CHAPTER SIX

C HAPTER S IX

At not yet seven thirty the next morning, Shannon set about washing strawberries and cutting into a pineapple, her daughter scrambling eggs on the stovetop while they discussed her teachers at her new school. Mac’s youthful chatter filled the air, making Shannon smile, despite her eagerness to go see Rosella and confront her about what she’d learned.

“We all had to reach into a hat and pull out a piece of paper,” Mac said. “Guess what fictional character I picked?”

Mac’s excitement made Shannon think it might be a character from one of her favorite series. “Katniss Everdeen from The Hunger Games .”

“Nope.”

Shannon tried again. “Jace Lightwood from Mortal Objects.”

“Mortal Instruments ,” Mac corrected.

“Is that the name you picked?” They had forty minutes to eat and get out the door. Trey had left for work while it was still dark. When Shannon reached for the plates in the cupboard, she noticed Mac had grown another inch, surpassing her own height.

“Nope.”

“I give up. Tell me.”

“Sherlock Holmes. Pretty cool, right? I figured you could help me, since I’m supposed to write about him as if he’s a real person. What’s he doing now? That sort of thing. We could make up a case he’s working on—”

Their conversation was interrupted by a ding of Mac’s phone. She slid the frying pan off the burner and pulled her cell phone from her back pocket. “It’s a text from Blake Leavitt from our block. He takes his sister, Ridley, to my school every day and said he could pick me up on the way, if that’s okay with you?”

Although she liked Chloe, the thought of her daughter being in a car with a teenager she didn’t know didn’t sit well with her. “Since I haven’t met him, I’m going to have to say no.”

“Please, Mom. You told me a thousand times before we moved that I would meet new friends. I like Ridley, and it’s not that long of a drive from here to Saint Francis.”

“How old is Blake?”

“He’s seventeen. He goes to Jesuit.”

Mac stood there making puppy-dog eyes. The expression always worked on her dad and sometimes, like now, on Shannon. “Ask him if he can get here a few minutes early so I can meet him.”

Mac didn’t protest. She sent him a text.

No problem was the reply that came back within seconds.

By the time Mac finished eating her eggs and rinsing her plate, a black Mercedes had pulled up in front of the house. She grabbed her backpack, and Shannon followed her out the door. Blake and his sister, Ridley, leaned against the car, waiting. Blake straightened when he saw them exit the house. He and his sister were both tall with wavy brown hair, oval faces, and mischievous green eyes that tilted at the corners.

Mac’s cheeks flushed when her gaze fell on Blake. “This is my mom, Shannon Gibbons.”

“Hi, Mrs. Gibbons. I’m Blake, and this is my sister, Ridley.”

Ridley looked bored, but she managed a nod. It wasn’t until the girl set her attention on Mac that a smile broke out. When Mac walked over to her, Ridley talked to her in low whispers.

“Mom told me she met you,” Blake said.

“Yes,” Shannon said. “We had fun together.”

“She wanted you to know I’m a responsible driver.”

“So I’ve heard. You’re seventeen?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve been driving for a while now. I’m a careful driver. I follow the rules.”

Shannon smiled. He seemed like a sweet kid.

“Time to go!” his sister called out before she climbed into the front seat and shut the door. Mac looked at Shannon as if waiting for her approval.

Shannon nodded, then watched Mac climb into the back of the car and dutifully put on her seat belt.

“Is there anything else you want to know?” Blake asked. “My dad is a workaholic, my mom is a talker who tends to worry too much, and my little brother is even more annoying than my sister.”

“No,” Shannon said with a laugh. “I don’t have any further questions. I’m going to take your word for it that you’ll drive with extreme care.”

“I have to pick up my sister after school, so I can bring Mac home, too.”

Shannon hesitated before saying, “Sure. We’ll give it a try.”

“Okay. Time to get going.” As they drove off, he gave a little wave. Shannon crossed her arms. The boy was too charming for his own good. He probably had dozens of girls swooning at his feet. Mac didn’t stand a chance of resisting his charms.

Shannon knocked again. I’m here, Rosella, she thought . On time. Five minutes early, in fact . I have a few questions for you. The door creaked open, and Shannon jumped. She hadn’t even touched the door handle. Through the opening, she saw the gleaming wood floor in the entryway. Using two fingers, she pushed the door open another three inches and called out, “Rosella! Are you there?”

Nothing.

Shannon waited.

There was a squeak. Someone stepping on loose flooring? A cabinet door?

Chills crawled up her arms, prompting her to glance over her shoulder. If not for the magnolia trees in front of Chloe Leavitt’s house, she might have been able to see whether anyone was outside and ask whether they had seen Rosella this morning.

Instead, she turned back toward Rosella’s front entry and lectured herself for getting worked up over nothing. Rosella could be in the shower or hard at work in her office. Time had probably slipped away from her. Maybe she’d forgotten Shannon was coming.

Though worried she might get her head bitten off if she entered without permission, Shannon did it anyway. She’d hardly slept last night, thinking about all the questions she had for Rosella, starting with, What prompted you to do a story about the Sierra Adoption Agency? And what’s the deal with those random notes suggesting my husband is having an affair? Shannon had left a message at the agency but had yet to receive a call back.

With those questions swirling inside her head, she stepped into Rosella’s house and walked quietly toward the kitchen, not wanting to startle her if she caught her unaware. The bottom floor of the house had a wide-open concept. The kitchen was massive, with lots of natural light and a twelve-foot white marble island and leather stools. Nobody was there.

Shannon continued through the house, peeked into the laundry room, and made her way down a long, narrow hallway. The walls were lined with framed pictures of Rosella hanging out with famous people: Anderson Cooper, Martha Stewart, and Maria Shriver, to name a few. There was a closed door at the end of the hallway. Resting her hand on the doorknob, Shannon considered turning around and leaving. Instead, she took a breath and opened the door wide.

What on earth?

Every wall in the small, square room was plastered with a collage of pictures of Rosella’s son. Dozens of cutouts of the name Daniel had been taken from newspapers and magazines and taped, glued, or stapled to the wall. Baby photos were mixed in with older pictures of her son. Many of the photos had his age written on the photo with a thick black Sharpie. Also fastened to the wall were wilted flowers, a key, and a child-size green-and-gold jersey with Daniel’s name on it. A long rectangular table had been pushed against the wall and was adorned with an eleven-by-fourteen-inch, framed picture of Daniel and surrounded by thick, cream-colored candles covered with wax drippings. School papers and drawings of stick people were taped to the windows, along with report cards and certificates. Every trophy Daniel had ever received appeared to be lined up neatly on the floor.

Transfixed by what she was seeing, Shannon opened the closet. Her eyes widened as she took it all in. The inside of the closet was covered with red hearts. The space appeared to be a canvas of love and longing, with hearts of all shapes and sizes pinned directly onto the walls. Some had been meticulously crafted from paper, others cut from fabric. Hearts encapsulated within shadow boxes and picture frames also clung to the wall, one with broken glass. The space was hauntingly beautiful yet achingly poignant. Bankers Boxes covered the floor. She lifted the lid from one of them. It was filled with pictures and memorabilia.

A wave of compassion washed over her. She couldn’t even try to put herself in Rosella’s shoes. If something ever happened to Mac, how in the world would she ever find a way to move on? Rosella’s mean and erratic behavior could be a manifestation of her grief. It shamed her to think of how she’d struggled to sympathize with the woman’s distress. She needed to apologize.

Footfalls on the floor above alerted Shannon. Rosella was here! She exited the room, shutting the door behind her before rushing to the bottom of the stairs. “Rosella! I’m here. It’s Shannon.”

Still no answer.

Despite wanting to talk to Rosella, she again considered leaving. But then what? Call the police in hopes they’d come check the house? If she told them about Rosella’s worry she was being watched, maybe they would come pronto. Or maybe they wouldn’t.

Damn. She felt as if she were left with no choice but to head upstairs. Her stomach curdled at the thought of interrupting Rosella while she was working. Most likely she was using her binoculars to watch the neighbors. People she disliked and apparently wanted to destroy.

At the top landing, she called out again and headed for Rosella’s office. The wide, heavy double doors were shut. Frustrated it had come to this, she knocked twice before pushing open the doors, ready to lecture Rosella for leaving her front door open, especially when she was so certain someone was watching her.

A knot of worry tightened in her chest when she spotted Rosella slumped over her desk. “Rosella?” She stepped closer. Her breath caught in her throat as her gaze landed on the letter opener sticking out of Rosella’s pale neck. A stream of blood flowed like lava from the wound. There was blood splattered across the desk. Her desk calendar was soaked crimson. Reaching for Rosella’s hand, Shannon wrapped her fingers around her wrist to see whether there was a pulse. “Rosella,” she said, her voice quivering.

No. Please. She can’t be dead.

A grunt, followed by the rhythmic thuds of feet hitting the hallway floor, caught her attention. She looked in the direction of the noise in time to see a shadow sweep past.

“Wait! What are you doing?” Shannon dropped Rosella’s hand and ran down the hallway toward the landing. When she reached the stairs and saw the entry door slam shut, she stopped, realizing it would be foolish to give chase—they could be a killer. She rushed back to the office and pulled out her phone and called 911. After giving the operator her name and Rosella’s address, she noticed one of Rosella’s fingers moving.

Oh my God! She’s alive. She hung up over the 911 operator’s objections and reached for Rosella’s hand.

“Rosella! Can you hear me? The police are on their way.” Shannon looked around for something, anything, to use to try to stop the bleeding, but there was nothing. If she pulled out the weapon, which she could now see was a letter opener, Rosella would die almost instantly. Rosella’s lips moved, prompting Shannon to lean close, her ear hovering over Rosella’s mouth.

“Will-i-sss,” Rosella said in a breathy whisper, ending with a wet, crackling moan.

“Willis?” Shannon asked, trying to understand.

“Son,” Rosella said next, the word long and drawn out, followed by a gurgly cough.

Whatever she was trying to say made no sense to Shannon.

Rosella’s breath rattled. “He’s here.” Her head rolled to the side, and her body went limp.

“Who is here, Rosella? Please. Hang on. Help will be here soon.”

Shannon put two fingers to the inside of Rosella’s wrist, pressing lightly, feeling for a pulse. There was none. She felt queasy. This couldn’t be happening. Every part of her trembled.

He’s here, Rosella had said.

“The killer is here?” Shannon asked aloud. Was that what Rosella was trying to tell her?

Sirens sounded in the distance. Thank God. Running to the window, she was relieved to see a police vehicle approaching the house. She made a mad dash out of the office and held tight to the railing as she hurried down the stairs, opening the door as two police cars and an ambulance lined up at the curb.

She waved her arms above her head. “She’s upstairs,” she called out to the officer. “You need to hurry.”

Before entering the house, he said to his partner, “Frank, take her somewhere private and stay with her until Detective Seicinski gets here.”

“I need to return home and call my husband,” Shannon said, wishing Trey were here with her now.

He shook his head as he headed upstairs. “Stay put for now, ma’am.”

Looking as if he’d picked the short straw, Frank ushered Shannon to the living room. Teetering slightly, afraid she might faint, she plopped down on a white linen couch and drew in a breath.

Two EMTs entered the house, and Officer Frank directed them to the upper floor. He then pulled a notebook and pen from his shirt pocket, flipped the page, and said, “Name, address, and phone number?”

“Shannon Gibbons.” She rambled off her cell phone number. “I live two houses down. We haven’t been there long. It’s, um, 4520 Forty-Fifth Street. The gray house with white trim.”

“One b or two?”

“What?”

“Gibbons. One b or two?”

“Oh. Yes. Two.”

“Address?”

Hadn’t she just told him? “4520 Forty-Fifth Street.”

“What’s going on?”

At the sound of a familiar voice, Shannon turned and was glad to see Chloe standing inside near the door.

“Ma’am,” the officer said, his voice stern. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”

“Why? Where’s Rosella? Is she okay?”

Frank rubbed the back of his neck as he went to talk to Chloe.

“Rosella’s one of my best friends,” Chloe told the officer. “I need to talk to her.”

Officer Frank took hold of Chloe’s upper arm and showed her the way out. Back inside, he remained in the entryway for a moment, looking toward the street, no doubt making sure she left. Then he turned back to Shannon, he pointed a finger. “Stay put. Detective Seicinski will be here soon.” He headed upstairs, leaving her alone.

The house was eerily quiet. The thought Rosella might really be gone had not yet sunk in. To think Rosella’s fears had not been caused by paranoia at all made Shannon’s stomach roll. How could she have been so insensitive to the woman’s concerns?

“Is he gone?”

Shannon turned toward the door. It was Chloe. She tiptoed through the entry and into the living room. “What’s going on?”

“I think Rosella Marlow is dead,” Shannon said, relieved to share the burden of knowing with someone.

Chloe sank onto the couch next to Shannon. “What happened?”

Visions of finding Rosella filled her head. Shannon covered her face and began to sob, then pulled her hands away when she noticed the blood on them. It was all too much. She felt a hand on her back. Chloe was trying to comfort her, rubbing her back, saying nothing.

“It was awful,” Shannon said when she found her voice. She filled Chloe in, shaking her head as her gaze focused on the splintered trim on the archway leading to and from the entry. Something was stuck on the wood.

“Are you okay?” Chloe asked.

“A little dizzy. I’ll be fine.” She recalled what Chloe had said to Officer Frank. “I overheard you tell the officer you and Rosella were close friends.”

Chloe scrunched her nose. “I only said it in hopes he would tell me what was going on. I didn’t say anything yesterday because I wanted you to form your own opinions. But the truth is, Rosella despised me. And to be honest, I didn’t like her much, either.”

“Oh.”

Chloe patted her on the knee. “I am sorry this happened, though.” She exhaled. “We had our differences, but I never wished her dead.”

The clunking of shoes coming down the stairs prompted Chloe to jump to her feet. It was Officer Frank. His eyes met Chloe’s at the same time his feet hit the landing. “Lady, I told you to stay out. This is a crime scene.”

Chloe gestured toward Shannon. “She’s new to the neighborhood. I was only trying to help.” The officer shook his head, and both of Chloe’s hands rose in a sign of compliance. “I’m leaving. For good this time.”

No sooner had Chloe walked out the door than another woman entered. Shannon assumed it was Detective Seicinski, since Frank had mentioned the detective was on her way. She was five three, maybe five two. The dark suit she wore was a size too big and hung on her small frame. Her shiny black hair was rolled at the back of her head and clipped. In the middle of her conversation with Officer Frank, she glanced Shannon’s way. She had an oval-shaped face and a youthful jawline. The sunlight coming through the door highlighted the shadows under her eyes, reminding Shannon of her husband after a long stretch at the hospital. The detective was fatigued. Either Detective Seicinski had a house filled with small children or she worked too long and too hard at her job. Maybe both.

“She’s dead,” Officer Frank said. “Attacked while she worked at her desk, from the looks of it.”

It was true. Rosella was dead. Murdered. As she stared in the woman’s direction, Shannon couldn’t help but feel as if she’d stepped into a nightmare. Just yesterday, she had been inside her beautiful new home, in a beautiful neighborhood, with her beautiful family. And now, in the blink of an eye, her life had been turned upside down. Rosella was dead, murdered—possibly by someone Shannon had met. Someone on this block?