Page 62 of The Girl from Widow Hills
CHAPTER 18
Monday, 7:15 p.m.
IHAD TO CALL DETECTIVERigby. Sean’s son, Nathan, deserved to know.
They both deserved to know, for different reasons.
I knew what that phone call out of the blue had been like—that your parent was dead. The way information could hurt, just from the fact that it caught you off guard, like whiplash. I pulled out his card. I hadn’t looked at it closely the first time: Nathan Coleman, Security Systems.
He looked the part. I could see him assessing the doorframes and windows. Determining how best to protect a property. It occurred to me now that I might need this type of service going forward.
I took a deep breath. I’d call Detective Rigby first; then I’d tell Nathan directly.
This letter . . . this letter meant there was no keeping it a secret anymore. This letter meant Nathan would know exactly who I was and why his father had come.
Everyone would.
Rick’s truck turned the corner, heading from the direction of town. As he approached, I slid Nathan’s card back into my purse. Rick idled beside me, window down. “Everything okay, Liv?”
There was a heap of plastic grocery bags in the back of his truck.
“Just getting the mail,” I said, tucking the stack of envelopes under my arm. “I’ll be over in a sec to help you with that.”
“There’s no need . . .” he said before driving away, but that was what he always said. The two of us, we were alone out here, and we depended on each other. He, too, was going to find out the truth about who I was. Better from me than someone else. I knew from experience that no one liked to learn they’d been friends with a liar. I’d already witnessed Bennett’s reaction, felt the cooling, the distance; listened as he worked through his theories of what I might be capable of. And Rick had already seen me sleepwalking.
After taking my car up the drive, I dropped the pile of mail on the entryway table. Then I left through the back door behind the kitchen, heading for Rick’s. I avoided the crime scene that I’d shown Nathan yesterday, instead cutting through our backyards.
There was a small garden in Rick’s yard, mostly overgrown at this stage. I imagined vegetables and a flower bed, what might have existed before. At the edge of his yard was a shed, and the door was open. I heard movement inside as I walked by.
“Rick?” I called, peering in.
He was facing away, hunched over a wooden countertop. “Just putting away some tools. Had to fix something in the kitchen earlier,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. I waited just outside the doorway, watching him drop a screwdriver into a bin on a shelf. Everything smelled like sawdust and paint.
“The groceries in the truck?” I asked.
He waved his hand. “I already got them inside, Liv. But thanks for always checking in.” He turned back to his workbench.
“Sure thing,” I said.
The back door to his house was slightly ajar, the plastic bags visible on the kitchen table. I let myself in, deciding to wait for him here. I’d done this before, emptying his groceries. In the past, I’d even picked them up for him at the G&M.
He’d cleaned recently, everything shiny, the scent of dish soap lingering. Which explained the contents of his bags. In addition to the milk and cold cuts, bread and frozen meats—still waiting to be unloaded—there was a bag of fresh cleaning supplies: paper towels, a packet of sponges, rubbing alcohol, bleach.
I started stacking away his food in the fridge and freezer, an outlet for my nervous energy. I’d come to tell Rick about my past, to explain things in a way that wouldn’t make it seem like I’d been lying about who I’d been for the last few years. That he hadn’t made a mistake by selling that house to me, with or without the large cash payment.
The last bag contained the cleaning supplies, and I wasn’t sure where he stored them. I thought, like me, he might keep his supplies in the cabinet under the sink. I opened both cabinet doors at once, but there was nothing inside except a stack of rags, like from a ripped-up shirt. The scent inside was sharp and astringent.
This was where the cleaning supplies had been, I was guessing. I pushed the rags aside to make room for his new containers—and a shock of blue caught my eye.
There were moments I could see coming.
Moments, like my mother claimed in her book, that felt instinctive. Otherworldly.
Heard it was a box cutter, Elyse had told me.
And here it was, under Rick’s sink. That box cutter I’d last used on Wednesday to open my mother’s box. That box cutter that was usually in my kitchen drawer.
Of course it would be here. I’d been searching and couldn’t find it anywhere.
