Carlyn had invited Tuck to stay for a day or two, saying she’d drive her back to Boston. When Jane left, the two women sat side by side on the couch, shoulders touching, poring over the Brannigan paperwork. Even if they weren’t mother and daughter, they’d certainly each found a new friend.
Jane took a sip of her drive-through latte, even though she’d regret the caffeine later, and felt for one of the wax-paper-wrapped tuna sandwiches Carlyn insisted on sending with her. One thing kept pushing to the top of her mind. Timing.
The first time she’d gotten a phone call, she was on a sidewalk in downtown Boston. She’d already talked with Maggie Gunnison at DFS, then weaseled the “Brianna Tillson” name from Finn. She took a bite of tuna. After that, the black pickup followed her on the highway. The open door. The cat. The collar. All those times, she wasn’t home.
Then this last call. She was in Connecticut. Again, not home.
How would someone know that?
The streetlights lining 84 North blurred the highway in front of her. Jane blinked, quickly, refocusing her eyes on the road and pleading with her brain to recapture a wisp of a thought. She punched off the radio. She needed quiet.
The mile markers ticked by slowly, headlights glaring from the oncoming cars, the daylight-bright spots of a highway crew blocking one whole lane. Jane sat in the stalled traffic, uncaring, needing the time. Rewinding the last couple of days, frame by frame.
Someone was watching her?
Yes.
Of course they were.
But it had been presented to her as a good thing. The brother-or-whatever of the cop. The “camera buff.” The surveillance guy. He knew where she lived, and when she came and went. It was how the cops proved nothing happened. That there’d been no breakin. That she had it all wrong. That the unlocked door was her fault.
But now she saw it from the other point of view.
Only one person knew exactly when she was home and when she wasn’t. The surveillance guy.
“Ha!” Jane punched a fist in the air. She put her hand back on the wheel, gripping it tight as she tried to figure out the rest of the story. Exactly who was the watcher in the window? Why was he doing this? Who else was involved?
She had to get home.
But wait. If the surveillance guy was more threat than protector-was home where she should go?
Ella Gavin sat in the driver’s seat of her car. The evening darkness surrounded her, the streetlights pooling amber puddles along Margolin Street. What if she was parked right where Mr. Brannigan had been Monday night? She couldn’t bear to think about it.
She shivered, even though she’d raised the heat to high. Would some neighborhood-watch type be suspicious of her car? Indoor lights edged front windows, up one side of the street, down the other, but otherwise no signs of life. Was this a bad idea?
It was her only idea.
She’d considered it all through Mr. Brannigan’s funeral service, which seemed to go on forever. Music and hymns, a too-long homily, an endless procession of relatives and acquaintances stepping to the podium, saying how wonderful Mr. Brannigan had been.
She’d also thought about Lillian Finch, still in the morgue as police continued their investigation. Either way, murder or suicide, soon she’d have to go to Lillian’s funeral, and that would be even sadder. She’d never forget the anguished look on Ardith Brannigan’s face as the widow left All Saints, leaning on Collins Munson as he escorted her up the chrysanthemum-draped aisle and past the solemn faces of the mourners.
Ella had planned to go home after the command-performance reception in the church fellowship room. Mrs. Brannigan had been red-eyed, stoic, as the receiving line filed past, Ella desperate to think what to say to her, coming up with only a weak “I’m so sorry.” Would Ardith be taking over for her-dead-husband? If so, the whole Carlyn Beerman problem was about to get bigger. Would Ella have to tell Mrs. Brannigan?
She’d kept thinking about it, worrying as she sipped a glass of rosé wine and ate a napkin-full of round lemon cookies. No one came to talk to her. Just as well. She had to think.
If the Brannigan agency got in trouble, Ella would lose her job. That wasn’t fair. But if something was going on, it had to stop. She took another bite of cookie. Maybe she was the only one who could stop it.
If she had to, she had to.
So now what? If proof existed that Lillian sent families the wrong children, it sure wasn’t in Lillian’s office anymore. Before Munson’s crew came sweeping through, she’d confirmed nothing there proved anything. Had Lillian taken the incriminating papers to her house?
That’s why Ella was here tonight. That’s why she hadn’t gone home.
She flipped on her windshield wipers. Turned up the defroster as the windows fogged and the outside world disappeared. They were predicting snow. She hated to drive in snow. Maybe she should come tomorrow instead.
Yes. She shifted into drive. No. She shifted back into park. The most important thing was to protect the Brannigan-no, the most important thing was to protect the families. She couldn’t imagine how Ms. Cameron felt, thinking she was meeting her birth mother, only to find… well, Ella would not have been able to bear the disappointment. And what if the same thing happened with other Brannigan cases? Her entire adult life had been spent bringing families together. She couldn’t have it tainted with something as terrible as this.
She’d been planning to call Carlyn Beerman about the paperwork proving her daughter had not been dropped off with a bracelet and a note. Paperwork that Carlyn, as birth mother, would have. Then, phone in hand, Ella had panicked. What if Carlyn sued the Brannigan? Made huge trouble? Ella needed advice.
But first she needed information.
And she had a key, so it wasn’t trespassing. Besides, how could you trespass on a dead person?
Ella pulled a pink leather pouch from her tote bag. Unzipped it. Inside, a white enamel lily topped the keys on a gold-linked chain. Lillian had laughed when she entrusted them to Ella. “In case I get locked out,” she’d said. “Then I won’t have to call an expensive locksmith to let me in.”
A few fat snowflakes plunked onto her windshield. The metronome beat of the wipers slashed them away.
Ella stared at Lillian’s keys, wondering if she was up to this.
60
This was such a long shot. Jake led DeLuca back down the stairway of 343A Edgeworth. Weapons stowed but available, the two moved quickly and silently. This long shot seemed like the only answer, and if he was wrong, he was wrong.
Mirror image.
Jake pointed to the first-floor closet under the stairwell, then pointed to himself. I’ll go.
DeLuca gave him a questioning look. Huh?
Jake took the last three steps toward the wooden closet door, turned the knob, pulled it open. Stepped inside. Dark. Smelled wood, and dust, and musty disuse. Empty. No fuzzy woolen silhouettes of coats, no clacking metal hangers, nothing. He could touch each side of the closet if he stretched out his arms. He took a step inside. Another. Like Ricker’s closet on the other side, it was deeper than he’d imagined. And dark.
Too risky to click on the overheard light.
He held out an arm until his fingertips touched the back wall.
He sensed DeLuca close behind. Heard him breathing. With the palm of his left hand, Jake felt along the left edge of the closet’s back wall, barely touching it, almost closing his eyes with the effort to find something that seemed out of place, different. But there was nothing. Maybe he was wrong.