“Not my type,” said the Mole.
“Ah, yeah. I forgot. You don’t like ’em that way.”
“What way is that?”
“Ripe.”
Another screen listed all online activity performed by the computers inside the house on Pickfair Drive, each device identified by its specific fifteen-digit IP number. The Mole checked the recent sites visited. Austin American-Statesman. New York Times. Washington Post. He clicked on each and was rewarded with links to the articles Mary Grant had read, the time spent on each site. It appeared that she was checking on her husband. Nothing mysterious about that.
Afterward she’d accessed her e-mail account, but the site was encrypted and he was unable to see whose mail she read or to whom she’d sent messages.
So far this morning, Mary Grant was being a good girl.
The Mole stood and moved into the driver’s seat.
“What are you doing?” asked Shanks.
“We’re taking a ride. I’m not going to sit inside this van forever.”
The Mole left the parking lot and drove past the Grants’ house, stopping a half block farther on. Shanks put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t.”
“Move your hand before I cut it off.”
“If Briggs finds out-”
“If?” said the Mole. “That’s the point of this exercise.”
Shanks looked at the Mole. Little guy. Five-eight, tops. One hundred and fifty pounds dripping wet. He could tear a runt like that apart limb by limb. Yet the Mole sent a shiver down his spine as surely as if it were the Reaper staring him in the eye. He pulled his hand away. “All you, man.”
The Mole chuckled, his tongue dashing over his lips.
–
The sliding door at the rear of the house was unlocked. The kitchen appeared empty. The Mole slid the door on its track and stepped inside. Head cocked, he listened. He loved this moment most: the thrill of trespass. He crossed the room and peered around the corner. He saw no one. He turned and made a circuit of the kitchen, an eye open for Mary Grant’s cell phone. He picked up a tablet, but it was locked and would take far too long to break into.
Another scan of the countertops. No phone.
He returned to the hall. A bowl by the front door held car keys, chewing gum, mints, but nothing of interest. He climbed the stairs. A door on either side of the hall. The nearest was ajar. He nudged it open. A blond head peeked from beneath the covers. Golden hair. Flushed cheeks. His breath hitched. It was the younger girl, Grace.
Half against his will, he stepped inside, forgetting all about Mary Grant’s phone. He wanted a trophy. He held his phone in front of him, slipped his knife free, the stiletto. He moved his hand into the frame, making sure the tattoo was visible, and began filming.
The hand moved the blade toward the girl’s cheek, her ruby lips, her fluttering eyelids. He smelled her breath.
Across the hall, a footfall. The floor groaned beneath a person’s weight.
The Mole hurried out of the room. A look toward the master bedroom. He saw a phone on the nightstand. Inches away, a shadow passed beneath the door. It was the other daughter.
Still, the Mole did not flee. He clutched the stiletto tightly, asking himself if the moment had come. If, finally, he would act on his desires. His fingers tingled with anticipation.
All she had to do was open the door.
The shadow moved and he walked down the stairs and left the house.
32
“You won.”
Mary bent over, hands on her knees, breathing hard. Sweat dripped from her brow onto the ground.
“Today doesn’t count,” said Carrie, bent over double right next to her.
“Thanks.”
“Was I right?”
Mary stood up, finally catching her breath. They’d done three miles in twenty-eight minutes. Not their best, but far from their worst. “Yes,” she said. “You were right. I needed that.”
“What time do you leave tomorrow?”
“We’re not. They’re keeping Joe longer to do an autopsy.”
“Oh?” said Carrie. “Is that normal?”
“The funeral home director says it is. There’s nothing I can do about it. To tell you the truth, I’m relieved. The girls don’t love Boston.”
Mary walked up the front path and entered the house. In the kitchen she poured them both a glass of water. Carrie drank hers down and set the glass in the sink. “Have you started thinking about what’s next for you and the girls?”
“Not yet.”
“Did Joe leave much?”
“There’s his pension and life insurance.”
“What about savings?”
“With two kids, on a government salary? At least we’ll still get his health coverage. Either way, I’m going to have to go back to work.”
“What about med school? You told me you wanted to be a doctor. This could be your chance.”
“Four years before internship and residency. Yeah, right.”
“So you’ve thought about it?”
“Long enough to know it’s not going to happen.” Mary looked at Carrie, then looked away. She would consider her options at a future date. After she figured out what had happened to her husband.
“If you need something in the meantime…you know, something to tide you over. Mark’s making bank these days. Maybe he can get Jess something at Apple next summer. You know, an internship.”
“That’s sweet, but we’re okay.” Mary gave Carrie a hug and squeezed her tight for a long time. “Thanks.”
Carrie checked her watch. “Gotta run. You okay?”
Mary nodded and gave her bestie another hug. Carrie left through the sliding door.
Mary went upstairs and showered, reminding herself to call Randy Bell as soon as she got out. She remembered he liked his scotch. Maybe she’d catch him hungover and in a mood to spill about his and Joe’s trips to San Jose.
Finished, she towel-dried her hair. Once or twice she heard a faint noise and stopped to listen, but then it was gone. She brushed her hair and got dressed for day two of widowhood. No black for her. She chose tan shorts and a navy T. Joe would have liked it this way. She went into the bedroom and heard the noise again. Someone was moaning.
Grace.
She ran down the hall and opened the door to her daughter’s room. The girls lay on top of the bed, Jessie pointing at the bruise on Grace’s thigh and laughing. “She looks like a Minion, Mom. All yellow with a big black dot in the middle.”
Grace knocked her sister’s hand away. “Tell her to stop teasing me.”
Jess kept pointing. “No, not like a Minion. It’s like grackle poo. Even worse.”
Grackles were loud, obnoxious birds the size of crows that clustered in the hundreds at shopping malls and parking lots around the city.
“Jess, please,” said Mary. “Be nice.”
“Grace has grackle poo on her leg.”
“Mom.”
“Jessie, stop bothering your sister.”
“She called me fat.”
“I did not. I was just watching a video when Jess came in and started bothering me.”
Mary sat on the bed beside Grace. “Does it hurt?”
“No,” said Grace. “It’s nothing.”
Mary fetched an ice pack from the freezer. When she returned the girls were friends again, shoulder to shoulder, watching a video on the laptop. Gingerly she placed the ice pack on Grace’s leg, but Grace paid no attention.
“What are you guys doing up so early?” asked Mary.
“You woke me up,” said Jessie without looking at her. “I heard you walking around Grace’s room.”
“You did?”
“Then I heard you shut the sliding door.”
“But Carrie and I went out the front.”