Page 63 of I Know She Was There

I ran my hands through my hair. “Oh, Mary, that’s the least of my problems.”

“Youdohave problems,” she said. “I know it makes no sense, but I can’t help thinking that the files I stole are somehow linked to what you saw over on Pine Hill Road. I have no idea how, but I think these things are connected.”

I pursed my lips. “Not sure how that could be.”

“Me neither,” she admitted, “but I can’t shake the notion. I was a successful insurance adjuster because I never ignored my instincts. When my gut talks, I listen.”

CHAPTER31

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 17

Mary’s words echoed in my mind all day. How could my mother’s health and financial records have anything to do with what I’d witnessed on Pine Hill Road? It made no sense. I didn’t even know the couple who had lived there.

But Tim did.

He was the one who told me about Ray and Annie Connolly. He’d worked with Ray. Maybe Tim could tell me more about him. Or maybe not. My soon-to-be ex wasn’t speaking to me.

Yet Tim was the only connection I could make between my family and the mysterious couple. I thought about my wild imaginings on the horrible day Tim took me to Emmy’s grave. How I’d wondered about his connections to not only Ray, but Annie. Had she worked at their engineering firm too? No, that didn’t sound right. In fact, Ray working with Tim didn’t seem correct either. I recalled Jeffrey telling me the guy was some sort of bodybuilder. Of course, that could be a hobby. I’d have to ask Jeffrey. I frowned, recalling our last encounter. Jeffrey wasn’t speaking to me either.

I understood why they’d each want to avoid me. I’d killed Tim’s baby, and investigative reporter Jeffrey had discovered my checkered past, realizing I was not a reliable, or particularly safe, person to hang out with. If I called Jeffrey, he’d likely hang up on me. If he’d unearthed my contact information and realized I was trying to reach him, he’d pull a Tim and ignore me.

I stood the best chance of speaking with him in person. After all, I could refuse to leave his front porch until he talked to me. He didn’t seem like the type to report me to the police for trespassing. I glanced outside. The sky was darkening. Jeffrey would be on his nightly shift. I’d just begun calculating his beginning and ending work times when I remembered it was Sunday. As a full-time reporter, he’d most likely be off on weekends, wouldn’t he? I grabbed my car keys. Only one way to find out.

As I cruised along the roads of my neighborhood, I was grateful to be in my car. I didn’t know if I would ever resume my nightly strolls. How could I, without Emmy? A crushing weight pressed down upon my chest, causing me to pull to the side of the road and take half a dozen deep breaths until I could get my jittery body under control.

When I pulled onto Woodmint, I tried not to look at the houses, lit up like oversized lanterns, but I couldn’t help but stare at the Colonial next to Jane Brockton’s house as I passed. It was the only one on the street without a single light on. What was the story there, anyway? The place had an air of abandonment, yet I remembered the shadowy man emerging from the side door on multiple occasions to meet up with Jane. Was the guy living in that house or not?

It was none of my business. Driving on, I waited for my mother’s voice to echo the sentiment in my brain, but she’d been surprisingly quiet since I’d remembered she’d killed my father and drugged me my whole childhood. Guess her moral high ground had disappeared. As I approached Jeffrey’s place, the distinctive taillights of his Jeep were backing from his driveway onto the street. I cursed. Five minutes too late. I pulled in front of his house, watching his back lights get dimmer as he angled onto Primrose and drove away. I glanced around the neighborhood, at loose ends. I wondered if he’d return soon. I idled, listening to the song on the radio:Gotta do it this time, if I don’t, I’ll die; gonna make my move, gotta prove I tried.

Words to live by. I put the Honda in park.

I didn’t have a plan as I walked back down Woodmint, just a vague idea about investigating the dark Colonial. Eying Jane’s house as I crept past, I couldn’t make out much through the living-room window. Gauzy curtains successfully concealed the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves I’d seen in the room countless times before. I pictured Rod splayed out in the easy chair in front of them, a book under his nose, and the fluffy dog curled on his lap.

I glanced around the yard, looking for Jane. She could be as sneaky as I was. My eyes scanned the inky void between her house and the Colonial, unable to distinguish between shadows. I ran to the far side of the dark house, slunk over the railing, and dropped onto the front porch. The street-facing windows all had coverings—blinds or curtains, I presumed. It was impossible to tell, and I didn’t want to turn on my cell phone light and draw attention to myself. I tiptoed to the front door, which had some sort of stained-glass insert in the top half, making it difficult to see inside. I might have better luck at the back of the house. I scooted around the foundation on the side bordered by some sort of coniferous hedge, confident I wouldn’t be observed.

I stepped gingerly onto the back deck, which ran the length of the house. It seemed gigantic, lacking the usual outdoor accouterments one would expect in a neighborhood this ritzy: high-end dining table and chairs, Weber grill, artfully arranged annuals in oversized pots. I crossed to what I believed was the kitchen window and peered in. It was too dark to see anything. Glancing around, I noted the houses on either side of this one—including Jane’s—had no windows facing the Colonial. I took in the small wooded area behind the house. The dim twinkle of lights through the leaves informed me the houses on the street behind this one were too far away to see me, or what I was about to do.

I whipped out my cell phone and tapped on the flashlight icon, making sure to keep the light pressed against my chest. Pausing to ensure there was no noise coming from inside the house, I angled the beam through the window. My eyes grew wide at the barren kitchen counter, even though the major appliances were still in place. I walked along the back of the house and held my light against the French doors to reveal two empty rooms: the dining area and living room, if memory of the Deer Crossing models served. I crossed back past the kitchen and raised the phone’s light to the final downstairs window. Curtains covered it, but they weren’t closed all the way. I pointed the light beam in the slit between the drapes and peered in. The room was messy with backpacks against the far wall and clothing strewn around. A mattress lay flat on the floor, a mound of clothes on it.

I was trying to figure out if the garments were those of a woman or man when the clothing pile moved. Suddenly, a man sat up, looking straight into my light, which blasted the shadows from his features. I gasped. Squinting into my cell phone light was Ray Connolly, the man I knew as Matt. I turned and ran straight for the woods, shoving my hot cell phone against my belly under my shirt to douse the light. I reached the tree line as the swish of the back slider sounded. I ducked behind a tree, trying to control my panting breaths lest he hear me. I peered around the tree to see him also peeking out, the outline of his head just visible against the white grid of the French door.

I pressed myself flat against the ground, hoping he couldn’t see me. After a few seconds, I raised my head slightly, seeing Matt duck back inside and silently slide the door behind him. I jumped up and ran, not caring if I made noise. He couldn’t hear me from inside, where he was probably getting dressed with breakneck speed and grabbing his own light. A vision of him hunting me down crowded out other thoughts. I ran faster, tripping over tree roots and nearly landing flat on my face. When I reached the other street, I veered right and kept up my pace. Until I reached the house on the corner of Pine Hill and Lakeside. Matt’s house. Would this be the first place he’d look for me, or the last? It didn’t matter, I couldn’t be here either way. I started to run past the house when his mailbox, white with cherry trim, caught my attention. It looked luminous in a wash of moonlight. I moved toward it. It had been a long time since I’d checked out the contents. There just might be a clue inside revealing why the owner of this house was squatting in one around the block. I flipped open the lid and shoved my hand inside, my fingers curling around a small stack of papers. I yanked them out and kept running. With any luck, I’d make it to my car before Matt took to the neighborhood looking for me.

CHAPTER32

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 18

Isat up in bed, temples throbbing relentlessly. Dreams of a bleeding woman had woven through my sleep again. I’d awakened countless times during the night, my heart beating a tattoo of fear against my chest.

I tumbled out of bed and shuffled toward the kitchen, thinking only of my morning coffee, but when my eyes settled on the stack of mail on the kitchen counter I paused. I’d been too frightened to even turn on a light in my place after I’d returned home the previous night. If Matt had recognized me—a bigifsince I doubted he’d been able to make out my face in the dark with my cell phone light blasting in his eyes—he might swing by my house to confront me. I was sure he knew where I lived. His lover, Jane, would have told him.

I’d sat like a sentinel on my sofa in the dark living room for hours, watching the front yard in the bright moonlight, trying to wrap my head around Jane and Matt as the illicit couple I’d been observing for weeks. Was Matt actually Ray? Was Melanie really Annie? I wondered again how long Jane had been having a fling with another woman’s husband. Had Jane and her mystery man—whatever his name was—plotted to get rid of his wife? I thought about the strange conversation I’d overheard between them less than two weeks earlier on the dark street. Talking about a situation that was “getting serious.” Something they had to “figure out.” My head swam with the unanswered questions, and my stomach cramped, banishing the idea of coffee.

I snatched the mail bundle and slid into a kitchen chair. Could Matt/Ray have killed Melanie/Annie to free himself for Jane? That theory had a few holes. First of all, I didn’t know if the woman I’d seen was dead or just harmed. Second, what good would it do him to be free of a spouse if Jane still had hers? Third—and most important—Matt/Ray must realize if his wife went missing, he’d be suspect number one. On nearly every crime show I’d ever seen it was the husband who offed his wife.

Feeling like Mary, stealing other people’s documents, I leafed through the stack of flyers and other junk mail addressed to Occupant or Current Resident, seeing nothing that would clue me into the family that had lived at 21 Pine Hill Road. Standing, I bundled the papers between my palms and deposited them in my recycling bin next to the back door. As I turned back to the table, my eye caught a small envelope resting on the white tile floor. I bent down and scooped it up, ready to toss it in with the other discards, when I noticed the addressee: Ms. S. Connolly. The return address in the upper left corner was the local hospital, the one Dr. Ellison practiced out of. Probably a fundraising appeal, I thought as I tore open the end. Whoever addressed the envelope hadn’t even gotten Annie’s first initial right. I remembered the S on a keyboard was right next to the A.

I opened the letter and began reading:

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