I need to do two things, fast: confirm Skylar did this to Lana, and find a way to make sure she never comes near my stepdaughter again.
I consider a few options before I find the right one. The genesis for my idea is right there on my phone screen, in a message Derrick texted shortly before I left the house: Hey babe, u free tonight? Job just cancelled.
* * *
Derrick and I pull up outside Skylar’s house in a suburban Silver Spring neighborhood shortly after 7:00 P.M. The modest, single-story brick structure is on a dead-end street filled with nearly identical houses. While the other homes have nice details—a rope swing hanging from a tree in one front yard, and pretty landscaping in another—Skylar’s place looks a little tired and worn since I was here last fall. The grass in her front yard is patchy, and it’s the only house on the block with a garbage can languishing at the curb.
Cameron used to tend to the lawn and lug the garbage bins up and down the driveway on trash day, along with everything else he did, such as the grocery shopping and cooking. Now that Skylar is living alone, it’s on her to keep up with the household chores.
“Thanks again for doing this,” I say as Derrick opens the driver’s-side door of his van, the one with the name of his security company emblazoned on both sides. I slide into the back so I can peek out the tinted window.
Derrick climbs Skylar’s stairs and rings the bell. He’s in his work uniform—crisp dark slacks, a button-down shirt, and a jacket with his first name and his company’s logo embroidered beneath his left shoulder. Skylar opens her door and peers out at Derrick. I wonder if she’s having the same reaction I did when Derrick showed up on my doorstep, looking more like a Nike model than a tech guy.
I can’t hear them talking, but I know what Derrick is saying. We crafted his lines together. He’s reassuring Skylar that this isn’t a sales call, and confiding that his company sent him to see her because she might have information about a crime. With his husky voice and warm eyes, I have no doubt that Skylar will be seduced into believing Derrick.
Skylar steps out of her house, joining Derrick on the stoop. He gestures toward the truck, and she glances at it, nodding.
Derrick keeps talking, telling her that his company would prefer this conversation to be confidential, and I see her smile. He has that effect on people. She tosses her hair back and leans in closer to him, and I can’t help thinking about a fish being reeled in.
I can tell the moment he delivers the punch line: We have you on video letting the air out of the tires of a silver Honda in the parking lot near the Uptown Theater.
Skylar’s hand flies to cover her mouth.
Gotcha, I think.
She shakes her head, trying to deny his words, but Derrick keeps talking, telling her it’s a misdemeanor and that the car’s owner is considering whether to forward the video to the police as well as suing for towing and court costs. Derrick knows what to do next. He drills in, informing her that the vehicle’s owner can and will legally disseminate copies of the recording to Skylar’s neighbors, her boss, and everyone she is connected to on social media if Skylar ever goes near the car or its owner again.
I see Skylar’s body crumple into itself, like a balloon deflating.
A different video marked the beginning of my trouble with Skylar. Now this nonexistent one will end it.
Derrick walks away as Skylar stares after him. For a brief moment, I actually feel sorry for this lonely, miserable woman.
* * *
Later that night, I lie in bed next to Derrick. His muscular arm is draped over my bare stomach, his breath as warm and rhythmic against my neck as his body had been moments before.
“Mmm, that was incredible,” I say. “I told you I’d make the visit worth your while.”
His fingertips stop tracing circles across my still-sweaty skin, and I wonder if he’s drifting off to sleep.
I prop myself up on an elbow and catch a glimpse of the digital clock on his nightstand. Almost midnight; time to get going.
I climb out of his bed and reach for my lacy bra.
“You know, before tonight I didn’t even know you had a stepdaughter.”
“Oh,” I reply, thinking, And she’s about the same age as you.
Derrick has only been to my place twice—during our initial meeting, when he installed motion detectors and glass-break sensors and a couple of panic buttons, and a few days later, when I called the number on the business card he’d given me and invited him over for a drink. A photo of Lana is on my mantel, but Derrick probably didn’t notice it.
“Look, Avery … I’m glad I could help you out tonight.”
I pause, balancing on one leg, my other foot sliding into one of my high heels. “But?”
“It’s just—sometimes I feel like all we have is this.…” He lifts his hand and gestures above the bed.
“But isn’t this pretty good?” I give a little laugh, then grab his fingers and kiss them.
“It’s been a few months. And I like you. I know we both said it was okay to see other people. But … maybe we shouldn’t.”
“C’mon, you’re ten years younger than I am.” At twenty-six, he’s actually fifteen years my junior. “You can’t really think—” I stop myself when I see the hurt on Derrick’s face. The air between us feels heavy and tight, something I’ve never experienced before.
“Let’s talk about this more tomorrow. I really have to go. My poor dog has never been left alone this long.”
“Okay.” Derrick gets up to walk me to the door, naked. I love his sense of chivalry, and his uninhibitedness.
I’m just not in love with him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
MARISSA
MARISSA AWAKENS INTO DARKNESS so thick and heavy it’s like black velvet. Her body and mind feel sluggish, the result of the two glasses of wine plus the Xanax she took last night.
She rubs her gritty eyes, then reaches over to Matthew’s side of the bed. But instead of touching his warm body, she feels the covers tightly pulled up against the mattress.
Did her husband not come home last night?
Pulling herself upright, she blindly fumbles for her phone on the nightstand, nearly knocking her glass of water onto the floor.
Eight thirty-two A.M.
She blinks hard, certain her eyes are playing tricks on her and that the eight is really a six. But the slim white numbers don’t change.
In a panic, Marissa leaps out of bed, calling, “Bennett! We’re late for school!”
She races down the hall and flicks the switch by the door of his room, cringing as the bright overhead light sears her eyes. Sam, Bennett’s gecko, scampers across his cage, making a rustling sound.
“Bennett, come on! I overslept, so—”
She hurries closer to his bed, then realizes the lump beneath the rumpled covers is Mr. Rainbow, his stuffed bear.
Her heart stutters.
Her son is gone.
She spins around in a circle, yanking at doorknobs, praying he is in his bathroom, or getting clothes out of his closet. But those spaces are empty, too.
She calls her son’s name again as she hurries downstairs, her bare feet padding soundlessly against the thick carpet.