Good as Dead(9)

She wrote her name in perfect cursive, then slid the paper across the table at me. As I was tucking it away, the doorbell rang. We all looked at each other like we’d been caught robbing a bank.

“Are you expecting someone?” I asked Holly, and she shook her head. We both looked at Savannah.

“Don’t look at me!”

“The only person who knows we live here is you,” Holly said, eyes on me.

“Did you give the police your new address?” I asked, trying to suppress the rising panic in my voice.

“They would know how to find us,” Savannah interjected. “They’re the police.”

My car was in the driveway. I could slip out the back door, but if they’d noted my plates that would only make things worse. Any investigation of me would lead them to Jack. And then it would only take one smart guess for this whole thing to blow up in our faces.

The doorbell rang again, followed by the rap-rap-rap of knuckles on wood.

“Should I answer it?” Holly asked, and I reluctantly nodded. All the lights were on. No detective worth his paycheck, even a meager one, would believe no one was home.

I held my breath as Holly headed for the door. Savannah and I stayed back as she peered through the peephole, then opened the door for four smiling faces.

“OK, we know this is corny, but our daughters made you cookies,” a man said. It was the hipster from across the street with his wife and two kids. I was relieved Holly’s twilight visitors weren’t LAPD, but letting the neighbor see me on the premises for a second time was downright irresponsible. Our eyes met and I waved, cementing me to this family and this house.

“Andy,” Holly said to her neighbor, not really as a question, but not quite sure either.

“That’s right. And this is my wife, Libby, and our girls, Tatum and Margaux.”

The little one hid behind her mother as Holly smiled at her.

“We know you must be beyond exhausted,” the hipster’s wife said. “We don’t want to be a bother, we just wanted to say hello and let you know we’re here if you need anything.”

The wife looked to be about forty, but well maintained, with bouncy, blown-out hair and toned arms. A man’s Rolex hung loosely from her wrist. An heirloom, maybe? Whatever the case, it was immediately clear that appearances were important to her.

“That’s so kind of you, Libby,” Holly said, taking the plate from her outstretched hands.

“We didn’t put nuts in them, because you never know these days,” Libby said, glancing at Savannah.

“Oh, it would have been fine if you did, but thank you.” Holly looked expectantly at her daughter.

“Yes, thank you,” Savannah echoed.

“That’s Savannah,” Holly offered.

“Hi, Savannah,” the wife said. Then suddenly Holly’s new neighbors were looking at me. We hadn’t anticipated having to explain my presence, so I just said, “Evan.” I had come straight from the office, so once again I was in a suit. At least I’d left the jacket in the car. And removed my tie. I would have preferred not to have looked so much like a lawyer, but there was nothing I could do about that now.

More waves and smiles, and then they were gone. But the damage had been done. I had been seen with Holly and Savannah, inside the house my boss had bought for them. There was only one degree of separation between Jack and this family, and that was me.

“What do you plan to tell them about me?” I asked Holly as the foursome headed back across the street.

“Nothing,” she replied. Her tone was defensive. Obviously she wouldn’t tell them I was her literal partner in crime. At least not on purpose.

“We have to be prepared if they start asking questions,” I pressed.

“Well I’m not going to lie,” Holly said. “I’ve done enough of that.”

I got an uneasy feeling in my stomach. They would figure out that Holly was unmarried and unemployed sooner or later. Questions were bound to follow. This was an expensive house. And the wife had clearly taken note of that.

Holly must have sensed my unease, because she added, “People in this neighborhood are rich and snooty. They’ll forget all about me by next week.”

I looked down at the cookies, arranged like a pinwheel on a thick ceramic plate. The plastic wrapping was wet with condensation. They were still warm.

“I trust you,” I said, wishing it were true.

I watched the neighbors disappear into their house. Holly was wrong. They’d be back. They’d left their plate. And they’d have questions that would rattle even a skilled liar like me.





ANDY


Three months ago

I probably needed therapy, but anyone who’s seen Good Will Hunting knows people who become therapists are the most fucked-up of all of us. Plus who the hell has the time? Yes, I was depressed, but it was no great mystery why. It had been almost a year since my last paid writing job, we were broke, and I had zero prospects. That is categorically depressing.

I used to be an investigative journalist. The money was atrocious, but I didn’t do it for the money. I wrote about fascinating people—a teenager falsely accused of murder who read law books in jail and proved her innocence, a septuagenarian who scaled Everest, a father of three who faked his own death. I trafficked in facts. But bullshit was the currency of the movie business. And I’d damn near had enough.