Anne remains in the living room, cradling her sleeping baby, but Marco gets up and follows Rasbach into the kitchen. He’s surprised his legs work well enough to carry him there. Richard is sitting in one of the kitchen chairs, stubbornly silent. Their eyes meet; Richard’s slide away. A uniformed officer nudges Richard to stand up and puts handcuffs on him. Alice watches from the background, saying nothing, her face blank.
“Richard Adam Dries,” Detective Rasbach says, “you are under arrest for the murder of Derek Honig and conspiracy to kidnap Cora Conti. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. . . .”
Marco watches, astonished at his luck. His baby is back, safe. Richard has been found out and will get what he deserves. He, Marco, will not be prosecuted. Cynthia has nothing to hold over him now. He can feel himself breathe for the first time since this nightmare began. It’s over. It’s finally over.
Two uniformed officers lead Richard in handcuffs out through the living room and toward the front door, Rasbach and Marco and Alice following behind. Richard says nothing. He won’t look at his wife, his daughter, his grandchild, or his son-in-law.
Marco, Anne, and Alice watch him go.
Marco casts a glance at his wife. They have their adored baby back. Anne knows everything now. There are no more secrets between them.
At the police station, they work out the details of Marco’s deal. Marco has a new lawyer, from a top criminal firm in the city, a firm other than Aubrey West’s.
Marco tells Rasbach everything. He says, “Richard framed me. He set me up. He sent Derek to me. It was all his idea. They knew I needed money.”
Anne speaks up. “We thought my father was behind this. I knew he knew Derek Honig—I recognized him—he used to come to the house, years ago. But how did you know?”
Rasbach answers. “I knew he was lying. He said the kidnappers had called him, but we have taps on his phones. We knew they hadn’t called him. Then, late last night, your mother called me.”
“My mother?”
“Your father has been having an affair.”
“I know,” Anne says. “My mother told me, this morning.”
Marco says, “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Your mother-in-law hired a private detective to find out what he was up to. The detective put a GPS tracking device on Richard’s car a few weeks ago. It’s still there.”
Marco and Anne listen closely to the detective.
“We know that Richard drove out to the cabin around the time of the murder.” Marco and Anne exchange glances. Rasbach adds, addressing Anne, “Your mother recognized Honig, too, as soon as I showed her a photograph of him.”
Marco says, “Richard had the cell phone, Derek’s cell phone. The one we were supposed to use to stay in touch. But Derek never called me, and he never answered his cell. I noticed there were some missed calls, and when I called the number, Richard answered. He said the kidnappers sent him the phone in the mail, with a note. But I wondered if he’d killed Derek and taken it. I never believed him about the note. He said he’d destroyed it to protect me, because it implicated me.”
Rasbach says, “Alice never saw the note or the cell phone. Richard said they arrived when she was out.”
“Why would Richard kill Derek?” Marco asks.
“We think that Derek was supposed to return the baby when you brought the ransom money but didn’t, and Richard realized he’d been double-crossed. We think Richard tracked him down to the cabin that night and killed him. That’s when he saw the opportunity to make a second ransom demand for more money.”
“Where was Cora after she was taken from the cabin? Who was taking care of her?” Anne asks.
“We stopped Richard’s secretary’s daughter in her car leaving the area just after Richard got the baby back earlier this morning. She had the baby. It turns out she’s got a bit of a drug problem and needed money.”
Anne gasps, horrified, her hand to her face.
• • •
Exhausted but relieved, Anne and Marco are back home at last with Cora. After going to the police station, Anne and Marco had taken Cora to the hospital, where she was checked out and given a clean bill of health. Now Marco puts together a quick meal for the two of them while Cora has another greedy feed. The press is no longer clamoring at their doorstep; their new lawyer has made it clear that Anne and Marco will not speak to them at all and has threatened legal action if they are harassed. At some point, when things settle down, they will list the house for sale.
Finally they put Cora to bed in her own crib. They have undressed her and given her a bath, studying her as carefully as they had when she was a newborn, to make sure she’s all right. And it is a kind of rebirth, getting her back from the dead. Perhaps it’s a new beginning for them.
Anne tells herself that children are resilient. Cora will be fine.
They stand beside the crib, looking down at their baby as she smiles and gurgles up at them. It is such a relief to see her smile; in the first few hours after they got her back, she had just suckled and cried endlessly. But now Cora is beginning to smile again. She lies on her back in the crib, the stenciled lambs and her two parents hovering over her, and playfully kicks out her legs.
“I never thought this moment would come,” Anne whispers.
“Me either,” Marco says, waving Cora’s rattle at her. She squeals and grabs it and holds on tight.
They are quiet for a while, watching until their daughter falls asleep.
“Do you think you can ever forgive me?” Marco asks finally.
Anne thinks, How can I ever forgive you for how selfish and weak and stupid you were? She says, “I don’t know, Marco. I have to take it one day at a time.”
He nods, stung. After a moment he says, “There were never any other women, Anne, I swear it.”
“I know.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Anne puts Cora back down in her crib, hoping this is the last feed of the night and that now the baby will sleep through till morning. It’s late—very late—but she can still hear Cynthia moving around restlessly in the house next door.
It has been a day of shocking revelations. After her father had been taken away from the family home in handcuffs, her mother had pulled Anne aside while Marco held the sleeping baby in his arms in the living room.
“I think you should know,” she said, “who your father was seeing.”
“Does it matter?” Anne asked. What difference did it make who her father was seeing? She would be younger and attractive. Of course. Anne didn’t care who she was; what mattered was that her father—actually, she remembers, her stepfather—had kidnapped her baby to get millions of dollars of her mother’s money. Now he would go to jail for kidnapping and murder. She still couldn’t believe it was all real.
“He was seeing your next-door neighbor,” her mother said. “Cynthia Stillwell.” Anne looked back at her mother in disbelief, still capable of being shocked by this news, in spite of everything that had happened. “He met her at your New Year’s Eve party,” her mother said. “I remember her flirting with him. I didn’t think too much of it at the time. But the private detective found out everything. I have photographs.” Her mother’s face showed disgust. “Photocopies of hotel receipts.”
Anne asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I only found out recently,” Alice explained. “Then Cora was taken, and I didn’t want to upset you with it.” She added, rather bitterly, “That detective was one of the best investments I ever made.”
Now Anne wonders what’s going through Cynthia’s mind. Graham is away. She’s alone next door. She must know that Richard has been arrested. It’s been on the news. Does Cynthia even care what happens to Richard?
The baby is sound asleep in her crib. M
arco is asleep in their bed, snoring deeply. It’s the first time he’s really slept in more than a week. But Anne is wide awake. And so is Cynthia, next door.
Anne slips on some sandals and lets herself out the kitchen door. She quietly walks the few steps over to Cynthia’s backyard, careful not to let the gate bang shut. She crosses the patio and stands in the dark, her face a couple of inches from the glass, looking through the sliding glass door. There is a light on in the kitchen. She can see Cynthia moving around at the counter near the sink but realizes Cynthia probably can’t see her. Anne watches her for a while in the darkness. Cynthia is making herself some tea. She is wearing a sexy nightgown, pale green; it’s very provocative for a night spent at home alone.
Cynthia obviously has no idea Anne is there watching her.
Anne knocks lightly on the glass. She sees Cynthia jump and turn toward the sound. Anne presses her face up against the glass. She can tell Cynthia isn’t sure what she should do. But then Cynthia walks over to the door and opens it a few inches.
“What do you want?” Cynthia asks coldly.
“Can I come in?” Anne asks. Her voice is neutral, even friendly.
Cynthia looks warily at her but doesn’t say no, and steps back. Anne opens the door wider and comes inside, closing the door carefully behind her.
Cynthia returns to the counter and says over her shoulder, “I was just making some tea. Chamomile. Would you like some? It seems neither of us can sleep tonight.”
“Sure, why not?” Anne says agreeably. She watches Cynthia busy herself making another cup of tea; she seems nervous.
“So why are you here?” Cynthia says bluntly, handing Anne the cup.
“Thank you,” Anne says, settling in her old spot at the kitchen table, as if they were still friends, sitting down for some tea and a chat. She ignores Cynthia’s question. She looks around the kitchen, blowing on the hot drink to cool it, as if she has nothing particular on her mind at all.
Cynthia remains standing at the counter. She’s not going to pretend that they are still friends. Anne studies her over the rim of her cup. Cynthia looks tired, less attractive. For the first time, Anne can see hints of what Cynthia might look like as she ages.
“We have Cora back,” Anne says blithely. “You probably heard.” She cocks her head toward the common wall; she knows that Cynthia must be able to hear her baby crying through it.
“How lovely for you,” Cynthia says. There is a kitchen island between them, with a wooden knife block full of knives on it. Anne has the same set at home—it was on special at the grocery store not long ago.
Anne puts her cup down on the table. “I just wanted to be clear about something.”
“Clear about what?” Cynthia says.
“You won’t be blackmailing us with that video.”
“Oh, and why’s that?” Cynthia says, as if she doesn’t believe it for a moment, as if she thinks this is all just posturing.
“Because the police know what Marco did,” Anne says. “I told them about your video.”
“Really.” Cynthia looks skeptical. She looks as if she thinks Anne is bullshitting her. “And why would you tell them that? Won’t Marco go to jail? Oh, wait . . . you want him to go to jail.” She gives Anne a superior look. “I can’t say I blame you.”
“Marco’s not going to jail,” Anne says.
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“Oh, I’m sure. Marco’s not going to jail, because my father—your lover—has been arrested for murder and conspiracy to kidnap, as I’m sure you also probably know by now.” Anne watches Cynthia’s face harden. “Oh, yes, I know all about it, Cynthia. My mother had a private detective watching you two. She has photos, receipts, everything.” Anne takes another sip of tea, enjoying herself. “Your secret affair isn’t so secret after all.”
Anne finally has the upper hand, and she likes it. She smiles at Cynthia.
“So what?” Cynthia says finally. But Anne can tell she’s unnerved.
“What you might not know,” Anne says, “is that Marco’s cut a deal.”
Anne sees something like alarm flit across Cynthia’s face, and Anne comes to the reason she’s here. She says, ominously, “You were in on this all along. You knew all about it.”
“I knew nothing about it,” Cynthia says scornfully, “except that your husband stole his own child.”
“Oh, I think you knew. I think you were in on this with my father—we all know how much you love money.” Anne says, with a trace of venom, “Maybe you’re the one who’s going to go to jail.”
Cynthia’s face changes. “No! I didn’t know what Richard had done, not until I saw it on the news tonight. I wasn’t involved. I thought Marco had done it. You can’t prove anything against me. I haven’t been anywhere near your baby!”
“I don’t believe you,” Anne says.
“I don’t care what you believe—it’s the truth,” Cynthia says. She looks at Anne with narrowed eyes. “What happened to you, Anne? You used to be such fun, so interesting—and then you had a baby. Everything about you changed. Do you even realize how dull and dumpy and boring you’ve become? Poor Marco, I wonder how he stands it.”
“Don’t try to change the subject. Don’t make this about me. You had to know what my father was up to. So don’t lie to me.” Anne’s voice shakes with anger.
“You’ll never be able to prove that, because it simply isn’t true,” Cynthia says. Then she adds, cruelly, “If I’d been involved, do you think I would have let the baby survive? It would probably have been better for Richard just to kill it at the beginning—and a lot less trouble. It would have been a pleasure to stop that brat’s endless crying.”
Then Cynthia looks scared—she realizes she’s gone too far.
Anne’s chair falls suddenly backward. Cynthia’s habitual smugness is replaced by a look of blind terror; her china teacup shatters on the floor as she lets out a hideous, earsplitting scream.
• • •
Marco has been deeply asleep. But in the middle of the night, he wakes suddenly. He opens his eyes. It is very dark, but there are red lights flashing, circling around the bedroom walls. Emergency vehicle lights.
The bed is empty beside him. Anne must be up again, feeding the baby.
He is curious now. He gets up and walks over to the bedroom window, which looks out over the street. He pushes the curtain aside and peers out. It’s an ambulance. It is parked directly below him and to the left.
In front of Cynthia and Graham’s house.
His whole body tenses. Now he sees the black-and-white police cars on the other side of the street, more arriving as he watches. His fingers on the curtain twitch involuntarily. His body is shot through with adrenaline.
A stretcher appears from out of the house, carried by two ambulance attendants. There must be someone on the stretcher, but he can’t see for sure until the medic moves. There is no urgency about them. The medic shifts position. Marco sees that there is someone on the stretcher. But he can’t tell who it is, because the face is covered.
Whoever is on the stretcher is dead.
All the blood rushes from Marco’s head; he feels he might pass out. As he watches, a lock of long, jet-black hair escapes and falls down below the stretcher.
He looks back at the empty bed. “Oh, God,” he whispers. “Anne, what have you done?”
He runs out of the bedroom, glances quickly in the baby’s room. Cora is asleep in her crib. Panicking now, he races down the stairs, stops dead in the darkened living room. He can see the side of his wife’s head; she is sitting on the sofa in the dark, completely still. He approaches her, filled with dread. She is slumped on the sofa, staring straight ahead as if in a trance, but as she hears him approach, she turns her head.
She is holding a large carving knife in her lap.
The red, pulsing light from the emerge
ncy vehicles outside circles the living-room walls and bathes them in a lurid glow. Marco can see that the knife and her hands are dark—dark with blood. She is covered in it. There are dark splatters on her face and in her hair. He feels sick, like he might throw up.
“Anne,” he whispers, his voice a broken croak. “Anne, what have you done?”
She looks back at him in the dark and says, “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
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