Chapter 38

MICHAEL DRIVES LIKE a speed demon, hardly a surprise. It dawns on me that I’ve never seen him behind the wheel of a car before. I drove him somewhere once in Bob. Other than that, we’re always either in his limo or taking cabs.

He’s definitely a little reckless today, especially with the kids in the car. A couple of times I almost lose them, first by the George Washington Bridge and then later on I-95 through Stamford, where one of the lanes is closed for construction.

I tailgate other cars, trying to stay hidden in Michael’s rearview mirror. For my first time following someone, I think I’m doing a pretty good job.

Next exit, Westport.

It’s only an hour’s drive from the city, but it might as well be a million miles away. So many trees, so much space, it’s a whole other world. A very rich one, at that.

And the closer we get to the water, the richer it gets.

The homes looking out on Long Island Sound all seem to share this majestic, otherworldly quality. Beyond their manicured front lawns and perfectly aligned shutters, there’s a certain grandness to them that goes beyond size. It’s not mere money, it’s wealth.

Michael turns into a driveway.

Fittingly, it belongs to the most impressive home of them all, a cedar shake Nantucket colonial that looks like a page out of Architectural Digest. Actually, make that two pages. The huge house rolls across the property like a wave, seemingly endless.

So this is where Penley grew up.

I park by the far end of the house behind a low hedge. I’m mostly shielded while still having a decent view of the grounds, including the large infinity pool and the tennis court. What I expect to see, I don’t know.

What I’m even doing here is a much better question. We’ll find out, won’t we?

I watch as Michael and the rest of the Turnbull family spill out of their Mercedes wagon.

An older couple – Penley’s mother and father, for sure – are quick to greet them with hugs and kisses, the majority going to Dakota and Sean. Penley’s father kind of reminds me of a retired Gordon Gekko.

Sitting inside Bob and taking it all in, I imagine the conversation. Does Michael begin his ass-kissing right away with the old man or does he wait a bit?

They all disappear inside, though not for long. Dakota and Sean come racing out the French doors on the side of the house, heading straight for the pool. A woman wearing a uniform that screams “maid” isn’t far behind. It seems that she’s on lifeguard duty. She’s sort of the day-in-the-country me.

Meanwhile, Michael, Penley, and her parents settle into the whiter-than-white wicker furniture on the porch. Yet another maid appears with a silver tray. The Norman Rockwell image is slightly blown by the martini pitcher taking the place of lemonade.

Fiendish ideas dance in my head. What if I were to make a grand entrance? The emerging bitch in me imagines what a scene that would be. “What are you doing here?” Penley would ask, as I walk up to the porch.

“Why don’t you ask Michael,” I’d answer calmly.

Go on, wiggle your way out of this one, stud.

But I remain with Bob and instead reach for my camera. I snap shots of the kids splashing around in the pool. It was only last summer that Sean still needed his floaties. Dakota, on the other hand, is very graceful in the water, a baby swan.

Out of nowhere, Penley marches into frame. She barks at the kids, probably something about eating lunch, because when she turns to leave, Dakota and Sean reluctantly climb out of the pool and towel off. They are adorable! And Penley is just awful.

As the kids amble back toward the house with the maid in tow, my attention wanders. I’m gazing around, admiring the neighborhood. Everything is so clean, the air blowing in from the water so crisp. A few cars drive by, all but one a convertible. And why not? All this fresh country air to suck in.

I watch a woman in Nike everything jog by. Then I spot a man in the distance, walking toward me. He’s wearing a light Windbreaker and a gray baseball cap, his pace nice and slow. No hurry – like everything else around here.

I’m about to look away when my eyes stop.

There’s something strange about him.

Familiar.

My God, it’s that detective from the Fálcon.

Frank Delmonico’s here in Connecticut.

That just isn’t possible, but there he is.

Chapter 39

I QUICKLY DUCK BELOW the steering wheel. The detective said he’d find me again. He warned me. But out here?

How did he know? Did he tail me as I followed Michael out of New York? I guess that’s possible, but I sure can’t have him asking more questions. Not right in front of Penley’s parents’ house.

I hear his footsteps now, louder and louder. They sound heavy, deliberate. He’s a man with a mission, isn’t he? But I don’t know anything about those four murders. Why would he think otherwise?

Slowly, I peek over the sun-bleached vinyl of the dash.

The ball cap is pulled down over his eyes. Maybe it’s not Delmonico. Whoever it is – I should get out of here right now.

I reach for the keys, snapping my wrist hard to the right. The ignition sounds with a lazy sputter, the engine cranking and cranking. No! It won’t turn over.

C’mon, old buddy, don’t fail me now! This is important. If Penley sees me -

I floor the gas pedal, my foot thumping down hard.

Don’t flood it, Kris. Bob, help me out here. Bob, ole buddy?

I spot the little chrome knob by the window on the passenger side. The lock. It’s up. The door’s unlocked!

His footsteps are close.

I lunge, my fingertips only inches away from the knob.

But it’s too late!

I hear him gripping the handle outside. The raw squeak of ancient metal hinges drowns out my scream.

He’s opening the door!

Chapter 40

“WHAT THE HELL are you doing here? Are you crazy?”

I snap my head up, looking directly into his eyes.

Not Frank Delmonico’s… Michael’s.

I’ve never been so relieved to see somebody in my whole life. If only the same were true for him. He’s obviously pissed. He’s livid, actually. I’ve never seen Michael like this. He looks as though he might have a stroke, at forty-two.

I don’t say anything. I can’t. I’m still trying to catch my breath, figure out some insane excuse for why I’m here.

He stands in the open door, shaking his head. “Christ, did you follow us out here?”

But for me there’s a much more pressing question. “Is he gone?” I ask when I’m able to speak.

“Is who gone? What the hell are you talking about? There is no one here but you.”

I sit up, peering around like a periscope. There is no one else, not another soul out on the street. No Frank Delmonico.

I fall silent, feeling so stupid. And crazy. I don’t know where to start with Michael. The dream? The scene at the hotel? Delmonico? The man with the ponytail? How can I make sense to Michael when none of it makes sense to me?

Michael’s face is still beet red. “Why are you here?” he asks again. “Answer me, Kristin.”

I stare blankly at him as he folds his arms. Why am I here? It’s the question I’ve been asking myself all along.

“I… uh… I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, it’s complicated, Michael.”

“What kind of an answer is that?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out this time.

“Never mind,” he says, nervously glancing over his shoulder at the corner of the porch where Penley and her parents are sipping martinis. “The important thing now is that you get out of here. Fast. This was a big mistake, Kris. Huge.”

I tend to agree.

One more thing before I go. “How did you know I was here?” I ask.

“Even through bushes, Bob’s pretty hard to miss. We’re damn lucky I’m the only one who saw you.”