Lily’s voice was clear, unhurried, as if she knew Beth would obey even as the police closed in. “You’re not leaving, Beth,” she said. “You’re not talking.”
“I hate you,” Beth said, her throat choking and her eyes burning with unshed tears.
“No, you don’t,” Lily said. “You really don’t.”
Beth put down the phone, her breath sawing in her throat. Her palms tingled with sweat. She needed to call Ransom.
There was the sound of another car outside. Lily was a liar, but she wasn’t lying about this. Beth was about to be arrested for murder.
This is all your fault, Beth.
You’re not leaving. You’re not talking.
And just like it had during the police interview, the fear snapped and the anger took over. That cold, comforting rage.
Beth went upstairs, changed her clothes. Put on dark high-waisted jeans, a cream blouse with a pattern of brown diamonds on it, her favorite shirt. Red lipstick. Hoops in her ears. There were more sounds now, low voices at the side of the house. Did they think they were being stealthy? Lily was right; it was ridiculous. Did they think she would run? Where did they think she would go?
Beth put on heeled boots, and then as a final gesture she put on her trench coat, belting it at the waist. She picked up her purse. She walked to the windows in the living room and dragged open the curtains.
There were men outside. Uniformed cops, bracing in position. They looked startled at the sight of her.
Beth gave them a wave.
She walked calmly to the front door and opened it. There were cops here, too, on the lawn. A brown Pontiac at the end of the driveway, pulled up behind her Cadillac. Marked cruisers parked farther down the street. A crowd of neighbors was gathering, and the press was already here, two reporters and two photographers flashing pictures of Beth standing in her doorway. As she watched, a van pulled up two doors down and a female reporter got out, followed by a TV cameraman. The woman left the cameraman behind with his heavy equipment and jogged up the street in her high heels when she saw Beth.
Beth watched the chaos building in front of her house, feeling oddly calm. She wondered if Lily would drive by again, just to see the scene she’d created. It would be a crazy move, but you never knew what Lily would do.
The doors of the brown Pontiac opened, and Detectives Black and Washington got out. They were wearing suits, and both of them looked unhappy. This circus wasn’t what they’d wanted; someone somewhere must have leaked information to the press. Beth took a grim satisfaction in the frowns on their faces, the angry displeasure in Washington’s eyes. What did Beth care about a few photographs if this mess embarrassed them?
As the detectives came up the driveway, yet another car pulled up to the curb. Ransom got out, his hair a little disheveled and his tie askew. He saw her on the front porch and pointed at her. “Don’t say anything, Beth!” he shouted. “Not a word!”
“Miss Greer!” the female reporter called to her, jogging up the driveway behind the detectives, flanking them. A flashbulb went off. “Miss Greer, do you have anything to say on the day of your arrest for the Lady Killer murders?”
“Get out of here,” Detective Washington growled. The reporter fell back a step but didn’t leave.
Beth put her hands in the pockets of her trench coat and watched. Ransom started across her lawn toward her, his expensive shoes sinking into the damp grass.
“Detective Black!” one of the other reporters shouted. “What evidence do you have that Beth Greer is the Lady Killer? Was she having an affair with the victims?”
“What the hell is going on?” shouted the man who lived two doors down, his face going red as he stood in the street. “This is a good neighborhood!”