You Owe Me a Murder(73)

“Did you inherit this house from your parents?”

The woman shook her head rapidly, her hair whipping back and forth. “I bought it with my husband. I had some family money, but my parents are still alive. They live in Cornwall.” She pointed to the dresser. “There’s a picture of me with them over there.”

I crossed over and picked up one of the silver frames. It was a photograph of the woman between a smiling elderly couple, posed in front of a giant hydrangea bush, its big blue flower balls sprinkled behind them like polka dots. I searched the other frames. There were other people, but none of them were Nicki. This woman would have had a picture of her daughter, wouldn’t she? If she had all these other pictures, there would have been at least one of her and her own kid. I mentally went through the house as I’d come in. Had I seen anything that belonged to Nicki? A coat hanging in the mudroom, books, or her leather messenger bag? Any sign at all that she lived here? There was a loud buzzing growing in my ears.

I motioned to the woman, flicking the knife up and down. “Get up. I want to see the other bedrooms.” My mouth was dry. She lay there crying, her breath coming in hitches. There was a smear of shiny snot under her nose like a snail trail. “Get up,” I repeated, this time pointing the knife at her. “And give me my phone back.”

She clambered out of bed. She tried to pass me the phone, but her hand was shaking so badly that the phone dropped back onto the blanket. I snatched it up and shoved it deep into my pocket. I motioned to the door and she walked in front, leading the way, her bare feet sticking on the floor. We went out into the hall and she pushed open the door of the room to the left. It made a perfect horror-movie creak.

“Turn on the light,” I demanded.

She flipped a switch and I blinked from the sudden brightness. It was a sterile spare bedroom. Nothing personal at all: no shoes on the floor, no photos on the wall, just a small painting of a rolling landscape in the corner. Nothing on the bedside table: no bottles of nail polish, eyeglasses, half-read magazines, stuffed animals, discarded earrings—?nothing. No one lived in here.

I slapped off the switch. “Let’s keep going.” I followed her down the hall and she flung open the other door. It was an office. A cluttered desk and bookcase stuffed with various worn hardcovers and clusters of paperback novels. There was a wingback chair and ottoman by the window, but no place where anyone could sleep. The walls were a soft pink and I suspected this used to be the nursery. “Are there other bedrooms?” I asked, hating the tremor in my voice.

“No. That’s the bath there.” She pointed. “Downstairs there’s a dining room, the kitchen, and the parlor, but that’s all. I can show you if you want.”

“And the basement?” Even as the words left my mouth, I knew that idea didn’t make sense. Nicki wasn’t going to live in some windowless space.

The woman crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself for comfort. “I use it for storage. There aren’t any bedrooms down there.” She looked thin and vulnerable standing there in her pajama gown. Her arms were like twigs jutting from the short sleeves. She didn’t look like Nicki. I hadn’t noticed that at first, but now I couldn’t identify a single feature they had in common. Then I noticed her nose. Thin and straight. It wasn’t broken or bruised. Nicki had told me her mom had broken her nose while drunk, that she’d walked into a doorjamb, but this woman’s nose was perfect. “Maybe you have the wrong place,” she suggested timidly.

My stomach went into a free fall. Was Nicki’s mom sleeping off a bottle of vodka a few doors down or a block over? I bit my lip, trying to focus. That didn’t make any sense either. Nicki had written down the address. She would know where she lived—?that wasn’t the kind of thing that a person got wrong. And even if she had, if she had transposed numbers like some kind of numeric dyslexic, how was it possible that the floor plan was exactly the way she’d told me it would be? The light was out above the back door. The lock was broken. All of it was the way Nicki had said it would be.

Except this wasn’t Nicki’s mom.

“Are you okay?” the woman whispered.

I wondered how long I’d been standing there just staring off into space. The sound in my ears was turning to a roar and there was a layer of clammy sweat down my back. This wasn’t Nicki’s mom. I’d broken into a stranger’s house. I’d brought a knife. I stared down at my hand. Jesus, I brought a knife. The roar turned to screaming static.

“. . . help?”

I hadn’t heard what she’d said. There were black dots popping up in the corners of my vision. I was going to pass out. Right here in the hallway. And when I woke up, this woman would be long gone and the cops would be on their way to pick me up. I forced myself to suck in a deep breath and poked myself in the thigh with the tip of the knife—?not hard, just enough to hurt—?bringing the world back into focus.

“I have to go,” I said. My mouth opened and closed. I felt as if I should apologize, but this went way beyond the kind of thing you could make go away with a simple sorry. I hadn’t put a dent in her car or accidentally spilled coffee on her white blouse.

I backed away from her slowly. “Don’t tell anyone about this,” I said.

“I won’t,” she said. “I promise.” She held up her right hand as if taking a vow.