The Couple Next Door(84)

“I think you should know,” she said, “who your father was seeing.”

“Does it matter?” Anne asked. What difference did it make who her father was seeing? She would be younger and attractive. Of course. Anne didn’t care who she was; what mattered was that her father—actually, she remembers, her stepfather—had kidnapped her baby to get millions of dollars of her mother’s money. Now he would go to jail for kidnapping and murder. She still couldn’t believe it was all real.

“He was seeing your next-door neighbor,” her mother said. “Cynthia Stillwell.” Anne looked back at her mother in disbelief, still capable of being shocked by this news, in spite of everything that had happened. “He met her at your New Year’s Eve party,” her mother said. “I remember her flirting with him. I didn’t think too much of it at the time. But the private detective found out everything. I have photographs.” Her mother’s face showed disgust. “Photocopies of hotel receipts.”

Anne asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I only found out recently,” Alice explained. “Then Cora was taken, and I didn’t want to upset you with it.” She added, rather bitterly, “That detective was one of the best investments I ever made.”

Now Anne wonders what’s going through Cynthia’s mind. Graham is away. She’s alone next door. She must know that Richard has been arrested. It’s been on the news. Does Cynthia even care what happens to Richard?

The baby is sound asleep in her crib. Marco is asleep in their bed, snoring deeply. It’s the first time he’s really slept in more than a week. But Anne is wide awake. And so is Cynthia, next door.

Anne slips on some sandals and lets herself out the kitchen door. She quietly walks the few steps over to Cynthia’s backyard, careful not to let the gate bang shut. She crosses the patio and stands in the dark, her face a couple of inches from the glass, looking through the sliding glass door. There is a light on in the kitchen. She can see Cynthia moving around at the counter near the sink but realizes Cynthia probably can’t see her. Anne watches her for a while in the darkness. Cynthia is making herself some tea. She is wearing a sexy nightgown, pale green; it’s very provocative for a night spent at home alone.

Cynthia obviously has no idea Anne is there watching her.

Anne knocks lightly on the glass. She sees Cynthia jump and turn toward the sound. Anne presses her face up against the glass. She can tell Cynthia isn’t sure what she should do. But then Cynthia walks over to the door and opens it a few inches.

“What do you want?” Cynthia asks coldly.

“Can I come in?” Anne asks. Her voice is neutral, even friendly.

Cynthia looks warily at her but doesn’t say no, and steps back. Anne opens the door wider and comes inside, closing the door carefully behind her.

Cynthia returns to the counter and says over her shoulder, “I was just making some tea. Chamomile. Would you like some? It seems neither of us can sleep tonight.”

“Sure, why not?” Anne says agreeably. She watches Cynthia busy herself making another cup of tea; she seems nervous.

“So why are you here?” Cynthia says bluntly, handing Anne the cup.

“Thank you,” Anne says, settling in her old spot at the kitchen table, as if they were still friends, sitting down for some tea and a chat. She ignores Cynthia’s question. She looks around the kitchen, blowing on the hot drink to cool it, as if she has nothing particular on her mind at all.

Cynthia remains standing at the counter. She’s not going to pretend that they are still friends. Anne studies her over the rim of her cup. Cynthia looks tired, less attractive. For the first time, Anne can see hints of what Cynthia might look like as she ages.

“We have Cora back,” Anne says blithely. “You probably heard.” She cocks her head toward the common wall; she knows that Cynthia must be able to hear her baby crying through it.

“How lovely for you,” Cynthia says. There is a kitchen island between them, with a wooden knife block full of knives on it. Anne has the same set at home—it was on special at the grocery store not long ago.

Anne puts her cup down on the table. “I just wanted to be clear about something.”

“Clear about what?” Cynthia says.

“You won’t be blackmailing us with that video.”

“Oh, and why’s that?” Cynthia says, as if she doesn’t believe it for a moment, as if she thinks this is all just posturing.

“Because the police know what Marco did,” Anne says. “I told them about your video.”

“Really.” Cynthia looks skeptical. She looks as if she thinks Anne is bullshitting her. “And why would you tell them that? Won’t Marco go to jail? Oh, wait . . . you want him to go to jail.” She gives Anne a superior look. “I can’t say I blame you.”

“Marco’s not going to jail,” Anne says.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Marco’s not going to jail, because my father—your lover—has been arrested for murder and conspiracy to kidnap, as I’m sure you also probably know by now.” Anne watches Cynthia’s face harden. “Oh, yes, I know all about it, Cynthia. My mother had a private detective watching you two. She has photos, receipts, everything.” Anne takes another sip of tea, enjoying herself. “Your secret affair isn’t so secret after all.”