Sam raised his eyebrows in mock surprise and mouthed, "Such language."
We listened to two or three minutes of shuffling and huffing and puffing and cursing and mumbling before Susan muttered, "Who left this thing on the stairs?" More profanity, then a final, "Crystal, did you turn this off? Crystal! Where are you, woman?"
A few seconds later, Susan Peterson walked into the kitchen looking like she'd spent the last eight hours sleeping with the devil. Her pajamas were creased. Her hair was a mess, her face was devoid of makeup, and her eyes had the glaze of someone with a narcotic hangover. She supported herself with one hand on a cane that was carved to resemble a stack of tiny turtles.
In the other hand she held the large oval ceramic that had been on the stairs. She held it up easily, naturally, as though she were about to waggle it at Crystal and demand to know what it had been doing on the stairs.
Her mouth hung open when she saw us sitting at the kitchen table.
The silence in the room was stunning.
Susan's eyes darted from Sam to me and then back to Sam before they came to rest on the heavy piece of pottery that she was holding in her hand. Finally, she said, "Oh."
Sam said, "Crystal will be back in a bit. She had an errand to run. I see you made it down the stairs all right. I wondered how you'd manage with the lift not working. It seems I needn't have worried; you managed just fine."
Susan shook her head, as though she were disagreeing with something Sam had said. Or perhaps she was trying to clear her thoughts. The gesture caused me to have an uncomfortable association to Lucy.
Sam went on. "Crystal said your arms are stronger than your legs. The way you're holding that heavy piece of pottery, it looks like she was right. But apparently your legs are strong enough to get down the stairs."
"And… what's your point?" Susan asked defiantly, but I could tell that her heart wasn't really in her protest.
Sam placed his hands palm-down on the smooth surface of the table. He said, "Why don't you go get dressed, Susan? I'd like you to come with me over to Thirty-third Street."
Her voice cracked as she asked, "Why?"
He paused, inhaling a thin stream of air through pursed lips, tasting his words the way my friend Peter used to taste wine before he pronounced it palatable. "I think you killed your husband. The detectives who are investigating his murder will have some questions for you." He somehow managed to make the declaration sound mundane.
His words reeled me back to a recollection of my recent afternoon visit up Flagstaff Mountain with Lucy. I thought of her almost intractable denial about her strange ménage à trois, and about the way she was able to wall off her hostility toward her mother. And then I realized that perhaps she wasn't alone-that my own denial of the events that had taken place in this house had been as impenetrable as blackout curtains.
I wasn't in denial that Susan might have killed Royal-at some suburb of my awareness I'd been entertaining that possibility for a while. No, my denial had been about Susan Peterson's ultimate expression of hostility. As I sat watching Sam's production I was finally beginning to accept the obvious: From the moment she descended the stairs to kill her husband, Susan had been setting up her own daughter to take the fall.
Evil, I realized, had many faces. It was becoming increasingly obvious that Susan Peterson wore most of them.
Susan made a noise. It seemed to come from deep in her throat, but it wasn't exactly a groan. I thought that she appeared to be weighing Sam's directive that they head across town to the police department. As though she'd reached a conclusion, her eyelids closed slowly, like a curtain descending at the end of an evening at the theater.
There was no applause.
I watched as she shifted the bulk of her weight onto the arm supported by the cane. She mumbled, "I'm not well."
I didn't think the words were intended for Sam or me. I think she spoke them because she found them palliative.
Sam said, "Mrs. Peterson? Susan?" When she didn't respond, he repeated her name twice more until she reopened her eyes. The moment she did, he recited Miranda to her, the familiar words somehow as lyrical as Whitman.
I was still thinking about the faces of evil as I heard the hum of the lift carrying her up the stairs.
The roar of the gunshot came about three or four minutes later. I jumped up at the sharp clap, knocking my coffee mug off the edge of the table.
Sam winced and shook his head. He said, "I wondered if she'd do that. Actually thought she might take some pills. Didn't really think about Royal having a gun in the house, but I have to admit that I wondered whether she'd do something." He stood up and sighed. "I guess I have to go upstairs and see how good a shot she is. Or was."
I intertwined my fingers to quiet the tremor that had erupted in my hands.
"Want to come with?" Sam asked.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In my career as a clinical psychologist, a decade of work was barely enough time for a therapist to be considered seasoned. But in the world of commercial publishing a decade is a long time indeed. Achieving longevity isn't possible without the assistance of many people and my gratitude for all the support I've received seems to grow greater every year.
In order to create Warning Signs I relied on guidance and instruction from some dedicated public servants who patiently led me through the specifics of their fields of expertise. My thanks to Jerry Burkhalter, a veteran of the Denver Police Department Bomb Squad, Detective Melissa Kampf of the Boulder Police Department, and Assistant District Attorney Chuck Lepley of Denver County. The responsibility for any damage done to the facts is mine, not theirs.
My wife Rose and my son Xan make all of this possible and worthwhile, and my mother Sara will always be my biggest fan. The Limericks, Patti and Jeff, believed in me at the beginning, and Al Silverman has believed in me ever since. My gratitude to them endures. Adrienne, as always, owes her medical acumen and some of her keenest insights to Dr. Stan Galansky. Elyse Morgan and Judy Pomerantz trained their critical eyes on an early version of the manuscript, and Nancy M. Hall's help was invaluable in assisting me during the difficult task of proofreading. They, too, have my thanks.
Bruce Collamore-the real one, not the fictional one in the first couple of chapters-graciously permitted me to use his name and some of his life story in support of charity. His wisdom might be questioned, but not his goodwill or his generosity. Jane Davis is an unsung hero-with great spirit and unparalleled competence she keeps my Web page humming and insulates me from more daily distractions than I will ever know. Thank you.
Fortunately for all of us, my books don't go directly from my word processor to the bookstore. First, the pages go through the hands of exemplary professionals who tune them, shine them, and prepare them for the light of day. My enduring thanks go to all of those at Bantam Dell and Doubleday whose efforts have been so beneficial to this book-especially Kate Burke Miciak, Nita Taublib, Irwyn Applebaum, Deborah Dwyer, Stephen Rubin, Gail Brussel, and Peter Gethers-and to all the wonderful people who support me year round at Janklow amp; Nesbit, specifically Lynn Nesbit and Amy Howell.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
STEPHEN WHITE is a clinical psychologist and New York Times bestselling author of The Best Revenge, The Program and eight previous suspense novels. He lives in Denver, Colorado, with his wife and son, where he is at work on his next novel.
