her from the photos on the walls. A happy house, once. Until it wasn’t.
Outside, she took a deep breath. No smell of chemical cleaners out here, just the familiar scents of mown grass and car exhaust. Her visit hadn’t answered any questions, but it had raised new ones. She felt the bulge of the evidence bag in her pocket, with its errant shard of glass that the cleaners had missed. Glass that might or might not have come from the window in the kitchen door. Glass that would have flown that far if the window were broken from the inside.
And that would change everything.
Even from across the street, I can hear the banging of a hammer. Something is going on at the Green residence, something that takes on more and more of a sinister cast because of the perpetually closed venetian blinds in the windows. I stand in my living room, peering through binoculars and trying to catch a glimpse of either of the Greens, but they remain stubbornly out of sight, as does their black SUV, which is now parked inside the garage. They must have returned the U-Haul to the rental agency because it’s no longer parked in front of the house. I never actually saw what was in that U-Haul because Matthew Green emptied it under cover of night—yet one more detail that makes me suspicious, but I’m the only one who seems to care.
I put down the binoculars and pick up the phone. Vince spent thirty-five years as a cop; he’ll know what to do. It’s three hours earlier in California, and by now he’s probably finished his breakfast, so it’s the perfect time to talk.
After five rings, he answers: “Hey, babe.” A cheery greeting, but I know him well enough to hear the fatigue in his voice. It’s as though he’s trying to hide from me all the strain he’s under. That’s my Vince, always trying to keep me from worrying. It’s one of the reasons I love him.
“Are you okay, honey?” I ask.
After a silence, he releases a sigh. “She’s not the easiest patient to take care of, lemme tell you. I’ve been running up and down these stairs getting things for her, and she’s never satisfied. My cooking sucks, apparently.”
She’s right about that, I think, but all I say is: “You’re a good brother, Vince. The best.”
“Yeah, well, I try. But I miss you, sweetie.”
“I miss you too. I just want you home again.”
“You behaving yourself?”
What an odd question. “Why are you asking that?” I say.
“I was talking to Jane and—”
“Did she call you?”
“Well, yeah. She thought I should be apprised of certain facts. Like you poking around in things that you should leave alone.”
“Here’s the thing, Vince. Jane isn’t taking me seriously and I’d really like to know your opinion.”
“Is this about that missing girl again?”
“No, I’m putting that situation on my back burner. This is about the new couple across the street, the Greens. The ones you haven’t met.”
“The shut-ins.”
“Yeah. Something’s not right about them. Why did they wait till after dark to unpack their U-Haul? Why do they keep their shades down all day? Why do they avoid me?”
“Gee, Angie, I have no idea,” he says, and I think I hear sarcasm, but I’m not sure. “What does Jane say?”
“She tells me to butt out. She doesn’t want to hear any of it ’cause I’m just her mother, and no one ever seems to listen to their own mother. I wish you were here to help me figure it out.”
“I wish I were there too, but maybe you should listen to your daughter. She’s got good instincts about these things.”
“So do I.”
“She’s got a badge. You don’t.”
And that is why no one listens to me. It’s the badge thing. It makes cops think they’re the only ones who can sniff out trouble. I hang up feeling deeply dissatisfied with both my daughter and my boyfriend. I go back to the window and look across the street.
The shades are still down and the pounding has started up again. What is he hammering in there? My gaze suddenly shifts to the house next door to theirs. Unlike the Greens, Jonas has his curtains wide open, and he stands in full view of the neighborhood, shirtless, as he pumps iron. I watch him for a moment, not because he has a very fine body for a man his age, but because I’m thinking of the backyard barbecue he hosted for the neighborhood last August. I remember standing on his patio, sipping a frozen margarita and looking over the fence at the house of his then-neighbor, Glen, who was skin and bones because of stomach cancer and would be dead two months later. I remember Jonas and me shaking our heads at life’s cruelties, that there we were grilling hamburgers while poor Glen next door was reduced to drinking Ensure.