Chapter 12
My rusted-out beater of a car has been stolen.
And in its place my Fairy Carmother left a new one, a sleek black fancy Mercedes way above my pay grade.
I want to believe it’s a miracle. Some wealthy benefactor felt the urge to bless me with this gorgeous right-off-the-showroom-floor set of wheels because he never wants me to have to deal with breaking down halfway to the grocery store in the dead of winter again.
But no, I’m a realist, so the more likely explanation is that the vehicle belongs to some drug-dealing mobster my brother owes money to and they’ve come to collect. And my front door still isn’t fixed, which makes their job of breaking kneecaps even easier.
“Luca!” I yell up the stairs. “You have a visitor!”
I feel bad for throwing my brother to the wolves, but I sure as heck am not going to sacrifice myself for him. I’ve done enough of that in my life, and it never once paid off. When Luca doesn’t answer, I jog upstairs to look for him.
His bed is meticulously neat, the folds and corners exactly like I had made it for him yesterday—and every day in prison, or else I got a warning from the guards.
This means Luca didn’t sleep in bed last night.
This normally should be alarming, but I’ve gotten used to Luca slipping in and out of my life with no explanation.
I check the first floor and find a note I don’t know how to interpret:
Headed out to deal with something and borrowed the car.
It looks like Luca has left me to deal with this kneecap-breaker, collector, henchman—whatever he turns out to be—on my own with no way of escape. Pale smoke from the exhaust, not black like my car emits, means it’s idling as the driver sits completely still, face hidden behind tinted windows.
I swing open my front door and step onto the porch, with Zoomie steamrolling between my legs out into the yard.
To my surprise, the car lurches forward, with tires squealing, shooting down the road like the metal ball in a pinball machine while Zoomie pursues for a hot minute before losing interest. Do I really look that formidable without makeup on?
Or maybe my guard dog finally got the memo.
Pushing through the anxiety, I return to the kitchen where several new pictures I developed last night sit on the counter, edges stiff now that they’re dry.
After spreading them out, I look over each one.
That blot of neon pink yanks my attention once again, and when I take a closer look I notice a letter embroidered on it.
Due to the way the fabric folds, I can’t make it out, but lucky for me the reflection of the water shows the letter perfectly: Z.
Next to the shirt a pair of men’s pants hide in the corner of the frame, crumpled on the ground. Those pants could prove it’s Fred in the picture. Real evidence. Something the cops can’t shrug off and Fred can’t deny.
Fred’s car isn’t in the driveway, and presumably the school bus picked Freida up hours ago.
I’ve got a couple hours before school lets out, so it could be my only chance to snoop around with no one home.
I don’t hesitate to weight the pros and cons of getting caught.
I grab the photo, give a quick check to make sure no neighbors happen to be looking out their windows at this exact moment, and sprint across the street. Then I walk straight into Fred’s house.
Technically “walk straight into” is an exaggeration.
Not wanting to risk being seen at the front door, I resort to jimmying the garage side door open with a credit card.
The fact that I’m a parolee probably means I should be averse to breaking and entering, but I might as well put the skills I learned from the pokey to use.
It took a bit more skill to maneuver through the garage. That space is Fred’s domain where he keeps every scrap of lumber, every piece of pipe, every random hunk of garbage that he insists he needs but that Ivory won’t let him bring into the house.
When I step through the garage entrance into the kitchen, the air feels heavy, like the place is holding its breath.
Luckily I know Ivory’s floor plan almost as well as I know my own, since the house developer lacked creativity and made them all identical, with the exception of a few custom or renovated homes dotting the street here and there.
The laundry room is the first place I think of where Fred would dump his dirty clothes. And if he’s the man in the photo—and I’m convinced he is—those pants should be here, because Fred doesn’t throw anything, and I mean anything, away.
Sure enough, when I open the slatted bifold door to the laundry room, the hamper is overflowing with sweatshirts, flannels, and several pairs of pants that look similar to the ones puddled on the shore near the waterfall in my print.
I hadn’t considered that men don’t usually have as much variety in their wardrobe as women do, making my job of locating the exact pair in my photo harder.
There are at least four pair of gray cargo-style pants that look alike.
Lady Luck strikes again, because Fred is inexperienced with laundry care and a basic knowledge of stain treatment.
I dig down to the bottom and instantly know when I’ve found them—wet pants with muddy spots on the knees, already starting to smell like mildew and river water.
Blood soaks one of the pant legs, which confirms it even more.
I compare them against the photo. They’re the exact same ones.
Using my phone, I snap a picture of the pants in the laundry basket. Ironclad proof.
I check the time, and my investigating, which sounds better than snooping, has taken me longer than I thought.
Returning the clothes to the hamper, I double-check to make sure there’s no evidence I was here.
I’m turning the knob to the door that exits the kitchen into the garage when a rumble vibrates my feet.
Peeking through the opening, I’m met with a half-open garage door grumping and groaning upward, and Fred’s car pulling in.
I freeze stupidly, then quickly shut the door.
Fred should be at work. Why is he back so soon? And had he seen me?
I dash back into the laundry room, the one place in the house I doubt he visits very often, and hide behind the washing machine. Heavy footsteps thud past me into the foyer. I press myself deeper into my hiding place, heart ricocheting in my chest like it’s on the verge breaking out.
“Yeah,” Fred says loudly. He’s on the phone. “I’ve been at the police station all morning. They don’t have a suspect yet.”
This is bad. If he finds me here—inside his house, going through his dirty clothes—the cops won’t care that I’m trying to solve my best friend’s potential murder. All they’ll care about is that I violated parole by breaking and entering. Then it’s straight back to jail for me.
Fred’s voice grows louder, and closer, as he lingers in front of the laundry room of all places.
Since when is the laundry the place to hang out?
Through the gap under the closed bifold door I spot his polished black dress shoes, and I imagine him in his suit and tie.
I hadn’t considered that the first thing he’d do after coming home is change out of his clothes.
“No, this whole thing is ridiculous,” he snaps at whoever is on the line. When he resumes talking, his voice is further away. Thank God for small mercies. “And Freida’s a mess.”
His footsteps retreat. A cupboard door slams. I attempt to predict his next move—maybe a cup of coffee while turning the television on, which would give me the opportunity to run out the front door. But no, that’s not Fred’s routine. Instead it’s exactly what I feared.
It starts with the clap of shoes hitting the floor and rustle of fabric dropping.
I risk a glimpse around the door and huff.
Fred is stripping off his dress shirt, unbuttoning it like he’s peeling away a layer of skin.
I duck back inside and through the slats watch Fred pace, half-naked with his pants gone and his shirt off, with six-pack abs that Ivory never mentioned.
All that’s left on him are his socks and boxers, and I’m in the middle of praying he doesn’t take those off too when I see it.
A deep, angry gash carved across his thigh.
It’s fresh and raw and swollen around the edges.
The blood in the water was his, not the mistress’s.
This revelation doesn’t answer any of my questions, though.
The injury could have been made in self-defense if Fred was attacking her.
Or he could have hurt himself climbing up the waterfall. There’s no way to know.
By now I assume Fred has hung up the call until he speaks again, low and dare I say sinister. “I’m taking care of it.”
Every muscle in my body locks. I can only assume it’s Ivory he’s referring to.
But taking care of it… That’s mafia speak for killing someone, cutting loose ends.
Did he kill Ivory? Or is he referring to his mistress to keep her quiet about what he’s done?
After all, a cheating husband is always the prime suspect when his wife goes missing.
Suddenly, Fred stops talking and there’s a too-long beat of silence. Eventually the television clicks on to something sports-related, judging by the announcer’s enthusiasm, and the sofa squeaks. I recognize it from the countless times I’ve sat in it next to Ivory. This is my chance.
The front door is visible from the laundry room, either an invitation or a trap. If Fred catches me, I’m done. If he doesn’t catch me, I live to uncover the truth another day. I hold my breath, then I move.
One step. Two. Three.
Every floorboard squeaks under my feet like it wants to out me. My palms sweat so badly my phone almost slips from my hands. The entire foyer looms between me and the front door when a commercial break interrupts my exit.
I bolt down the hallway, nearly falling on the polished wood because my legs won’t cooperate with the rest of me.
They’re jittery and rubbery, and my heart hammers so violently I half-expect it to punch through my ribs and leave a hole in Fred’s plaster.
I’m almost to the door when I do the absolute worst thing I could do.
I bump into the table along the entry and the corner hits the wall, loudly. Oops.
“Someone there?” Fred calls out.
I freeze, then press my back against the wall and clamp a hand over my mouth.
“What was that?” His tone is alert.
At any moment he’s going to walk in here and find me sneaking around like some unhinged stalker. Then what? What lie do I spin? There’s no rational explanation for rifling through his house. Especially not after our latest confrontation. I shut my eyes, as if that will make me invisible.
Then the announcer yells, “Touchdown Steelers!”
Fred whoops, having lost all interest in the mysterious moving table. When the commotion of screaming fans drowns me out, I’m already at the front door. Turning the knob one millimeter at a time, the latch releases with a tiny click. I fling open the door and bolt out, my body slamming right into—