She grabbed her tote bag and followed him to the parking lot. “Wow,” she said, when she saw the cruiser. Jake had already gotten in the passenger side and was trying, when Eric opened the back door to let Iola in, to make himself invisible through immobility.
Eric handed the girl his phone and climbed into the driver’s seat. He unlatched the reinforced Plexi barrier and slid it to one side, so Iola could talk to them. She leaned forward and looked around, big-eyed. “I’ve never been in a police car before.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Buckle up.”
Jacob shot him a glance without moving his head. “Ooo,” Iola said. “There aren’t any door handles back here.” Eric started up the cruiser and pulled out of the lot. “This is really cool. Thank you so much for giving me a lift, Mr. McCrea.”
Eric shot Jacob a look. Jake stared stonily ahead. “Where do you live, Iola?”
“Mountain View Park. Off Sunset Drive.” About as far west of the town as the high school was east. Eric drove with half his attention on the traffic, half on Iola’s call to what must have been her dad’s office. “He didn’t?” she said. “Okay. No, I’m fine. Thanks.” She hung up. “My dad’s a doctor. I thought maybe… there might have been an emergency.”
“No?”
“Nope. He’s not on call. He left a couple hours ago.” Her voice had the wavering quality of someone trying not to show hurt. Eric’s hands tightened on the wheel. Bastard.
Mountain View Park was a new development, built when the skyrocketing real estate prices in Albany and Saratoga began to drive families farther and farther up the Northway. In exchange for a two-hour daily commute, they got sprawling, shining-windowed houses tucked in among trees well away from the quiet dead-end road.
“This is it,” Iola said, and he turned up a broad, square-paved drive leading to a brick-and-timber Tudor manor that Henry the Eighth would have been right at home in. He shook his head. If you want to know what God thinks of money, his dad would say, just look at who He gives it to.
“Is anybody home?”
“I have a key,” Iola said.
Eric got out and released the back door, leaving the cruiser running. “I’ll walk you up.” Inside, unseen, Jake let out a low moan.
They were almost to the front door when it swung open. An older man in rumpled khakis and a half-buttoned shirt came out to the top step. “Iola?” He looked at Eric, alarmed. “What happened?”
“Dad!” Iola stomped up the steps. “You were supposed to pick me up two hours ago!” Her voice broke. “Where were you?”
“I… I…” Iola’s father’s eyes shifted back and forth. He looked like an animal pinned in a trap. Cheating, Eric thought. He forgot his kid while he was banging the girlfriend. “I’m sorry, baby girl.” Stillman wrapped his arms around Iola, who stood stiff and unyielding. “I must have gotten my schedule mixed up. I’m so, so sorry.”
You sure are. “Iola,” Eric said. “Can I have a word with your father?”
Iola wiped at her face. “Okay. I’m going to go inside and call Mum.” She drew herself up with all the dignity a fifteen-year-old could muster. “Thank you again for bringing me home, Mr. McCrea.” She glared at her father, then swept past him into the house.
Stillman rubbed his close-cropped hair. “Thank you, Officer. I don’t know how I dropped the ball on that one.”
Eric stepped closer. Stillman didn’t smell drunk. Pills, maybe? Doctors could write their own prescriptions. “I don’t know if you’re new to the area, Dr. Stillman, but despite our quaint, small-town look, we’re not crime-free.”
“I know that. My family’s lived in Millers Kill for generations, for God’s sake.”
“Then you ought to know that there have been several sexual assaults of young women over the years. You ought to know that a girl was gang-raped on high school property once. I worked that investigation. I saw what they did to her.”
The color drained from Stillman’s face.
“You ought to know enough not to leave your teenaged daughter alone out there with night coming on and no way to contact you.”
“I didn’t mean to!”
“I don’t know what you were doing instead of being a father, and frankly, I don’t care. Get your act together.”
Stillman’s mouth opened. Closed. He spun on his heel and vanished into the house, slamming the door behind him.
Goddamn rich guy. He probably sat on his ass watching a wide-screen TV while his daughter waited for him. Yet guys like Eric had to push their kids to run in order to have a hope of sending them to college. Life was no damn fair, and it made him mad. So mad, he could-he stalked back to the cruiser, the last hot rays of the sunset matching the red pounding in his head.
SATURDAY, AUGUST 20
Tomato juice. Worcester sauce. Onion salt. Celery. Clare sat the ingredients on the counter and retrieved her big glass pitcher from the cupboard. She banged through the swinging kitchen doors and headed for the foot of the stairs, trying not to favor her right ankle. She was working to rebuild its strength, and limping around babying it wasn’t going to help.
“You want a virgin Bloody Mary?” she yelled up the stairs.
“God, no. Just coffee. I hate tomato juice.”
“More for me.” She snagged the vodka off the drinks tray and carried it into the kitchen. She removed a package of paper-wrapped sausages from the freezer and started them defrosting in the microwave while she mixed up a Bloody. She glanced at the clock hanging over her bare pine table. Glanced at the pitcher. It was noon in Nova Scotia. Close enough. She poured herself a tall, stiff one, swizzled it with a celery stick, and drank half the contents in one pull.
She smiled as she heard the shower go on. Russ had arrived unexpectedly last night, late from patrolling. Woke her up, despite the sleeping pill she had taken. Woke her up again at dawn, his hands moving over her, slow, intense, the two of them gathering like storm clouds over the mountains until they exploded: heat lightning and rolling thunder. She had dropped back into a deep, dreamless sleep, not surfacing until close to eleven. She stretched, snapping her spine. Lord, she loved Saturdays. She’d never really appreciated them before.
She threw the sausages into an enameled pan and started the coffee brewing in her press. Switched on the radio and refreshed her Bloody Mary. Pulled a carton of eggs from the icebox and turned around. She saw the face through the kitchen door at the same time she heard the knocking. She shrieked, clutched at her robe, dropped the eggs.
The door swung open. Anne Vining-Ellis burst into the kitchen. “Oh, Clare, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you all right?”
Clare felt something wet and viscous against her bare foot. She looked down. Three broken eggs were oozing across her cheap pressed-vinyl floor.
“Oh, God, I did startle you.” Anne snatched a dishcloth off the rack and turned on the cold water. “I should have-”
“Clare, are you okay? I heard-” Russ came though the swinging doors before Clare could say anything. At least, she thought stupidly, he was wearing a towel slung around his waist. She had discovered that wasn’t always a given.
“-called first.” Anne’s voice was faint.
Outside, birds caroled and chirped in the rustling trees. On the radio, the audience of Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me was laughing. A puff of hot August air rolled into the kitchen. From somewhere deep within her, Clare’s southern upbringing rose to the occasion. “Russ,” she said, “I believe you know Anne Vining-Ellis.”