Chapter 22
Nicole
I knocked at the back door of the modern waterfront home in Rye to avoid journalists.
Previously Zach’s home.
Now Amanda’s.
It was the nicest and largest on the street. Clean concrete, oversized windows, and towering glass railings. It screamed money and privilege. I could hear the sound of the waves breaking nearby.
A quick glance over my shoulder gave me strength. The kids were waiting in the car parked at the bottom of the solid stone staircase that led to the back door on a private road.
Above the door, tucked into the corner of the overhang, the little black security camera blinked red.
She saw me. She knew who it was.
If the door opened, that would be a good sign.
But it didn’t.
I knocked again. Harder this time. “The kids are here.”
Then I waited.
Still nothing.
But just as I turned to go, the door creaked open. Amanda stood there.
Her golden hair was twisted into a messy bun that looked slept in. The usual angelic glow was gone. No warm smile, just a woman who looked like she’d been dragged through hell over the last few weeks.
Every second counted now. I had to speak fast, speak from the gut.
“I know you wanted space,” I said, raising both hands as if I could hold the space between us. “But I’m not here for myself. Or Lacey.”
Her dull blue eyes looked past me. Locked on the car.
She crossed her arms, said nothing.
“Umm,” I muttered, anxiety burning through me. “I walked through this conversation in my head a million times before coming here. I even made notes.” I pulled the crumpled notepad from my jacket pocket and gave a pathetic laugh. “But now, standing here, I don’t know what the hell to say.”
Neither of us said anything.
But I was the one who came here. I was the one begging. So I forced myself to speak.
“I guess … all I can say is there are three sweet little souls in that car. Three innocent kids who’ve never done anything wrong. And they can’t be blamed for any of this. If you want to hate her, do it. If you want to hate me or Brian or God”—my jaw clenched—“be my guest.”
That got her attention. Her eyes widened. “Brian isn’t doing well?”
Her first words to me in weeks. And they were for him. The power this man had over women was unbelievable.
“No, he is not doing well,” I said. “None of us are.”
She nodded once. Still guarded.
“I understand if you hate me. Or Lacey. Or Brian. Or the whole damn world. I get it. But you’ve been part of those kids’ lives since the day they were born.
You’re like a mother to them. And you made a promise.
As their godmother, you promised that if the worst ever happened, you’d take care of them. ”
I let my hands fall to my sides, helpless. “Well. The worst is here. So I’m asking you for something now.”
I looked her in the eyes. Her skin was pale. No makeup. Puffy eyes.
“Are you the second mother you made them believe you were?” I asked. “Or were you just a friend tagging along all those years?”
I gave her a second to let that sink in. Then added, “Because if you are who we thought you were, then you’ll give these kids a place to feel loved and safe for a few days. If you’re not, I’ll walk away right now, and we won’t bother you again.”
Her pretty blue eyes narrowed again. Then drifted back to the car. A tear slid down her cheek. Then another.
She didn’t speak, just wiped her face with the sleeve of her oversized sweater, breathing slowly and shakily.
For a second, I thought she was going to close the door, which would be Lacey’s death sentence. I couldn’t put those kids in danger. This was my only chance to find the killer.
Then, almost startling me, Amanda stepped forward.
She brushed past me, brisk and silent, and headed down the stone steps toward the car.
And as she passed, she muttered under her breath, “Just for the record—don’t ever question my love for the kids again. That’s the one thing nobody gets to touch.”