Fade to Black (24 page)

“I’ll meet you at the restaurant,” she amends quickly.

He starts to protest, but her eyes narrow at him, and he realizes she’s on the verge of backing out.

So he agrees to her meeting him there, and starts to give her directions.

“I know where it is,” she interrupts quietly.

“Oh. Okay. Then I’ll see you there at eight tomorrow night.”

“Good.”

“I’ll make a reservation. I bet the place gets crowded on a Friday.”

“Probably.”

Sensing she wants him to go, he pushes his iced tea glass away and shoves back his chair.

“Thanks for stopping over,” she says quietly, surprising him again.

“Like I said, I was worried about you.”

She nods. “Well, like I said, I’m fine. But it was nice of you anyway.”

“I’m a nice guy, Elizabeth.”

“Yeah.”

He can’t read the tone in that single word, or the expression on her face.

She walks him to the front door, stepping around the fabric spread out on the floor.

“Guess you have to finish your sewing, huh?” he asks.

She nods and opens the door for him.

He looks down at her lovely face. “See you tomorrow night, Elizabeth.”

“See you tomorrow night.” Her voice is soft; her brown eyes collide with his.

He wants desperately to take her into his arms, to crush her lips beneath his in a blistering kiss.

Somehow, he restrains himself.

Patience
, he tells himself as he turns away, walking out the door and down the steps.

You‘ll have her soon enough
.

And you don’t want to scare her away....

P
amela smears a glob of white Daily Care diaper ointment on Jason’s bare bottom, her eyes focused on the window.

Outside, Elizabeth is mowing her lawn. She’s wearing her usual outfit of shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers, but somehow, the casual clothes seem to emphasize her exquisite figure. There seems to be a bounce in her walk as she pushes the mower over the grass, as though she’s lighthearted.

In the years since Pamela has been her neighbor, Elizabeth has never seemed lighthearted.

No, she’s always been skittish, withdrawn, uptight.

The kind of woman who, as Frank would say, could use a good—

Don’t even think it
.

That’s the last combination of ideas Pamela wants running through her mind.

Her husband, and Elizabeth, and sex.

Unfortunately, that’s all that’s been on her mind for the past twenty-four hours.

Discovering the porn magazines may not have been proof of Frank’s affair, but they are proof that he hasn’t lost interest in sex. And if he’s not getting it from Pamela, then he must be getting it someplace else. A few girlie magazines would never provide enough stimulation for a man whose sex drive is as strong as Frank’s has always been.

Anyway, she had caught him sneaking back from Elizabeth’s house the other night, when he was supposed to be watering the grass. Who knows how many times he’s crept next door under cover of darkness, even in the middle of the night, after she and the kids are asleep?

That has to be why he’s been sleeping on the couch—so that he can come and go as he pleases.

And all those midnight shifts he’s been working lately … has he really been out on patrol? Or has he been snug in Elizabeth Baxter’s bed, yards away from his unsuspecting wife?

The thought of it makes her sick.

“Mommy?”

Hannah’s in the doorway of the nursery, chocolate smeared all over her face, along with a guilty expression.

“Hannah, what are you
doing?
”

“Eating choc-o-late. Mmmm. Yummy chocolate, Mommy. Get more for Hannah?”

“No, I’m not going to get you more. Where did you get it?”

She hurriedly slips a fresh diaper beneath Jason’s bottom, lifts the tapes, and expertly attaches the sticky strips to the cartoon-illustrated front panel.

“Where did you get the chocolate, Hannah?” she repeats.

“In Mommy’s room. Under Mommy’s pillow.”

So Hannah had discovered Pamela’s secret stash. Had she also eaten the snack-sized package of Raisinettes? Pamela had been saving them for tonight, planning to eat them while watching
20/20
on television.

What a thrilling way to spend a Friday evening.

“Hannah, that was a very bad thing to do.” Pamela begins snapping the crotch of Jason’s onesie. “You need to ask Mommy before you go around eating things.”

“Can Hannah eat more chocolate, Mommy?” the toddler asks obediently.

“No.”

Hannah makes a face, pouts, reaches a sticky hand out toward the pale yellow wall of her brother’s room.

“No! Stop that!” Pamela hollers, but it’s too late.

There’s a streak of chocolate on the wall.

Pamela dashes over, grabs her daughter’s hand, and fights the urge to smack it.

She has never hit her child.

Never.

But she’s about to.

Only a sound from the changing table stops her.

She turns in time to see Jason making a movement, appearing as though he’s about to roll over, off the table.

“No!” Pamela dashes over, grabs him.

Her heart is pounding.

He wasn’t in danger.

He can’t roll over yet. He can’t. He’s only two months old, and Hannah hadn’t rolled over until she was in her fourth month.

Still, she hadn’t been thinking when she’d left him alone on the table.

You’re losing it
she tells herself, clutching the gurgling baby to her breast.
You left Jason on the table without thinking he could fall
—

But he couldn’t have fallen.

And you almost slapped Hannah
.

She lets out a shuddering sigh.

“What’s wrong, Mommy?” Hannah asks, sucking on her chocolate-covered hand.

“Nothing, Hannah.”

Your mommy’s just losing her mind
.

And it’s all Daddy’s fault
.

She glances at the window, sees her shapely neighbor pushing her lawn mower up a slight incline in the lawn.

Frank’s fault, and Elizabeth Baxter’s fault
.

E
lizabeth puts the mower and rake into the shed at the back of her property and turns to survey her work.

The grass is still brown, but at least it’s no longer straggly. It took her two hours to mow it and rake up the clippings.

She closes and locks the shed, then starts toward the house, wiping a trickle of sweat from her neck. It’s another hot, humid day, but the sun isn’t shining as brightly as usual and the sky is a milky color. The weather forecast had called for rain tonight and tomorrow.

Good. Maybe the grass will turn green again.

It looks pretty bad, in contrast with the Minellis’ lawn next door. They must have been watering it—maybe the ban has been lifted, though she hasn’t heard anything. Frank is a cop. He wouldn’t break the law, would he?

She had seen Pamela leave a while ago, driving off in a hurry with the two children in their car seats, but her neighbor hadn’t so much as waved. She was lugging her usual diaper bags and other paraphernalia out to the car, looking preoccupied.

Elizabeth had been partly relieved to have escaped a meaningless conversation …

And maybe a little disappointed too.

Having Harper around last night made her realize how much she’s been missing, cutting herself off from the world the way she has. Maybe it really is time to venture out, to allow herself contact, maybe even friendship, with other people.

Of course, Pamela isn’t Harper.

And the contact Elizabeth wants with him isn’t necessarily just friendship.

That’s why she found herself saying yes when he asked her out for tonight.

She had done it against her better judgment, had done it even though she had fully intended to say no.

It’s too late to back out now.

That’s the tiling about Harper.

Every time she tries to disentangle herself from him, he manages to snare her further into his beguiling web.

“Elizabeth! How goes it?”

She turns to see Frank Minelli stepping out of his patrol car in the driveway, wearing his police uniform.

“Hi, Frank,” she calls, waving.

“Your lawn looks good.” He walks over, jangling his car keys in his hand as he inspects the grass. “Did you cut it?”

“Just now.”

“Looks like it could use some water too.”

“Is the watering ban still on?”

He nods. “But maybe things will start getting back to normal if it rains tonight and tomorrow the way it’s supposed to. They’re predicting severe thunderstorms for the coastal area.”

“Sure, the one night I’m going out,” she murmurs, mostly to herself, but Frank lifts a brow.

“Hot date?” he asks, flashing his good-natured grin.

She shrugs.

“Where are you going?”

“To dinner.”

“Who with?”

She’d rather not tell him, but can’t figure out how to get around it.

So she says, “Harper Smith.”

“The locksmith?”

She nods, suddenly feeling wary. She thought she saw some fleeting, unsettling expression in Frank’s eyes when she mentioned the name, but it’s gone, and she isn’t sure what it was.

“What’s wrong?” she asks him.

“Nothing,” he says, but she knows with a sudden, chilling certainty that he’s hiding something.

Something about Harper.

“Do you know something about him?” she asks Frank, watching his face carefully.

“Nothing concrete …” The reluctance in his tone and the cagey expression in his brown eyes makes Elizabeth’s stomach turn over with a sickening thud.

“Look, it’s nothing,” he says. “You just be careful tonight, okay?”

“What is it, Frank?”

He hesitates, clearly uncomfortable.

“Listen, this is off the record. I could get into big trouble for saying anything about official police business. But you’re my neighbor, and—”

“What?” Her voice is high-pitched now, almost shrill. “What do you know about Harper?”

“I don’t want to scare you, Elizabeth. But he hasn’t been in town for very long, and … well, we’re just keeping an eye on him. That’s all.”

“Why?”

Again Frank hedges, looking over his shoulder as though afraid he’s going to be overheard. “This isn’t something I’m supposed to talk about.”

“You’ve got to tell me, Frank. Please.”

“Okay. I’ll tell you. And remember, it’s probably nothing …”

“What is it?”

“Harper Smith matches the description of a fugitive from California, that’s all. And he showed up here last year right around the time the guy disappeared from L.A.”

“L.A.?”

Frank nods.

“What’s he wanted for?” she manages to ask even as she thinks this can’t be happening.

“Violating a restraining order, officially. It was filed against him by some actress, someone I never heard of—I can’t remember her name. Not anybody you would have heard of. But he’s also wanted for questioning in a murder case. He’s suspected of killing his former girlfriend and threatening her fiancé. He went off the deep end when he found out she was engaged to someone else, that he couldn’t have her.”

“Oh my God.”

“Take it easy, Elizabeth.” Frank lays a hand on her arm. “I’m not saying Harper Smith is the same person. In fact, we’re doing our best to rule it out. It’s just that there’s a resemblance, and the timing is right. And our locksmith tends to keep to himself, which isn’t helping matters. Neither is the fact that his last name is Smith. Hardly a creative alias, if it is one.”

She’s shaking her head, a trembling hand pressed against her lips.

“Don’t get all upset, okay? Oh, man, I shouldn’t have said anything. Look at you.” Frank peers into her face. “Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m … fine. I’m glad you told me. Frank—”

She hesitates.

Part of her wants to confess everything to him. She’ll tell him who she really is, and that Harper Smith must be the stalker who terrorized her in Los Angeles five years ago. He must have followed her here, posing as a locksmith, and …

Oh, Christ. She had played right into his hands.

The break-in had to be a carefully orchestrated part of his plan—he’d broken the lock on her basement door and stolen her spare keys, knowing she would need a locksmith, that she would be nervous and frantic enough to call the first one listed.