Chương 11
Rachel said, “Why would anyone keep repainting the same pattern?”
Warren looked at her.
“That is one of many questions.”
I thought about Claire complaining about the flowers in the hospital.
A cheap pattern.
A strange resemblance.
Not identical, I had insisted.
Maybe because one was a copy of the other.
“Who painted the hospital room?”
Warren looked at me.
“What?”
“The decommissioned room where Claire was found.”
“I don’t know.”
“Arthur supervised renovations.”
“Yes.”
“Did he paint it?”
“We’ll check.”
I walked to the window.
Outside, Warren’s unmarked sedan sat at the curb behind Rachel’s minivan.
Across the street, someone’s television flashed blue against curtains.
A delivery driver left a paper bag on a porch two houses down and photographed it with his phone.
Life kept producing receipts for itself.
Then something occurred to me.
“Melissa said the man knew my schedule.”
“Yes.”
“Arthur hadn’t owned the house for more than a year.”
“Yes.”
“How would he know when I left for work?”
Warren said nothing.
I turned.
“You already asked yourself that.”
“Yes.”
“Someone has been watching the house.”
“Possibly.”
“Or going inside.”
“Possibly.”
I thought of my garage door occasionally standing open when I could have sworn I closed it.
A kitchen cabinet I blamed Ethan for.
A jar of peanut butter that vanished.
Ordinary little irritations I had assigned to exhaustion.
My skin crawled.
“What did Melissa mean when she said someone was living inside the house?”
“She heard movement.”
“That’s not living there.”
“She also noticed food disappearing.”
I stared.
“From my kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“What food?”
“Bread.”
Mark said, “That’s horrifyingly mundane.”
Nobody corrected him.
Warren asked, “Do you keep spare keys outside?”
“No.”
“Garage keypad?”
“Yes.”
“Who knew the code?”
“Rachel.”
She raised a hand.
“Mark.”
He did the same.
“Melissa.”
Warren wrote.
“Previous nannies?”
I nodded.
“Probably.”
“Contractors?”
“During the move, yes.”
“Did you change it after closing?”
I felt stupid before answering.
“No.”
Warren wrote that too.
The old owner could have known the code.
So could half a dozen workers.
I remembered Claire laughing when I chose 1958, the year the house was built, because she said nobody would ever crack such sophisticated security.
The memory was so ordinary that it hurt more than the hospital details.
“1958,” I said.
Warren looked up.
“What?”
“The code.”
Rachel closed her eyes.
“Oh, Dan.”
“I know.”
Warren wrote it down.
“It’s changed now?”
“No.”
“It will be.”
“Yes.”
He asked for a list of former childcare workers and contractors.
I promised to provide whatever I could remember.
Then his phone rang.
This time he answered in the kitchen.
He mostly listened.
His face became unreadable.
“All right,” he said.
“Keep them separated.”
He ended the call.
“Bell’s sister has agreed to speak.”
My pulse quickened.
“What did she say?”
“Very little so far.”
“About Claire?”
Warren looked toward Rachel and Mark.
Then back at me.
“She recognized the name.”
The room became still.
“How?”
“She says she met your wife once.”
“Where?”
“You already know where.”
St. Vincent’s.
My chest tightened.
“Was she the nurse who found her?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Warren hesitated.
“She says she was the nurse who carried Ethan out of observation.”
Rachel stood.
“She took him.”
Warren held up a hand.
“That is not established.”
“You just said—”
“I said she carried him out.”
“To where?”
“That is what investigators are trying to determine.”
I stepped closer.
“Why would she admit that?”
“Because there are records placing her in the unit.”
“Records you had ten minutes ago?”
“We’re moving quickly.”
“Then move faster.”
Warren’s expression hardened.
“I understand your frustration.”
“Stop saying that.”
He nodded once.
“Fair.”
The small concession surprised me.
Then he said, “Evelyn also claims she did not act alone.”
My mouth went dry.
“Arthur?”
“She says her brother was not involved in taking Claire or Ethan from their units.”
“Do you believe her?”
“That isn’t useful yet.”
“Who was?”
“She has not named anyone.”
Rachel said, “Then she’s protecting them.”
“Maybe.”
“Why?”
“We don’t know.”
She laughed bitterly.
Warren did not react.
I asked, “Did she say why Claire was moved?”
“Yes.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
Warren looked at Ethan before continuing.
“She says someone believed Claire was about to die.”
The sentence struck like an insult.
“She was.”
“Not yet.”
“What does that mean?”
“She was unstable, but she was still conscious.”
“I know that.”
“She was asking for Ethan.”
I swallowed.
Warren continued.
“According to Evelyn, someone decided Claire should get to hold him before surgery.”
Rachel whispered, “Oh my God.”
For one wild second, relief passed through me.
A stupid, desperate relief.
Maybe there had been kindness in that lost hour.
Maybe somebody had broken rules because Claire was dying and wanted her baby.
Then I saw Warren’s face.
“That isn’t all.”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“Evelyn says Claire became frightened once they were in the old treatment room.”
“Why?”
“She saw something.”
“What?”
Warren shook his head.
“Evelyn refused to say.”
“Why?”
“She started asking for an attorney after that.”
I paced to the counter and back.
“Everybody wants an attorney.”
Mark said, “Generally a sign we should all get one.”
Rachel gave him a look.
He shrugged.
“Still nervous.”
Warren’s phone vibrated again.
He checked the message.
This time he looked directly at me.
“What?”
He put the phone away.
“Arthur Bell has been taken to the hospital.”
“Why?”
“Chest pain.”
“Convenient.”
“Maybe.”
“Is he dying?”
“Unknown.”
The anger left me almost instantly.
I did not want Bell dead.
Dead people did not explain themselves.
I asked, “Can I see Melissa?”
“Not tonight.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Possibly.”
“She knows something about Ethan.”
“She is also recovering from dehydration, a head injury, and six days of confinement.”
The shame came quickly.
“Right.”
Warren softened slightly.
“She asked about him.”
“What did she say?”
“She wanted confirmation he was safe.”
I looked toward my son.
He had fallen asleep again against Rachel’s shoulder.
May you like
His rabbit hung from one hand.
“Tell her he is.”
