Page 23

My face is hot as I drive away from Constance’s house. Her corrosive taunts about Will’s happiness and our marriage eat at me like acid.

Constance doesn’t know the first thing about my marriage. Will never would have talked to her about us. But…God, what if he did? Would he have seriously said he was unhappy?

I’m rage-spiraling, calling her every name in the book as I monologue out loud about all the ways I should have put her in her place, all the things I would have said if I was thinking more clearly. The anger is so all-consuming that I almost miss the flicker of gray in my rearview mirror.

Mother. Fucker.

The gray sedan that I keep seeing pulls in behind me.

Am I seriously being followed?

To test the theory, I turn off the busy road onto a smaller side street that curls around a half-century-old park. Lakefront and secluded, it might not be the best place to confront a total stranger, but I’m not thinking too clearly.

The gray sedan takes the turn behind me. The posted speed limit on this road is twenty miles per hour—not exactly a high-speed chase. But when I hit my brakes, the gray sedan comes within inches of my back bumper.

I’m out of my car in an instant, rounding on the sedan and slamming my hands on the hood with a hollow thump, palms burning from the hot steel.

“Get out of the car!” My scream is guttural. Primal. The weight of the day, of Will and Constance and her shitty comments and my seemingly irreparably fucked-up life, has broken me.

And now I’m this car’s problem.

“Get out!” I repeat. “Who are you? Why are you following me?” I hit the hood of the car again.

The door opens and an older man emerges, clad in an ill-fitting short-sleeve button-down and front-pleated khakis.

He must be in his sixties—his pepper-gray hair losing ground to a sea of white, and the hands he’s raised above his head are trembling a little.

His timorousness might be endearing if I wasn’t blinded by rage.

“M-miss, I’m sorry if I startled you,” he stammers.

“Like hell! You keep driving past my house, at the police station, and now here you are. Who are you?”

He lowers his hands with an air of caution. “Well, my name is Perry Conroy.” His words come slow and a little winding, like a Sunday drive down a country road. “The thing is, my friend Dean was in a car accident—”

“Dean?” I say, shock nearly bowling me over. “You know Dean Morrison?” I take a step toward Perry, feeling like I’ve spotted water in a desert.

He knows things.

“Yes. He told me he was helping Will with a problem he was having. Then there was that terrible accident. Dean’s wife, her name is Ann, and her health isn’t the best. So I told her I’d come on up here and find out what happened.

I did stop in over at Mrs. Parker’s house, where Dean crashed, just to see if she had any information, but she wasn’t particularly helpful.

Mostly carried on about her broken fence, and the police seem to be operating under the assumption that he was either drunk or had a medical event.

But, you see, even though Dean was my age, he was in far better shape.

He walked two miles a day with his dog. Kept up with his doctors.

He’s been on the wagon for a while.” He pauses as if he’s trying to do math on all of this. “Something feels off.

“They should have a toxicology screen and all the things that come with accidents like that. At least, that’s what happens on Law & Order: SVU. ” I recall what Ardell said about the autopsy still being in progress.

Is Ardell giving Dean’s family the same patronizing runaround he gave me?

“I see your point.” I pause, biting my lip. Not wanting to be rude, but eager to pull the conversation back to Will, I say, “Perry, I’m still not following how Dean is connected to Will.”

“Dean was a private investigator for Will,” Perry explains.

“Will called, saying he needed Dean’s help.

Dean was confused. Why not use the folks that live up this way to do the digging?

Will was pretty cagey about it. Dean figured it must have been something Will didn’t want folks around here knowing much about.

Dean said there was something about Will’s voice that made him agree to come up here and do whatever Will needed. ”

“A…private investigator?”

“Yes. By way of retired police officer.”

Knowing that Will had someone up here looking for something that he couldn’t trust any of his usual PIs with made my stomach turn over.

My inner freak-out must be loud enough that Perry can hear the thoughts as they fly by. He reaches out to gently squeeze my arm. “Are you okay?”

“Sorry. I’m Nora Somerset,” I say, realizing I haven’t even introduced myself.

“I know.”

“Is that why you’ve been stalking me?”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to. But, you see, Will told Dean he didn’t want to use any of his usual private investigators. What I can’t make sense of is what Dean was investigating. And I’ve got a bad feeling that whatever it was, it might have gotten him killed.”

I knew Will used PIs from time to time for work, but I’ve never heard of a Dean.

I feel a pang of anxiety—or maybe even guilt.

Constance’s comments about our marriage falling apart taint my thoughts.

Hiring someone from outside his usual network would be a great way to keep the details of what Will was looking for out of the gossip mill.

“You said Dean had a soft spot for Will?” I shake my head, still confused. “How did they know each other?”

“We’ve always been really proud of Will back home.”

Back home?

Will seldom mentioned his hometown. A one-stop cattle town southwest of Central Florida that he left to attend college and never looked back. It had never occurred to me that he would keep in contact with people there. Both of his parents were dead.

“You know Will from Arcadia?”

“We go way back. Dean and I were good friends with Will’s dad.

His father…struggled. With a lot of things.

Mostly alcohol. And, well, every few months, Dean and I would try to drag him into a meeting or two and try to dry him out before he would fall off the wagon again.

We both felt bad for Will. It was no way to grow up.

Dean did all he could. When Roger passed, Will was in college.

Dean stepped up and helped Will with his law school applications and such. ”

“Will hadn’t told me much about his family. I guess now I know why.” My cheeks heat with embarrassment.

Maybe I am the interloper everyone keeps saying I am. How can I not know these things about the man I am married to?

“I don’t mean to pry, but do you have any idea what Dean could’ve been working on? Is there any chance he was…” He trails off.

“Was what?”

“Marriage is a complicated business. I should know. I’ve been married close to forty years.”

I understand the implication. “You think Dean was here looking at me?”

Did Constance put you up to this?

“It would explain why Will wanted to keep things confidential. I’m sorry to imply anything untoward. I just feel like nothing is adding up here.”

I wonder if this is why he’s been following me. Was he trying to make sure I wasn’t having an affair? To gauge whether I’m trustworthy?

“I love Will,” I say with all conviction. “He’s my person.”

“Right.” Perry nods. “Again, I don’t mean to suggest anything untoward.”

Silence settles between us, and I realize we’ve been standing out here for a while. Beads of sweat from the midday sun have gathered on Perry’s forehead.

“I wish I knew more about what Dean was up to. I really do.” I’m not ready for Perry to leave without getting his help, too. I think back to useless Austin at the Verizon store. “Do you know how Dean did any of the investigative things he did?”

“I’m not a PI, but I have some favors I can call in with Dean’s friends back home. There’re a lot of people who are torn up over his loss. What did you have in mind?”

I look at Perry, not sure that I should trust him. But at this point, I don’t have anyone else to turn to. And if Will was bringing people in from Arcadia because he trusted them, maybe I can follow his lead.

“Will got a phone call the night of the party,” I say. “I thought it was his daughter calling—that’s who he told me it was—but it turned out not to be. Maybe if we knew who called him, it could help us figure out why he left?”

Perry nods at me. “I can try to do a little digging around. But it might take a day or two.”

“Thanks. I just need to see if I can figure out who called him.”

And why.

Perry offers me a business card for refrigerator sales. “I’m not a salesperson anymore. Just an old retired guy, but that’s my number.”

As I finish texting him my number, another text comes in from Este.

2:17 p.m.

Where are you? Ardell is in your kitchen.

“I have to go.” I turn for my car, but then stop and turn back. “I’m sorry I slapped your car. It’s been—”

“Don’t give it another thought. I’ll call you if I find something.”

“I hope you do.” And then I remember that Perry is grieving the loss of his friend. “I’m sorry about Dean.”

Perry tips his head in appreciation.

“Please call me if you find anything.”

“I certainly will,” he says.

I watch Perry get back in his car and wind along the narrow road, then climb into my own car, shaking my head.

I’m putting my faith in the hands of some random guy who has been following me.

Will hired a private investigator in secret, and now the private investigator is dead, and Will is still missing.

What were you into, Will Somerset?

I thought I’d feel better once I tracked down more information on Dean Morrison. Somehow, I feel so much worse.