Maureen sounded so proud about that, Griffin could only stare at her. Waters must've been doing the same, because after a second, Maureen snorted and waved her hand at both of them. “Oh, come on. You're big boys, you've been around the block. You know how this game is played.”
“You're telling us,” Griffin said slowly, “that you think Carol Rosen killed Eddie Como. And you believe this, because you happened to catch a moment on camera, when she was experiencing abject terror?”
Maureen narrowed her eyes. “Do you know what he did to her, Griffin? Have you read the police report from that attack? My God, when Eddie Como was done, Carol Rosen couldn't walk for five days. Jillian Hayes may have lost her sister. Meg Pesaturo may have lost her memory. But from what I've seen, Carol Rosen's pretty much lost her mind. I'd kill someone for doing that to me. Wouldn't you?”
It was a loaded question and they all knew it. Griffin didn't say anything. After another moment, Maureen impatiently shook her head.
“Look, we both know what you're going to do next. You're going to find the three victims. You're going to ask which one pulled the trigger. And the minute one of them so much as blinks, you're going to haul her ass to jail. So don't lecture me about compassion, Sergeant. This is a game. And you wouldn't have come back if you hadn't missed playing it.”
“Poor me,” Griffin murmured.
Maureen shook her head again. “No. Poor Carol Rosen.”
Chapter 7
SHE IS WATCHING THE TEN O'CLOCK NEWSON F OX. H ER eyes keep drifting shut. An early riser, she has been up since five, and ten o'clock is pushing things a bit. She should turn off the TV. She should go to bed.
The house is big and silent. The grandfather clock has finished tolling in the foyer, but she can still feel the deep vibrations working their way through the nooks and crannies of her hundred-fifty-year-old Victorian home. There had been a time when she had found that sound comforting. When she had run her hand up the gleaming cherry banister of the central staircase with pride. When she had sought out each tiny room in the attic, in the old wood-shingled tower, like a hunter in search of treasure.
Those days are gone now. More and more she looks at this house she has so painstakingly refurbished and sees her own prison.
“Must you always work so late?” she has asked her husband, Dan.
“Jesus Christ, Carol, someone has to pay for all this. New plumbing isn't exactly cheap, you know.”
She doesn't remember him being like this in the beginning. He's the one who actually found the house, who came running through the door of their rental one afternoon and announced excitedly that he'd just seen their future home. An East Side address is a big step up. This is where the great families of Providence once lived. The bankers, the shipping magnates, the jewelry manufacturers. Dan used to talk about one day having a Benefit Street address, but there is no way they could afford those huge, well-pedigreed homes.
This house, however-old, neglected, tragically subdivided into rental units-was different. The purchase price was cheap. The long-term obligation, on the other hand…
To be honest, Carol had fallen in love with the home, too. The three-story turret, the wraparound porch, the exquisite gingerbread trim. Yes, it needed a new roof, new wiring, new plumbing. It needed new walls torn down and old walls built back up. It needed carpentry work, it needed masonry work. It needed power washing, it needed sanding, it needed painting.
It needed them. That's what she had thought in the beginning. It needed a nice, young, upwardly mobile couple, with growing financial resources, and lots of tender loving care. They would slowly but surely restore this home to its former glory. And they would fill its five bedrooms with a new generation of happy, bouncing children. That's what old homes need, you know. Not just new wiring, but a fresh injection of life.
They had been so hopeful in those days. Dan's law practice was growing and while she was currently working as his legal secretary, they were certain it was only a matter of time before she'd be a stay-at-home mom with two-point-two children, and what the hell, an extremely well-mannered small dog.
Carol rises off the sofa now. She turns off the TV. She listens to the silence, the absolute, total silence of a four-thousand-square-foot home that remains too empty. And she thinks about how much she hates this sound.
“Jesus Christ, Carol, someone has to pay for all this…”
Upstairs, the air is hot and stuffy. The temperature hit almost ninety today, freakish for this early in May but that's New England for you. If you don't like the weather, just wait a minute. Unfortunately, the house has no air-conditioning and the bedroom is unbearably warm. Carol opens a window to cool the room. She can still arm the security system with a window open, but that involves lining up the window connector with the second set higher on the windowsill to complete the circuit. The security company is proud of this innovation. Carol, however, thinks it's stupid. If she lines up the connectors, she can only open the window three inches, which doesn't give her much of a breeze. She needs cooler air to sleep; she opens the window all the way.
It's 10:08, after all. Dan will be home soon.
She strips off her clothes without turning on the light. Outside she can hear cars going by, plus the distant murmur of voices. Lots of college students live in this area, and it seems to Carol that they never sleep.
Carol pulls the down comforter to the foot of the bed. Clad in a silky pink nightgown, she finally slides between the sheets. She sighs, the three-hundred-forty-thread-count cotton cool against her skin.
In a minute, she is asleep.
A sound wakes her. She doesn't know what. She blinks her eyes, disoriented, then sees a figure at the foot of her bed.
“Dan?” she murmurs sleepily. “What time is it, honey?”
The figure doesn't say anything.
“Dan?” she asks again.
And then, suddenly, she knows.
Carol scrambles out of bed. She makes it two feet, then the man grabs her by the hair. Her neck snaps back. She cries out, but the sound is muffled, choked, not at all like her. Scream, she thinks. Scream!
But she can't. Her throat won't work. There is not enough spit in her mouth. All that comes out is a gasp.
As the man pulls her by her hair, back to the bed.
Dan, she is thinking. DAN!
The man throws her down on the bed. She tries kicking out her feet, but somehow he has her ankles in his hand. Frantically, she beats at his head, but her futile efforts don't seem to bother him at all. Then he draws back his other hand. He smacks it across her face.
Her head whips to the side. Her cheekbone explodes, her eye wells up. Before she can recover, he smacks her again. Her lip splits. She tastes the salt of her own blood as tears roll down her face.
He has something looped around her wrist. She tries to yank her arm back, but the sudden motion only snaps the tourniquet into her flesh. Then he is straddling her body, and though she is sure she is struggling, she must be struggling, he has her hands, then her feet, tied to her wrought-iron bedposts.
She is crying openly now, horrible, heaving sobs. Her body strains against the ties. She twists, she heaves. But she can't do anything. She is caught, her shoulders aching, her legs spread wide, revealing… everything.