She went and turned on the lights in Cat’s room. Some of her posters and pictures, the ones she hadn’t taken to college, still decorated the walls. The air still smelled like her, floral and fresh. Serena could have texted her to say, hello, how are you, do you miss me? Cat was new to dorm life, which meant she was probably still awake, hanging out with the other freshmen until all hours. But this was Serena’s problem. She didn’t need to burden Cat with her own loneliness.
Behind her, a pulse of music filled the living room. It came from her phone, which was charging on a table near the bedroom door. Maggie was calling. She’d given Maggie her own ringtone: Peter Gabriel’s “Big Time,” a tribute to ego run wild. The other detectives always gave her a wry smile when they heard it. Maggie had taken over the major crimes unit for the Duluth Police after Stride was shot, and her new role had proved to be an uncomfortable fit. The assignment was supposed to be temporary, but Stride’s leave had gone on for more than a year now, and people were beginning to wonder if he’d ever return. That made the rest of the cops nervous. The snarkiness and impatience that made Maggie a good number two for Stride didn’t always translate well when she was the one snapping out orders. Serena felt that more keenly than the others because she worked most closely with Maggie day to day.
“Hey, what’s up?” she said, answering the phone.
“I’m soaking wet, that’s what’s up,” Maggie replied in a sour voice.
Serena eyed the tall, rain-streaked windows that led to the cottage’s front porch. “Why do I get the feeling I’m about to be soaking wet, too?”
“Yeah, I’m in Canal Park. Guppo’s already on the way.”
“What’s up?” she repeated, because Maggie sometimes seemed to think that Serena could follow her thoughts telepathically.
“We’ve got a kidnapping.”
“Who?”
“Do you know Gavin Webster, the defense lawyer? It’s his wife. Chelsey. Chelsey Webster. The abduction happened two days ago. Two days! He tried to deal with the kidnappers directly, and they screwed him.”
“Took the money and ran?” Serena asked.
“Right. No call, no sign of Chelsey, no evidence of where she is or whether she’s still alive. Anyway, that’s Gavin’s story, so we need to check it out.”
“You don’t believe him?” Serena asked because she could hear doubt in her voice.
“He’s a lawyer,” Maggie repeated, using the word like it was a piece of fish that smelled past its prime. “So who knows? Gavin looks like he’s in shock, but lawyers are good actors.”
“Where are you?” Serena asked.
“I’m taking him to the lobby at the Comfort Suites so we can get out of the rain. I’ll interview him there.”
“Okay, I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
Serena put down the phone.
She headed for the house’s third bedroom. That was where she kept her clothes now, rather than in the closet of the master bedroom. Getting called out in the middle of the night wasn’t uncommon, so she’d decided to use the other closet to avoid waking Stride up every time it happened. Not that he’d ever complained. She stripped, put on a bra and a red turtleneck, and zipped up snug jeans. Her legs were long, and when she put on her heeled boots, she cleared six feet. Staring into the mirror over the dresser, she used a brush to get some of the tangles out of her long, lush black hair, and then she tied it in a ponytail behind her.
She grabbed her keys. Her wallet. Her badge. Her gun.
Before she left the bedroom, she hesitated, studying her face in the mirror the way she would examine a suspect who was hiding things from her. Emerald-green eyes stared back in the gray light. Her nose was sharp and straight. Her skin still had a mellow brown glow from the summer days outside. She was a harsh critic of her own looks, despite Jonny telling her that she hadn’t lost the glamour she’d brought to Duluth from her old life in Las Vegas. With a critic’s eye, she noticed laugh lines making parentheses around her mouth and a tiny web of wrinkles near her eyes. Her cheeks were fuller than she liked; no matter how much she worked out, time and the Duluth seasons managed to keep her weight a few pounds above her target.
That was Serena at forty-three years old.
Forty-three.
The middle of life. As much behind her as ahead of her. How had that happened? She hadn’t really come to terms with the reality that she was no longer young, and she didn’t like it. Being mature was supposed to mean you had less to prove to yourself, but if anything, she’d become increasingly dissatisfied with herself and her life. She felt a hole in her soul, an emptiness that followed her like a shadow and was always with her.
Serena turned off the light and headed out of the bedroom. The rest of the cottage was dark, and rain thumped on the roof. In the kitchen, she plucked her coat off a hook near the back door, then grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. Before she could open it, her cell phone rang again. Quickly, she dug in the pocket of her jeans to retrieve it.
The caller ID showed a telephone number she didn’t recognize. Except for the area code, which she knew well.
602. Phoenix.
Serena tensed. Nothing good ever came out of calls from Phoenix.
“Yes?” she answered cautiously. “Who is this?”
“Ma’am, my name is Deputy Lawrence Moray with the Maricopa County Sheriff ’s Office in Arizona. I’m trying to reach a woman named Serena Dial, and this is the number I have for her.”
“My name’s Serena Stride now, Deputy, but you’ve got the right person.”
“Okay, well, good, thank you.” His voice stumbled uncomfortably. “The thing is, Ms. Dial — Ms. Stride — I found your name and number in the possession of a woman we’ve identified as Samantha Dial.”
Serena sighed and squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes, of course, you did. That’s the way it always works. Samantha Dial is my mother, Deputy. I assume you have her in jail again. What has she done now?”
Drugs.
Assault.
Theft.
Even prostitution. Being in her sixties wouldn’t stop Samantha from ringing that bell.
What was it this time, Serena wondered.
Deputy Moray cleared his throat in a nervous way that Serena had heard police officers use many times before. She’d used it herself when she had to deliver bad news. That was when she realized that this was a very different kind of phone call.
“No, ma’am, it’s nothing like that,” the deputy went on. “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, and I really apologize for doing it on the phone. But you see, we found your mother’s body tonight. She’s dead.”
2
Even when Jonathan Stride was asleep, his mind was usually conscious of his wife leaving their bed, of the crunch of her footsteps on the gravel outside the open window, of the growl of her Mustang’s engine as she drove off. He knew when she’d been called away and wasn’t surprised to wake up alone. But this time, his eyes opened with a start. He’d been vaguely aware of her getting up, but he hadn’t heard her leave the house, and at least half an hour had passed since then.
He threw back the blanket and dropped his feet on the cold bedroom floor. As he did, he felt a tug in his chest, as if someone had given him a sharp punch to the ribs. Most of the pain had gone away over the past fourteen months of rehabilitation, after the surgery that had saved his life. He was running again, lifting weights again, feeling maybe 80 to 90 percent of the man he’d been before he was shot. However, his bones gave him a bracing reminder every morning of what he’d gone through on the operating table.