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Because I was too busy either throwing up, gasping, towel screaming, or splashing my face with water, I didn’t hear the car pull into the driveway.
Or its door opening and closing as the driver got out.
Or their footfalls as they approached the house.
The first time I’m aware of someone’s presence is when they knock on the door. Two raps so loud and startling they might as well be gunshots. I’m looking in the powder room mirror when I hear them, and my frozen expression is the very picture of deer-in-headlights panic. Lips parted. Eyes as big as quarters and shot through with surprise. My face, so pink and puffy a second earlier, drains of color.
Two more knocks snap me out of it. Fueled by a primal urge for self-preservation, I sprint from the powder room with the towel still in my hand, aware of what I need to do without giving it a moment’s thought. I fly up the stairs and into the bedroom, startling Len, who at last tries to speak.
He doesn’t get the chance.
I stuff the towel into his mouth and knot the ends behind his head.
Then it’s back down the stairs, pausing halfway to catch my breath. I take the rest of the steps slowly, feeling my heartbeat move from a frantic rattle to a steady thrum. In the foyer, I say, “Who is it?”
“Wilma Anson.”
My heart jumps—a single unruly spike—before settling again. I wipe the sweat from my brow, plaster on a smile big enough to reach a theater’s cheap seats, and open the door. I find Wilma on the other side, shaking off the rain that drenched her on the trip between car and porch.
“Detective,” I say brightly. “What brings you by in this weather?”
“I was in the neighborhood. Can I come in?”
“Sure.” I open the door wide and usher her into the foyer, where Wilma spends a second staring at me, her gaze cool and probing.
“Why are you so wet?” she says.
“I was just out checking on my boat,” I say, the lie appearing out of the blue. “Now I’m about to have some coffee.”
“At this hour?”
“Caffeine doesn’t bother me.”
“Lucky you,” Wilma says. “If I had a cup right now, I’d be up until dawn.”
Because she’s still appraising me, seeking out any sign that something’s amiss, I gesture for her to follow me deeper into the house. To do otherwise would only make her more suspicious. I guide her into the kitchen, where I pour coffee into a mug before carrying it to the dining room.
Wilma follows me there. As she takes a seat at the dining room table, I look for the gun holstered under her jacket. It’s there, telling me she’s here on official business.
“I’m going to assume this isn’t a friendly visit,” I say as I sit down across from her.
“A correct assumption,” Wilma says. “I think you know what this is about.”
I honestly don’t. So much that has happened in the past twenty-four hours could warrant a visit from the state police.
“If this is about my phone call earlier, I want you to know how sorry I am. I wasn’t thinking right when I accused Boone.”
“You weren’t,” Wilma says.
“And I don’t believe he has anything to do with what’s going on.”
“He doesn’t.”
“I’m glad we agree.”
“Sure,” Wilma says, making it clear she doesn’t give a damn if we agree or not. “Too bad I’m not here to discuss Boone Conrad.”
“Then why are you here?”