Chapter Forty-Seven
FORTY-SEVEN
Nicole
Though it was bordered by woods on three sides and backed up to the river, the house had never seemed especially remote to her, but in the wake of the intruder and the bones and Woody’s horrible secrets, it now felt like a gaping maw.
There was no one inside. It had been locked up tight.
And yet, Nicole couldn’t wash away the residue of fear that made the place feel off-putting and strange.
It reminded her of her first visit to Mikko’s, when she heard the noises and found the message.
I’m watching. She wished she’d thought to ask Tim Wellington if the woman in the house had admitted to writing it, but Nicole’s police interview had been a blur.
Now, she remembered there was a time when she thought Mikko carved those words into the dust, and realized there was still a possibility that he had.
Nicole wanted nothing more than to be home, head under the covers in her darkened bedroom.
Maureen had insisted they go about their lives as if they had nothing to hide, but the murder had made the news, and soon the press would have Woody’s name, and the whole county would know he was suspected of killing that young woman.
And so, while her husband was being interviewed for his potential role in the murder of his one-night stand, Nicole would be mopping acres of exotic wood flooring wearing a fucking smile.
She was nearly done with the bedrooms when her phone rang. Her vacuum was old, its growl so loud that she almost didn’t hear it. Part of her wished she hadn’t.
“I just got out,” said Woody. She could hear the woosh of tires on the road, but no radio. Woody always played the radio in the truck. The eighties station or yacht rock.
“How did it go?” Nicole held her breath.
“I don’t know. Not great.”
Reluctantly, Nicole put down the vacuum and dropped onto the nearest chair.
She’d been counting on Tim Wellington realizing he had it all wrong.
It was like Mac had said: the evidence was circumstantial.
Just because Woody had sex with the woman the same night she disappeared didn’t mean he had anything to do with her death. Nicole had to believe that.
“What about Mikko?” she asked. “He’s still a suspect, right? I mean Jesus, the victim was in his house.”
“They asked me about him,” Woody said. “If I trust him.”
If Woody had listened to her last summer, when Mikko charged into their lives, he would have turned the man’s offer down flat.
He would never have gone to that party, or met Angelica Patten, or slept with her, or been a suspect in her murder.
“What did you say?” she asked, a thumbnail pinched between her teeth.
“No. I told them no, Nic. I don’t trust him,” said Woody. “I haven’t for a long time.”
Nicole let her head fall back against the chair, the cushiony softness cradling her neck. Her body felt like a sack of wet sand. Finally—finally—her husband understood. And now it might be too late.
“Listen,” he went on, “they also asked about Stacy.”
Nicole bolted upright. “What? Why?”
“She was at the party too, remember?”
Nicole hadn’t remembered that, actually. Stacy had mentioned it when, all those months ago, she’d called to divulge what Woody had done, but it was Woody’s deceit that Nicole had homed in on. Only now did she think to wonder why Stacy had been at Mikko’s party that night.
“I figured I should tell you,” said Woody. “Maybe you want to give her a heads-up.”
“Stacy didn’t even know that woman,” said Nicole. “She has nothing to do with this.”
“But she’s your friend. If the police were getting ready to knock on your door, wouldn’t you want to know?”
The tenderness in his tone flooded Nicole with a warmth she hadn’t felt in a long time. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” she said. “Thanks.”
“Sure. Hey Nic?”
Nicole waited for him to go on, focusing on the rise and fall of her chest, steady and sure. At last, he said, “I’m so fucking sorry. About all of this.”
The tears came fast, flooding her vision. It was a long time before she could speak again.
“I know, hon,” she rasped. “See you at home?”
“See you there.”
It took all of her strength to get to her feet and start up the vacuum again.
She would need to talk to Stacy, but not yet.
Not until she’d had time to deliberate on what Woody had said.
Maybe Tim thought Stacy knew something more about Angelica than she was letting on.
It was possible she’d witnessed something suspicious. That had to be it.
The noise of the vacuum pounded on her temples like a mallet, but it couldn’t drown out her thoughts. Nicole hadn’t allowed herself to imagine what might happen if Woody was charged, found guilty, sentenced to prison. It was an inconceivable scenario, but one she might have to face.
It was because of the noise and the crush of dread that Nicole didn’t hear the window shatter downstairs, or the creak of slow, deliberate footfalls in the second-floor hall.
Even after the trauma of finding the phrogger, the fear of which still burned white-hot, she didn’t sense the presence of another human body until it was standing right behind her.
Until she felt a pair of hands clamp down on her neck.