"Speaking of total sluts," Wendy began.
He looked up at her. "Huh?"
"There are some rumors going around about me. They were put in blogs online."
"Mom?"
"Yes?"
"Do you think I live in a cave?"
"You've seen them?"
"Of course."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
Charlie shrugged, went back to typing.
"I want you to know they aren't true."
"You mean you don't sleep around to get ahead?"
"Don't be a wiseass."
He sighed. "I know it's not true, Mom. Okay? You don't have to tell me that."
She was trying very hard not to cry. "Are your friends giving you a hard time about it?"
"No," he said. Then: "Well, okay, Clark and James want to know if you dig younger men."
She frowned.
"Kidding," he said.
"Good one."
"Lighten up." He started typing.
She started to head out of the room, give him his privacy. If she had done that, it would all have been over now. They had the answers. Phil set up his friends. Dan had snapped and killed Haley. The fact that they couldn't find a motive was irksome but life works that way sometimes.
But she didn't leave the room. She was feeling teary and alone and so she asked her son, "What are you doing?"
"Going through my Facebook."
That reminded her of her fake profile, the Sharon Hait one, the one she'd used to "friend" Kirby Sennett.
"What's a Red Bull party?" she asked.
Charlie stopped typing. "Where did you hear that term?"
Wendy reminded him of how she'd used the fake profile to get in touch with Kirby Sennett. "Kirby invited 'Sharon' to a Red Bull party."
"Show me," he said.
Charlie logged out and stepped away from the computer. Wendy sat down, signed in as "Sharon Hait." It took her a second to remember the password ("Charlie") before she got in. She brought up the invitation and showed it to him.
"Lame," Charlie said.
"What?"
"Okay, you know how the school has these strict zero-tolerance rules, right?"
"Right."
"And Principal Zecher is like a Nazi on this stuff. I mean, if a kid is seen drinking, he can't play for any sports teams, can't be in the New Players shows, he reports it to the college admissions people, the whole works."
"Yes, I know."
"And you know how teens are idiots and always posting pictures of themselves drinking on stuff like, well, Facebook?"
"Yes."
"So anyway, someone came up with the idea of Red Bulling the photos."
"Red Bulling?"
"Yeah. So let's say you go to a party and you're drinking a can of Bud and because you're a loser with self-esteem issues, you think, wow, I'm so cool, I want everyone to see how cool I am. You ask someone to take your picture drinking this Bud so you can put it online so you can show off to your lame-o friends. Thing is, suppose Principal Zecher or his Third Reich minions stumble across it? You're screwed. So what you do is, you photoshop a Red Bull over your beer can."
"You're kidding."
"I kid not. Makes sense when you think about it. Here."
He leaned over her and clicked the mouse. A bunch of photos of Kirby Sennett popped up. He started clicking through them. "See? Look how many times he, his pals, and their various skanks drink Red Bull."
"Don't call them skanks."
"Whatever."
Wendy started clicking through them. "Charlie?"
"Yeah."
"Have you ever been to a Red Bull party?"
"Destination: Loserville."
"Does that mean no?"
"It means no."
She looked at him. "Have you ever been to a party where people drank alcohol?"
Charlie rubbed his chin. "Yes."
"Did you drink?"
"Once."
She turned back to the computer, kept clicking, kept watching Kirby Sennett and his red-faced companions with the Red Bulls. In some of the pictures, you could see the photoshopping. The can of Red Bull was too big or too small or over the fingers or slightly askew.
"When?" she asked.
"Mom, it's okay. It was once. Sophomore year."
She was debating how far to take the conversation when she saw the photograph that changed everything. Kirby Sennett sat front and center. There were two girls behind him, both with their backs to the cameras. Kirby had a wide smile. He held the Red Bull in his right hand. He wore a New York Knicks T-shirt and a black baseball cap. But what drew her eyes, what made her stop and take another look, was the couch he sat on.
It was bright yellow with blue flowers.
Wendy had seen that couch before.
Alone-just the photograph-it would have meant nothing to her. But now she remembered Phil Turnball's last words, about how he was offering her a "gift," that she wouldn't have to blame herself for setting up an innocent man. Phil Turnball believed it-and Wendy had wanted to believe it too. That was the thing. It left her off the hook. Dan had been a killer. She hadn't set up an innocent man. She had, in fact, brought down a murderer.
So how come she still wasn't totally buying it?
The early intuition, the one that said she'd somehow wronged Dan Mercer, the one that had been nibbling at her subconscious from the moment he first opened that red door and walked into the sting house-she had let it go dormant over the past few days.
But it had never gone away.
CHAPTER 37
THE MOVING TRUCK was parked in front of the Wheeler home.
There was a little ramp running up to the open front door. Two men wearing dark gloves and leather weightlifter belts rolled a credenza down it, one repeating the words, "Steady, steady," as though it were a mantra. The FOR SALE sign was still in the yard. There was no UNDER CONTRACT or anything else hung beneath it.
Wendy let the credenza pass and then she headed up the ramp, leaned her head in the doorway, and said, "Anyone home?"
"Hey."
Jenna came from the den. She too wore dark gloves. She had on blue jeans. A bulky flannel shirt hung over her white T. The sleeves of the flannel were rolled up to her wrists, but she practically swam in the fabric. Her husband's, Wendy thought. As a kid, you might use your dad's old dress shirts as smocks. As an adult, you use your husband's for household errands or sometimes, just to feel close to him. Wendy had done the same, loving the smell of her man on it.
"Did you find a buyer?" Wendy asked.
"Not yet." Jenna's hair was tied back, but some strands had come loose. She tucked it back behind her ear. "Noel starts in Cincinnati next week though."
"Fast."
"Yes."
"Noel must have started looking for that job right away."
Jenna hesitated this time. "I guess so."
"Because of the stigma of defending a pedophile?"
"That's right." Jenna put her hands on her hips. "What's going on, Wendy?"
"Have you ever been to Freddy's Deluxe Luxury Suites in Newark?"
"Freddy's what?"
"It's a no-tell motel in the middle of Newark. Have you been?"
"No, of course not."
"Funny. I showed the front desk manager your picture. He said he saw you there the day Dan was killed. In fact, he said you asked for a key to his room."
This was, Wendy knew, a semi-bluff. The front desk manager had recognized Jenna Wheeler and said she'd been there within the past two weeks, but he couldn't say exactly when. He also remembered giving her a key without asking questions-when nice-looking suburban women show up at Freddy's, you never ask for ID-but he didn't remember what room.
"He was mistaken," Jenna said.
"I don't think so. More important, when I tell the police, the police won't think so."
The two women stood there, toe-to-toe, staring each other down.
"You see, that was what Phil Turnball missed," Wendy said. "You heard about his suicide, I assume?"
"Yes."
"He thought Dan killed Haley because, in his mind, there were no other suspects. Dan was in hiding at the motel. No one knew where he was, ergo nobody could have planted Haley's iPhone. He forgot about you, Jenna. So did I."
Jenna took off the leather gloves. "That doesn't mean anything."