“Where are you now?” I’m glad it’s still daylight out.
“I’m right by my car. I tried my mom, but she didn’t pick up. Greg’s at work so he can’t talk.”
“I’m glad you called me. I’m going to get in touch with AAA, and I’ll come wait with you.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll be here.”
I frown as I grab my purse and slip on my sneakers. I don’t want her alone in a parking lot even for a short time.
“Actually, is there somewhere else you can go? How about that sandwich shop you like?”
“Why?”
“I’m hungry,” I lie. “Order us two of those veggie things and I’ll meet you there.”
* * *
An hour later, Lana’s tires have been refilled and she’s at Greg’s place—where she plans to sleep tonight—and I’m driving home, clutching my steering wheel so tightly my knuckles are white. Skip must be the key to all of this. He knows I have a stepdaughter since Lana phoned once when he and I were together, and although I don’t recall mentioning where she worked, he could probably find out. And who else would know about my doctor’s visit? I never mentioned it to a soul.
I’m tempted to call Skip and let loose, but I tamp down on that instinct. If Skip is weaving some complicated web, he’s already several steps ahead of me, and acting impulsively is the worst thing I can do.
I mentally review what I know about him: He’s forty, never married, and a commercial real estate developer. He’s the youngest of three, went to Dartmouth, and lived in California before moving to D.C. There’s no obvious tie between him and Acelia. But I can’t shake loose the idea that if I dig deeper, I will find one.
Maybe it’s time to call the police. I also know a former cop who now works as a private investigator; I used him on a case a couple months ago.
I step harder on the gas, trying to catch the tail end of a yellow light. Part of the reason I’m so enraged is because I genuinely liked Skip. My instincts told me he was a decent guy, and I’m not usually so off base when it comes to sizing people up.
He’s making me feel like a fool.
The light turns and I slam on my brakes, the nose of my BMW edging into the intersection. A woman walking a white poodle glares at me as she maneuvers around my car.
Get a grip, I order myself sternly, as I would a client.
My front windshield begins to fog up so I turn on the defrost and try to swipe away some of the cloudy film with my sleeve, but my thin Lycra top is ineffective. I reach into my center-console glove compartment, where I usually keep a few paper napkins. I don’t see any, but there’s a pack of tissues.
I pull one out and stare at it, remembering how Skylar plucked a tissue out of her handbag and offered it to me.
I shake my head as I realize my mistake.
I’ve been focusing on the wrong parallel.
A car honk from behind me jolts me, and I shift my foot off the brake, driving more carefully now.
What happened to Lana’s car wasn’t a message from Acelia to let me know they could get to my stepdaughter. Someone else was behind it.
You know so much about me. I guess I wanted to learn more about you, Skylar had said.
Cameron’s ex must be the one who let the air out of Lana’s tires; it seems like exactly the kind of spiteful act she would perpetrate.
I turn down my street corner and park in front of my house, but I don’t immediately cut off the engine. My mind is operating clearly now that the muddy swirl of my emotions is falling away.
I need to do two things, fast: confirm Skylar did this to Lana, and find a way to make sure she never comes near my stepdaughter again.
I consider a few options before I find the right one. The genesis for my idea is right there on my phone screen, in a message Derrick texted shortly before I left the house: Hey babe, u free tonight? Job just cancelled.
* * *
Derrick and I pull up outside Skylar’s house in a suburban Silver Spring neighborhood shortly after 7:00 P.M. The modest, single-story brick structure is on a dead-end street filled with nearly identical houses. While the other homes have nice details—a rope swing hanging from a tree in one front yard, and pretty landscaping in another—Skylar’s place looks a little tired and worn since I was here last fall. The grass in her front yard is patchy, and it’s the only house on the block with a garbage can languishing at the curb.
Cameron used to tend to the lawn and lug the garbage bins up and down the driveway on trash day, along with everything else he did, such as the grocery shopping and cooking. Now that Skylar is living alone, it’s on her to keep up with the household chores.