The Last to Know (26 page)

Or does Shawna really know where Dad is, and she’s trying to hide it from Mitch? But why the heck would she do that?

He looks into his stepmother’s green eyes. There’s all this gunk around them—brown eye shadow and dark pencil lines on her lids and black stuff on her eyelashes. She has pink, shiny stuff on her lips and darker pink stuff on her cheeks.

Mom doesn’t wear all that makeup, and she’s just as pretty as Shawna, he thinks defensively. Well, in a different way.

Shawna is the kind of woman you’d see in a movie, with her long, straight blond hair and her super-skinny body. She dresses like a teenager or a fashion model, in the latest styles, like short skirts and shirts that show her flat stomach, stuff like that. Her fingernails—toenails, too—are always polished. She wears jewelry every day, and not just her big, sparkly diamond wedding ring.

Mom just looks like a regular person—like a Mom.

“Do you want a snack?” Shawna asks.

How did she know that? He nods.

She looks all happy. “Let me fix it for you.”

“I can get it.” He starts for the big kitchen that runs the length of the back of the house.

“I’ll help,” she says, following him.

Mitch grits his teeth, wishing his dad would hurry up and come home.

S
itting stiffly on the edge of the bed in the third-floor guest room, Margaret closes the journal in her lap.

So.

Now she knows.

She isn’t the only sister who has a secret.

Page after page of Jane’s neat script have revealed something Margaret somehow never suspected—or dared to hope, in those long, lonely years when she so fervently coveted her sister’s life. . . .

Her sister’s husband.

No wonder Jane concealed this volume in the clandestine compartment behind the bookshelf, where Owen could never come across it and discover the truth about his perfect wife.

This will change everything.

Everything.

Margaret’s heart beats faster at the very notion of what lies ahead. She presses her fingers to her trembling lips, lips that have waited a lifetime to touch Owen’s. She had expected to wait longer . . . much longer.

Until the mourning is over.

Until Owen is ready to love again.

There’s no telling how long that would take.

But now . . .

Now she holds the key that will unlock the door that slammed in her face the day Owen looked down from that diving board, so clearly oblivious to Margaret’s existence, so utterly smitten with Jane.

Now at last, she, too, will have the perfect life—the life her sister and so many other women so foolishly take for granted.

But Margaret never will.

She rises and goes to the mirror, checking her reflection.

She’ll change her clothes, she decides, appraising the wool slacks, the silk blouse. Put on something more feminine. More romantic.

The trouble is, she doesn’t have anything like that—not in the austere clothing she brought with her, nor in her closet and bureau back at home.

She could slip out to buy something, but that would mean delaying the moment that is finally within her grasp. And after a lifetime of longing, Margaret can wait no longer.

She needs something feminine and pretty, and she needs it
now
 . . .

And she knows exactly where she can find it.

Her mind made up, she slips out into the hall and down the stairway to the second floor. Owen is downstairs, presumably in his study. Her mother put the baby down to sleep more than an hour ago and then said she was going to take a sleeping pill and go to bed. Both their doors are closed.

Margaret stands for a long time in the corridor anyway, listening. Just to make sure nobody is stirring.

Then, for the second time today, she gingerly turns the knob and enters the master bedroom suite.

S
ooner or later, they’re going to find out
.

It isn’t the first time the thought has drifted through Fletch Gallagher’s mind as he sits moodily at the bar, sipping the single-malt scotch that Jimmy pours so generously.

Uncertain at this point whether “they” are the Townsend Heights police, the swarming press, Sharon, or all of the above, he stares at his reflection in the mirror above the bar.

Is this what it comes down to, then?

On a barstool, alone, drunk . . . desperate to escape the inevitable?

Unwilling to meet his own gaze in the mirror, he glances away . . . directly into the seductive eyes of a woman seated on a stool down the way.

She’s attractive. Definitely interested. And—he notes the diamond-covered band on the fourth finger of her left hand—
married
.

Yes, she meets every one of his usual requirements.

But not tonight
, he thinks regretfully as he breaks the eye contact, pushes away his empty glass, and reaches into his pocket for his wallet.

A
lone in her living room, Karen tries to focus on the paperback bestseller she bought months ago. Naively she packed it in her bag to take to the hospital, thinking . . . what? That she was going to lounge around and read during labor? Or—even more laughable—
afterward?

She picked it up once or twice in the early days after Taylor’s birth, usually when she was still struggling to nurse the baby and thought it might help if she relaxed, or when she finally climbed into bed at night. But something always happened after a page or two. Either Taylor started fussing or spit up, or Karen fell asleep.

She doubts she’ll sleep tonight.

At least, not until Tom is safely home.

He called a short time ago to say he’s still with the client and that he’ll be stuck there for at least a few more hours.

Now, as Karen rereads a paragraph for the fifth or sixth time, she notices the wind gusting in the trees outside, creaking the branches and rustling the drying leaves.

There’s going to be a storm. A big one. A nor’easter.

She saw the weather forecast earlier—several times, actually, before shutting off the news channel she’s watched all day.

Now, reluctant to hear any more about Rachel or Jane Kendall, she wants only to escape into the pages of her book.

As she’s starting the same paragraph a seventh time, she hears a car door slamming outside. Tom?

The sound came from out front, not in the driveway, but sometimes he parks at the curb.

She gets up, goes to the window that faces the street, and parts the curtain. As she looks out, her hope dissolves instantly.

It’s not Tom.

A dented two-door Honda sits in front of her house.

In the streetlight’s glow, she watches a woman walk away from it, toward the house next door. Karen vaguely recognizes her. Paula something, a reporter for the local newspaper. She’s seen her around town before, notebook and camera in hand.

Unlike the swarm of press that has roamed the street for well over twenty-four hours now, randomly ringing the residents’ doorbells, seeking comment on the Leiberman case, this woman seems to have specifically targeted the Gallagher house.

Why?

Seized by a sudden impulse to stop her, to tell her what she saw Jeremiah doing yesterday in the yard, Karen forces herself to hold back.

“Whatever you do, try not to get involved,” was Tom’s parting advice before leaving this morning, after Karen once again mentioned her nagging urge to tell someone about it.

But she had been thinking she would tell the police, if anyone. Certainly not the press.

With only a shred of uncertainty, she lets the curtain fall back into place and restlessly returns to the couch and her book.

W
ith her in-laws long gone and the kids finally tucked into bed, Tasha walks into the living room wearing a pair of newly laundered flannel pajamas, the fresh smell of detergent and fabric softener wafting around her as she sinks into the cushions of the couch at last.

Joel is asleep in the recliner, the remote control in his hand, a Yankees playoff game blasting on the television.

For a few minutes, Tasha watches it absently, her mind elsewhere.

Gradually, the overwhelming tension of the day seeps out of her. Maybe too easily, she thinks, unable to focus any longer on the horror of Rachel’s murder or the fear that the elusive killer who struck so close to home will strike again—even closer.

She has been consumed by all of that for hours. Days. Now all she wants is to let go, if only for a moment’s reprieve from reality.

Maybe there’s something else on television. The game won’t hold her attention.

She doesn’t want the news, either. She knows, having flipped on the television in the bedroom earlier, that coverage of the Townsend Heights disappearance and murder dominates not only the Westchester County station but also those in New York City—and even the national networks.

Well, maybe she can find something on HBO or Cinemax. There’s no news on those cable networks.

She gets up to take the remote away from Joel.

He stirs and his grasp tightens as she tries to remove it from his hand.

“What are you doing?” he sputters.

“Changing the channel. Can I please have the remote?”

“I’m watching this.”

“No, you’re not. You’re sleeping.”

He forces himself to look alert, gazing at the screen. “I’m watching this,” he repeats.

Tasha sighs and returns to the couch, knowing he’ll be asleep again in a matter of seconds.

How often has this ritual played itself out over the course of their marriage?

Was there really a time when she found it vaguely amusing?

Yes.

But tonight, it’s only irritating.

Why?

Because she desperately needs some kind of pleasant, mindless diversion so that she can lose herself, forget what’s happening around her . . .

And yes, because she’s angry at Joel.

Angry because he’s been so distant lately . . .

And angry because he’s leaving.

Tomorrow.

With a murderer on the loose in Townsend Heights.

She gazes blankly at the television as the ball game suddenly vanishes, replaced by the network logo and the staccato musical beat they always play when a special bulletin is imminent.

Naturally Joel doesn’t notice; he’s already asleep.

Tasha sits up straight on the couch, riveted to the anchorwoman who appears on the screen.

“Good evening. For several days, the nation’s attention has been glued to the idyllic village of Townsend Heights, New York, a wealthy suburb of New York City where one woman inexplicably vanished and another was brutally murdered. . . .”

“Joel!” Tasha glances at him. “Joel, wake up!”

“Wha . . . ? I’m awake. I’m watching the game,” he says automatically, then blinks at the screen.

“To bring you a shocking new development, we now go live to our reporter Mike Matthews, who is standing by in Townsend Heights. . . .”

Tasha’s heart beats a painful rhythm in her chest as she stares in trepidation at the reporter.

M
argaret slowly descends the stairs to the first floor, clutching the banister tightly to keep from pitching forward in the uncomfortable shoes that are so pretty.

Owen is there somewhere. She heard the telephone ring a short time ago, just once. That means someone snatched it up downstairs. Mother and Schuyler are sound asleep. Margaret boldly looked in on both of them moments ago, just to be absolutely sure there would be no interruptions.

Mother lay in bed, breathing evenly, aided by her prescription tranquilizers.

Schuyler was snugly tucked into her crib, eyes closed, her thumb sweetly in her mouth as she gently sucked on it in slumber.

Margaret will be alone with Owen.

Her well-brushed dark hair hangs almost to her waist, its weight swaying behind her as she moves.

Beneath Jane’s flowing robe, she wears Jane’s nightgown. The fabric hugs her more snugly than it must fit her sister, accentuating curves Margaret didn’t realize she possessed, revealing a provocative length of bare leg, making her feel daringly seductive.

The peignoir set is white silk. Margaret chose it over the red (too blatant) and the black (too slutty).

White is virginal.

Brides wear white.

And now, walking slowly down the steps toward Owen somewhere below, the robe trailing behind her like a train, Margaret feels like a bride.

Her size-eleven feet are jammed into narrow size-eight slippers that look more like dancing shoes to Margaret but strike her as more appropriate than bare feet—or any of the cloddish shoes in her closet. Jane’s slippers . . .

A cloud of perfume wafts around her as she moves, an expensive floral scent. Jane’s perfume.

Clasped in both hands, like a bouquet, is Jane’s journal.

Only the pearls at her throat are her own.

You’re my beautiful girl, Margaret.

Do you really think so, Daddy?

If only Daddy were alive. He could walk her down the aisle.

She reaches the first floor and turns toward Owen’s study, seeing the shaft of light beneath the door.

For a moment, she is poised there in the hall, wanting to savor the giddy anticipation.

Should she knock?

No.

Not this time.

Never again.

Taking a deep breath, Margaret reaches out and pushes the double doors open. Both doors, so that he’ll see her framed there, like a bride in the back of a church.

Owen is seated at the desk.

He looks up.

His face is streaming with tears.

He looks ravaged.

Bewildered, Margaret watches as the raw anguish in his expression gives way to astonishment as he gapes at her.

“Margaret,” he says after a moment, so obviously stunned. “What are you . . . ?”

“Owen . . .” She moves forward, holding out the journal, needing to show him, to tell him the truth about her sister. About herself.

“They found her,” he says in a strangled tone, watching her, incredulity and bewilderment blatant in his red-rimmed eyes.

So caught off-guard is she by the state in which she has found him that it takes a moment for her to register his words.