“Sorry, Amy. I called you on my son’s phone, and it’s out of juice. If you can’t reach me on my phone, feel free to use this number.”
“Thank you, Darcy.”
The next morning, Darcy gets her phone repaired and swings past the cove on the coast road. The beach is empty, no Bronson today. As she pulls into the driveway, a van labeled Gilmore Security Systems in cursive lettering wheels around the corner. Just in time.
Two men and a woman wearing dark blue polos and gray pants walk through the house before beginning the installation. The leader is a middle aged man with silver hair and a fit physique. He introduces himself as Scott.
They work through lunch and finish at four, and already the tension drains from Darcy’s body. Why didn’t she install an alarm months ago?
“The most important thing you can do is choose a passcode that is easy to remember but nobody else can figure out,” Scott says, demonstrating how to arm the alarm. “Don’t share the code with anybody, and make certain your children keep it secret.”
Under Scott’s supervision, Darcy enters the ranch and inputs the alarm code. Nerves cause her to mess up the code on the first try, but she corrects the error.
“Now,” Scott says, pointing to the alarm. “If you forget the code, don’t panic. We’ll receive notification at our headquarters and call your house before contacting the police, so don’t worry over a squad of police cars swarming the neighborhood if you screw up. On the other hand, in the unlikely event a real break-in occurs, response will be immediate. You couldn’t be more protected.”
Scott gives Darcy a tour around the perimeter of the house, explaining how the system monitors breaches at the windows and doors while he points out the cameras.
Then they sit in front of her laptop. She clicks the Gilmore icon, a padlock with a lightning bolt through the center, and a series of windows load.
“You can switch between the cameras and system monitor with one mouse click,” he says, demonstrating. “Provided you have Internet connectivity, you can monitor these screens from anywhere. Go on vacation, visit friends, and you can always check on the house while you’re away. And it’s not just about thwarting criminals. You never need to worry about a burst pipe or what a thunderstorm did to your home while you were away. Click the app and check for yourself. That’s what I call peace of mind.”
“And if the kids throw a party?”
“Oh, yes,” Scott says, laughing. “It works for that too.”
For the first hour after the team departs, Darcy can’t keep herself from checking the monitor screens as if they’re a cool new toy. She loads the phone application, and the camera views appear. For fun, she steps outside and waves to the camera aimed at the front door. After a short lag, she appears in the picture.
“Best thing ever,” she says, forcing herself to shut down the app so she can work on dinner.
The next few days are the best she’s experienced since moving in. Jennifer obeys curfew and remains in a good mood. On Friday night, Coach Parker puts Hunter into the game at the end of the third quarter, and Hunter catches a pass for a first down. After the game, Bethany rides home with the family and roasts marshmallows with Hunter in the backyard. Even the dark of night fails to rattle Darcy, who realizes she hasn’t taken her anti-anxiety medicine.
Three days after the installation, a skinny man with red hair and a tiny scar over his right eye knocks on the door. Evidenced by his uniform, he’s a Gilmore technician. The man ensures she’s satisfied with the new system, tours the ranch and ensures the alarms and cameras work, and asks her if she has any questions. She doesn’t. Darcy couldn’t be more happy with the thoroughness of the Gilmore team.
Amy’s stalker disappears, the smiley face painted over, and the girl agrees to join Darcy at self-defense class. Bronson calls, confirming the Smith Town PD makes twice-daily checks on Amy’s house.
All good things must come to an end.
It’s a gloomy Monday morning with Halloween on the wind when Darcy glances through the rain-streaked window and sees the police cruiser pull curbside.
Darcy’s first reaction is something terrible has happened to Hunter or Jennifer. The doors open, and Julian climbs out of the vehicle. The man who accompanies Julian wears dark blue slacks and a gray jacket. His black tie is too long and tucked between the buttons of a bargain store dress shirt. Like a private investigator from a sixties television sitcom, the man’s hair parts on the side, slicked and oily. His exhausted eyes droop, his slightly wrinkled forehead marking him as a veteran of the force. A detective.
“Ms. Gellar?” The detective’s face is grim, jaw grinding from side to side.
Julian flanks the detective, one hand touching the radio, the other at his side. Close to his holster.
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Ames,” the man says, holding up his badge. “And you’ve met Officer Haines. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
Again her chest fills with butterflies as she wonders what happened to her kids. Did Aaron Torres hurt Hunter?
“Would you like to come in?”
Darcy stands aside and motions them into the foyer. They follow her to the kitchen and take seats around the table. Julian studies the room, looking over the stack of mail between them. Darcy pulls the envelopes aside and sets them on the counter.
“Were you at home last night?”
Thank goodness nothing happened to the kids at school.
“Sure, I was in all night.”
“A jogger found a woman’s body beside the cove at dawn,” Detective Ames says, leaning forward with his hands clasped on his lap. “Did you see or hear anything unusual last night, particularly between the hours of midnight and two?”
Darcy’s heart hammers. She’s letting her imagination run wild. It’s a drowning incident, nothing more.
“I was asleep by eleven,” Darcy says, stammering. “What happened?”
“Think very hard. Did a noise awaken you in the night?”
“Nothing. I got up to use the bathroom once, but that was after three.”
“I see you have two teenage children—Hunter and Jennifer. Are they home today?”
“Well, no. They’re in school and won’t be home until after football and cheer practice.”
“I see.” Detective Ames removes his glasses and wipes them on his tie. “Would it be all right if I spoke with them?”
“Yes, but as I said they won’t be home until later. You’re welcome to come back.”
“Not necessary, Ms. Gellar. I may swing past the school and speak with them sooner.” Why would the detective need to talk to her kids about a woman who drowned two blocks from their house in the middle of the night? “How about strangers or unfamiliar vehicles parked in your neighborhood last evening? Anyone you didn’t recognize?”
“No. People who want to use the beach tend to park further down the block near the cove.”
“Of course. It’s a shorter walk. Notice anyone at the cove the last few days who isn’t from your neighborhood?”
She thinks of Bronson, but she’s not about to bring the ex-cop into this.
“No, it’s been quiet this week.”
Ames gives an unconvinced grunt. His phone buzzes. The detective glances at it and slips the phone into his jacket.
“I’ll cut to the chase, Ms. Gellar. I’m aware of your FBI career and your relationship with Michael Rivers.”
Darcy glances away and touches her stomach, the detective’s words twitching the old wound.
“If by relationship you mean I’m the agent he stabbed, then yes.”
“My apologies. Not the best choice of words. But you were the agent who shot the Full Moon Killer.”