A Mother Would Know (61)


I swallow hard.

She turns back to me and sighs heavily. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be here. John never should’ve invited you.”

“He also shouldn’t have been snooping in my yard,” I snap, stinging from the rejection.

“No, he shouldn’t have been.”

“Why was he?” I place a hand on my hip, cocking my head to the side.

She shakes her head. “Like I said, he must have jumped the gun. Or misunderstood. I don’t know.”

“Either way, I’m part of this neighborhood, and I have every right to be at this meeting.” I hold my ground.

Beth presses her lips together, her expression conflicted. A few agonizing seconds go by before she says, “I got more information today about Leslie’s death.”

I hold my breath, afraid she’s going to say that someone saw either me or Hudson going to Leslie’s that night. It takes all my courage not to turn and run away. But I know if I do, I’ll only look guilty. Besides, she may be bluffing. She might not know anything at all. So I hold my head steady and wait for her to talk.

“She was strangled just like Molly,” she says.

It’s a challenge to keep my poker face, but it’s clear by the way Beth is looking at me that she’s expecting some type of reaction. I won’t give it to her. “That’s terrible,” I finally say. “But I still don’t understand what that has to do with me.”

Her face darkens. “Leslie was murdered right after she accused your son of killing Molly,” she snarls.

Bile rises in my throat. Hudson did have motive, after all. I clear it and breathe in through my nostrils. “I think you have incorrect information. Last I heard, Leslie had changed her tune, thought someone else had done it.” The look Beth gives me in response can only be described as one of pity, like she doesn’t believe me, like I’m the one with the bad information. Then she clears her throat.

“The rest of us are worried, Valerie,” she says hostilely. “There is a killer on the loose. I don’t know how you sleep at night knowing he’s under your roof.” She slams the door in my face. I flinch. Blink. Draw in a shaky breath. I’ve had enough. I storm across the street, more determined than ever to prove Hudson’s innocence.

My entire body is buzzing with adrenaline and anger by the time I get inside my house.

“Wow, you’re back early. Quick meeting?” Hudson’s voice startles me.

I flinch, my muscles tightening.

He’s on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table, The Office playing on the TV. I don’t have the heart to tell him I wasn’t welcomed into the meeting.

Instead I say, “I wasn’t expecting you to be home. Figured you’d be out with friends.”

“Nah. Got an early day tomorrow.”

“They sure have you working a lot.”

“Right?” He dips his hand into a bag of chips, and it crinkles.

“Hey, are you sure you overheard Leslie saying she suspected someone other than you?”

He drops the bag of chips onto the end table, snapping one between his teeth. Then he straightens, sitting taller, his feet falling from the coffee table. “Yeah, why?”

“Do you happen to remember who she was talking to?”

“Beth, and then that other lady she’s always with—the one with the short hair.”

“Shelly?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

If she’d been talking to Beth about it, then the new lead had hardly changed Beth’s mind.

I sigh, rolling out my shoulders. I’m ready for bed. “Where’s Bowie?”

“Upstairs, I think.” His eyebrows pinch. “You okay?”

“Just tired.”

I find Bowie curled up at the foot of my bed. I perch next to him, resting my palm on his back, the mattress sloping beneath me. The laughter from the television travels up the stairs, slipping under my door. I hear the crack of a can. Hudson must be opening a beer or soda. I never used to have either in my house. Now it’s common to open the fridge and find a shiny can or two on the shelf.

A lot has changed since he came back.

I stand and head to my dresser to change into pajamas. When I pass the window, my insides seize. I step closer to the glass, pressing my palm to the cool, slick surface. A man walks up to Beth’s front door, and then raps on it. She opens almost immediately, wearing a large smile before ushering him inside.

Even though I don’t see his face, I know who it is. I recognize his walk. His build. The shape of his head. I might not have, if it weren’t for the fact that I saw him a week ago in front of Leslie’s house.

James.





20





The next morning on my walk, I’m worrying over what it portends that James—no longer a neighbor here—was invited to a neighborhood watch meeting and I was not, when I spot Detective Daniels.

He’s a few dozen feet ahead, talking to a couple I don’t recognize. I glance at the home they are gathered in front of. Maybe they live there. This isn’t my street, and although I walk it often, I don’t know most of the people over here.

My muscles seize. I have no desire to talk to Detective Daniels right now. Bowie tugs on the leash as he trots forward along the sidewalk, blissfully unaware.

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