she saw that King was in the greenhouse, too, staying close to Kelly as she snipped off a pink rose and added it to the roses in her hand. Hehowled one of his friendly hello howls, and Kelly turned to see Sarah standing in the doorway.
“I’m about to leave,” Sarah told her. “I’m going to visit my mother.”
Kelly looked at the roses. “I picked these for her. I thought she’d like them better than roses from a flower store. I’ve just got to put a wet paper towel around the stems. They’re Zephirine Drouhins. They smell wonderful, and they have no thorns. Tell her it’s the first time I’ve been able to grow them.”
“She’ll love them.”
Kelly glanced down at the greenhouse floor before looking at Sarah again. “I’m sorry I was short-tempered with you this morning. I have a lot on my mind.”
“That’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t. I shouldn’t take it out on you and Emma.”
“You don’t usually,” Sarah told her.
Kelly kept her eyes on her. “That’s no excuse.”
“It’s all right. Really, Kelly.”
Sarah moved out of the doorway. As Kelly led King into the garden, Sarah could see that Kelly was still preoccupied.
“Is there anything you want to talk about?” she asked her.
Kelly shrugged. “No, I’m fine. I’m just making something out of nothing.”
Sarah looked at her, waiting for her to say more, but Kelly didn’t. Instead, she started walking toward the kitchen.
“How was the opera?” she asked. “How was Kevin?”
Sarah walked alongside Kelly and King. “Wonderful. I was very proud of him.”
“Are you still seeing each other?”
“We’re going to have dinner tomorrow night.”
Kelly’s face relaxed into a genuine smile. “I’m glad.”
They reached the glass door to the kitchen and Kelly turned to Sarah. “Tell your mother I’ll come visit her when she’s home.”
Sarah knew that on one level Kelly meant this, but the hesitation and strain in the way she’d said it told Sarah it was more of an excuse than a promise. It confirmed to her that she and Emma were right about Kelly’s problem. She wondered how long Kelly thought she could keep it a secret from them.
As Kelly walked with Sarah into the kitchen, she could tell from the expression on Sarah’s face that Sarah realized she wasn’t being honest with her, and she prayed that Sarah wouldn’t confront her about it. She knew from her training as a psychologist that keeping a problem hidden only increased the stress surrounding it, but she wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. Especially not after the phone call that despite her best efforts to rationalize, continued to replay in her head. She wasn’t ready to talk about any of it right now. So she took the bouquet of roses to the sink and began preparing it for Sarah to take to her mother. That way her back was to Sarah, so Sarah couldn’t see her face, and maybe she could go on pretending that she wasn’t afraid to leave her home and that a man hadn’t called her and terrified her.
Nine
I T HAD BEEN THE kind of day that made Frank Giordano wonder if he’d be better off in some other line of work. Maybe any other line of work. The victim’s name was Jennifer McGraw. She’d been thirty-five years old and had been a freelance graphic artist who had worked in a studio behind her house. For five years she’d been married to a partner in a Wall Street brokerage firm, and she’d gotten the house in New Kent when they’d divorced two years before. Six months later, her ex-husband had died of a heart attack. They’d had no children.
The tech team hadn’t found any fingerprints in the house except those of the victim, the maid, and the victim’s parents and sister, who lived in Short Hills and who’d been there on Labor Day for a barbecue. According to the parents and sister, Jennifer had had no known enemies and not many friends, and, despite having lived in the house for seven years, she hadn’t really known any of her neighbors.
“I’m about to leave,” Sarah told her. “I’m going to visit my mother.”
Kelly looked at the roses. “I picked these for her. I thought she’d like them better than roses from a flower store. I’ve just got to put a wet paper towel around the stems. They’re Zephirine Drouhins. They smell wonderful, and they have no thorns. Tell her it’s the first time I’ve been able to grow them.”
“She’ll love them.”
Kelly glanced down at the greenhouse floor before looking at Sarah again. “I’m sorry I was short-tempered with you this morning. I have a lot on my mind.”
“That’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t. I shouldn’t take it out on you and Emma.”
“You don’t usually,” Sarah told her.
Kelly kept her eyes on her. “That’s no excuse.”
“It’s all right. Really, Kelly.”
Sarah moved out of the doorway. As Kelly led King into the garden, Sarah could see that Kelly was still preoccupied.
“Is there anything you want to talk about?” she asked her.
Kelly shrugged. “No, I’m fine. I’m just making something out of nothing.”
Sarah looked at her, waiting for her to say more, but Kelly didn’t. Instead, she started walking toward the kitchen.
“How was the opera?” she asked. “How was Kevin?”
Sarah walked alongside Kelly and King. “Wonderful. I was very proud of him.”
“Are you still seeing each other?”
“We’re going to have dinner tomorrow night.”
Kelly’s face relaxed into a genuine smile. “I’m glad.”
They reached the glass door to the kitchen and Kelly turned to Sarah. “Tell your mother I’ll come visit her when she’s home.”
Sarah knew that on one level Kelly meant this, but the hesitation and strain in the way she’d said it told Sarah it was more of an excuse than a promise. It confirmed to her that she and Emma were right about Kelly’s problem. She wondered how long Kelly thought she could keep it a secret from them.
As Kelly walked with Sarah into the kitchen, she could tell from the expression on Sarah’s face that Sarah realized she wasn’t being honest with her, and she prayed that Sarah wouldn’t confront her about it. She knew from her training as a psychologist that keeping a problem hidden only increased the stress surrounding it, but she wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. Especially not after the phone call that despite her best efforts to rationalize, continued to replay in her head. She wasn’t ready to talk about any of it right now. So she took the bouquet of roses to the sink and began preparing it for Sarah to take to her mother. That way her back was to Sarah, so Sarah couldn’t see her face, and maybe she could go on pretending that she wasn’t afraid to leave her home and that a man hadn’t called her and terrified her.
Nine
I T HAD BEEN THE kind of day that made Frank Giordano wonder if he’d be better off in some other line of work. Maybe any other line of work. The victim’s name was Jennifer McGraw. She’d been thirty-five years old and had been a freelance graphic artist who had worked in a studio behind her house. For five years she’d been married to a partner in a Wall Street brokerage firm, and she’d gotten the house in New Kent when they’d divorced two years before. Six months later, her ex-husband had died of a heart attack. They’d had no children.
The tech team hadn’t found any fingerprints in the house except those of the victim, the maid, and the victim’s parents and sister, who lived in Short Hills and who’d been there on Labor Day for a barbecue. According to the parents and sister, Jennifer had had no known enemies and not many friends, and, despite having lived in the house for seven years, she hadn’t really known any of her neighbors.
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