The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [71]
And more and more often Edith found herself staring next door and thinking that now was not a good time to live so close to an empty home.
“Let me help with your luggage,” Edith volunteered, already moving toward the trunk and shaking away the shivers creeping up her spine. She had no use for “feelings” or “visions.” A person couldn’t act on a feeling. “You travel light.”
“At my age, who needs things?” Martha pulled out two suitcases. “And the house?
“Just the same as you left it.” Edith had agreed to take care of the house when Martha had announced she was going to visit Florida for a spell and try her hand at golf. Edith had a key to the place and gave it the once-over every month. Martha called every few months to ask about the house, though generally the discussion turned quickly to politics. Martha didn’t like Clinton. Edith couldn’t stand Newt. They both enjoyed the conversations immensely.
Edith turned to the front door, already tugging on the suitcase. But then she froze, the hair on the back of her neck prickling up.
The girl stood in front of the door perfectly naked. This close, Edith could see the butterfly tattoo above her left breast. Nothing big or vulgar. The butterfly was small, dainty even, a light flickering of color that spoke of a lonely wish for flight. Blond hair cascaded down her shoulders, of course—all the girls were blondes.
Edith raised her gaze even though she didn’t really want to see more. There was nothing, no message, not a plea to give her a hint. The girl just stood there, naked with blood on her face, and her eyes were faintly apologetic, as if she knew she was as unwanted dead as she had been alive.
“Go away, child,” Edith said softly. “There’s nothing I can do for you.”
The girl remained, stubborn. Edith squeezed her eyes shut, and when she opened them again, she’d won and the girl was gone.
Belatedly she became aware of the quizzical look on Martha’s face. “You all right?”
Edith didn’t answer immediately. “Did you hear that serial killer got loose?”
“Huh?”
“Jim Beckett, that’s his name. Killed ten women and now two prison guards. Got outta Walpole. That’s not far from here.”
Martha didn’t say anything, but for one moment Edith saw something flash across those bright eyes. It looked like fear, bone-deep fear. The big woman composed herself quickly, squaring her broad shoulders. “This is a small community, Edith, a quiet place. Someone like him wouldn’t have any cause to come here.”
Edith watched Martha awhile longer, but Martha’s expression was blank.
“I’m sure you’re right,” Edith said at last.
She didn’t believe either one of them though. And it bothered her that they’d each told their first lie over such a man as Jim Beckett. It bothered her a lot.
SIXTEEN
J.T. WAS ON edge. By night he paced the living room with enough energy to power a small city. Marion took one look and returned her beer to the refrigerator. She reentered the room with two glasses of water instead, handing one to her brother.
J.T. downed it wordlessly. He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. Then he resumed pacing.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Marion said at last, “you’re giving me gray hairs. Sit down.”
He pivoted and headed the other direction. “Don’t you feel it?” he asked.
“Feel what?”
“Tess, go to your room.”
“What?”
“Lock the door. Knit a sweater.”
“Oh, no. If there’s something going on, I want to know.”
J.T.’s gaze locked on his sister. Marion shook her head. “I walked the grounds just half an hour ago, J.T. There’s nothing out there but your own dark mood. Stop panicking Tess.”
“She wanted to stay.”
“Would someone start speaking English?” Tess demanded. Her belly had knotted.
“I don’t like it,” J.T. repeated. “Air’s different. Something. Shit, we’re outta here.”
“What?”
J.T. strode across the room. “You heard me. Grab your purses, girls, we’re blowing this joint.”
“J.T., this is stupid—”
J.T. halted. “You got friends in the Nogales Police Department, right, Marion?”
She nodded warily.