Chapter 17

17

I don't even have time to dry my hair. I pull it back into a messy ponytail, then I throw on a pair of blue jeans and a cardigan. I sprint down the steps as quickly as possible just as the doorbell rings for a third time.

When I throw open the door, there's a familiar man in a shirt and tie paired with a trench coat. I recognize him as Detective Mancini, who briefly spoke with me after my husband's tragic accident. He's an older man, with salt-and-pepper hair that's mostly salt and deep lines etched into his craggy face.

"Hello there, Mrs. Lockwood." He tips an imaginary hat in my direction. "I'm so sorry to bother you again. It's Detective Mancini."

"Yes, I remember you." I force a smile to disguise the fact that my stomach is doing somersaults. "Is… is anything wrong?"

Detective Mancini hesitates. When I heard he was investigating my husband's accident, I asked around and found that he was a detective who didn't always play by the rules but got the job done. But the last I heard, they had officially ruled Grant's accident just that—an accident.

"Could I come in?" he asks.

I would rather not invite a detective into my home, but if I don't, he might think I have something to hide. So I obligingly step aside. "Of course."

He follows me into the living room, and I offer him a seat on the sofa. He doesn't take his trench coat off when he sits down.

"Could I get you anything?" I ask. "Some tea perhaps? Casserole?"

He shakes his head. "No, thanks."

I settle down in the love seat across from him, my entire body buzzing. "Can I ask what this is about?"

"Well," he says, "we got an anonymous tip. Someone called in and told us they thought the brakes in your husband's Mercedes had been cut. That it wasn't actually an accident."

Someone called and left an anonymous tip? Who would have done such a thing?

And then I think of the man following me around town—the one who looks suspiciously like my dead husband.

"Oh my God!" I cry. "That… that's horrible! I can't believe it could be true…"

"We don't know for sure," Mancini says. "Unfortunately, even though it's against protocol, we didn't check the car after the accident. And now your husband's car has been compounded into one of those cubes at the junkyard. So we can't possibly know if it's really true."

My shoulders relax by a few millimeters. The car has been destroyed. All the evidence is gone.

"But I have to ask you," he says, "did your husband have any enemies? Anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?"

Detective Mancini's left hand has a very light tan line where a wedding ring used to be. I wonder what happened in his own marriage. I wonder if he could possibly understand.

Well, I'll never know. Because I will never tell him the truth.

"He didn't have any enemies," I say, "but there's a man who cleans for us that Grant never entirely trusted."

"You mean Willie, your houseman?"

"That's right." I'm not surprised that the police have already looked into our houseman, which means they have no doubt discovered his dark past. "We hired Willie as a recommendation from another family, so I didn't do a background check. I should have. I never would have hired Willie if I'd known… that he had a prison record."

That's a lie. When we hired Willie, I told Grant that I had done a background check, and that was the truth. I'd discovered his prison record, and that was the very reason I hired him—so that if there was any suspicion about Grant's death, it would fall on our ex-con houseman.

"But I never thought he would hurt Grant." I allow tears to spring to my eyes, laying it on thick. "And besides, despite the terrible thing he did, he put in his time."

"He did do a terrible thing," the detective says.

"I've never met anyone who had over thirty overdue library books before." I grab a tissue from the box on the table and dab at my eyes. "I mean, two or three, yes, I can see how that could happen. Over ten would be bad enough. But over thirty ?"

"I know." He sighs. "It's the sort of thing you only see once in a lifetime as a cop, and you hope to never see it again."

I sniffle. "How does such a thing happen? I had no idea he was such a… a monster . He's clearly capable of anything." Which was exactly why I chose him.

"Yes, I was suspicious too," Mancini says. "That's why I checked him out. And it turns out Willie has an airtight alibi for the day your husband was killed."

My heart does a jumping jack inside my chest. "He… he does?"

He nods. "Yes. He was playing in a Quidditch tournament all day up in Vermont. It was filmed. There's no way he could have been responsible for Grant's accident."

"What?"

"It's true."

"Wait. So Quidditch is an actual sport ?" I ask incredulously. "And they film it?"

"That's right, Mrs. Lockwood," he says solemnly.

"Do they use broomsticks?"

"They do."

I had no idea about any of this. I thought Willie would take the fall for Grant's murder, and I would be off the hook. His airtight alibi of competing in a Quidditch match is bad news. But on the plus side, I no longer suffer from any attraction to him.

"Anyway…" Detective Mancini rises to his feet. "I won't take up any more of your time, then, Mrs. Lockwood. If we have any more information, I will let you know."

And then, just like that, he's done questioning me. I was certain this would end with me being led from the house in handcuffs, but he doesn't even seem all that suspicious. Thank God they never bothered to check the brakes in the car after the accident for some reason.

I follow the detective to the front door. I am almost weak with relief that he doesn't seem to be suspicious of me and is simply leaving without further discussion. This is finally over, and I'll never have to worry about it again. He places his hand on the doorknob, and just as he's about to turn it, he hesitates.

"Just one more question, Mrs. Lockwood," he says.

"Okay…"

He digs into the pocket of his trench coat and pulls out a Polaroid photo, which he holds out to me. It appears to be a picture of the inside of Grant's wrecked Mercedes, apparently taken before it was compressed into a cube.

"Tell me." he says. "What color is this dress?"

My stomach sinks. I stare at the photo, noticing now that there is a torn dress lying across the back seat of the car. "What?" I manage.

Mancini smiles sheepishly. "I found this photo in your husband's file, taken from the scene of the accident. And me and the guys at the department can't stop arguing over it. I assume the dress was yours. What color is it? Is it blue and black, or is it gold and white?"

My mouth is too dry to even speak. I part my lips, but no words come out.

"We were just curious," he says.

"It was…" I lick my lips to moisten them. "White and gold, actually."

"Yeah?" He raises his thick black eyebrows. "I thought for sure it was blue and black."

"I… I don't know what to tell you…"

Mancini plucks the photo out of my fingers and tucks it back in his trench coat pocket. "Well, either way, we're going to continue investigating. Your husband's car might be a cube, but I won't rest until I get to the bottom of this. Mark my words."

I watch Detective Mancini get back in his police car and drive away. But even after the car is gone, I still can't relax.