She Loves Me Not (25 page)

Wincing, he uses his fabric-wrapped hand to turn off the lights. His palm is sore where the splinter went in, and his knuckles are bleeding.

He thinks he'd better get the hell out of here before somebody sees him. He doesn't want to risk getting caught. Not now, when completion is so close at hand.

After stepping out of the car, he turns to look at the house one last time. The light is still on in the bathroom window upstairs.

“Sweet dreams, Angela. I'll see you tomorrow,” he whispers softly, before scurrying off into the night.

“C
hristine? I'm home,” Ben's voice calls from downstairs.

Crouched on the bathroom floor in front of the toilet, she doesn't answer him.

“Christine?”

She waits, half-expecting to hear his footsteps coming up the steps, but instead they retreat to the back of the first floor. He knows she's here—her car is in the driveway. Yet he didn't even bother to come up and make sure she's all right.

She hears the pipes groan as water begins to run in the downstairs bathroom.

Ben is washing up at the sink, she knows. It's the first thing he does every night when he walks in the door, saying he has to get the city grime and newsprint off his hands.

Another wave of nausea grips her and she stares miserably into the vomit-filled toilet bowl. It's like the chemo all over again, she thinks bleakly, wondering what the hell is wrong with her.

It couldn't be all that crap you gorged on earlier, could it?

The thought of potato chips and Twinkies is enough to gag her, but she really didn't eat
that
much. Not enough to make her this sick.

If she didn't have her period, she might be able to convince herself that her body clock is screwed up and this is a bout of morning sickness, but it would be wishful thinking, of course. She no longer believes she'll ever get pregnant. They've been trying for months, to no avail.

Plop . . . plop . . . plop . . .

Damn that dripping tub faucet. She still hasn't called a plumber, and God knows she can't ask Rose Larrabee about the one she uses now.

“Christine?” Ben's footsteps are on the stairs at last.

Good. Let him find her here in all her misery. Let him feel sorry that he took his time coming home tonight, that he didn't come right up here to check on her first thing.

Yeah, right. Ben, she knows, is immune to guilt.

She coughs loudly, forcing a dry heave, wishing she could make herself retch right about now to show him exactly how miserable she is. But the urge seems to have passed, her empty stomach left merely queasy in the wake of the storm.

Ben knocks at the bathroom door. “Christine? You in there?”

“Yes.” Her voice is wan.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm sick.”

He opens the door and looks in. “What's wrong?”

“I don't know . . . I think I have that flu you had or something.”

Ben takes a step backward. “Don't give it back to me. I can't afford to get sick at this time of year. I'd better sleep downstairs on the couch tonight.”

She tries to tell herself that he's really not a selfish bastard. That she should know better than to expect tea and sympathy from him. That he's overworked and overtired, and he never was the nurturing type in the first place.

“Do you, uh, need anything?” he asks belatedly, as though he just realized he should at least pretend that he cares about her.

“Just to be left alone.”

“Do you think you're going to be long?” Ben is still hovering in the doorway. “Because I want to take a shower before bed.”

“Trust me, when I'm done vomiting, you'll be the first to know,” she snaps, reaching out with her foot to kick the door closed in his face as she gags again, this time for real.

T
his time, when Leslie calls home, Peter answers the phone on the first ring.

“There you are!” Relieved, she smiles and nods at Rose, who has looked up expectantly from the field trip permission slip she's filling out for Jenna to take back to school in the morning.

“I had to run out and pick up a few things,” he says, sounding a little breathless.

“Really? Like what?”

“Just some stuff . . . you know, from the drugstore.”

“Guy stuff?”

“Yeah. Listen, what's up? Where are you? I thought you'd be home by now.”

“Didn't you get my message?”

“No, I just walked back in the door.”

“Oh. Well, I wanted to tell you I'm staying here with Rose tonight.”

“You are?” He sounds disappointed. “If I had known that, I would've just gone home tonight instead of tomorrow.”

“You're going home tomorrow night?”

“I have to. I haven't even gotten my mail in days, Les.”

“But then I won't see you till Thursday.”

“So come home tonight. I'm here now. And I've got a surprise for you.”

“You do?”

“Yup. Just come home.”

“I'd love to, but . . .” She glances across the room at Rose, curled up on the couch leafing through her magazine. “I can't.”

“Why not?”

“I'll tell you later. So . . . have a good night, Peter. Can I still get that surprise when I see you?”

“Definitely.”

“Love you.”

“You, too,” he says. He never actually uses the word love, she realizes. Just echoes
you too
whenever she says it.

She hangs up the phone and sets it on the table beside her chair, frowning.

“What's wrong?” Rose asks.

“Did Sam ever say ‘I love you'?”

“All the time. Why?”

“Peter doesn't.”

“Ever?”

“No.” She sighs, filled with doubt about Peter, their wedding, their future. “Sometimes I wonder . . .”

“What?”

She wants to tell Rose how lucky she was to have had Sam. For as long as they were together, there was never any doubt that he loved her.

But Rose already knows that.

And anyway, Peter isn't Sam,
Leslie reminds herself for the second time today.
You can't compare. It isn't fair.

Plus, Peter just said he has a surprise for you. He sounded so mysterious. Maybe it's
—

“Leslie?” Rose prods, breaking into her thoughts. “Sometimes you wonder what?”

“Oh . . . never mind.” She checks her watch. “Hey, what time did you say your boss was coming over?”

“I have no idea. It's getting late, isn't it? Maybe he for—”

“Why don't you call the store to remind him?”

“It's already closed.”

“Do you have his home number?”

“No, and even if I did, I wouldn't use it. I guess if he doesn't show up, I'll have to get the check tomorrow.” Rose reaches for the remote control. “Come on, let's find some sappy girl movie to watch on TV to take our minds off our troubles. Too bad I don't have a bag of chips in the cupboard. I could really go for—”

“Chips! Oh, Rose, I almost forgot. Your neighbor, Christine.”

Rose glances at her, startled. “Christine? What about her?”

“I saw her today. She was taking groceries out of her car—she dropped a bag of chips, which is what made me think of her. So anyway, I asked her if she'd seen the puppy—she hasn't. But she said to tell you again how sorry she was for yesterday.”

“She did?”

Leslie nods. “I felt kind of sorry for her. She seemed so . . . I don't know. There's just something about her that struck me as sort of pathetic. What's up with her marriage?”

“I never see her husband. He commutes, and he's always at—”

The phone rings suddenly, startling both of them. “Want me to get it?” Leslie asks, reaching for it on the table beside her chair.

“Would you?”

“Sure. Maybe it's your boss.” She lifts the cordless receiver and presses Talk. “Hello?”

Silence.

Then a man says, “Uh, who is this?”

“Who is
this?” she
shoots back, though she recognizes the voice.

Scott Hitchcock.

“Uh, I was looking for Rose—”

‘This is Leslie. Hang on a second.” She raises an eyebrow at Rose as she passes her the phone. “It's Hitch.”

“Hitch?” Rose looks surprised. Pleasantly so.

Leslie watches her carry the phone into the other room.

I knew it,
she thinks, shaking her head, looking up at a framed photo on the mantel.
I just knew it.
He's trying to take your place, Sam. And I hate to say it, but . . . I have a feeling she's going to let him.

“W
ho . . . do you know who this is?” David asks the McGlinchies when he manages to find his voice. He points at the smiling young man standing beside their daughter in the photo.

“No, I don't . . . do you, Joanne?”

She shakes her head, telling both her husband and David, “These are friends Olivia made that last summer, after she regained her sight. She met most of them in the city, I think.”

“Do you mind if I take the photo out of the album so that I can take a closer look?” David is already slipping it, with trembling fingers, from its protective plastic pocket.

“What's the matter?” Ralph asks. “Are you all right?”

“I just . . .” David stares at the photo, incredulous. “I know I've seen that face before, and . . .”

And something is very, very wrong here.

Because the young man standing next to Olivia McGlinchie—the man whose baseball cap, scruffy beard and shaggy hair almost, but not quite, obscure his face—is the same person David saw coming out of the restaurant with Angela on St. Mark's Place on that warm spring night.

“S
o what's up, Hitch?” Rose asks, carrying the cordless phone into the kitchen, unwilling to sit there and talk to him with Leslie in earshot, just in case . . .

In case what? In case he's calling to pick up where he left off yesterday, in the kitchen?

“I just called to see how your day went,” he says, and she realizes he sounds a little anxious. “I hope it was better than yesterday.”

She gives a brittle laugh. “Well, the kids didn't disappear today, if that's what you mean. But Cupid did.”

“Cupid . . .”

“Their puppy,” she says, absently sponging the counter she already wiped down earlier. “He's missing.”

“What happened? Did he run away?”

“He must have. I'm thinking Leo must have opened the door to check for snow—he's dying to use the sled you got him for Christmas—and the puppy probably got out.”

“He'll probably find his way back. But the kids must be upset.”

“They're devastated. Leslie's staying here tonight, and it took her forever to get them into bed. She must have read a dozen bedtime stories and sung a hundred nursery rhymes before they finally calmed down.”

“Hopefully she didn't sing ‘Where oh where has my little dog gone,' ” Hitch says dryly.

Caught off guard by his dark humor, she forces a laugh. “I doubt that.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to joke about the puppy. I just—”

“It's okay,” Rose assures him, tossing the sponge back into the sink. “Trust me, we can use some jokes around here these days. Actually, we can use a lot of things. Jokes . . . money . . . snow . . .”

“Well, you might be in luck there,” Hitch says. “I heard there's going to be a big storm tomorrow night. So the kids might get to use those sleds after all.”

“My fingers are crossed,” she says around a yawn.

“I'll cross mine, too,” Hitch says. “You're tired, Rose. I'll let you go. And I've got an early day tomorrow. I'm driving into the Bronx to the plumbing supplier. Maybe I'll stop by on my way back.”

“Do that. Good night, Hitch.”

“Sweet dreams, Rose.”

“M
ay I see the photo for a second?” Joanne asks, and David hands it to her wordlessly, his mind racing. He doesn't know what any of this means, but as far as he's concerned, two coincidences linking Olivia McGlinchie to his world are two too many.

Joanne flips the photo over, then holds it up to the light. “That's what I thought. Olivia's friend wrote the names of the people in it on the back. That means this person's name would be . . . let's see, he's the one, two, three, fourth person from the left, so his name is Clarence.”

Clarence?

Clarence . . .

“Is there a last name?” David asks.

Joanne shakes her head. “She only wrote first names.”

“Do you know him?” Ralph is watching David carefully.

David looks from Ralph to his wife, noting their expectant expressions.

If I tell them what I suspect, it will only upset them,
he realizes.
Because I'm not even sure what I suspect. I only know that something odd is going on here.

Odd . . . and maybe dangerous.

“No,” he tells Olivia's parents, rising abruptly and handing over the photo album. “I don't know him. I just . . . I thought I did. You know, I have to be going now.”

Joanne protests, “But the coffee is ready, and—”

“I'm sorry. I just remembered something that I have to do right away.”

Hopefully, it isn't too late.

Chapter Eleven

R
ose awakens slowly, her senses gradually coming to life as she stretches her arms high above her head.

Hmmm. Sniffing the air, she smells toast. And when she opens her eyes, she sees gray light filtering through the shade.

It's actually morning?

She slept through an entire night? No Leo, no phone calls, no . . .

She turns her head quickly, darting a look at the empty pillow beside her.

Nope, no wee-hour visitors.

She even had sweet dreams, as Hitch instructed. In fact, he was in them.

Not just in them . . .

He had a starring role.

Rose closes her eyes, trying to grasp the fleeting remnants of her dreams. She can't quite remember what they were about, but she feels her cheeks grow warm and flushed as she recalls one particular detail.

Guilt surges through her and she opens her eyes, glancing again at Sam's empty pillow.

She can almost hear his voice, teasing her.
You're into my old pal Hitch, Rose. Come on . . . admit it.

She shakes her head. She doesn't want to admit it, not to the imaginary ghost of Sam; not even to herself. It's too soon. It feels like a betrayal. Sam hasn't even been gone . . .

A year. He's been gone a year, Rose. Going on fourteen months, to be exact.

So what does that mean? That after a year, she's free to fall in love again?

Who said anything about falling in love?

All she wants is . . .

Well, it would be nice not to be alone all the time. Alone with the kids.

Having Leslie around last night made her remember how nice it is to relax and watch television with somebody who doesn't keep asking if it's almost time for
Blue's Clues
to come on.

And it would be nice to be kissed by someone who doesn't drool and smell of Fruity Pebbles . . .

Really
kissed. The way she hasn't been since Sam died. The way Hitch kissed her just now, in her dream.

She quickly pushes that thought aside, climbs out of bed, and sticks her head out into the hall. Both the kids' bedroom doors are open, and she can hear voices downstairs and pans clattering in the kitchen. Heading toward the bathroom, she pauses at the top of the stairs to call, “Hey, what's going on down there?”

“Aunt Leslie's making chocolate toast!” Jenna shouts up.

“And I'm helping,” Leo calls, followed by the sound of breaking glass.

“Leo! Mommy, Leo broke a dish!” Jenna bellows.

Rose sighs and starts down the stairs.

Leslie appears at the bottom, dustpan already in hand. “Don't worry, Rose. I've got it all under control. Just go get ready for work. The kids are dressed for school, teeth brushed, and I'm making breakfast for them.”

“I swear I'm going to recommend you for canonization, Leslie,” Rose says gratefully. “Thank you.”

She walks into the bathroom, closes the door, and catches a glimpse of her reflection in the mirrored medicine cabinet as she reaches for the day's first dose of pills.

Good Lord.

She might feel better today—more rested, more optimistic—but she looks like hell. There are dark circles under her eyes, the muscles around her mouth look tense, and her complexion is as pale and pasty as overcooked spaghetti.

Maybe it's just the lighting in here, she thinks, reaching for the cord to raise the lace window shade.

Not only does that do little to improve her appearance, but the sky outside is depressingly dark.

Well, it is supposed to snow. In fact, maybe it's started already.

Rose peers out the window, checking the ground for white flakes . . .

And lets out a bloodcurdling scream.

H
is stomach rumbling loudly, David sits back on his heels, wishing he hadn't included the cook when he fired the household staff yesterday. He hasn't had anything since yesterday's breakfast, unless he counts the countless cups of coffee he consumed throughout the sleepless night. All that caffeine has left him nauseous and jittery . . . or maybe that's not due to the caffeine at all.

He looks around at the piles of papers, stacks of books, and boxes of clothes surrounding him on the attic floor. He's spent the last ten hours rummaging through everything that ever belonged to Angela, and he hasn't come up with a single clue as to her lover's identity. She covered her tracks well. Even her date book for the last year of her life contains only references to charity board meetings, Pilates classes, lunches with friends . . . but nothing about somebody named Clarence, or anybody else David doesn't recognize.

He rubs his sore, tired eyes, wearily calculating his next steps.

He could go to the police . . .

To tell them what?

That the woman who received his dead wife's organs might have been murdered by her lover?

It's nothing more than his own personal theory, really. In fact, if he were to go to the police, he would have no proof that Angela's lover even existed in the first place. He could show them the photo in Olivia's parents' album . . .

But what would that prove? The only place that face is linked to Angela is in my head.
Besides, the Snow Angel has achieved legendary status in New York. Chances are, even the police wouldn't want to believe that she was an adulteress. And what if, considering where the body was found, they decide to investigate David for the murder?

What if they do? You have nothing to hide.

But the press would have a field day with a story like that. The Brookman name would be dragged through the mud. Every skeleton in the family closet—and David is sure there are many—would be examined.

He thinks of his father and stepmother, enjoying their retirement in Florida, and his mother, living in Paris with her fourth husband. They don't need this, and neither does he.

The press was bad enough when Angela died.

His parents never cared for their daughter-in-law. After trying unsuccessfully to talk him out of marrying her, they kept their distance after the wedding. Of course, they rushed to his side in the hospital after her accident, accompanied by their current spouses, and they stayed there until long after the funeral, making sure the world saw them as grieving in-laws.

Appearances are everything when you're a Brookman. It wouldn't do for people to discover that David's family couldn't stand his wife, and it sure as hell wouldn't do for David to be investigated for her murder, innocent or not.

He sighs.

If he can't go to the police, and he can't figure out who Clarence is—short of returning to the McGlinchies and getting in touch with their late daughter's photo-sending friend—then what can he do?

You can track down the other two women who have Angela's organs . . . and what? Warn them that a crazed killer named Clarence might be stalking them?

Yeah, sure.

He shakes his head.

His stomach growls again, more insistently than before.

Or you can forget the whole thing,
David tells himself,
and you can go out and get something to eat.

C
hristine has just finished vomiting—
again
—when she hears the sirens.

Startled by how near they sound, she quickly flushes the toilet and goes to the front bedroom to peer out the window that overlooks the street.

A patrol car, red lights flashing and siren wailing, has just screeched to a stop at the curb in front of the house next door.

Christine briefly presses her hot, aching forehead against the cold glass, praying that nothing has happened to Rose or one of the children.

Then she makes her way downstairs as quickly as she can, clinging tightly to the bannister with a clammy hand, wishing she were dressed so that she could go next door to see what's going on.

You could
get
dressed,
she reminds herself.

No, she can't. Right now, she doesn't have the energy to do anything more than walk and breathe.

Chemotherapy—hell, even cancer—were nothing compared to this flu, if that's what she has. She's much sicker than Ben was when he claimed he had the flu.

Her doctor, when she called him first thing this morning, said it sounds like the nasty strain that's been going around. She's had a temperature of a hundred and four since last night, accompanied by vomiting and diarrhea, and it feels as though somebody is attacking her skull with a sledgehammer and her throat with a blowtorch.

He offered to see her, but he's in Manhattan, and she hasn't yet found a physician out here on the Island. So there's nothing to do but tough it out. And if it gets worse, she'll have to go to the emergency room.

‘Too bad we were so busy with the move that we didn't get our flu shots,” Ben declared. “Do you think it's too late for me to get one now?”

“Definitely,” she couldn't resist saying, and felt a flicker of satisfaction when he shuddered.

“Well, I'm sure I already had what you've got. I was deathly ill.”

Yeah, right.

Naturally, he slept on the couch. He did come up to check on her before he left for work this morning, and he brought her more Advil and a glass of water. He seemed concerned, and didn't scold her for having bought the brand name instead of generic ibuprofen. He even made her promise she'd call her doctor as soon as the office opened.

But he didn't offer to stay home with her.

Now, feeling dizzy, Christine stops at the bottom of the steps to steady herself against the bannister. But a fresh blast of sirens are screaming down the street, and she makes her way to the front door, her cold dread mounting with every shaky step she takes. Pulling the front door open, she shivers violently as the icy air hits her feverish body.

Three patrol cars and an EMS unit have arrived at 48 Shorewood Lane.

Christine sees the men swarming around something lying on the ground in the side yard.

No, not something.

Someone.

Living in the city, Christine was no stranger to violent death. How many times, while going about her daily business, did she stumble across telltale yellow crime-scene tape? The ring of uniformed officials hovering around a corpse—a dead bike messenger, a dead homeless man, a dead gang member who couldn't have been more than twelve . . .

She was never quite accustomed to it, yet in the city, you expected and accepted it, you moved on, you got over it.

But out here . . .

Here, it's shockingly
wrong
to confront death just beyond your doorstep on a gray winter weekday morning.

Please don't let it be one of those sweet children. Or their mother
.

Trembling as much from icy dread as from the frigid, bay-scented wind, Christine closes her eyes and prays.

“I
'm scared, Aunt Leslie.” Jenna is sobbing. “Why did Mommy call the police to come again? What's going on?”

Leslie tries to hold her close, but her arms are already full of Leo. The little boy is squirming and doing his best to break away and escape the master bedroom, where Leslie herded both children at Rose's frantic order.

All Leslie knows is that there's a blood-covered figure lying on the ground below the bathroom window. She glimpsed the gory scene when she heard Rose's hysterical scream and rushed upstairs to the bathroom, the children on her tail. Thank God Rose had the presence of mind to stop them before they could look out.

But they know, of course, that something is terribly wrong. Sirens are wailing outside, and harried, muffled voices—Rose's and the detectives'—are floating up the stairs.

It has to be Rose's boss.

It has to be.

It can't possibly be Peter. Leslie spoke to him first thing this morning, when she called his cell phone. He was in his truck on his way to work. She kept pestering him about that surprise he mentioned, and he was amused, baiting her.

What if, after we hung up, he decided to swing by here and give me the surprise?

What if something happened to him out there, and he's the person lying dead on the ground out there?

Panic gnaws at her, yet she strains to maintain outer calm for the children.

Think only of the children. Don't think about Peter. He's probably fine. Of course he is.

“Why won't Mommy come up and tell us what's wrong, Aunt Leslie?” Jenna asks fearfully, sniffling and leaning her cheek against Leslie's shoulder.

“I'm sure she will, sweetie, as soon as she finishes talking to the nice policemen. Ouch, Leo, please sit still. You're hurting me.”

“I . . . want . . . Mommy!”

“I know you do, and she'll be up in a few minutes.”

“Don't hurt Aunt Leslie, Leo!” Applying seven-year-old reasoning, Jenna adds, “She loves you. She makes chocolate toast for you.”

Chocolate toast.

How simple it is to be a child, to dwell in a world where love is proven by chocolate toast.

Leslie flinches as Leo's elbow lands below her rib.

“I didn't get to eat it. I want my toast!”

Clutching her writhing nephew, Leslie closes her eyes and tries to picture the body on the ground outside, even as she pushes aside images of another corpse lying there.

Her brother.

She never saw Sam after he died, but that doesn't mean she hasn't been tormented by thoughts of him lying facedown in the frozen grass, dead. Just like whoever is out there now.

It's a man . . . she could see that. A man in a long dark coat.

She's never seen Peter wear a coat like that in her life. Logically, she knows it isn't him based on that alone. She knows his wardrobe and his taste in clothes. In fact, she's done her share of criticizing both. An overcoat would be completely out of character.