“What do you know about Ms. DiCarlo?”
“We talked occasionally. She works at a fitness center. I think she used to be a personal trainer but now she’s — she was in the office, I believe. And she was involved in various things.”
“What kinds of things?”
“Theater, for one. Community theater. She told me the other day they had a play coming up. She had a juicy part in it. She loved that.”
“What’s the name of this theater group?”
“The Stamford Players, I think. Sometimes, my wife and I, we’d go to their shows, to be supportive, you know. Saw her a couple of days ago, she said we should get tickets because they were in rehearsals for a new show.”
Hardy had taken out a small notebook and pen to scribble a few notes. Then, suddenly, as if a light bulb had come on over her head, she stopped writing and froze briefly.
She turned, slowly, and looked at the car sitting in the driveway of Candace DiCarlo’s home.
A black Volvo wagon.
“Mr. Hunt,” she said, “is that Ms. DiCarlo’s car? I’m assuming it is, but we haven’t actually checked.”
“Yes,” he said, nodding. “She’s had that for a few years.”
“Stay here,” she said.
Hardy walked over to the car, slowly circling it, careful not to touch it. She peered through the windows, looking inside, then stood in front of the car, examining the hood. She dug into her pocket for her phone, opened up the photos, and found the one she’d saved of the Volvo in the driveway from Saturday morning.
The car in the picture appeared to have a dimple in the hood, about halfway between bumper and windshield, on the passenger side.
Just like this car.
Then she examined the license plates, front and back. She noticed traces of what looked like mud on the edges, as though they’d been dirty, but someone had cleaned them off recently, at least well enough to avoid getting a ticket.
She went back over to continue her questioning of Gifford Hunt.
“Can you describe this person you saw leaving Ms. DiCarlo’s house?”
“Slight, and young. Just a teenager. Longish hair. And he had blood on his hands. I could see that. But he was riding his bike pretty fast.”
“A motorcycle?”
“No, a regular bicycle. But like I said, he was going pretty fast, so I didn’t get a long look at him. But I got a shot of him riding away.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Hunt took his phone from his pocket. “I’m not really much of a techie, and it’s not like me to think fast enough to do something like this, but I guess today I was a little more on the ball than usual.”
He opened the photo app and brought up the snippet of video. “It’s not very good,” he said apologetically. “I didn’t think to try and zoom in or anything.”
“May I?” Hardy asked, holding out her hand.
Hunt gave her his phone.
She tapped the triangular play button and watched the few seconds of the cyclist racing off down the street. She replayed it several times. Then, the final time, she paused the video and used her fingers to enlarge the image.
“I know this kid,” she whispered quietly to herself. “Where did I just see him?”
And then it hit her.
Forty-Five
When Jayne pulled her car into the driveway, the first thing she noticed was Tyler’s bicycle, abandoned on its side, on the lawn. The second thing she noticed was that the front door had been left wide open.
Tyler usually left his bike around the back of the house, hidden from view. And he knew enough to close the door when he went into the house. Something was very wrong.
She got out of her car, and as she stepped past Tyler’s bike she noticed red smudges on the handlebars. There was also blood on the handle of the front door.
“Oh God,” Jayne said as she went inside and closed the door behind her. “Tyler!” she shouted.
No answer.
She quickly went through the first floor, looking in the kitchen, stepping out onto the back deck. She went back inside, stood at the bottom of the stairs, and shouted, “Tyler, are you here!”
Still nothing.
She got out her phone and opened the app that allowed her to know her brother’s location. According to it, Tyler, or at least his phone, was here.
Racing up the steps to the second floor, phone still in hand, she went down the hall to Tyler’s room and found the door closed. It was usually left open through the day. She rapped on it lightly.
“Tyler? You in there?”
“Go away,” he said.
Jayne opened the door. Tyler was sitting on the edge of the bed, bent over, head in his hands. He looked up as his sister stepped into the room. She could see the tears on his face.
“Tyler, what’s happened?”
He shook his head, unable to speak.
“Jesus, Tyler, talk to me. There’s blood on the front door, you— Christ, are you hurt?”
As she took a step toward him he raised his arm, palm up. “Stay back,” he said.
“Just tell me if you’re hurt. Do I need to get you to a doctor? Did you have an accident with your bike?”
“I’m not hurt,” he said, lowering his arm, allowing Jayne to take a step closer.
He was looking at her, but at the same time not looking at her. He seemed to be staring right through her, as though seeing something that wasn’t there.
“Tyler, talk to me,” Jayne said. “Are you in shock?”
Jayne was still holding her phone. She brought up Andrew’s number, tapped on it, and put the phone to her ear. After five rings, it went to voice mail.
“You’ve reached Andrew Carville. Please leave a message after the beep.”
“Andrew, it’s me. Please call the second you get this. Something’s happened.” She hit the button to end the call, then set the phone on the bedside table. She sat down on the bed next to Tyler and tentatively put her arm around him.
“Whatever’s happened, you need to tell me,” she said, noticing for the first time traces of blood on his fingers. “Whatever kind of trouble you’re in, we can fix this.”
“No,” he whispered. “No.”
“Whose blood is this?” Jayne asked, lightly touching his fingers. “Is it yours... or someone else’s?”
He put his hands to his face and started to cry. It was more than a few tears. His body went into wracking heaves as he sobbed and moaned.
“Oh shit shit shit,” he said.
Jayne held him close, pulled him into her embrace. Tyler mumbled something that Jayne couldn’t make out.
“What was that?” she asked.
“Screwup,” he said. “Fucking screwup.”
“No, no, we’re going to fix this.”
“All my fault,” he said.
“What? What’s all your fault?”
He turned his head to look at her, his eyes red from weeping. “I never should have let him shovel the driveway. It was all my fault.”
Jayne blinked. “What are you...”
But she knew he was referring to their father, who dropped dead clearing snow while Tyler slept in.
“Tyler, what does that have to do with what’s happened today?”
He sniffed. “If he hadn’t died, I wouldn’t have come here to live, and none of what’s happened... what happened today isn’t my fault, but they won’t believe that. It’s because of Dad. I’m going to be punished because of Dad.”
“Tyler, I don’t understand what—”
The doorbell rang.
Even before Jayne had turned her head in the direction of the door, the ring was followed by a loud, repetitive banging.