Sawyer nodded. She could insist they take her car, but it was dirty and she needed gas.
“We’ll only have thirty minutes to interview him,” Lexi said. “I have a list of questions ready to go.”
Of course she did.
“We won’t be allowed cameras or recording devices, so be prepared to take notes.”
They both stood at the same time.
Sawyer realized the collaboration would never work unless she let Lexi do what Lexi did best—collect, verify, and analyze the information—while Sawyer concentrated on the Black Wigs, women she empathized with. There was no doubt in her mind that they had been wronged, their lives most likely left in tatters while the perpetrators walked free.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Valerie Purcell slipped on her leopard leggings and black tank top with the crisscross straps and then went and stood before the full-length mirror. She turned to her right and then her left. Not bad for a seventy-four-year-old broad with silver hair and hardly any muscle tone. At least, not yet.
Two weeks ago, she’d decided to make Henry’s old office into a workout room. Her daughter had helped her go through his things, but the built-in bookshelf was still lined with books and knickknacks and silly awards that had made him feel as if he were someone when, in fact, he’d been no one.
Two months had passed since her husband suffered a major heart attack and died on the spot. Henry’s death replayed in her head a couple of times a week. When would that stop? Hopefully sooner rather than later, she thought as she picked up the five-pound dumbbells.
Henry had been seventy-five when he died. A year older than Valerie was now. He’d been a personal injury lawyer, also known as an ambulance chaser, which was something he actually did all the time.
Before she knew of his betrayal, she had tried to get him to retire. Mostly because she’d wanted to travel before they got too old, but Henry wouldn’t think of it. He’d said he would rather die than sit home all day with nothing to do. And that’s exactly what had happened. They’d been in the kitchen when it happened. As he worked on cutting the foil below the lower lip of a bottle of Cabernet from Napa Valley, a serious expression had crossed his face before he told her he had something very important he needed to discuss with her.
Her heart had begun to race. Was he finally going to retire? Where would they travel to first? Italy? France? New Zealand? So many options. It would be difficult to choose when the time came to book their flights. She’d been badgering him about taking her somewhere for so long she’d started to think it might never happen.
He began to rotate the corkscrew. A sheen of sweat had made his forehead shiny, as if the task at hand was too much for him. And then he’d said, “I want—”
“What do you want, dear?” she’d asked him, waiting for him to finish his sentence.
He grabbed a tissue from the counter and dabbed it over his face. “It’s hot in here.”
“It’s fine,” she told him. “What do you want?”
He picked up the corkscrew and made a half turn and then another. “I want a divorce.”
“What? Why?”
“I’ve fallen in love with someone else.” He usually gave the corkscrew six half turns, but he’d managed only four before his hands dropped to his sides and he fell backward, his head bouncing off the marble countertop on his way down.
She ran to his side and felt for a pulse. He was hanging on but barely, his clawlike hand clutching at his chest. She thought about calling for help, but she couldn’t shake loose his declaration of love for another woman. Who was it? she wanted to ask, but didn’t.
“Help,” he squeaked. Tiny bubbles of spit formed at both sides of his mouth.
“You just professed your love for another, and you want me to help you?”
No answer. His face was extremely pale now, his lips a grayish blue.
She took a couple of breaths to calm down and hopefully put to rest the urge to give him a good kick or two.
She would call for help. Eventually. But first she finished opening the bottle of wine, poured herself a glass, and took a sip. Nice. Henry was missing out. She then walked to the family room, picked up the remote, and flipped through the channels. By the time she returned to the kitchen, he had passed on.
The sound of a timer going off downstairs brought her back to the present. Dumbbells in hand, she stood still for another second or two, listening. The sound was familiar. It was the timer on her oven. But she hadn’t put anything in the oven. In fact, she rarely cooked anymore. She left the workout room and went to the hallway, where the beeping grew louder.
A crash followed.
At the top of the stairs, she leaned over the banister. “Who’s there?”
Silence followed.
Hurrying down the steps, wondering whether the neighbor’s cat had somehow gotten inside the house, she tripped suddenly and flew headfirst down the stairs. She hit the landing hard, and tasted blood.
Seconds passed before she attempted and failed to move her arms and legs. Her neck was crooked in such a way that she could see her left leg. There was blood everywhere. A broken, twisted bone protruded from her calf. “Help,” she said when she heard movement and then quiet footfalls.
She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, someone was standing over her and leaning low. Black hair and red lipstick. Cleopatra? It wasn’t Halloween, was it? “Who are you?”
“You might remember me as Cockroach.”
Cockroach? “From the Children’s Home in Sacramento?”
“That’s right.”
She struggled to swallow. “What are you doing in my house?”
“I’m making the rounds. Paying all my old friends a visit. I’ve already seen Nick Calderon.”
“But he’s dead.”
“Yes, he is. I’m pretty sure he went to hell, where he belongs.”
Valerie’s chest tightened as images of her husband lying on the kitchen floor took hold in her mind’s eye. He’d looked so pale, so old. It had all been for the best. But she was young and vibrant. She was going on a Caribbean cruise next month. She couldn’t die. Not now. Not yet. “When those bullies picked on you,” she said to Cockroach, her voice trembling, “I tried to stop them. I always wanted the best for you.”
“Is that why you made me mop the floor whenever I cried? Then kicked me in the ribs, over and over, if I missed a spot?”
Her heart was racing now. She tried to move her leg, hoping she might be able to crawl out the door and scream for help, but just that tiny movement sent a searing-hot pain through her middle. She let out a whimpering cry. “Imagine trying to take care of dozens of troubled children,” she tried again. “Kids need discipline. I had to do whatever was necessary to keep order.”
Cockroach stepped over her and walked up the stairs.
“What are you doing?”
“Just removing the rope I tied from one railing to the other in the hope that you would trip over it when you heard someone in your kitchen. It worked perfectly.”
Cockroach was back beside her, holding a syringe, examining it closely before reaching for her foot. She could feel the needle pinching the skin under her toenail. The pain was excruciating. “Let me go. Please stop.”