Chapter Sixty-Five. Riley, Present Day
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
RILEY, PRESENT DAY
I straighten up at the sound of Sandra’s voice, trying to smooth the fear from my expression before I turn around.
When I do, I don’t just look at Sandra. I finally face all the warnings I’ve dismissed.
I’ve got back-to-back appointments all day, Sandra had said.
Yet five minutes after my text, she’d been en route to Sam’s house.
It was no miracle she’d arrived so quickly; she must have been nearby.
Maybe even following us in her dark sedan.
A chill runs through me as I realize her car could have been the same one I saw roar by Betty’s house after I got home from my first trip to Marquis.
There’s also the Ring camera inside her house—not on the front door, where they’re typically placed. Could Sandra have positioned it to monitor anyone trying to get out?
There’s a man I’ve been seeing … He’s a carpenter and I met him when I hired him to build this bookshelf.
Why had Sandra lied? Unless it was to get me out of her house quickly because she was hiding something—or someone—here.
The staccato chimes that sounded on her phone when she claimed to be getting a text from the carpenter didn’t sound like a typical text alert. Maybe it was a different kind of alert.
Betty stirs on the couch.
“We had good naps,” I say belatedly. “But there are a couple of medications for Betty we need to pick up today. I just remembered.”
I pray Betty doesn’t question this.
“Of course,” Sandra says. “Do you need to go to CVS? There’s one nearby. We can also get your car while we’re out.”
I can’t help it; I flinch at the mention of CVS. The drugstore chain Alex visited just before disappearing. Could it even be the same store?
“That sounds great,” I say.
As I look into Sandra’s warm eyes, doubt begins to smother some of my questions. Sandra adopted an old rescue dog; she volunteers with the unhoused population. How could someone who has devoted her life to helping others be involved in anything criminal?
Plus there’s the puzzle piece that still doesn’t fit. Sandra would have no way of knowing Alex. How could their worlds have intersected?
“I just have one more client to finish up with,” Sandra says. “Give me a moment and we’ll go.”
I watch her head upstairs again, thinking, If she canceled everything today, why would she have one more client to finish up with?
Probably Sandra just meant she needed to send an email or reschedule.
Another point I shouldn’t discount: Sandra saved us from Sam’s house—she didn’t lure us here.
Betty was the one who asked to come to the house to rest. Plus, a couple of hours ago I thought the sisters might have been the ones following me.
Lots of people drive dark sedans; it doesn’t mean anything.
I drop my head into my hands, feeling like competing voices are vying for my attention.
Please don’t. I hear the echo of Betty’s plea.
She’s right; I’m doing it again. I force myself to let my thoughts unspool without censorship.
Something about the words Sandra just uttered—before my mind chattered over them—is tugging at me. I breathe in deeply and close my eyes, letting the echo of her voice float back to the forefront of my consciousness.
Sandra just said she has one more client to finish up with. An electric charge runs through my body; her words feel like they’re overlaying vital information.
Sandra is a therapist who specializes in loss. I read this on her website.
I suck in a breath as the realization slams into me: Alex, who experienced deep loss when her best friend died in high school, is seeing a therapist twice a week.
Could Alex be Sandra’s patient?
Betty is staring at me. “What’s wrong?” she asks.
“We’ve got to leave.”
Unlike me, Betty doesn’t stall with doubts and questions. I push her wheelchair against the couch and help her into it.
I push her to the front door and twist the handle and pull. Nothing happens. I look up to see a thick deadbolt. It’s disengaged, but the door still refuses to open. There must be another, invisible layer of security.
I fumble in my purse for my phone. I dial 911 but the call doesn’t connect. I push the green phone icon at the bottom of the screen again, my stomach clenching. The call won’t go through.
“You seemed different after your nap, like something spooked you.” Sandra’s voice comes from the top of the stairs. “So I tested you. You failed.”