Crap. I explore the bump with my hand. I’ll just check the closet, then get the hell out.
Inside Ava’s walk-in closet, I systematically search through expensive suits, flannel pajamas, and oversized sweaters—even inside soft leather boots. When I pull out a scrap of paper, I hang on to it. The loose change, lint, and candy wrappers go back where I found them. There’s a rhythm to the work, and I’m completely engrossed when suddenly I hear the front door open.
Fear surges in my stomach, sending chilled tendrils throughout my body. A housekeeper? I can bluff my way past a housekeeper. But that’s a wild hope. Odds are it’s Glenn. I can already see the contempt in his eyes, hear the words he won’t need to say—psycho, criminal, loser. My breath catches in my throat.
There’s no way I can leave the master bedroom without being seen. I’m not even sure I shut the door between the bedroom and the hallway.
Only bad choices remain: stay hidden in the closet, hope I have enough privacy to climb out a bedroom window, or take a deep breath and charge straight out the front door.
Every muscle is tensed with the desire to go, go, go. I know the smart play is to stay put. Sooner or later whoever has come into the house, even if it’s Glenn, will leave, or go upstairs, or fall asleep. But I suck at waiting. The tension and suspense are so much worse than anything else that could happen. I know this is my biggest weakness. I always lose my temper, or cut and run, or make the drastic choice instead of playing it cool. And this closet is full of Ava, reminding me, smothering me.
The person has gone into the kitchen. I can hear sounds, too faint to identify. If I come out of the bedroom, I’ll be in the hallway, not really visible from the kitchen. Just wait. Be smart. But even as I think the words, I am ignoring my own good advice. On one side of the closet is a hooded sweat shirt. If I make a break for it, maybe they won’t be able to tell it’s me. I pull it on over my shoulder bag and everything else. As it goes over my head, I feel safely invisible. I really, really want to run. I stand up, tensed and ready.
I won’t run. Not yet.
I sit back down and shove my hands into the sweat shirt’s pouch pocket. Then I feel something crumple under my fingers and pull it out.
A torn piece of notebook paper. And on it, my address. My own address in Texas where I live with Andrew and Emma. My address, right there as though I had brought it with me. Those familiar words, the house number I’ve practiced with Emma, but written in Ava’s distinctive handwriting.
My neck tingles like she’s standing right behind me.
This scrap of paper is proof that someone looked for me. Proof that someone found me.
Ava.
And then the bedroom door opens.
I freeze.
My nerves are screaming with every sound from the other room. A drawer opening, the swish of a curtain. Carefully I scoot deeper into the closet, and the sound stops. I stare blindly at the closet door.
Then, a miracle. A creak from the bedroom, footsteps in the hallway. I crawl cautiously toward the closet door, but my heart won’t stop pounding. With the tips of my fingers, I push, and the door swings open enough for me to see through the bedroom door and into the hallway.
For once, I should be smart.
Instead, I run for the front door.
CHAPTER
17
ZOE
SIX FEET. THAT’S how far I make it down the hallway before someone swings over the banister and grabs me by the shoulders hard.
I am so focused on the front door that my feet try to keep running. Then I see who’s holding me.
Glenn.
Trapped. My mind freezes on that thought, and my animal instincts take over. I’m flailing, hitting and kicking, trying to break free. My elbow knocks something out of Glenn’s hand that clatters on the floor. Swearing, he seizes my wrists, holding me at arm’s length.
“Just stop,” he shouts. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Nothing. I was looking for Ava.” I try to twist away, but my wrists are pinioned. I hate him right now. I’m panting and I hate him.
“What are you doing in my house?”
“Looking for Ava.” I spit the words out this time.
He shakes me. “You know she’s not here!”
“Bullshit. You probably killed her.”
A strange look crosses his face, and he studies me. “You really don’t know where she is?”
“Of course not. I just want to find her and go back to my family.” I can’t tell what he’s thinking, but at least he’s not shouting.
“Don’t freak out again. Just stand there.” He looks at the floor, and I see that the thing I knocked out of his hand was a cell phone.
Panic floods me. The police. Breaking and entering. Person of interest. I try to yank myself free. “Let go!”
“Shit. Zoe! Zoe!” He shouts my name like he’s trying to get me to grab a lifeline, and I stop struggling, shocked at how much I want to trust him.
“I’m not going to call the police. Calm the fuck down.” He keeps hold of one of my wrists and leans down to grab his phone. “How’d you get in here, anyway? The front door was still locked when I got home.”
Is this a trick? “Study window.”
“Which study?”
“Ava’s.”
“That’s the second story.”
“I used a bench to get to the porch.”
“Christ.” He sounds exasperated, but not angry. “Look, you can’t stay here. I’ll drive you home.”
So, we walk out together. In the driveway there’s a black Lexus sedan, elegantly practical. Glenn opens the passenger door.
“Get in the car.”
Some instinct makes me freeze.
His jaw tenses. “Get in the damn car, Zoe.”
I don’t have to go with him. But I have a phone, so I can call for help if I need to. And he seems to believe I didn’t hurt Ava. I don’t believe he did either. Mostly.
So I get in and pull the door shut.
He slides into the driver’s seat, hits the accelerator, and we pull away.
Sitting next to Glenn, I study his profile. He used to wear his hair longer, but the bridge of his nose, the angle of his jaw are still the same. Physically he’s more similar to Andrew than I realized. And Glenn’s take-charge attitude is a more volatile version of Andrew’s cool focus on logistics.
A warning chimes deep within me as the memories unfurl. Glenn and me in the sheets of his futon bed while sun streamed through the curtainless window. I remember sitting on the dock of the boathouse with a book, waiting while Glenn sculled. Then the deepest memory, Glenn’s closed door, his empty apartment.
I can tell he’s driving me straight back to my parents’ house and I shouldn’t waste any more time, but I can’t help myself. “Why didn’t you even tell me you were leaving?”
He knows what I’m talking about. Three years ago I read the dedication in Ava’s latest book, I told Glenn about it, and the next day he took off. Now he’s staring straight ahead, like he can leave this confrontation in the dust. “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t say it like he means it. He says it to shut the conversation down. There’s a sour taste in my mouth, but I’m not the kind of angry that picks a fight, not right now. My heart isn’t broken, it’s just bruised. And I don’t care what he thinks of me, so I ask, “You know I didn’t do anything to Ava. What do you think happened?”