Lizzie remembered that, for sure. She’d crossed her fingers it wasn’t an A &A foreclosure. The bank grapevine soon reported some lawyer was already suing the bank, calling the empty house an “attractive nuisance,” charging it hadn’t been properly secured and had led to that poor girl’s death. It was a mess, a potentially expensive mess. But, at least, not A &A’s mess.
“Sure, of course I heard.” Lizzie stood in the sweltering entryway as Aaron paced off the living room, opening drawers and the glass doors of the breakfront. She realized she’d crossed her bare arms, as if she had a chill. Silly. No air conditioning, and the thick air weighed heavy in the half-light. It was after nine, she knew, and even though the electricity was on-Aaron had flipped the lights, and a few fixtures still had bulbs-it was still disturbing. Haunting. The vacant living room, abandoned, half-empty, with only the things people had left behind. Tweed couch, cushions sprung and askew, a scatter of pillows, mismatched armchairs. A discolored rectangle on the hardwood floor-someone had taken the television.
“Kitchen,” Aaron said. “Back in one minute.”
The place reeked of sadness. And loss, and defeat. She tried to reassure herself, get tough, thinking about what was on her computer. This is why she did what she did. This shouldn’t be happening. She would do her best, her little part, to stop it. Not enough to change the whole world, that was impossible, but enough to change some people’s worlds. She couldn’t do too much, she couldn’t help everyone; at some point the numbers would not support her. But she could do something.
“Wanna wait for me in the living room?” Aaron said, reappearing. “I have to go upstairs and check the windows, then look in the basement, make sure no assho-sorry, I mean, jerks-have ripped out the copper pipes.” He waved toward the couch. “Have a seat.”
“Oh, no thanks, I’m fine standing here,” Lizzie said. She was part of this, in a way. Her bank now owned this house. Her bank had taken money every month from whoever once lived here, until the money ran out and they realized that for some reason-a disaster, or a firing, a calamitous health issue, or some horrible miscalculation-they couldn’t pay anymore. They’d signed a contract, a legal document. To the bank, it was a binary issue. You could pay, or you couldn’t. If not, thank you so much and good-bye.
Too late for her to help whoever had lived here, whatever struggling family had lost at life roulette.
Real estate, Aaron called it. This was the real part she didn’t like.
“Suit yourself,” Aaron said. “Two seconds.”
He grabbed the banisters, one hand on each side, and took the stairs two at a time. Upstairs? She imagined two bedrooms, maybe three, and a bath or two. All the ghosts of whoever lived here seemed to taunt her. All the memories, wisps lurking around every corner. Kids taking first steps, and bringing finger paintings home from school, and birthday parties, and prom snapshots in front of that fireplace.
Family. That was why she’d gone into banking. To please the father who’d never read her homework, never put her drawings on the fridge, never seemed to care if she was happy. She’d inhabited an emotional black hole after her mother died. And now she-well, she’d grown up, despite it all. Future so bright-
“Hey, Lizzie!” Aaron’s voice from upstairs. “Come up here!”
Aaron. Two glasses of wine, the heat, the empty house. This afternoon in her office at the bank, the real life of the regular Lizzie, seemed far away.
Aaron appeared at the top of the stairs, trotted halfway down, held out a hand.
“Lizzie?”
He wasn’t wearing his jacket anymore. He’d loosened his tie, rolled up his sleeves.
It was hot in here. And, she had to admit, there was no one handsomer than Aaron Gianelli.
“Lizzie,” he was saying. He took another stair step down, closer to her. “Come on. Come up here. With me.”
16
Finally. Jane’s annoyance evaporated the instant her cell phone rang. Blocked, her caller ID said.
“Hey-” She stopped herself from saying “sweetheart.” She was so sure it was Jake, the words almost escaped, but of course, it might not be him. “I mean, this is Jane.”
She put the phone on speaker so she could multitask, getting some pepper jack and a thing of Brie out of the fridge.
“Miss Ryland? This is Elliot Sandoval. Again. Sorry to bother you at home.”
“Oh, hey, Mr. Sandoval, no problem.” She projected her voice as she grabbed a cheese board and tried to peel the plastic wrap from the gooey ripe Brie. When Jake got here, they could have it with some crackers and wine. And talk about lovely Bermuda. “The story worked fine, thank you. Ah, listen, Mr. Sandoval? I know you told me the officer who called didn’t give you a victim’s name-that’s correct, right?”
“No,” the fuzzy voice came from the speaker.
“Okay,” she said. Had to make sure. She scrabbled in the utensil drawer for a ceramic-handled cheese knife, leaning toward the phone. “You said the police were coming to your house. Did they? Do you remember their names? They’re gone now, right?”
“They did,” he said. “And they are. Gone. That’s why I’m calling. I’m here with-”
The doorbell. Coda dashed through the kitchen and streaked down the hall, a flash of calico. Silly cat hated the doorbell. It chimed again. Jake. Had to be.
“Mr. Sandoval? Can you hang on one second? Someone’s at my door. I’m going to put the phone down, forgive me, but don’t hang up. I’ll be right back.”
This would be a juggle. But she’d manage it somehow.
She punched her cell phone off speaker, left it on the counter. Touched her hair as she ran to her front door, stopped, took a breath. Wiggled her shoulders. After all this time, she was still nervous every time he arrived. But he shouldn’t know that.
She yanked open the door. “Hey, swee-”
“Hey, you swee.” Jake leaned in, gave Jane a brief kiss on the cheek. His black T-shirt was a mass of damp wrinkles, his jeans grimy, he needed a shave, and he was the bearer of bad news. He had to admit he was still damn nervous around her, though he tried not to show it. Did she want him as much as he wanted her? Would that change after he told her? “Sorry I’m late, Jane, but D and I had to-”
“I’m on the phone,” she was saying. “In the kitchen. Grab the couch, I’ll be back in a sec. Wine glasses are on the coffee table.” He took in her black stretch pants, Cubs T-shirt, bare feet. He’d allowed himself to imagine her in a bathing suit. Too bad that reality wasn’t gonna happen now. He’d have to tell her. Soon.
He was screwed. Doomed by a guy confessing to murder. Doomed by a probably guilty contractor protected by a hotshot lawyer. And doomed because the woman he loved-yes, he did-was probably, within the next half hour, going to kill him.
He collapsed onto the couch, moving over the spread-out pages of the morning paper and a couple of striped pillows to make room.
Worse, tomorrow the news would be full of the Waverly Road homicide. Everyone clamoring for answers and an arrest, like they were for Lilac Sunday. The public had no idea how difficult it was to close cases, even when you had a semi-suspect. Everyone watched TV, so now they all expected loose ends to disappear after fifty-two minutes. PR had already fielded a raft of questions from reporters, prodding them for “updates” on the dead woman. What if there were no frickin’ updates? They were doing all they could.
“Jerks,” he said.
“Who’s a jerk?” Jane stood in the archway to the kitchen, holding a silver tray and an open bottle of wine.