Woman on the Edge(64)

Unlike all the other days at home with Quinn, this one passed so quickly, and suddenly it was time to leave. With Quinn nestled against her, she went to the kitchen to prepare her baby’s bottle. She passed the silver toaster and looked at her image, so distorted, yet true to how she felt. It occurred to her that someone at Grand/State might recognize her as the CEO of Breathe. She couldn’t risk anyone stopping her. She gently placed her daughter in the vibrating seat and pulled the scissors from the wooden block of knives. Then she began to cut the beautiful hair she’d had her whole life. She snipped and snipped, until the blades of the scissors scraped her scalp.

Now she looked nothing like Nicole Markham. Or Nicole Layton.

She went into the pantry and looked at the Post-its covering one entire wall. A sea of purple that had never brought her any clarity at all.

Name card. Redhead. Missing pills. Letter. Mobile. Door. Shattered chandelier. Photo. Box. Text. Exhaustion. Help me. Shelter. Widow. Morgan Kincaid.

She added one more note.

Mother.

It was the anniversary of Amanda’s death, the last day Nicole would ever see her daughter.

She was ready to say goodbye.





CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE MORGAN




After being discharged for minor smoke inhalation, Ben and I exit the hospital into the bright sunshine. We are wrecks. We’ve been told to rest, but we’re desperate to find Quinn. We don’t know what to do, or where to go. We hail a cab and ride silently back to our cars on North Astor Street, where Greg’s house is a charred ruin.

“What now?” I ask, wanting to do something, anything, to find Quinn.

Ben shrugs. “We wait, I guess, for Martinez and Jessica to call.”

His phone rings, and we both jump. He rushes to yank it from his pocket. “It’s Martinez,” he says.

My heart slams against my rib cage.

“Detective, I have you on speaker,” Ben tells her, and his eyes lock onto mine.

“I went to Donna’s. She wasn’t there. But there was a weird shrine to Nicole and Amanda. There was a baby dress laid out on the kitchen table with old newspaper clippings from the case of Amanda’s death. The front door was wide open, and Donna’s Chevy was in the driveway.”

Then she pauses.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, but there was blood in the entryway, as though there was some kind of struggle,” Martinez says. “Please, if you have any idea where Donna might go … We need to act fast.”

“No, no, no!” I cry, then immediately wipe my tears. There’s no time for self-pity or fear. I grab Ben’s arm. “If Donna’s taken Tessa and Quinn, where could she go to hide?” Before he opens his mouth, it hits me. “Nicole’s! If Donna’s the one who put the spy apps on Nicole’s phone and computer, she must have access, or Tessa gave her access! It would also be the best place to go because no one’s living there.”

“All right, I’m on my way, but it will take some time to get back from Kenosha. Hang tight. And stay right where you are.” Martinez ends the call.

I tap my foot frantically on the pavement. “We’re a five-minute drive from Nicole’s. We can get there first.”

Ben hesitates.

“For Quinn.”

We jump into his Altima and fly down West North, barreling from street to street until we screech right onto North State, the squealing tires shockingly loud in this restrained, upscale neighborhood.

My leg jitters as he turns left onto East Bellevue Place.

My seat belt is off, and I grab my pepper spray. We get out of the car and run toward Nicole’s house. On her driveway, Ben yanks me back before I make it to the door.

“Wait. We have to do this carefully. If Donna’s in there with Quinn and Tessa, we don’t want to scare her.”

I pull out of his grip. If Donna’s hurt Quinn in any way, I will wrap my hands around her neck and squeeze as hard as I can. But he’s right. “Let’s go around the back and look through the windows.”

We tiptoe around the side of the house, crouching down under the railing of the deck just off a sliding glass door. On the second floor, there’s a small terrace off a room. The doors are wide open. A baby’s cry echoes from above.

I look up. A redheaded woman holds Quinn, her back to us. She steps onto the terrace, Quinn so close to the railing, and a twenty-foot drop, that I instinctively reach out my arms to catch her should she fall.

The woman turns around.

It’s not Donna.

It’s Tessa.

In a red wig.

Ben and I bolt around the front of the house, but the door is locked. In a frenzy I search for another way in. Tripping on bushes and slipping on the stones, I race to the side of the house and spot a double-hung window. I slam the heavy glass with my elbow, but it doesn’t even crack.

Ben rushes past me. Without anything to cover his fist, he smashes the glass again and again until pointed shards rain down. He hoists me through the broken window and pulls himself up.

We’re in a powder room.

“Let’s go,” I mouth to Ben.

He nods, blood dripping from his hand, and goes ahead of me. With my pulse pounding in my neck, we head to the second floor, to a bedroom.

Then I stand stock-still. Huddled against the wall, next to the terrace, sits Donna, knees pulled to her chest, tears streaming down her face. It’s then that I notice her hands are zip-tied, and a bloody gash runs the length of her cheek. There’s a red wig on the floor, next to an open bottle of pills.