Chapter 27
Every hour brings a deeper sense of dread as I wait for the police to show up with an arrest warrant.
On the drive home from the woods yesterday, I couldn’t take my eyes off the rearview mirror, expecting flashing red and blue lights to appear at every mile until I got home.
Later that night I tried to ignore images of handcuffs snapping shut on my wrists by binge-watching every romantic comedy in my Netflix queue.
And this morning was no better as I anticipated waking up to SWAT storming my house.
But none of those things happened. Until now. As if summoning them, I’m washing dishes, envisioning the decaying face of the woman in the suds of my dirty dish water, when Mamma calls me to the entryway.
“Shari, make yourself decent—we have guests!”
I’m not going to look decent no matter how much effort I put into it, so I pad into the hallway and collide with Luca, who is blearily wiping his eyes. His shirt is on backwards, and his hair looks like he was electrocuted in his sleep.
I tell myself it might not be me that they’re here for.
It has been six days since Ivory disappeared, and no one is closer to finding her—or hearing from her—than I was that day she sent me the text and beach picture.
I’ve called and texted her countless times since, but all I’ve gotten back are crickets.
Maybe the police are just here to check in.
I gravitate toward the living room window, searching for a sign of whose house the cops are heading to this time.
Please be Fred, please be Fred.
It’s gray and drizzling outside, the street draped in a ghostly mist. Partially hidden behind a tree is a woman standing at the corner of my yard, soaked under a black trench coat.
For a moment it looks like her, the dead woman from the river, her face pale and gaunt.
My body startles with a jump. Then I blink, and the face reforms into Zala’s.
I rub a hand over my eyes trying to calm myself, but I’m not sure seeing Zala there is any better.
“Uh, why are the cops here?” Luca sidles up to me at the window.
I open my mouth to answer, but something outside under the cover of my porch catches my eye. A small grocery bag sits on top of my welcome mat that says If You Don’t Like Dogs, This Is Gonna Be Awkward.
“Did you order groceries to be delivered?” I turn to Luca.
“No. I’ve just gotten out of jail with no time to get a job. So I’m broke, remember?” He plucks at his backward shirt. “This is thrift store couture.”
“Then what is that?” I point to the gray plastic bag.
He shrugs. “Maybe it’s a care package because of your accident.”
“Right, a care package arriving at the same time the cops do,” I deadpan.
I can’t begin to guess what would be inside it. It almost looks like something I’d scoop Zoomie’s poop into during a walk. But considering I’ve received a bloody necklace and a dead body showed up on my last hike, I’m not taking any chances.
The cruiser door out front swings open and a man wearing a familiar leather jacket and jeans steps out.
I absolutely cannot let Detective Yankovic—Mr. Human Lie Detector—see that bag.
My front door is still broken, but Luca had crookedly installed a makeshift lock until the handyman makes it out here.
I fiddle with the lock until it releases, then yank the door open and snatch up the bag.
It's triple knotted, and it appears to be double-bagged.
Whatever is inside feels heavy. I clutch the bag to my chest while looking for someplace to hide it.
When the doorbell rings, I shove it behind the couch—my emergency hiding place, usually reserved for stranded laundry and junk when an unexpected visitor pops by.
“Shari, aren’t you going to open the bag first?” Luca asks.
“No time.”
The doorbell chimes again, and barely a second later a knock rattles the front door. It feels urgent.
Luca mouths, What did you do?
If only he knew. I square my shoulders, open the door, and step outside. Detective Yankovic stands there, thumbs again hooked in his belt loops, while his gaze cuts through me.
“Ms. Catalano,” he announces. “I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Absolutely. Anything you need,” I casually say in my best innocent law-abiding citizen voice. “Is everything okay?”
He studies me. “I was hoping you could answer that question.”
“Is this about Ivory? Do you have an update?”
Detective Yankovic waits on my front porch like he’s expecting an invitation inside. He lifts his badge, all official and shiny, as if I haven’t already seen it once before.
“No, this isn’t about Ivory. I’m here to ask you a few questions about the incident.”
“Incident?” That could be any number of things, considering the week I’ve had since last time we spoke. My bloody necklace someone sent my attorney. The body I found—and submerged—at Doomwood Falls. Take your pick, Detective.
“The hit-and-run that nearly killed you,” he elaborates.
Oh yeah, that incident.
“Mind if I come inside? I’d like to see if I can get more information about the accident. Hopefully we can figure out who did this to you.”
Inside, where he’ll pass by my secret room and where that mystery bag is poorly hidden. I’m one wrong move from a complete and devastating downfall.
“Of course,” I say, stepping aside and letting him in, because apparently I am constitutionally incapable of telling law enforcement no. He comes in, slowly passes by the bookshelf, and stops to admire my Nancy Drew collection.
“My mom loved these books. Are these original copies?” he probes, reaching to pick one up from the third shelf, which is eye level at his height.
Of course it happens to be the one that will unlock and open the bookshelf door. I reflexively lunge to stop him.
“Yes, they’re originals, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t touch them. They’re delicate.”
He takes the hint and moves along into the living room, walking the perimeter like he expects bodies to be piled in the corners.
There aren’t any. As he picks a spot on the sofa, my attention slips toward where the bag is barely hidden.
Luca loiters by the entryway and offers the detective a friendly wave before disappearing into the kitchen where someone is hovering just out of sight around the wall, but their shifty shadow gives them away.
“Mamma?” I call out.
She drifts out behind the wall with a warm smile and holding a plate of pizzelle cookies.
“I just wanted to offer our kind visitor a homemade Italian cookie.” Mamma thrusts the plate at Detective Yankovic, who seems eager to accept several. “And coffee to go with your cookies?” Mamma adds.
With his mouth already full of a bite, Detective Yankovic nods.
Crumbs catch in various places down his frizzy beard, which could really use some beard oil.
Mamma disappears and returns with a tray of coffee, sugar, and cream, and he helps himself to all three.
I really wish my mother wasn’t helping an officer of the law get so comfortable and homey while I have an incriminating secret room a mere ten feet away from him.
Detective Yankovic takes up a full two cushions of my couch, so I sit pressed up against the opposite arm away from him, folding my hands neatly to hide the way they tremble as my gaze keeps gravitating toward where the plastic bag looks like it’s leaking something onto the floor.
Please let it not be blood.
“Ms. Catalano,” he begins. No one calls me that except bill collectors and court officials. “I’d like to know if you remember anything about the vehicle or the driver who hit you.”
“No,” I admit. “I can’t remember anything at all. My brother told me it was a black sedan, but I don’t even remember seeing the car.”
He studies me. This is the part in movies where the cop leans in and says, What aren’t you telling me?
But he doesn’t. He just watches, waiting for me to fill in more blanks, which is worse.
Because the truth is I do remember something.
Not enough to be helpful. Just enough to ruin my sleep.
An object behind the windshield. A face I should know.
The feeling of recognition sliding through my brain, chilling me like ice water.
But no matter how hard I try to pull it up, nothing.
It’s just a blank space as wide as the curb I stepped off.
A familiar car. A familiar driver. A familiar terror. But I can’t access any of it. Every time I try, my mind clamps shut like a steel trap, and the memory slinks away.
“Do you recall what you were doing when you got hit by the car?” Detective Yankovic asks, flipping open his notebook.
I smile. Or maybe I grimace. It’s hard to know. “I do remember looking in my purse for my phone.”
Detective Yankovic scribbles something down. I wonder if he wrote suspicious or subject sweating excessively or liar liar pants on fire.
Yankovic clears his throat. “Witnesses say the driver didn’t even tap the brakes.”
“I guess the driver really hated me.”
“They were trying to kill you, Ms. Catalano. Do you have any enemies?”
Does most of my neighborhood count? “Not that I’m aware of.”
“I just want to understand what happened,” he says softly, “and why you were targeted.”
“So do I. But I can’t remember anything after stepping off that curb.”
And that part is true. Then I realize the truth is one thing I still have. My laptop remains humming on the coffee table where I last left it, the pen drive my attorney gave me jutting out from the side. It’s time to show someone this information who can actually help me.
“Can I show you something, Detective?”