Want to Know a Secret? (54)

And no, I haven’t forgiven Elliot—not even close. I’m not a complete pushover. I still expect him to do a massive amount of groveling. I may make him sleep on the floor a few more times. But I want to give him a hint at what the reward will be.

“Why are you singing, Mommy?” Bobby asks as he walks into the kitchen.

“Why can’t I sing?”

Bobby thinks about this a moment, but can’t come up with an answer. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Chocolate chip pancakes.”

Bobby couldn’t have looked happier if I told him that we were having an early Christmas tomorrow. But he’s had a rough week. He deserves chocolate chip pancakes. And so do I. I’ve had a rough week too.

I’ve just finished mixing the batter when the doorbell rings. I lower the flame on the stove and race to get the door. I don’t check the peephole before throwing it open, which turns out to be a mistake.

Because there’s a squad car parked in my driveway. And what I presume is a plain-clothed police officer standing at my door.

My heart sinks. Is this about the shoplifting thing? Because my court date isn’t for another couple of weeks. I haven’t done anything else wrong. I’ve barely left the house!

“Mrs. Masterson?” the officer says in a thick New York accent.

He’s in his early forties with red-tinged brown hair and he’s solidly built, with a scar running through the stubble on his left jawline. He has pale blue eyes that make him look non-scary—he’s actually pretty cute. He’s the sort of officer I’d see in the community and bring him some baked goods to enjoy on his break, and maybe flirt a bit for fun.

But right now, I’m scared out of my wits.

“Yes, I’m Mrs. Masterson,” I manage.

“I’m Detective Hanrahan.” He flashes a badge at me. “Is your husband home?”

He wants to talk to Elliot. That’s a good thing, I assume. It means at least I haven’t allegedly done anything else wrong.

I go to the base of the stairs. Elliot was in the shower when I came down to make breakfast, but I don’t hear the shower anymore. He must be getting dressed. “Elliot!” My voice cracks. “Could you come down here please?”

A few seconds later, Elliot emerges from the upstairs bedroom wearing a dress shirt and slacks, his head freshly shaved. He’s got a tie loose around his neck that he’s expertly tying. But when he sees Detective Hanrahan at the door, his fingers freeze.

“Mr. Masterson?” Hanrahan calls out.

Elliot looks around, like he’s hoping there’s another Mr. Masterson the officer might be talking to. “Uh… yes…”

“My name is Detective Hanrahan. Could I have a word with you?”

Elliot makes his way down the stairs, nearly tripping on the final step. “How can I help you, Detective?”

Hanrahan’s expression is grim. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

When a policeman comes to your door and tells you he’s got bad news, you can’t help but think the worst. I wonder if something happened to one of Elliot’s parents. It can’t be my mother—the nursing home would have called me.

But why would a detective be coming if something happened to one of Elliot’s parents?

“Yes?” Elliot says.

Hanrahan hesitates for a split second and bows his head. “I’m afraid I gotta tell you that your receptionist, Brianna Anderson… was found dead last night.”

Brianna is… dead?

Elliot looks like he’s about to choke. He grabs onto the banister of the stairs, and it’s the only thing holding him up. All the color has left his face.

The detective squints at him. “Are you okay, Mr. Masterson?”

He nods, but it looks like he’s barely keeping it together. My head is spinning. Brianna was found dead? What does that mean? She’s so young… People in their early twenties don’t just die for no reason.

“What… happened to her?” Elliot croaks.

“I’m afraid…” Detective Hanrahan pauses for what seems like an eternity and a half. “I’m afraid she was murdered.”

Murdered. Oh my God.

But I suppose that makes sense, considering there’s a detective at our door.

Elliot’s eyes widen. My husband might have a heart attack right now. “Murdered?” he gasps. “How?”

“Blunt trauma to the head. Basically, she was beaten to death. We found her in an alley a block away from her house”

“She was…” He sinks onto the steps. “Someone beat her to death? That’s… Jesus Christ, I can’t…”

“I’m very sorry for your loss.”

He sounds like he means it. He doesn’t sound suspicious of us at all. It sounds like he’s just letting us know, by the way, Elliot’s receptionist is dead.

I wonder if he knows Brianna was pregnant. He’s going to know sooner or later, I assume. They do an autopsy on anyone who gets murdered. That’s the sort of thing that would show up on autopsy. And then he might not seem quite so friendly.

“This is so sad,” I speak up. There’s no need for him to know that I hated Brianna with a passion. “I can’t believe somebody would do that to poor Brianna. She was such a nice girl.”