Ruby’s luggage sat in the far corner of the room. When I checked, it was still empty. I pulled open one of the drawers to the small dresser she’d brought over from her dad’s house when she moved, carefully searching through the clothes we had ordered together, tags still on. Some things, like the socks, remained in the plastic bag they’d arrived in.
There was nothing unexpected as I checked the rest of her drawers. I stood at the single window, peering out between the tilted blinds, where her room overlooked the back of our square patio and Tate and Javier Cora’s backyard. The branches of the trees outside the fences swayed, though there hadn’t been any breeze when I’d been out.
I pressed my face closer to the blinds, my forehead resting on the white slats. If someone was lurking in the line of trees beyond our backyards, I wouldn’t be able to tell, with the high fence blocking the view of the ground. Rows of tightly packed evergreens creating the illusion of privacy, so you would forget about the road giving way to another semicircle of houses directly beyond.
A squirrel, probably. We heard them all the time, hopping from the branches and scurrying across the roof. A quick pitter-patter of feet that set my heart racing every time.
I checked the closet last. Inside, the few wire hangers on the metal rod remained empty. A heap of dirty clothes was stacked in the dark corner, like she wasn’t sure what to do with them just yet. I dug my foot into the pile of fabric just to check. Nothing.
There wasn’t much else in the room to go through. A beige towel hung from the edge of the bed where the cat had been sleeping, and I resisted the urge to pick it up and hang it in the bathroom before it mildewed.
Before Ruby’s arrest, I had let the police in here myself, given them permission to search, when they were looking for the missing carbon monoxide detector. I was so sure they wouldn’t find it here—and they didn’t. The police ultimately believed that was why Ruby was spotted on Margo and Paul Wellman’s video feed, running toward the lake: to dispose of the evidence, though nothing was ever found.
I’d watched as they searched her room back then, methodically and carefully. I remembered all the places they’d checked. So I flipped the pillow over. Ran my hands along the comforter, then along the seams where the bed was pushed against the wall.
Finally, I reached between the mattress and box spring, sliding my arms up and down the length of the bed. My pinkie caught on something sharp near the head of the bed, and I jerked back. A dot of blood, the beginning of a wound; I brought it to my mouth to stop the sting. Then I reached my other hand carefully under the mattress again, and my fist closed on something small and metallic.
I recognized the item right away. It was a small paring knife. A familiar black handle with a sloping shape. Part of the set from my kitchen. Taken by Ruby from downstairs and stored, within reach, under her bed.
Like she was afraid of something.
I stood for a long time in that spot, listening to the sounds of my empty house. Wondering if I needed to be afraid of something, too.
CHAPTER 7
I GREW RESTLESS AND UNSETTLED, pacing the house. Watching the clock. Eating dinner while standing over the kitchen counter, in case I needed to shift tasks at any moment.
My mind kept drifting to that knife. Why she felt the need to take it. What—or who—she was afraid of, when half the neighborhood was making plans to deal with their fear of her.
I’d replaced the knife under her mattress carefully, in the same spot I’d found it, not wanting her to know I’d been through her things. Imagining what she might already be telling her lawyer: Harper got rid of everything I owned, can you believe it?
It was nearly seven p.m. and Ruby wasn’t back.
Had she told me when I could expect her return or where she was going? Some business park, she’d said. She implied it was close, that her lawyer was coming through town. But she’d left no room for follow-up, no chance to shake out the specifics.
The mantel clock over the fireplace ticked loudly in the silence. I could feel my jaw clenching.
I heard people talking out front, and the noise drew me to the dining room window—the irritational hope that I might see Ruby stepping out of my car, chatting with one of the neighbors like nothing was amiss.
But it was Tate on the sidewalk, calling for Javier, “Come on already, we’re going to be late,” as he locked up behind them. Her expression turned light and friendly as Tina Monahan approached from her house next door. Tina strode toward them with her usual air of efficiency, brown hair pulled back in a low ponytail, short bangs she appeared to cut herself, and an assortment of colored scrubs she rotated with regularity.