“Trish!” Mary heard herself scream, against the wind and rain. She twisted the doorknob, but it was locked. She pounded on the door. “Trish! Are you there?” The downpour drowned her cry. She felt as if someone had flipped a switch, throwing on all of her circuits, all at once. It had to be Bobby’s house. Trish could be inside. Trapped. Dying. Alive. Maybe it wasn’t too late.
“Trish!” Mary screamed. The sound reverberated in her ears. Her thoughts ran scared. She could go back to her car and call the cops, but when would they come? Were there cops up here, anyway? Trish could be inside the house. It was an emergency. Mary wasn’t standing on ceremony or law. She shoved the door with her shoulder, then ran back a few steps on the porch and hit it again with all her might. It budged, but didn’t open. Her shoulder hurt like hell.
She looked wildly around. The wire chair on the porch. It was heavy enough to do the job. She reached over, grabbed the chair, raised it over her head, and in one motion, brought it crashing through the window in the door. The glass shattered with a tinkling sound, spraying to the ground.
“Trish!” Mary yelled. No one came running from the house or anywhere else. It made her more nervous than before. Her mouth went dry.
She flung the chair aside, poked her hand through the broken window, and felt around inside for the knob, calling Trish’s name. She felt herself give in to panic. She twisted the lock frantically one way, then the other. She tried the knob again. It unlocked, and she extracted her hand and swung the front door wide open, then hurried inside.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“T rish?” Mary called out, closing the front door behind her. She scanned the living room. It was as she had seen from the window. Nothing out of order except the broken lamp on the floor. She stepped over the shards from the lamp and the window, then moved quickly through the dining room. She could be contaminating a crime scene, but it was an emergency if Trish was alive. And if she wasn’t, her killer was beyond conviction.
Mary called out again, the tremor in her voice echoing throughout the house. She reached the Biannetti’s bag and peeked inside. A stack of tinfoil trays with white cardboard lids sat inside. She felt the bag. It was stone cold. She eyeballed the room. A new dining room table with four chairs. Nothing on the walls, and it smelled like fresh paint. She glanced at the walls, eggshell white, and imagined a likely scenario: Bobby had brought Trish here, to show her the house and even got take-out diner to celebrate. Then he’d popped the question, and all hell had broken loose.
Mary turned and looked behind her at the shards on the floor, wondering. Had he hit Trish with the lamp? Dragged her out to the car? Taken her somewhere? Killed her? Could she still be alive in here?
“Trish!” Mary went from the dining room to the kitchen, then looked around. All cleaned and untouched. A six-pack of Bud sat on the counter, unopened, next to a bottle of Chianti and three of Smirnoff vodka, one half full. Next to them sat a white cake box with dancing musical notes around the side, from Melrose Diner. She peeked inside the box’s clear plastic window, knowing what she’d see. Happy Birthday, Sweetheart, read the pink icing.
“Trish!” Mary hurried from the room and up the stairs, her heart pounding. If Bobby had killed her, would he have done it in the bedroom? Would there be a body there? She flashed on Trish’s mother, heartbroken in Mary’s parents’ house, and then the Mean Girls, hysterical in her office. She stowed those thoughts in the back of her mind and reached the top of the stairs, then entered the first room on the second floor, holding her breath as she flicked on the light switch.
No body. Nobody. Merely a queen-sized bed, with a white coverlet and flanking night tables, just like in the house in South Philly. Not slept in. Nothing on the walls. A small single closet with an open door. Empty. No clothes or shoes inside, or anything awful, either. Mary glanced around. There was no bathroom off the bedroom, so she went back out in the hallway, sick with fear. Where could Trish be?
Mary came upon a doorway next to the bedroom, braced herself, and flung the door open as she flicked on the light, then looked inside. Nothing. A new, bright white bathroom, also apparently unused. She turned around, puzzled. There was only one room left, off the hall, at the darkened end. She swallowed hard and crossed the hall, then reached inside the door for the light switch.
“Trish?” she said, hearing the fear in her own voice. She couldn’t find the switch with her fingers and got so nervous that she raked the wall with her hand until the room came to life, illuminated. Nothing. Another bedroom. Nothing in it except a double bed and a single night table. She blinked, confused.
“Trish!” she called out, then jogged back down the hall, went downstairs, and looked around for a cellar door, then found one in the kitchen. She hadn’t seen it before. She told her heart to stop jumping around, and her brain began to function. If Bobby were going to kill Trish, he wouldn’t leave her body in his basement, incriminating him, would he? Maybe she was locked down there, alive?
Mary descended the skinny staircase. It had no rail, and as she went down she could see that nothing was amiss in the basement. The concrete floor was clean, with a new washer and dryer against one wall, of gray cinderblock. A hot-water heater sat on the right, next to the usual collection of incomprehensible heating things. She reached the bottom and looked around. No Trish.
She went back upstairs, unaccountably spooked that somehow she’d be locked in the basement for the rest of her life, then breathed a relieved sigh when she reached the kitchen again. She took the time to search the drawers, which had been filled with new kitchen gear. She found a set of striped dishtowels, still with their price tags from Target. Clearly Bobby had been setting up house. She turned to the last drawer and pulled it open. It was full of bills and papers, and she recognized the logos for Verizon, and PECO. She picked up the first few and looked at the name: Marty Slewinsky.
Mary knew that name, heard it like an echo from her past. It was a name that Bobby always called himself when he felt dumb. His stupid alter ego. He’d be struggling with his declensions, and when she quizzed him and he got the answer wrong, he said it was Marty Slewinsky. She didn’t know if anybody but her knew the nickname. Bobby wouldn’t be telling his fellow mobsters about his insecurities, and by the time he’d grown up, he’d be masking those feelings with vodka. She reached for a thick packet of papers and opened the trifold. The yellow one on the top was a purchase agreement for a Ford 150, 4WD, also in Marty Slewinsky’s name. She remembered what the realtor had said, no four-wheel drive and no flannel.
Bobby would need that truck in this terrain. So this was his house. His bills. His new identity, just waiting for him whenever he left the Mob. But where was the truck? Had he driven it back to the city? And what was his grand plan, anyway? Trish would leave her mom, friends, and job for a cabin in the middle of the woods? And if he had proposed that to her, what had happened?
Then Mary remembered about the cheating, and Trish’s nooners with Miss Tuesday Thursday. Had Trish told him she’d been cheating? Had he found out? What would he do to her if he did? She shoved the bills back inside the drawer and went over to the lamp, broken on the floor. She examined the shards without touching them, bending over, which was when she saw it, on the jagged edge of one of the broken pieces. Red-brown droplets spattered against the light green. She looked closer. The flecks were dried blood.