CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 3

Or else what?

She didn't want to think about it. Gideon did have a dangerous edge to him. Hadn't that been part of the original attraction? But she never thought . . .

Not for the first time, she realized she didn't know him. Everything she'd learned about him was based on what he'd told her. He could have lied. Her cursory search on the Internet had brought up nothing, revealed very little. But how deep had she dived?

Not too deep.

Because, truth be told, she didn't want to know too much about him.

That had been part of the mystery. The intrigue.

She'd thought it would be safer that way.

Now, of course, she realized just the opposite was true.

Well, she'd have to set him straight.

No matter what.

"Idiot," she muttered under her breath. She clicked off both phones, then dropped them into her purse. Once she was home she'd hide the burner phone either beneath the console of her Explorer or in the niche of the laundry room, a little cubby covered by half-used bottles of bleach, detergent, and rags. For now, though, she zipped it into a pocket in her bag.

From her vantage point she saw that Marilee's lesson was wrapping up, her daughter with her backpack slung over one shoulder.

Brooke snagged her purse and headed inside, where the high-ceilinged room smelled of sweat, barely diffused by cleaning fluid. Marilee, towel around her neck, sweat on her face and darkening the neckline of the shirt she'd tossed over her leotard, shifted her backpack from one shoulder to the other. She barely glanced up at her mother when Brooke said, "Hey, I'm sorry I had to have Andrea pick you up and—"

"Let's just go." Marilee had already started for the door, her ponytail swinging across her shoulders. Once outside, Marilee squinted at the Explorer with its dents, scowled, and threw her backpack into the back seat. "Geez," she said under her breath as she slid glumly into the passenger seat.

Brooke started the SUV. "I just wanted to tell you why I was late—"

"I know what happened. You texted me. An accident. ‘Fender bender,' right?" Over her air quotes, Marilee gave her mother a look of long suffering. "I saw the messed-up hood, okay?" Her lips pursed as she motioned through the windshield to the spot where the hood had buckled slightly with the impact. "I just want to go home." Then she slid her mother a look. "And you're okay, right?"

"Right." Brooke slid the Explorer into reverse.

The kid in the black Honda had collected what appeared to be a little sister and, with his music still cranked, sped around Brooke to roar out of the lot.

"Jerk," Marilee muttered under her breath.

"You know him?"

"Kinda. He's in my first period. Algebra II."

"What's his name?"

"Not important, Mom." Then she turned her head to stare out the side window as Brooke drove out of the lot and through the shaded side streets of the Queen Anne neighborhood.

"I just—"

"Just what?" Marilee's head spun around so fast her ponytail swung wildly. She glared at her mother. "Just want to tell me why you're always late? Why I'm the only one waiting for my mommy like a toddler or . . . or . . . a dork? Or why someone else's mom has to pick me up and drop me off?" Her lips were a flat line, anger snapping in her blue eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, I know."

"It won't—"

"Happen again? Is that what you were going to say?"

"Marilee—"

"Don't, Mom. Just . . . don't." She held up a hand. "Just drive, okay?"

"Look, I said I'm sorry," Brooke said, determined not to be cut off. "And I am, but I'm not crazy about your attitude."

"And I'm not crazy about yours." Marilee let out a long, agonized groan as Brooke turned onto the narrow street and spied the house she'd called home for nearly fourteen years, almost all of Marilee's life.

Over a hundred years old, the house was built of shingles and stone. It was unique, with its rounded turret and arched front porch. From this angle the Victorian home appeared to be two stories, though there was a basement beneath the upper floors that housed the garage, with the laundry room halfway up the stairs. A second staircase ran up the back of the house. Narrow, dark, and not too steady, that staircase was never used. Neal called it the "fire escape" and always talked of repairing or replacing it "someday."

So far, it hadn't happened.

The rest of the house had been renovated over the years, modern conveniences added, along with a wide deck off the kitchen. There was a dishwasher and a gas stove, along with tile updates in the kitchen and bathrooms. The wood floors refinished and polished. But the house itself still held on to its pre-turn-of-the-last-century charm, evident in the carved banisters and claw-foot tubs fitted with a free-standing shower rod and fixtures.

Brooke and Neal had purchased the home over thirteen years earlier, when Marilee, in a yellow onesie, was strapped to Neal in a front pack.

From the moment Brooke crossed the threshold that very first time, she'd felt as if she were home. Finally home.

Buying the house had been a stretch, but both she and Neal had decided it was worth it. Who could resist the coved ceilings, wainscoting, and mullioned windows with views of the city lights? They'd walked through the arched doorways and fallen in love with the house and each other all over again.

Baby Marilee, of course, was unaware of the huge decision her parents were wrestling with.

And it had all worked out, for the most part.

Well, until recently.

She glanced at her daughter. "Let's not fight. Okay? I said I'm sorry."

Finally cooling off a bit, Marilee sighed and gave an exaggerated roll of her eyes. "Okay." A pause. "Okay, okay, apology accepted."

"Good." Brooke drove down the steep slope of the driveway and cranked on the steering wheel as she hit the remote to open the garage door. "We can try to be nice to each other." The door rolled open with a clang and a groan and she pulled inside, parking next to Neal's Range Rover.

Marilee sent her mother a pained look, then a small smile started to play across her lips. "I'll try."

"Me too."

Her daughter was reaching for the door handle.

Brooke caught her arm. "I heard that Allison Carelli is missing."

"Yeah, it was all over school."

"Does anyone know what happened?"

"No. She just didn't show up. I mean, I don't know. That's just what I heard."

"Was she with anyone? Did anyone see her leave?"

"I said I don't know, okay?" When she saw more questions in her mother's eyes, Marilee added, "I don't hang out with her. We're not really friends anymore. All I know is that yesterday my phone blew up about it."

"Do you have any idea what happened to her?"

"Geez, Mom, I already said, I don't know! No one does." And with that she was out of the car, opening the back door, and grabbing her bag before heading through the garage and up the stairs, past the laundry room to the main floor.

Disturbed, Brooke decided to let the subject drop. For now. Carrying the dry cleaning and her near-empty cup of the melted iced coffee, she followed.

She expected to be greeted by the scents of roasting chicken or the tang of spaghetti sauce because it was Neal's night to cook, but she was disappointed to find him staring at his laptop on the kitchen table, reading glasses on the end of his nose. A half-drunk glass of white wine sat nearby.

As she walked into the room, he nonchalantly closed the computer.

As if she wouldn't notice.

Shep, their mutt, who appeared to have some golden retriever mixed with a bit of German shepherd in him, had padded after Marilee into the hallway to the staircase but now came flying into the kitchen, toenails clicking wildly on the hardwood. The dog greeted Brooke as if he hadn't seen her in years. She leaned forward and scratched his ears as he wiggled at her feet. "No dinner?" she asked Neal, hearing Marilee's footsteps squeaking on the stairs to the upper floor.

"I thought we'd order pizza."

She hung the dry cleaning on a door hook near the stairs. "We had pizza on Saturday."

"But we discussed this," he said. "This morning."

Vaguely, she remembered him saying something about Alphonso's as she'd stepped out of the shower. But she'd been distracted, thinking of a call from Gideon late last night suggesting they meet. At the time she hadn't cared.

From the upper floor, Marilee called down, "I like pizza."

Neal glanced toward the hallway where the stairs curved upward. "Funny what she can hear and what she can't."

"I heard that!" their daughter called back.

"See?" he said to his wife, then, more loudly, "Pizza it is!" Neal smiled, one side of his mouth lifting in his beard-shadowed jaw. Pushing forty, he was still handsome, with the same jet-black hair and blue eyes he'd passed on to his daughter. His features were bolder than Marilee's, of course. Their daughter had inherited Brooke's oval face and slim nose. "You have a problem with that?" His eyebrows arched in question.

"Nope. But get a half-and-half, okay? Not all meat lover's. Add veggies to one side."

"She won't eat 'em."

"I know, but . . . try. And you're on for ordering and picking up."

"Or delivery. From Alphonso's? Let's see," he said and pulled his cell from the pocket of his jeans. "I'll get a salad too." He looked up at her before he punched in the preset number. For a second she remembered him as he was sixteen years earlier, handsome in a rugged sort of way, his jawline more defined, his physique slimmer, but the sparkle in his eyes just as mischievous. One side of his mouth tended to lift in a smile that was nearly conspiring, the are-you-thinking-what-I'm-thinking look she'd found so endearing.

"Or delivery," she agreed.

As Neal made the call, she walked to the refrigerator, found a half-drunk bottle of Chardonnay and retrieved it. Pouring herself a glass, she heard Neal call out, "Anchovies?"

"Fine," she said, loud enough for him to hear, then recorked the bottle.

"Ugh! No!" Marilee called from somewhere upstairs. "Yuck!"

Brooke stepped onto the back deck and drank a long swallow. She thought about sneaking a cigarette from her secret, only-for-the-worst-catastrophes pack hidden in the fake birdhouse on the rail, but decided against it even though today certainly qualified as a disaster. Still, it had been a few months since she'd lit up, and she winced when she thought of that moment.

The morning after her first tryst with Gideon, when she'd crossed the line from faithful wife to adulterer. At that thought she almost caved and scrabbled in the dusty birdhouse for her lighter and a Marlboro Light. She should never have given in to him; she'd been a fool. Yes, she and Neal had talked of divorce, and he'd moved out for a few weeks, but still . . . Marilee.

Her heart twisted for her daughter.

The divorce was on hold, or maybe even the back burner.

Neal had moved back home, they'd started marriage counseling, and had promised each other to make it work until Marilee was off to college or at least had graduated from high school.

But she hadn't tried to end it with Gideon earlier and today's effort, over the phone, hadn't seemed to work. She crossed her fingers that she was wrong, that he'd gotten the message, but she couldn't stop the queasy feeling in her stomach. She unlatched the top of the birdhouse and reached her fingers inside, scrabbling for her lighter, then shut it quickly when she heard Neal returning to the kitchen, his footsteps growing louder until the French doors opened. Both he and the dog stepped into the night. As Neal came up to stand by her, Shep hurried down the deck's steps to the lower patio.

"Pizza will be a while. They're backed up, I guess." Then, "What're you doing out here?" he asked, glancing around the deck to the dark yard and the fence beyond. The lawn sloped downward sharply, and over the slats of the fence and hedgerow of arborvitae, the lights of Seattle were visible, winking through wisps of fog starting to settle over the city.

"Thinking." She hadn't yet told him about her fender bender but figured this was as good a time as any. She mentioned being in a hurry to pick up Marilee, being distracted slightly, and rear-ending the guy in front of her. She left out the part about Gideon of course. Fingers crossed her husband would never find out about the man with whom she had her fling. After all, it was over. ". . . so you'll be hearing from Gustafson or his lawyer," she added, then finished her wine in a quick swallow.

"Shit happens," he said and placed an arm around her.

Oh, I know. It happens all the time."And there's something more worrisome than the car, a lot more," she said and repeated her conversation with Andrea about Allison Carelli being missing, then told him about their daughter's reaction.

"Scary stuff."

"Amen."

"Isn't there someone in your firm who deals with criminal law? Maybe he could find out what the police are thinking."

"She," he corrected. "Jennifer deals with the cops. She used to work for the department as an assistant DA."

Brooke felt her insides wither at the mention of Jennifer Adkins.

"I'll see what she knows, but I doubt if it's anything." He brushed away a strand of hair that had blown across Brooke's cheeks. "Are you worried?"

"I'm always worried," she admitted as Shep, from the yard below, gave out a sharp, single "Woof."

"Well, don't be. Maybe this girl—Allison—will show up. It's only been a couple of days." But he was worried, the lines etching his forehead giving away his concern.

"We can hope," Brooke said, but it was just a platitude.

"I'll see what Jennifer can dig up."

He gave her shoulder a pat as Shep scrambled up the steps. "Let's go survey the damage." Neal was already walking into the house and down the short hallway to the stairwell leading to the garage.

She followed him, sickened by the sight of her SUV, complete with dented bumper, creased hood, and cracked window.

"Ooh." He sucked in his breath. "And the other guy was driving a Porsche?"

"I think he called it a ‘fuckin' 911.' Yeah, that's what he said."

"Carrera?" Neal let out a low whistle.

"I guess."

"Well. I see. I take it he wasn't too pleased?"

"That's putting it mildly. He was . . . what's the phrase?" She pretended to think for a second, then snapped her fingers. "Oh, I've got it: beyond pissed. Waaaay beyond. The car's new."

"And it looks worse than this?" Neal asked, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked around her Explorer.

"Yeah." She nodded, remembering. "A lot worse."

"Hmm. Well, at least no one was hurt. Right?"

"Far as I know. As mad as he was, he probably got whiplash from doing a pretty damned good impression of a Tasmanian devil."

"We'll see. You filed a police report?"

"Yeah. The police showed up just after we exchanged insurance information."

"Okay. Good. Then let's put it behind us for the night." He pulled his phone from the back pocket of his jeans and glanced at the screen. "Besides, the pizza will be coming in a while. Anchovies and all."

"You didn't," she said as they walked inside, and Neal poured them each another glass of wine.

"Nah, but I wanted to, just to yank Mari's chain," he said.

"I think it's been yanked hard enough for one day. She wasn't exactly thrilled that I was late picking her up and Andrea had to drive her to the gym."

"She isn't exactly thrilled about anything right now," he said.

"Amen to that."

Nearly an hour later, after Brooke had been on the phone texting with other mothers at the school and scouring the Internet for stories and the community Facebook pages that offered up local news, she gave up. No one had new information about the missing girl.

Brooke was sick inside. "I can't imagine what those parents are going through. Dear God, if it was Marilee, I'd be going out of my mind."

"But it's not her. In fact, she's home tonight with parents who just don't understand her."

The doorbell chimed.

"Finally," Neal said as he spied Marilee in flannel pajamas, a towel twisted over her wet hair, phone to her ear, hurrying down the stairs. "Speak of the devil."

"Me? You're talking about me?" she guessed with a shake of her head. "Well, don't. Okay? Just . . . don't!" Into the phone, she said, "No, no, not you. My dad." She was dashing into the front hallway and opening the door. Neal and Brooke were a step behind.

The pizza deliverer stood in the porch light. His red baseball cap was pulled down low over his eyes, but Brooke recognized him instantly.

Her heart nose-dived.

Her stomach soured.

Gideon.

The delivery guy was—

No!

—on her doorstep! At her house!

"I put a tip on the bill," Neal said as Gideon handed the box to Marilee, giving her one of his killer smiles, though she might not have noticed as she was deep into her phone conversation as she grabbed the pizza on the run, dashing back inside.

Brooke's blood froze. He'd never come to her home before. Never. That was one of their unwritten rules.

Gideon turned his gaze to Brooke, who was standing woodenly in the entry. He handed her a paper bag. "You all have a nice night." He touched the brim of his cap, but his eyes followed Marilee's hasty path.

Brooke sucked in a sharp breath.

Her skin crawled. No!

"You too. Have a good one." Neal, seemingly oblivious, was already turning toward the kitchen, following Marilee. Numbly, Brooke stared at him. What was he doing here? Why was he looking at Marilee. . . oh God. She thought she might be sick. She started to close the door, but through the ever-narrowing space saw Gideon smile and whisper, "Face-to-face."