Dear Wife(19)

“You’ve been trading your toys and games?”

“Yeah. But only for a little while. We were gonna trade back after we’re done playing with them, only Mom took everything and now I can’t. That’s why I kept a list, so I wouldn’t forget where all my stuff went.”

I toss the notebook to the bed, biting down on a grin. This kid may be a hellion, but he’s not a thief. In fact, he’s actually kind of brilliant. Whether he realizes it or not, this kid just created a co-op. “Okay. But you do realize if you’d just told your mom all of this, you could have saved me a trip.”

Timmy frowns, folding his scrawny arms across his chest like I said something wrong.

I’m trying to figure out what when my cell buzzes, and I check the screen. A text from Rick, another detective on the force.

Hospitals, med centers, jails and morgues all clean. No sign of car, no activity on phone, either.
I type out a reply—On my way, be there in 15—and slide it back into my pocket.

“Listen, I need you to promise me two things. Timmy, look at me.” I wait for him to meet my gaze, then I stick a thumb in the air. “First, that you’ll tell your mom the truth about the toys. Explain it to her like you did me. Show her the list. Your mom’s a smart woman, and she loves you. She’ll think you’re as smart as I do for coming up with such a plan. Do you think you can do that?”

He gives me a reluctant nod.

I uncurl a finger, hold it alongside my thumb. “And second, next time you want to see me, just pick up the phone and call. It’s a hell of a lot easier for everybody involved. Way better than getting yourself in trouble just so I’ll come over.”

The look he gives me tells me I was right. His mother is not the only one in this family looking for a little male influence. The boys need it just as much. I resolve to be better, to do better.

I ruffle his hair and stand. “As soon as this case is behind me, we’ll do something fun, just you and me, okay? A movie. A ballgame. You pick. Does that sound all right to you?”

Timmy looks up from his bed and smiles. “That sounds awesome.”

“Now get up here and gimme a hug so I can go.”

It’s the fastest hug on record, as is my trek down the stairs. Bryn is waiting for me at the bottom, her expression hopeful and disappointed at the same time. I’m not staying. That much is clear from the way I hit the floor and keep going, heading in long strides to the door.

“Talk to Timmy. He promised to explain.” My phone buzzes. Rick again, with a possible sighting of Sabine’s car. Shit.

“Are you sure you can’t stay?” Bryn says.

“Call you later,” I say, and then I’m off like a shot, jogging across the front yard to my car.



BETH

I roll up at a two-story cottage on the Westside and double-check the address—1071 English Street. I take in the salmon-painted siding, white picket fencing, the neat, manicured front lawn lined with a cheerful border of impatiens. On the outside at least, Morgan House is a dream. A hundred times better than the shithole on Wylie Street, and that’s without even taking into account the hooker.

I park at the curb, sling my bag over my shoulder and head for the door.

The woman who pulls it open is large. Amazonian large, with a stretched-out frame and limbs like a panther, lean and miles and miles long. The tallest woman I’ve ever seen, though... My gaze lands on her throat. Not even a shadow of Adam’s apple.

She steps onto the porch in four-inch heels, and I have to tip my head all the way back to look at her.

“Can I help you?” Her voice is round and resonant, like she’s talking into an empty jug.

I clear my throat and smile. “Yes. I’m looking for whoever’s in charge of this place.”

“Well, then, you’re in luck, ’cause you found her.” She sticks out a hand the size of a skillet. Her nails are pointy and sharp, painted a shiny hot pink. “My name’s Miss Sally. And you are?”

Her makeup is immaculate, if a little heavy. Fuchsia lips, lined and shaded lids, a pinkish bronze lining her cheekbones. I search her chin for tiny pinpricks of whiskers—it’s too early to have a shadow, but still—and find nothing. Her foundation looks spray painted on, dense but flawless.

“Beth Murphy,” I say, shaking her hand. “A friend gave me this address because I’m looking for—”

“You don’t look like a Beth.” She leans back and studies me, her gaze exploring my face, my hair, my suspiciously dark eyebrows, which I didn’t think to color until it was too late. “You look more like a Haley, or maybe a Madeline.”

I go ice cold and overheated all at once. I don’t look like a Beth. I don’t feel like one, either. My baggy clothes, my dollar-store hair are all wrong. I’ve only been Beth for a day, and already I can feel her slipping away.

Miss Sally laughs, slapping me playfully on an arm. “I’m just playing around with you, sugar. In my house you can be whoever you want to be. Now come on in and I’ll show you around.”

I step inside the tiny foyer, and she shuts the door behind me. A TV blares from the room to my left, a square space crammed with mismatched couches and chairs, a table, some bookshelves. The only occupant is a man, in dusty jeans and a yellow hard hat. He looks over from his perch on the couch and lifts his chin in a greeting.