Page 35 of I Know She Was There

Or was something more sinister at play? Had someone been searching for something to steal?

Doubtful. I owned nothing of monetary value besides my wedding rings, which were still on my left ring finger. Our electronics were modest. I glanced from the thirty-two-inch TV screen on the living-room console table to the portable stereo next to it. I was certain our other small TV and my cheap work laptop were still in my bedroom. I walked toward that room. One of two things must have happened: Mary, in a booze-infused state had imagined an intruder and used her key to enter my place—and lied to me about using it—or I’d left my doors open, inviting the world into my private spaces. An invitation someone had readily accepted.

Crossing into my bedroom, I yawned, suddenly exhausted. Looking at my desk to ensure my laptop was still there, I stripped off my clothes and opened the closet, noticing multicolored materials puddled on the floor. Had the items slipped from hangers, or had I dropped them there? I snapped my head to the right, sliding my gaze along my dresser and lingerie chest. Were the drawers open a little?

I crossed the room in two strides and pulled open the top dresser drawer. The sweaters looked pawed through, didn’t they? Or was that how they always looked? I opened the next drawer and plucked out a pair of pajamas. Was I imagining things, or did the sleepwear appear more rumpled than usual? I pulled on the flannel bottoms, buttoned up the top, a tremor running through me.

Items in every drawer appeared slightly dislodged, but nothing was missing. Ditto for Emmy’s dresser drawers. Had Mary arrived before the intruder had a chance to take anything? Or had it been Mary herself looking for something? Perhaps her alcohol stream had run dry, and she was hoping to find a bottle in my kitchen. When she didn’t, she may have suspected me of hiding it elsewhere. That would explain the state of my drawers.

Fatigue battled raw nerves. I needed rest but knew that only a pill would help me sleep on this unsettling night. I took one, washed it down with water, and tumbled into bed, waiting for the chemicals to usher in much-needed rest.

CHAPTER17

FRIDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 8

As soon as I woke, I knew something was wrong, but my sleep-fogged brain wasn’t supplying details. I sat up gingerly, like an overworked athlete knowing every muscle would be sore. The break-in and my conversation with Mary amid the moldy stench of her allergy-inducing basement finally trickled in.

As if recalling my neighbor had magically conjured her, Mary’s wafer-thin voice floated through the vaporous morning air. I looked through the gravelly light, my gaze settling on the bedroom doorway. I half expected to see her walk through it.

“Caroline? Car-o-line?”

I got out of bed, blinking, following her voice like a sleepwalker obeying the dictates of a fever dream. I shuffled along the hallway and halted in my tiny foyer, spying Mary through the sidelight window on my front porch. She was tapping lightly on the glass, which made my jaw clench.

“What is it now, Mary?” I yanked open the door, scratching the top of my snarled head with my free hand, a whimper escaping me when my fingers tangled in the knots of hair at the crown.

“Oh, dolly, I couldn’t sleep knowing you were upset with me.” She smiled, not looking even slightly remorseful.

I looked beyond her, to the gray light of early morning coating my across-the-street neighbor’s white ranch. “What time is it?”

“Just after six.”

I took a cleansing breath. Icouldn’tstart my day yelling at an old lady. “If you’d waited until eight to wake me, you’d have had two extra hours to contemplate my anger. That would have really ratcheted up the drama.”

“That’s just it, I want to avoid extra tension,” she said, her eyes going wide. My sarcasm was lost on her, but I had the sneaky suspicion it was by design. “I’ll make you a cup of coffee while you shower, then we can head into town,” she added. “I need to buy some things and I could use the company. I think you could too. I think it’s a good...”

Without bothering to wait for her to finish her sentence, I turned and walked into my bathroom, hearing her shut my front door. I twisted the spigot on the shower and wiped the crust from an eye while I waited for the water to heat up. I had no energy to argue.

I stayed in the steamy bathroom for a long time, enjoying the invigorating stream of hot water on my skin and dreading an upcoming morning with Mary.

When I finally emerged, wrapped in a ragged-edged towel, she was at the bathroom door with a steaming mug. I didn’t know what to make of it. Nobody made coffee for me. Tim claimed to not even know how to boil water, and, growing up, my mother continually warned me of the dangers of regular caffeine ingestion. I winced thinking about what she’d make of my routine pill-popping as I took the mug from Mary.

Still annoyed with my neighbor, I shuffled to my bedroom, closed the door behind me, leaving Mary standing in my hallway. I took a sip and gagged, spitting it back into the cup. I’d not been expecting Mary’sstrong coffee.

When I finally made it to my kitchen, swathed in my detergent-blue bathrobe, Mary was shoving bread slices into my toaster. I dumped the contents of my mug and poured myself a new cup, eyeing my neighbor with a look that challenged her to protest.

She looked from me to the toaster. “The stores open at ten. I know it’s not yet seven, but we need to be prepared for traffic. And with your driving challenges...”

“I don’t think we’ll be battling the Upstate New York hordes in this heat,” I said, hearing my nasty attitude spilling into my tone. “It’s not like we’re lining up for the Travers Stakes in Saratoga. And my driving is just fine, thank you.”

“You’d be surprised how bustling downtown gets on a Friday morning,” she said, the toast popping up as if accentuating her words.

I’m sure you’d be surprised too, I thought. I seldom saw Mary before 10:00 a.m. It took her a while to come around after each night of hard drinking.

By ten minutes before ten, after enduring a morning viewing ofThe Price is Rightwith Mary—her nonstop coaching of the contestants as if she were getting paid to do it (and they could actually hear her)—I had my neighbor securely ensconced in my front passenger seat, safety belt in place. I backed out of my driveway carefully, recalling how she’d disparaged my skills behind the wheel the last time I’d driven her. After she told me she let her husband die.

I still had no idea how true that story was, just as I wasn’t sure of exactly why Mary had been in my house the night before. Had she really been tailing someone?

“Why would a person break into my house, Mary?”

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