Page 4

C HAPTER 4

I planned to leave early Sunday morning to make it to the city and back before nightfall. Libby’s unease about the new neighbor increased exponentially after dark, as if Anthony Pierce wasn’t capable of doing anything untoward in the daylight. I bit back the urge to remind her the body-in-the-closet incident had occurred midmorning, because I also felt a prickle at the back of my neck at the thought of what had happened in the dark last night.

As I filled my to-go coffee mug in the kitchen, I noted the old green Cadillac parked in the driveway next door. It had been there all night, sitting like a docked barge every time I’d looked out the bedroom window. I’d woken three times: One was from a strange dream about a woman missing in the woods; again because Ada had decided that 2:00 a.m. was a good time for a cry; and a third time for no reason I could gather other than that a sound outside must have startled me. I saw nothing, however, other than the Cadillac when I looked.

I finished filling my mug with an extra splash of caffeine to compensate for my disrupted sleep and snapped the lid, ready to head for the door. Libby was upstairs with the kids still, shoving tiny feet into socks and policing teeth brushing.

When I opened the front door, I gasped in surprise at the sight of someone standing there poised to knock.

Anthony Pierce, looking fresh and damp and flushed in the face, as if he’d just finished showering after a jog. His spicy, heady scent welcomed itself in the door, like it had come over for a visit.

“What are you doing here?” My voice snapped harder than I meant. I wondered if I was subconsciously annoyed with him for being so attractive and simultaneously unsettling. I wanted to run away from him the exact same amount that I wanted to stay and talk to him.

He held up his hands like he sensed my discomfort. “I just want to talk to you.”

I glanced over my shoulder at the stairs. No sign of Libby or the kids, but they could descend at any second, and Libby would lose her shit if she saw me talking to him. I turned back around to tell him it wasn’t a good time and froze with my mouth open.

A news van had pulled to the curb in front of the house. ACTION8 was splashed on the side in vibrant blue-and-gold lettering. A young, eager-looking man climbed out of the passenger seat wearing a blazer and button-down. His tie flapped in the motion, and he held a notepad in his hand.

“Nope,” I said plainly. In a move identical to last night, aside from the reversed roles, I grabbed Anthony’s arm and yanked him inside. My fingers hardly closed around his thick wrist, and tugging on him was like trying to move a boulder, but the urgency of my grip and the sharpest yank I could muster got the job done.

He stumbled across the threshold like I had done last night and landed in my sister’s pristine entryway like a black UFO crash-landed on a white planet.

I shoved the door shut and threw the dead bolt. I turned around and pressed my back into it and found Anthony blinking at me in surprise.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Shhh!” I hissed, mostly to keep Libby from hearing him, but also because I felt the need to hide from the reporter on the other side of the door. “They can’t see us together!”

“Why not?” he whispered. He looked confused and slightly amused by the situation.

I flapped my hand in exasperation. I somehow had managed not to spill my coffee in my other hand. “Because! They think we’re a couple, and you’re a . . . criminal, and I’m just trying to make tenure!” I barked at him in a harsh whisper.

He notably ignored the criminal comment. “You’re a professor?”

“Yes.”

“Of what?”

“Computer sciences. Why is that relevant?”

He shrugged. “I was curious about what kind of doctor when you introduced yourself to my lawyer yesterday.”

I threw a glance at the staircase again right as the doorbell rang. The sound jolted me like a cattle prod. “Well, now you know. You need to leave. My sister will murder both of us if she catches you in here. Go out the back door.”

“Okay. I’ll go. I just came over here to ask you something.”

“Ask it.”

I was grinding my teeth into dust, and praying the reporter would go away, when Libby called down the stairs. “Penny? Are you still here? Who’s at the door?”

My heart trilled in my throat. I was a rabbit in a trap in multiple ways. No matter which way I turned, I faced trouble: the wrath of my sister, the criminal next door, or a reporter who wanted details on all of it.

Anthony watched me in anticipation. All I had to do was scream and all hell would break loose. Libby had told me to stay away from him, and here he was inside her house because of me.

I knocked my head back against the door, wishing I could rewind and make it all go away.

“Pen?” Libby called again.

“It’s . . . a reporter,” I managed to call. My voice sounded strangled.

“A reporter? Why would—Max! Don’t do that.”

I sent silent thanks to my nephew for distracting her. Then I snapped my fingers at Anthony and pointed toward the kitchen. “Out the back door. Go!”

He held up his hands in surrender and started that way. I followed right on his heels and, with a rush of relief, noted the absence of a gun sticking from his waistband. He stopped when we made it to the dining room and turned to me. “Did you happen to find anything in my house yesterday?”

I flinched at his abrupt movement and the reminder he’d said he had come over to ask me something. “What, you mean other than a dead body?”

His face flattened into a frown. “Yes, other than that. I saw your nephew running around, and he’s . . . well, he’s a little grabby, what with the closet incident and all, so I’m wondering if he picked it up. It’s a small key, and I really need it back.” The vulnerable desperation in his voice put an odd pang in my chest at the same time I realized I was right about Max swiping the key at the estate sale.

I thought back to the safe and the crowbar I’d seen in his office last night. “What does it open?”

He eyed me like he knew I already knew the answer. “Something important.”

The sound of hurried but light footsteps overhead reminded me we were on borrowed time, but I realized I had a serious bargaining chip.

“Suppose I do have it. I might be willing to negotiate its exchange.” I did my best to sound confident. When his eyes darted to my tote and then my pockets, like he might try to search me for the key, it took all my strength not to flinch.

He was looking in the wrong place anyway. I’d stashed the key upstairs under my bedside lamp.

He stepped closer and I got dizzy off his scent. He radiated heat and an unnerving but enticing energy. His voice came out a low growl that nearly liquified me on the spot. “In return for what?”

The doorbell rang again, as if on cue. I sucked in another sharp breath like I’d been electrocuted. “First and foremost, for clearing up this ridiculous misunderstanding that I’m your girlfriend and any way involved in this.”

He bobbed his head in agreement. “And what else?”

I tightened my grip on my tote and summoned the courage to demand something I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to possess. “And you have to tell me what all this has to do with Portia Slate.”

Clearly, he was not expecting this. All his brooding swagger drained from him; it was as if I’d pulled the plug on a bathtub. His mouth fell open in shock. His eyes went desperately wide. “What do you know about Portia?”

“I—”

I couldn’t get another word out before Max’s tiny voice came singing down the stairs. “Aunt Penny! There’s someone at the door!”

My lungs seized in panic. I shoved Anthony toward the French doors. “You have to leave. Now. ”

He stumbled a few steps and turned to me as he walked backward. “Penny, I need that key.”

In that moment, the threat of getting caught talking to him was greater than whatever handing over the key might lead to. I just needed him gone.

“Okay! I’ll bring it to you tonight. I’m on my way out of town right now. Now go. The gate leads to your yard.” I pointed and nervously looked over my shoulder.

“Thank you.” He reached for the nearest handle in the line of doors and slipped outside.

I turned right in time to see Max appear from the kitchen, dressed for the day in his favorite T-shirt covered in cartoon bugs. “Who were you talking to, Aunt Penny?” he asked with an innocent tilt of his head. His curls were still mashed on one side from sleep.

I marched across the room and ruffled his hair to fluff it into shape. “No one, bud. I’ve got to get going.”

I headed for the front door, finally ready to leave. I was sure the reporter would have given up after two rings and no answer, but he was still standing on the porch.

“Penny Collins?” he asked when I opened the door.

I cringed at the realization they knew my name, but naturally they did. How else would they have known to show up at the house? And on that note, I preemptively braced myself to be prepared for more reporters waiting at my apartment in the city.

I saw another car had pulled up on the street in the time since I’d been talking to Anthony. A man in a tweed jacket leaned against the passenger door staring at the house like he was waiting to see how the first reporter fared before giving it a go himself.

Feeling trapped and wanting to get to my car, I stepped outside and closed the front door behind me. “Yes?” I reluctantly said to the first reporter on the porch.

“I’m wondering if I can ask you a few questions about your relationship with Anthony Pierce and yesterday’s incident.”

I gave him nothing but a flat stare. “I don’t have a relationship with Anthony Pierce, and I have no comment on yesterday’s incident. If you have questions, I suggest you go talk to him.” I pointed at the old Victorian. I stepped around the reporter and headed for my car in the driveway.

The other man parked at the curb watched me without comment. Something about his gaze put an unsettling stir in my gut. I couldn’t identify it other than as being uncomfortable, and I found myself thankful when I heard Anthony’s voice call out from his porch.

“Hey, I’m the one you want to talk to,” he said, and both men looked over at him.

I silently thanked him for the diversion as I climbed in my car with a sense of hopeful relief he was going to hold up his end of the deal and make this go away.

By the time I drove all the way up to campus, packed up my office, went home and filled two suitcases with clothes, filled a tote bag with books, boxed up my potted plants, crammed it all into my compact EV, and battled south-bound traffic all the way back down the peninsula, night had fallen.

Libby was already cleaning up dinner when I came through the front door.

“There you are,” she said over a sip of wine. “I was starting to worry.”

“Sorry. Traffic was brutal.” I hoisted one of my book bags up onto the island.

She poured me a glass of wine. “I made you a plate if you’re hungry. I’m going to head up for bath time.”

I took a sip of the luscious red wine and let the flavor flood my mouth. “I’m starving, thank you. I’ll be unpacking for the rest of the night, so I’ll be out of your way.”

I internally cringed at lying to her, but she would lock me up and throw away the key if I told her I was going over to see Anthony. I still had to figure out how I was going to sneak out, and was banking on her being distracted with the kids all night.

“You know where to find me,” she said with a wave and headed toward the stairs.

I was, in fact, starving, so I rummaged in the fridge for the leftovers and found a container of pasta with a meaty sauce. Among her many skills, my sister’s cooking ranked at the top. I stood over the sink and forked a few mouthfuls, washing it down with wine, and nearly choked when I looked up to see Anthony staring at me from his living-room window.

He waved, at first like he was saying hi, and then in a motion that said come here.

He’d been waiting for me to get home, clearly. And watching.

A tingle shot up my spine at both facts. I set the pasta down, but kept the wine. I took another gulp to quell my fear over willingly returning to his house. For all intents and purposes, it was not a good idea, especially going over there without telling Libby where I was.

I could simply hurl the key over the fence and never talk to him again, but, especially after my emails with Dr. Benson, I wanted confirmation he’d told all the relevant parties I was not tied to him in any way. And I also desperately wanted to know what had happened to Portia Slate.

The latter perhaps went most against my better judgment. The true danger lay down that road, I was certain. The look on Anthony’s face this morning when I’d mentioned Portia’s name, coupled with her dead bodyguard, said I should leave it all alone. But my curiosity went beyond simply that. I was concerned. I may have only met her for a fleeting moment, but too many women disappeared at the hands of powerful men.

If I had to be wrapped up in this mess, I was at least going to find out what happened to her.

I waved back at Anthony. I held up one finger to tell him he’d have to wait a little longer, and then pointed toward his back door. There was no way I could walk out my sister’s front door and into his if I was hoping not to get caught, even if Libby was the one encouraging me to be more adventurous.

I killed an hour unpacking and waiting for Libby to settle in front of the TV. Once she got there, it would be mere minutes before she was asleep.

Now I was sitting on the bed, scrolling the news on my laptop and waiting for the sound of a laugh track to start from downstairs. The headlines on Portia Slate had only continued to multiply:

BILLIONAIRE’S WIFE STILL MISSING

SILICON VALLEY TRAGEDY: WHEREABOUTS OF PORTIA SLATE REMAIN UNKNOWN

LOCAL AUTHORITIES INCREASE SEARCH EFFORTS IN MISSING SOCIALITE CASE

I’d met Portia Slate only briefly that day on campus. I was often outsourced as the department welcome wagon, not because I was particularly welcoming, but because I was young, female, and, despite my sister’s opinions, possessed a higher-than-average degree of social skills for someone in my field. It occurred to me as Portia and I had sipped coffee that she’d been outsourced too. In her case, as the public face of her husband’s foundation. When she asked me about work and I quipped about my unofficial job description including having to entertain guests, we found ourselves bonding over our shared annoyance with the relationship maintenance that was often forced on women. While we chatted, her bodyguard remained close enough for me to remember his face. Portia was as beautiful in person as she was in all the photos, surprisingly nice, a little distant, but the one characteristic that caught me off guard was a melancholy sadness that seemed to hover around her like a faint mist.

That day, I couldn’t think of what she, a woman living in the lap of obscene luxury, could possibly have to be sad about. But now the memory of it took on new meaning.

Though it would be years before they met and married, at the time her husband, Connor Slate, had founded EnViSage, a now multibillion-dollar cloud computing company, Portia had been in high school. Granted, he’d been young at the time too, but their twelve-year age difference, his imposing status near the top of all the world’s wealthiest lists, and her stunning beauty made their marriage an easy target for criticism. The public narrative on Portia had been prepackaged for easy consumption. She was the trophy wife. The accessory. One of the many objects that belonged to Connor Slate.

Until we’d heard it on the news last night, I’d forgotten EnViSage’s deal with StarCloud had fallen through. I kept a vague eye on Silicon Valley politics—which company was swallowing which—mainly as a barometer for what kind of job market my students would be entering. I hadn’t thought much about another multibillion-dollar handshake going bust. But I briefly wondered now if the failed deal and Portia’s disappearance were at all connected.

I followed a few of the news links reporting on her case. The social media masses had opinions. Some had started campaigning that she’d been murdered; others offered thoughts and prayers for her safe return. I thought back to the woman I’d had coffee with that day and sincerely hoped she was all right, despite my growing certainty she wasn’t.

I was scrolling an armchair detective’s account of “What Happened to Portia” when the sound I’d been waiting for gently tinkled up the stairs like a tinny bell: a canned laugh track telling me my sister had made it to the living room.

Finally I had my cue to head next door and get some answers.