The Perfect Neighbors (27 page)

She looked at Zach. “You're not telling us everything.”

Zach hesitated, then shrugged. “Look, I may have mentioned something about how the girl in the movie looked better with makeup, what great style she had,” he said. “You have to admit it's embarrassing for Melanie—for any girl—to be singled out like this.”

“You had no right—no right! How dare you try to, to . . . groom
my daughter!” Gigi exploded.

“You crossed the line, Zach,” Joe said. “You told me you just saw this article. But you talked to Melanie last weekend. You should have come to me, not my daughter. About the pot, too.”

“She had a crush on you,” Gigi said. “Did you know that?”

Zach lifted a shoulder in a half shrug, acknowledging it. “Obviously I'm not interested in
her
, I was just trying to help.”

Gigi thought of the weight-loss book under Melanie's bed, the way her daughter had seemed so sad until recently, but had brightened at Thanksgiving dinner under Zach's attention. He'd used that power.

“I'm not comfortable with you being in our house any longer,” Gigi told Zach. “You were here to work on Joe's campaign, not to interfere with our family.”

“Are you serious?” Zach laughed. He actually laughed. “Because your daughter has a crush on me?”

“Joe?” Gigi turned to her husband.

“Let me think,” Joe said. He massaged his forehead with his index finger and thumb.

“You need me,” Zach said. “You think this is bad?” He gestured to the folder. “It's going to get worse. They're going to come after you hard. Wait until they have a photo of you smoking pot, Gigi. Can't you see the headline? ‘Like mother, like daughter.' ”

“That's enough,” Joe said. “Look, why don't we all calm down and take a step back . . .”

Gigi was staring at Zach. His eyes were bright and his cheeks were pink. He was exhilarated.

But all he said was, “Okay. I'm sorry again for overstepping. Should we head out now, Joe, and maybe we can all continue this conversation later?”

“Wait,” Gigi said. “What did you mean, ‘like mother, like daughter'?”

She saw it in Zach's eyes. He knew instantly he'd made a mistake.

“You were in my bedroom,” Gigi said. “When?”

Zach shook his head. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Gigi turned to Joe. “The pot I keep upstairs. Someone took some out a while ago.”

“It wasn't me,” Zach said.

“He must've been alone in the house at some point,” Gigi said. “He probably went through everything.”

She could see Zach with his iPhone, searching through her drawers, reading the financial information in their filing cabinet, snapping pictures . . . Creating more files, ticking bombs he could store for the future.

She stepped toward Zach, her fingers itching to slap him, wanting to do something—something!—to get his tentacles out of their family. Then she heard Joe's quick, sharp inhalation. She turned and saw her husband's face transform from anger to shock.

In the hallway was Melanie, holding a lunch bag she must've forgotten and come back for. The lunch she'd so carefully prepared that morning, with cut-up carrot and celery sticks and a yogurt. Weight-loss foods.

Gigi leaped up to follow her daughter, but Melanie was running upstairs, and then came the sound of her door slamming. Gigi tore up the stairs behind her, and a moment later, Joe came thundering up, too.

“I want him out of my house,” Gigi said. She rubbed her eyes to push away her tears. “Right now!”

“Okay,” Joe said. “You're right, he can't stay here any longer.” He knocked on the door. “Melanie?”

There wasn't any answer, but Joe cracked open the door anyway. “Honey?”

Melanie had pulled the covers over her head, just as she had when she'd been a little girl. The sight of that lump in the bed broke Gigi's heart.

She didn't look at Joe for guidance or try to think about the next right step. She instinctively ran to her daughter, and wrapped her arms around Melanie.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “Oh, baby, I'm so sorry.”

She could feel Melanie's body shuddering, but Melanie didn't push her away, so Gigi held on tight. She rocked her daughter back and forth, wishing she could absorb her pain.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Before Newport Cove

IT WAS DARK OUT
when Tessa arrived at Danny's house. She pulled into the driveway, behind his Volvo, and killed her car's lights.

She sat there for a moment, deciding how to proceed. She imagined seeing Danny smile as he opened the door. He'd invite her in, and she'd take a seat in the living room. She'd relay what Addison had said, using the same calm tone in which she'd conveyed the story to Harry. “I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding, but could you explain to me why you needed to touch my son's legs?” she'd ask.

Or maybe she wouldn't put forth that question. Maybe she'd just repeat what Addison had said, then study Danny's reaction. His face would reveal something if it hadn't been an innocent act, wouldn't it?

She got out of her car and marched up the front porch steps and knocked on the door. She waited a few moments, then jabbed the bell with her index finger.

The door remained closed. Tessa glanced at the Volvo in the
driveway. The house appeared occupied; light poured forth from nearly every window. She knocked again, harder this time, until her knuckles stung.

Maybe he was in the shower, she thought, feeling deflated. She started to head back to her car, unsure of what else to do. But she paused on the top step of the front porch, looking at the basketball hoop over Danny's garage. He was sure welcoming to kids.

The thing was, she couldn't think of a single thing Danny could say to prove his touch was innocent. Addison could've just tried on the pants and reported if they were too big or too small; that's what he did whenever she took him shopping. And why would Danny use his palm, running it along the inside of Addison's leg? Then there was the special hug. It sounded creepy. She'd gone over and over it in her mind. It wasn't a misunderstanding. There wasn't a reasonable explanation.

She'd been wrong before. But that didn't matter. Right now, every instinct she had was screaming an alarm.

The certainty propelled her to turn around and try the door handle. It twisted easily in her palm. It was still relatively early; maybe Danny only locked up when he went to bed at night. He lived on a quiet, pleasant street. Maybe he thought he had nothing to fear.

She stepped across the threshold, listening intently. She could hear the distant sounds of voices, then a burst of laughter coming from a television on upstairs. She imagined Danny sprawled across his bed, relaxing, perhaps sipping from a bottle of beer.

The television was loud; it must have masked the sound of the doorbell and her knocking. She'd go to the bottom of the stairs and call out to him, she decided as she closed the door. She'd tell Danny to stay the hell away from her son. Then she'd phone the other parents and let them know what had happened. They could question their own children and decide if they wanted to go to the police as a group.

Tessa walked through the hallway, then paused to listen again. The television was still on. She glanced to her right, seeing a dining room with a laptop computer on the gleaming wood table. A stack of newspapers and magazines lay next to it, along with a pile of Young Ranger uniforms and the selection of binoculars and other items that Danny had mentioned. Tessa looked at the stairs to make sure Danny wasn't coming into view, then crept over and leafed through the publications—they were just newspapers and sports magazines—and opened the laptop. It was password protected.

Danny lived alone. Was it suspicious that he wanted to protect the information on his laptop?

She closed the lid, then walked into the galley kitchen. It was clean and uncluttered, with a coffeemaker and a blue bowl containing apples and oranges on the counter. A single coffee mug and china plate rested in the sink.

Tessa took in the electric bill on the counter by the phone, and the calendar on the wall with mostly empty white squares. Then her eyes landed on a door leading to the basement.

She could still hear the television on upstairs, the tinny laugh track filtering through the walls. Noise traveled through the floors of this house; she'd have to be very quiet.

She reached for the knob, but the door was locked. A bolt was fastened high up on the door—above the reach of a child, Tessa noted, wondering if that was significant. She slid it out of the chamber, grateful it eased away with just a small click. Then she opened the door.

She could only see blackness. She waited until her eyes adjusted and she found a light switch, then she shut the door behind her and turned it on. She crept down the stairs, wincing as one near the bottom groaned.

The basement wasn't finished. The floor was cement, and exposed pipes twisted in a labyrinth overhead. She glanced around, taking in a few suitcases, Christmas decorations
stored in big plastic bins, and odds and ends of dusty furniture. There was also a workbench in one corner. Tessa moved over to it, noticing the paintbrushes and neatly stacked cans of stain, hammers, and wrenches. There wasn't anything out of the ordinary here.

But the back of her neck was tingling again. This felt different from when she'd seen the nanny with her crying son and had spotted the suspicious-looking man at the playground. This felt like certainty.

She looked around, noticing for the first time two other closed doors leading off the basement.

She tested the first one. It opened into a laundry room. An empty plastic basket sat by the dryer, and a jug of Tide rested atop the washer. Tessa closed the door and walked over to the second one.

The smell of chemicals hit her the moment she cracked open the door. The room was small, maybe ten feet by eight feet, with a large rectangular table in its center. Atop the table were four plastic trays and a pair of tongs. By the far wall was an easel.

A darkroom, Tessa realized. She hadn't been in one in years, not since a photography class she'd taken in high school.

The door was painted black on the inside and a strip of black felt ran around its seam to seal off the light. Even with the door open, though, it was hard for Tessa to see the images on the photographs stacked at the end of the table. She dug into her pocket for her phone and used its screen for extra light. The photographs were all of flowers, she realized as she used her free hand to riffle through them.

Apparently Danny loved roses and azaleas and poppies. He'd zoomed in on their petals, capturing them in glorious detail. She let the last photograph drop onto the table, feeling the sag of disappointment. She'd been so sure . . . but there wasn't any evidence here.

She'd go back upstairs and exit the house and then reopen the front door and call out his name. She'd revert to her original plan.

Tessa straightened up and as she did so, her phone cast a light over the easel in the corner. There were more photographs attached to it with little clips.

She walked over, her heart pounding. She held up her phone as her eyes scanned the rows of a dozen or so photos, then covered her mouth as nausea roiled her stomach. The photographs were of little boys. Even though she'd expected—wanted!—to find something, she wasn't prepared for this.

At least the neat rows of photographs weren't graphic. The boys were all in their underwear. There were some shots that appeared to be taken in the changing room of a swimming pool, judging from the towels and goggles scattered about. And others in a smaller space—a bathroom. Tessa recognized a few faces from Young Rangers: little Sam, who'd broken his arm last year; Max, a cheerful, pint-sized chatterbox; Henry, who had an irrepressible cowlick right in the front of his brown hair . . .

And Addison. He was on the bottom row. In the photograph, he was struggling to get out of his pants, balancing on one leg as he used his hands to wrestle his jeans off his other foot. The Young Rangers uniform was on the floor beside him. His tongue was sticking out of the corner of his mouth, an indicator that he was working hard at something. Addison had the same look when he was doing math problems.

A wave of rage spread through Tessa as she grabbed the photograph of Addison and tore it away. How had Danny done it? Maybe he had a peephole in his bathroom with a camera attached. Her beautiful, perfect son . . . And all of those other innocent children. Danny had preyed on them, earning their trust. She had to get out of here before she vomited, before she grabbed the hammer from the workbench and slammed it against Danny's skull.

Tessa clattered up the stairs, breathing hard, then raced through the front door, leaving it open behind her as she ran outside. She fumbled through her purse until she found her keys and she started her car, revving the engine. She'd drive home to Harry. They'd call the police together. She had the evidence in her hand. Danny would get locked up. She'd call the other parents, she'd call the newspaper, she'd make sure he never, ever . . .

“Wait!”

She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Danny standing there, a few feet behind her.

He stretched out his arms in an open, welcoming gesture. He was smiling broadly, the same wide grin he'd bestowed upon her when they'd first met. The one that had charmed her, charmed the other parents. Charmed the kids.

“Where are you rushing off to?” he called. Her hand was already on the gear shift; her car was in reverse. But she couldn't move. Danny was blocking her.

So he knew. He'd probably heard her tearing up the basement stairs.

He would cover this up, she realized as rage blurred her vision. He'd get rid of the evidence before she came back. Trash his computer, destroy the photographs, plaster over the bathroom peephole. All she had was one picture of Addison. It wouldn't be enough to send Danny to jail. He'd probably get probation, and then he'd just move away and start preying on other children.

She wondered what else he'd done. She'd read somewhere that child molesters targeted dozens—or was it hundreds?—of victims before they were caught. Had he actually touched Addison or any of the other kids?

All of those thoughts and calculations flitted through her mind at light speed, in less time than it took Tessa to remove her foot from the brake and press hard on the gas.

Her Toyota shot down the driveway in reverse, in a straight,
smooth line, barely slowing as it smashed into Danny and he disappeared.

She didn't stop until she reached the street, then she glanced up at the driveway. Danny was lying motionless in the middle of it, his dark clothing blending in with the asphalt.

You could barely even tell he was there. He might as well have been a pile of crumpled rags. She put the car into drive, still holding the photograph of Addison, and stepped on the gas again, more gently this time.

Some time later—ten minutes? An hour?—she became aware that she was in her own driveway, her head collapsed onto the steering wheel, her body ice-cold.

It wasn't until a thought seized her that she was able to muster the strength to lift up her head and stare at the house:
Harry
.

She could see him through the kitchen window, still reading the newspaper. Calm, logical Harry would know exactly what to do. He could fix this.

She exited the car, closing the door carefully behind her, then went inside to tell her husband what had just happened.