The Perfect Stranger (Social Media #2)(17)
“It’ll have to wait till I get back.”
“When will that be?”
She didn’t answer him, just splashed through the driveway puddles to the car and drove away.
The next time they spoke, she was calling him, hysterical, to tell him that her mother had been murdered. To his credit, he made the ninety-minute trip in less than an hour and stayed by her side until last night.
Now he’s home, ostensibly checking on mail and work—but more likely on his mistress.
Meanwhile, the homicide detectives are talking to Dad, and they want to talk to her, and again the unwanted memory is trying to barge in, but she won’t let it; no, she won’t let it, because . . .
Because it means nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Relax.
No one is ever going to know the truth.
And even if they do figure it out—that Meredith’s murder wasn’t some random home invasion gone bad—they’ll never in a million years suspect that you, of all people, had anything to do with it.
At first—in the wee hours of Sunday morning—those self-assurances brought a measure of comfort.
But in the three days since, it’s been increasingly hard to remain convinced that everything is going to be okay.
You dismiss one nagging what if—what if my fingerprints somehow came through the gloves?—only to have another pop up.
And then another.
What if . . . ?
What if . . . ?
Sleep has been all but impossible; interminable nights spent tossing and turning as fresh waves of worry seep in.
And for what? Every detail of Saturday night was well-planned in advance.
Okay—not that far in advance.
The spark of an idea ignited a while back, but opportunity to act on it didn’t present itself until about ten days ago, Memorial Day weekend, when a senile ninety-three-year-old woman happened to take a nasty fall in Cleveland.
It was Meredith herself who set things in motion by blogging about how her husband had gone up to his hometown to take care of his aging mother. The whole world now knew she was alone in the house every night for the foreseeable future.
Maybe not the whole world—but anyone who happened to stumble across her blog online.
You didn’t have to be a seasoned detective to figure out where she lived. Anyone could piece together the personal details she’d posted in her official bio and scattered throughout her blog archives.
It’s not inconceivable that someone—some stranger—might have done just that. Not inconceivable that the evil predator might have slipped into the house in the dead of night with nothing more than robbery on his mind.
The house, after all, was found ransacked.
Some valuables were missing.
One thing was left behind—for good luck.
But no one is going to notice that, in the grand scheme of things.
And Meredith—Meredith’s body was left crumpled on the floor, as if she’d gotten up to investigate a noise and surprised a prowler.
Right. It all makes perfect sense. The police are looking for a prowler, a predator, a stranger . . .
Not for you.
No one would ever in a million years guess that it was you. All you have to do is be smart and stay quiet—but not too quiet—until the whole thing blows over.
Strength Training
Battling cancer demands a certain level of fortitude. Not just physical stamina to endure symptoms and treatments, but inner strength to handle the shit storm of emotions that come your way. Getting a cancer diagnosis is like being asked to go, overnight, from couch potato to the Olympics. No, not asked—told. Because really, what choice do you have?
Your only option—unless you have a freaking death wish—is to fight. And fighting takes strength. Physical strength, yes—and you supposedly build that by taking vitamins, getting plenty of rest, exercising, and eating that crap otherwise known as health food. But emotional strength is just as important. How do you build that? Through daily challenges that include not just fighting back tears, but also counting your blessings, living in the moment, taking small setbacks in stride . . .
—Excerpt from Elena’s blog, The Boobless Wonder
Chapter 4
Landry’s cell phone rings as she again paces the length of the master bedroom with it in her hand.
It’s about time.
Over an hour has passed since she e-mailed her number, along with a link to the Cincinnati newspaper article—LOCAL WOMAN MURDERED IN APPARENT HOME INVASION—to the three remaining online friends with whom she communicates most regularly: Elena, Jaycee, and A-Okay.
She also tried to call A-Okay at the number she’d provided earlier, but there was no answer; it went right into an automated voice-mail recording. She hung up without leaving a message. Now, looking at the caller ID to see which of the bloggers is calling back, she sees a 310 area code. That, she knows, is Los Angeles.
Guess it’s not one of my online friends after all.
“Hello?”
A vaguely familiar voice says, “Hi. I’m looking for . . . BamaBelle? Is this you?”
“It’s me. Who is this?”
“It’s Jaycee. You know—PC BC. Hi.”
“Oh! Hi. I’m—I guess I should tell you my name. It’s Landry.”
“Landry? First, or last?”