Page 48

Rowan

“You said the door was open,” Detective Riley says. “How far open? How many inches?”

My daughter tries again to describe what she saw, while I rub my tired eyes.

We’re standing in the front yard. I’d made it home in under ten minutes, and the first police cruiser pulled up at the same time.

“Ma’am, can we take a look around inside?” a uniformed officer asked.

I waved him inside and it’s now dawning on me that I’ve given the cops carte blanche to search my house.

But at this point, I don’t care. I want this fucker caught. I can’t believe someone broke into my home in broad daylight. It’s terrifying.

“And you’re sure you locked the door when you left?” Riley asks a nervous-looking Natalie.

“I’m ninety percent sure,” she says, her gaze everywhere but on me. “I mean, I don’t think I’d leave it open. We’ve been locking up really tight, and I knew I was the only one home.”

“Okay. And your mom was at work. Anyone else in the home? Maybe Harrison came by while you were gone, and then left the door open?” Riley poises her pen above her notebook.

“No. He couldn’t have. I was at Docksiders applying for a job. And he was in the kitchen while I met with Mr. Baxter.”

“You got a job at Docksiders?” I demand. “You’re too young to work there. It’s a bar .”

“It’s a fish restaurant,” she fires back. “And you told me to get a job!”

How I hate this idea. But I’m not going to argue about it in front of the detective. “So you saw Harrison,” I prompt.

“Yeah, he was back in the kitchen the whole time,” she says. “Besides— even if he had the wallet, which he didn’t, why would he leave it on our coffee table? That doesn’t make any sense.”

She isn’t wrong. But, as usual, Detective Riley doesn’t share her thoughts on the matter. “What time did you leave, and what time did you get home?”

“Not sure exactly when I left,” Natalie says with a shrug. “I couldn’t have been gone more than an hour and a half. And I got home about three minutes before I called Mom. That was at”—Natalie whips out her phone and checks it—“twelve twenty.”

“Tell me again what you did when you got home,” Riley says.

For the third time, Natalie describes her journey from the garage to the kitchen in excruciating detail.

“And how did the dog act when you called her?” Riley asks.

Natalie purses her lips. “Normal,” she says after a second. “She was happy to see me.”

“I’ve always said she makes a terrible guard dog,” I grumble.

Riley turns to me. “And where were you when you took your daughter’s call?”

“At my desk in the mansion.”

“Anyone see you leave?” she asks.

Oh, for fuck’s sake . “I doubt it.” Beatrice is off-site at a museum to meet their programming director. And I didn’t chat with the art-restoration team. “Can’t you check video footage from across the street?” I point at the house with the doorbell camera—the one that filmed Harrison knocking on our door. “Won’t it show you who was here?”

“Of course, we’ll try that,” she says. “But I still have to ask about everyone’s movements.”

“Sure you do. Someone is terrorizing my family, and you think maybe it’s me.”

She doesn’t even react. “I’ll need to get fingerprints from Natalie so we can exclude her prints on the wallet.”

“Is that okay with you, Natalie?” I ask tiredly.

“Sure,” she says with a shrug. “But if this person is really trying to scare us, he probably isn’t dumb enough to leave his fingerprints on the wallet.”

“We’ll just have to be sure,” Riley says. “Let me get my scanner.”

She trots off, and I pull my ringing phone out of my shoulder bag. It’s Beatrice.

“Where are you?” she asks. “It’s time for the budget meeting. Hank is at the mansion alone.”

“Oh shit.” My heart sinks. I’d forgotten all about the meeting. “Can you tell him that someone broke into my house? Natalie called me in a panic. I’m here with the police.”

“Oh God. I’m so sorry. I’ll call him back right now.”

“Thank you.”

“Keep me posted!”

We hang up, and I check my texts. There are three from Hank. All politely checking to see if he got the time right.

God, could the timing be any worse? I took the high road, and now he thinks I’m blowing him off.

Then again, there’s no good time to be stalked at home by a killer.

The older detective, Fry, emerges from my house, the wallet in a baggie dangling from his hand. “Can I speak to you a moment?” he asks.

“Of course.” I take this to mean that he doesn’t want Natalie to hear, so I move a few paces away.

“There’s no one inside except for a very friendly cat,” he says. “That was our first concern.”

“Thank you,” I say numbly.

“Aside from the wallet, we didn’t spot anything else that seems out of place,” he says. “But of course, you’ll know better than me.”

“Okay. I’ll be sure to look.” I won’t be able to stop looking. The idea that someone was in our home makes my skin crawl.

He holds up the baggie. “So what’s your take? What was the point of leaving this in your home?”

“To scare me. Or incriminate me. And I’m scared, so I guess it worked.”

His nod reveals nothing. “Any thoughts on who’d want to do that?”

“Somebody who heard about my trip to Laura Peebles’s house with Detective Riley. Someone who saw me go into her house. Someone who needs to confuse you guys about this case...”

“Hmm,” he says. “No signs of forced entry, though. Unless the door was left open, someone had a key to your home. Or maybe you or Harrison wanted to make it appear like the killer is terrorizing you.”

I close my eyes for a brief second, needing a break from looking at his face. Then I open them again and stare him right in the eyes. “I don’t know if you have children. But terrifying them with a dead man’s possessions isn’t great parenting. No sane person would do that.”

“Ms. Gallagher,” he says, “you already lied to us about why you went to the mansion the night Tim died. I have to consider the idea that you or Harrison are lying to me now.”

A bright burst of panic washes over me.

“So,” he says, “if you’re suggesting that you always do the calm and rational thing, pardon me if I don’t quite buy it. You keep telling us that you don’t know a thing about Tim’s death. But every new development in this case brings us back to your door.”

I’m so upset that it’s difficult to speak. “I did not shoot anyone. And I don’t know who did. I’m just an easy target.” Because I made myself a goddamn easy target .

“A target for who, though?”

“One of the Wincotts. They’d be at the top of my list.” I bet Hank gets updates from the police department. Maybe he even knows I’ve spoken to Laura Peebles. “Or what about Tim’s ex-wife? She knows where I live.”

“We’re in touch with all those people,” he says slowly. “We’re very thorough, and we’re moving as fast as we can.”

“Not fast enough,” I snarl. “Not when you’re still standing here suggesting I’d terrorize my own family just to get a little more of your super-fun attention.”

His expression hardens. “I see. Take care of yourself, Ms. Gallagher. And make sure you lock your doors.”

He walks off, and I’m shaking too hard to do anything but try to breathe.

Riley and my daughter join me a moment later. “We’re all set,” Riley says. “If you see anything at all that doesn’t seem right, will you take a picture of it and call me?”

“Yes,” I say automatically. But the truth is I’d think twice before calling the police. I’m so tired of being treated like a suspect. Or a crazy person.

“I’ll ask patrol to make frequent trips down your block. And I’ll look for any neighborhood footage showing someone approaching your house. But if they came through the backyard, it might be tricky. Your back fence is easy to jump.”

“Yeah. Okay.” There’s a door into our garage from the rear yard, too.

“Hang in there, Rowan.” She squeezes my upper arm.

“You’re looking into the Peebles thing, right?” I ask before she can walk away.

“What Peebles thing?” my daughter pipes up. “Wait—did you talk to her?”

Crap. “Yes. She told us a sad story and insisted on privacy.”

Natalie’s eyes widen. “But did she know what happened to Tim?”

I shake my head.

“Will you give us a minute?” Riley asks my daughter.

Natalie makes a grumpy face. “We’re going back inside,” she says, meaning her and the dog.

“If you see anything weird...” I start to say.

“Yeah, I know. Don’t touch it.”

Riley waits until she walks away. “I’m working on the adoption history,” Riley says. “But older documents take time and another court order.”

“By all means, take your time,” I snip. “Meanwhile, is it even safe for us to stay in this house?”

“Probably. We’ll step up our surveillance. But leaving the wallet on the table is a cowardly display,” Riley says. “It’s what you do when you don’t want a confrontation.”

“Right. I just hope he doesn’t change his mind about that.”