Chapter 62
Jon
Wednesday
Jon pulls up outside SuperValu but doesn’t get out. His brain hurts. He needs to order his thoughts, to buy the milk, to go home. OK. OK.
He is almost certain Susan knows what he’s been up to: the way she’s acting, the bangle in her drawer. But the new news from Leesa just now—that Susan went out somewhere last Wednesday morning—that’s freaking him out. The morning Savannah’s body was found.
So where was Susan? And crucially, does she know where he was on Wednesday morning?
Something niggles now. Something about the bangle.
Something about the last time he was with Savannah.
Cold dread trickles its way through his stomach.
It can’t be. Can it? He casts his mind back.
Sun streaming in through Savannah’s front door, dappling light across the hall floor, across his back and his damp work shirt, over her face and shoulders.
Savannah in a loose-fitting pale pink tank top and green khaki shorts.
A work-from-home outfit. Or work from the garden, as she liked to do on hot, sunny days.
Her tanned shoulders. Her toned arms. Her slim wrists.
The bangle, glinting in the morning sunlight.
Sitting on her left forearm, twisting under her fingers as they argued.
He blinks, as though to refresh the memory.
To be sure. But he is sure. Savannah was wearing the bangle just before she died.
And now, it’s in Susan’s night-stand drawer.
Needing space, needing to think, he pushes back the driver’s seat, ignoring a woman in a Jeep who’s gesturing to ask if he’s about to leave the parking spot.
Something dislodges as he does so, jangling to the footwell.
He reaches down. As his fingers close around the metal and plastic, it comes back to him.
The keys. Savannah’s car keys. Shit. Why does he still have them?
And what should he do with them now? The guards will be looking for them.
This is not good. Not good at all. Almost subconsciously, he pulls the tail of his shirt from his waistband and begins to polish the keys, the fob, the XSGym keyring.
Sunlight beams through the windscreen of the car and sweat trickles down the back of his neck on to his collar.
A quick glance across the car park tells him there’s a bin just beside the entrance to SuperValu.
OK. This could be a mistake, but the sooner the keys are out of his possession, the better.
He gets out of the car. The woman in the Jeep is still looking for a car space.
Evening sun hits him square in the eyes, but his sunglasses are missing.
Not missing, he remembers now, but in Savannah’s house, on her kitchen shelf.
She sent him a picture. Eight days ago but somehow also a lifetime ago.
Will it matter if the police find them? He’s not sure, but right now, he needs to focus on the keys.
With the cuff of his work shirt pulled down over his hand, he strides across to the bin and tips Savannah’s keys inside. Then follows them with the burner phone. Gone for good. He hopes.