Page 13 of I Know She Was There

Only a crazy person would... I caught my breath. Ididwalk the streets at night, nearly every night. And I peered into people’s houses. I was everything I appeared to be, wasn’t I? Had I imagined the woman in the window? The postpartum pills were strong, and I took them every morning. Were they messing with my brain? Making me imagine things that weren’t there?

I thought of the woman I called Melanie. Her eyes, large and dark, searching mine frantically. She was real, I knew she was. And whether they found her or not, now I suspected something else about her: she was certainly dead.

CHAPTER6

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 16

Ihad to convince someone of my story. I saw her. Melanie. More important, I couldfeelher. But detectives didn’t launch investigations based on feelings. Only proof. And the way to get it was to go back to that house.

I’d wasted hours obsessing over what I’d seen. I had todosomething. I stared at the phone balanced in my palm. Who could I tell besides the police? Would anyone believe me? The more incredulous thought seemed to be why anyonewouldn’tbelieve me. After all, I had nothing to gain by making up such a story.

Tim would disagree. How many times had he told me my efforts to reconnect us were just pathetic attempts to gain attention? Every time I’d reached out to him, he’d responded with suspicion. In fairness, I could understand his skepticism. Since we’d separated, I used many tactics to get him to reconcile our relationship. He’d be wary of this latest attempt, or what he would surely see as my ploy to once again be the center of his universe. Just last month he'd given me a tongue-lashing when I’d called him, frantic because Emmy felt warm. He’d just seen her, he reminded me. She had no fever. I was to stop calling him with nonsense.

No, telling Tim about what I’d witnessed was out of the question.

I could tell Mary. She’d believe my story. Once she was into her cups—which was almost always—she’d lap up my words like a squirrel I’d once seen slurping up every drop of water from a birdbath. Where would that get me?

A thought struck me: what about Jeffrey? What was his last name? I closed my eyes, trying to recall what the officer had told me. Turner? Talbot? Trem... Trembly. That was it. Jeffrey Trembly.

I didn’t have his phone number, but I recalled him telling the 911 dispatcher he lived on Woodmint Lane. He was on the late shift, had to be if he arrived home from work at two in the morning. I looked at my watch. Just after six in the morning. He’d certainly be asleep now. Realizing I’d have to wait until he awoke, I paced around the coffee table, mind and body jangling with nervous energy.

I eventually tried to lie down, but the heavy pain in the back of my head made it throb; racing thoughts prevented my mind from stilling, despite my self-medication. As I fed Emmy breakfast and sponged her down, I kept glancing at my watch. At half past eleven I figured Jeffrey would be up and starting his day. I scooped my handbag and car keys off the kitchen table and bundled Emmy into her car seat. I’d find Jeffrey Trembly and somehow convince him of the validity of my story. As a reporter—and a resident of Deer Crossing—he’d certainly want to know more about an accident in the neighborhood.

As I drove toward Woodmint Lane, I thought about the frantic woman with the wide, dark eyes and the gaping wound at the base of her neck. Whenever I’d read accounts of people cutting themselves in suicide attempts, it was usually the wrists they sliced, wasn’t it?Then why was her neck split open?

I crossed over Route 55 and entered Deer Crossing, taking the entrance on the right, Woodmint Lane. I drove slowly, refusing to even glance at the Brocktons’ house, lest Jane see me and think I was spying on her. At the second-to-last house on the right, the name Trembly was spelled out in black capital letters across the gray metal mailbox at the curb, just to the left of a gray Colonial’s driveway. I parked next to it.

The house was much more basic than its neighbors. No shutters, which gave the façade a barren appearance. Like looking into the face of someone who’d shaved off their eyebrows.

Only a few scrubby shrubs graced either side of a plain concrete stoop with wrought-iron railings. I supposed a guy living on a newspaper reporter’s salary couldn’t afford the amenities other residents had. If Tim and I had lived here, our house would probably have looked very much like Jeffrey’s. I stepped out of my car and, checking that I’d cracked the windows for Emmy, locked the doors before walking up the asphalt driveway.

After I knocked on the wood-paneled front door, I listened for the sounds of life: rustling inside or maybe a dog barking. I heard nothing. I walked back to my car, glancing around the yard. The front lawn was yellowing. I squinted, looking for the tiny sprinkler heads that graced all the other properties, but there didn’t appear to be any. I noticed a coiled hose up against the house, behind one of the scraggly shrubs. I wondered if Jeffrey was embarrassed by his property or if he was too busy chasing news stories to care.

Glancing in my back seat as I got in the car, I noticed Emmy staring into the space around her. She didn’t look content, exactly, but she wasn’t wailing. A good sign. I slid behind the wheel and started the car. It wouldn’t do any harm to veer onto Pine Hill Road, passing Melanie and Matt’s house on my way out of the neighborhood.

The sun filtered through tattered clouds, coating everything in a lemony glow. I looked at Muzzy’s place as I drove by, once again feeling oddly dismayed at not seeing her in the yard she’d once spent so much time in. Counseling myself to not dwell on my former friend’s preferences, I passed the pond, breathing deeply to steady my upticking heart, and turned onto Pine Hill, pausing in front of the cherry-red corner house. No furniture or garden decor graced the front porch. It certainly looked as though the residents had moved on. A flash of color to the left caught my attention. A navy Jeep was parked on the brick pavers, just beyond the hedge. The same Jeep I rode in last night? My brows rose. A man was just getting out of the car.

I pulled into the driveway behind him, causing him to startle and look at me. I had the weird sense I’d seen him before last night.

“Hey,” I called, stepping from my Honda. “Jeffrey Trembly, right?”

“Yeah.” He eyed me warily. “Caroline?” He didn’t look or sound happy to see me.

I nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for helping me.”

He shrugged. “Well, I don’t know how much I helped anyone. The police told me no one lives here.”

I grimaced. “They told me the same.”

“Then why are you here?” His gaze, meeting mine, was intense.

Straightening my shoulders, I walked toward him, not stopping until I reached the back bumper of his car. “I know what I saw.”

He swallowed as he took in my resolute expression. “The cops said you were wrong. Seeing something that wasn’t there.”

“Really?” My face reddened. “If you believe that, why areyouhere?”

His eyes shifted to the ground. “I don’t know. You seemed so certain.” He glanced up at the house. “Thought I should look around for myself. Guess it’s the reporter in me.”

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