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Authors: Kevin O'Brien

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“When I look at these pictures,” Molly said, “I still can’t believe he did what he did. But I’m sure your dad explained to you that Charlie was mentally ill. Anyway, if you have anything you’d like to ask me about my brother or my family, feel free.”
“Is that why you and your mother aren’t close?” Chris asked. “Because your brother shot all those people?”
Molly nodded. “Yes. And it’s a shame, too, because I really miss her. But I guess we’re both having a hard time forgiving each other—and ourselves.”
Chris turned the page in the photo album—to some pictures of Molly on what must have been her thirteenth birthday. At least, in the photos, there was a 1 candle and a 3 candle on the cake. She was kind of gawky looking, with braces and braids. At the dinner table with the cake and the stack of presents, it was just Molly, her brother, and one parent. In some photos, it was the mom, in other photos, the dad. The parents must have taken turns snapping the picture. It was sad. There was no one else at her birthday. And there was no one else playing in the snow with them. “Didn’t you guys have any friends?” he heard himself ask.
Chris noticed the slightly pained look on her face. Then he cleared his throat. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” she murmured. She sat back down on his bed. “Charlie didn’t make friends too easily, and I felt responsible for him. It sort of became my job, my role in the family. Plus, to be honest, I was embarrassed to have people over to the house, because of him. So as freakish as it sounds, I guess the two of us were very close growing up.” She glanced down at the bedspread and smoothed it out with her hand. “You’d think I would have known him a little better, and known what he was capable of, but obviously I didn’t.”
“After it happened, did you ever talk to any of the people he shot?”
She nodded soberly. “I wrote to all of them. A couple of them wrote back. This one woman who was severely wounded, God bless her, she said she’d already forgiven Charlie, and she was praying for me. On the opposite side of that, I visited the mother of the man who was killed, and she spit in my face. I’m not sure if I lost a son, I wouldn’t do the exact same thing.”
Chris said nothing. He was thinking of his visit to Mrs. Corson.
“Anyway—” She sighed. “I just couldn’t stay in Chicago after that. So—I moved to Washington, D.C, and tried to put the past behind me. Then I met your dad, and I fell in love. I guess you know the rest.”
Chris closed her photo album and set it on his desk. “So who do you think broke the lock on my locker and left me that note?”
She glanced down at the carpet and shrugged uneasily. “I—I really can’t say.”
Chris stared at her. He’d thought she was being so honest with him, but now he could see she was holding something back. “You can’t think of anybody? I mean, it’s like they have it out for you or something. Could it be one of the people your brother shot—or a relative of one of them?”
“Well, it happened over three years ago, Chris. I can’t imagine they’d wait this long to try to get back at me.” Molly got to her feet. “Anyway, whoever’s responsible, I hope the only damage they did was to the lock on your locker.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Are
we
okay, Chris?”
He hesitated, but then nodded apathetically. “Sure.”
She started to bend forward—maybe to kiss him on the cheek or hug him. But he turned away in his chair and reached for the photo album. He handed it to her. “Thanks for letting me see this.”
“Oh, yeah, you bet,” she said awkwardly. Clutching the album to her chest, she backed toward the door. “I—I have a lock on my bike that might fit your locker at school. Remind me to get it for you tomorrow morning, okay? The combination should be easy for you to remember. It’s your dad’s birthday—eight-oh-eight.”
“Thanks, Molly,” he said, unsmiling. “Good night.”
“G’night, Chris,” she said. Then she stepped out to the hallway and closed his door.
Part of him felt bad for not being a little friendlier toward her. But he couldn’t help it. She was covering something up, just as she’d covered up for over a year now the fact that her brother was a murderer. He could tell Molly had a pretty good idea who had broken into his locker and left that note. That same person had probably been watching him all day—maybe even longer. They were screwing around with his head, and he didn’t like it.
And he didn’t like Molly, because she wouldn’t tell him who it might be.
C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN
“Are you crazy?” Angela asked, with a glass of white wine in her hand. They sat in a booth at Palomino in the City Center Building. The elegant restaurant was busy and noisy with the lunch-hour crowd. Gorgeous, opulent Chihuly glass vases were strategically placed between booths; and the wait-staff all wore black pants, white shirts, and ties beneath their aprons.
Angela had been sitting in the booth and sipping her wine when Molly had arrived promptly at one-fifteen. It reminded Molly of a line she’d heard in a gangster movie once, something about always arriving extra early when meeting with the enemy
.
With her navy-blue dress and pearls, Angela looked like she was going to a wedding. Molly felt underdressed in her black slacks and a sage-colored sweater.
She wished she’d chosen another restaurant for their rendezvous, ideally a cafeteria where diners paid up front. This lunch with Angela promised to be very confrontational, and they’d both be stuck there at the table, hating each other and waiting for the bill.
Right now, Molly was waiting for her Diet Coke. They hadn’t even ordered their food yet, and already things were getting a bit hostile.
“Molly, you’re not making any sense,” Angela said, rolling her eyes. “I mean, really, why in God’s name would I break the lock off Chris’s school locker and leave him some snide note about you? Talk about crazy. It’s as nutty as you accusing me of smashing the pumpkins on your front stoop—and then breaking into the house. I know how much Erin loves Halloween. Why on earth would I want to ruin that for her?”
“Well, if you didn’t do it, who did?” Molly pressed. “Who else has a key to the house?”
Angela leaned forward. “I don’t have a key to the house anymore. I gave it to Jeff when I left. And I don’t know where Chris’s locker is at school. If I was sneaking around the school hallways, don’t you think Chris would have noticed—or one of his friends would have seen me and told him? Why would I do something so silly? If I wanted to tell Chris something, I’d sit down with him and tell him—face-to-face.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Molly countered. “You wouldn’t want your son to know you hired a private detective to look into my family background. So you planted that note in his jacket. You have a history of being underhanded and sneaky and . . .”
The waitress returned with her Diet Coke, and Molly fell silent. She worked up a smile, shifted in her seat, and tried to look interested in her menu.
“We still haven’t decided on lunch yet,” Angela told the waitress. “Give us a few minutes.”
“Certainly, take your time,” the waitress said.
Angela waited until the waitress walked away, and then she turned toward Molly. “You know, I’m getting pretty sick of all your accusations,” she said. “And I don’t appreciate the threatening phone calls on my cell, either.”
“What calls?” Molly scowled at her.
“Are you on the level?”
“Yes,” Molly said. “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”
Angela took a sip of wine. “Someone called me on my cell three or four times this week. It was one of those blocked numbers, and all they said was,
‘You’re going to pay for what you did.’
That wasn’t you?”
Baffled, Molly shook her head.
“It’s a woman’s voice—all raspy and crawly. At first, I thought it was that crazy Cassandra, who Jeff was seeing on the sly while we were married. But then I figured, why would she call me? She’d be calling and harassing you now. So—then I figured
you
had to be the crank caller.”
“Well, it’s not me,” Molly murmured.
“I have a tough time believing you,” Angela replied. “I mean, who else would be calling me like that? You’re the one accusing me of doing all these bizarre things—things that hurt my own children. It doesn’t make any sense.” She shook her head. “You need help, Molly. I’m serious. Insanity must run in your family.”
The reference to Charlie stung. At the same time, Angela was finally admitting that she knew about him. Molly glared at Jeff’s ex and told herself she wasn’t going to tear up. “Nice, Angela,” she said in a low voice. “Now that you found out from your private detective what my brother did, I suppose from now on you’ll get your little digs in wherever you can. Have you sprung the news on Lynette and Jill yet? Is it going to turn up in one of Courtney Hahn’s texts or Facebook announcements soon?”
Frowning, Angela didn’t say anything for a moment. She glanced down at the tablecloth. “I’m sorry, Molly,” she whispered finally. “I apologize. That was—that was a terrible thing to say. You should know, I haven’t told anyone about your brother.” She sipped her wine, and then shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong, that’s just what I intended to do when I—when I hired a private detective to dig up whatever he could on you. I’d hoped he’d find something to make you look bad, some good dirt I could share with Jeff and your neighbors. I didn’t expect something so—tragic and awful. It made me ashamed that I hired someone in the first place.”
Molly studied her, and as much as she felt sorry for Angela, she didn’t trust her one bit.
“Believe it or not, Molly, I used to be a nice person,” she said. “I think having an unfaithful husband turned me bitter. Maybe you’re luckier than me. Maybe Jeff has changed his ways. I suppose some people can change.” Angela leaned forward. “I’m being honest with you now. So can you return the favor? Tell me the truth about these calls on my cell. You really don’t know anything about them?”
Molly shook her head.
Angela slumped back in the booth. “Damn, I was almost hoping it was you,” she admitted. “Then at least I’d know who was threatening me. I’m a nervous wreck. It’s no help that someone tried to break into Larry’s house two weeks ago. They didn’t get in—at least the police didn’t think so. Nothing was missing. But they’d pried a screen off a kitchen window. Don’t say anything to the kids. I don’t want them worried about me—or about staying there. I thought I’d have to be alone in that house tonight. Larry was supposed to chaperone an overnight in Olympia with Taylor’s class. Thank God it got canceled.”
At that moment, the waitress returned to their booth.
“I’ll have another one of these,” Angela said, pointing to her near-empty wineglass. “And the chop salad, dressing on the side.”
The waitress looked at Molly, who shook her head. “Nothing else for me, thank you.” She had no intention of sticking around.
As the waitress left, Angela nervously drummed her fingertips on the tabletop. “Listen, Molly. Let’s call a truce and put our heads together on this. I didn’t break into Chris’s locker and leave that note. And I didn’t smash the pumpkins on the front stoop or let myself into the house. And you say you’re not the one calling and threatening me. That means someone else is behind all this, some woman—at least it was a woman calling me. Do you think it’s possible somebody is trying to pit us against each other?”
Molly frowned. “For what purpose?”
“I don’t know, but it doesn’t seem to matter to her if my kids get hurt, and that really scares me. We’ve both been married to Jeff—you in the present tense, and me in the past. I wonder if that crazy Cassandra woman is back in his life—or if maybe Jeff has found someone new, and she wants to sit back and watch us scratch each other’s eyes out. I don’t know.”
Shaking her head, Molly grabbed her purse. “Okay, I’ve had enough.” She fished a five out of her wallet and slapped it down on the table. “I’m sick of you implying that Jeff is screwing around on me. I don’t need to hear it—and it’s not true. Of course, the truth and you have always been strangers. Lying seems to come easily to you. . . .”
“Now, wait a minute—”
“Screw you, Angela.” She scooted out of the booth. “Last May, you denied over and over again that you’d hired a private detective. And now, you admit you did. You’re a real piece of work. Why should I believe anything you say?”
“Molly, wait!” she said loudly.
A few people at nearby tables stopped and gaped at them. Molly hesitated.
Angela glanced around for a moment, and then she cleared her throat. “I didn’t hire a private detective in May,” she whispered. “I was telling the truth back then.” She nodded at the other side of the booth. “Please, Molly, sit down.”
She didn’t budge. She stood by the booth, scowling at Angela.
Jeff’s ex-wife stared right back at her. “I hired my guy last month,” she explained carefully. “I got the idea after Jeff accused me. But I didn’t act upon it until last month. My guy got all his information off the Internet. It only took him two days. He never went to Chicago.”
Bewildered, Molly sat down at the booth’s edge. “But back in May, who. . .”
“That’s just what I’m saying,” Angela whispered. “It’s someone else doing all this.”
Molly shook her head. She felt a little sick.
She had the horrible feeling Angela was telling the truth.
With her tan trench coat draped over the back of her chair, the woman sat at a small table in Palomino. She hadn’t touched the Cobb salad set in front of her ten minutes ago. There wasn’t much chance of anyone recognizing her, but she wore a black pageboy wig just to be on the safe side. She watched the two Mrs. Dennehys talking heatedly in a booth on the other side of the crowded restaurant. She wished she could hear what they were saying.
She wondered if Angela Dennehy realized how pathetic she was. Ray Corson had figured her out immediately. Chris Dennehy’s old guidance counselor had taken some notes after meeting her:
I’m guessing Angela Dennehy was very beautiful once. She still has some panache, but there’s a lot of bitterness in her, and it shows on her face. Clearly, her husband’s womanizing has taken a toll, and she’s trying to turn Chris against him. As difficult as it was for Chris to adjust to his father’s remarrying, it must have been utterly defeating for Chris’s mother. The new Mrs. Dennehy is younger & prettier. Plus she seems like a good person. Chris’s mother can’t be happy about that. I don’t know why she gave up custody of her children, but clearly, she’s doing all she can to poison Chris’s relationship with his dad. It’s horrible to say this, but in many ways, Chris would be better off without her. . . .
She sipped her merlot, and thought,
Not just Chris, the whole world would be better off. . . .
She was careful not to spill any wine on the small square of cotton material she’d set by her place setting. The little patch had a pattern of tiny blue rosebuds on it. She couldn’t resist gently running her fingertips over the fabric as she focused on Angela Dennehy across the room. She imagined the material wrapped around a little doll with silver-brown hair.
Had Angela noticed yet that her nightgown had a small square cut from the hem? It had been that way for two weeks now.
She thought about what Ray Corson had written in his private journal, after Angela and her friends on Willow Tree Court had waged their campaign against him:
Molly Dennehy handled things rather quietly & it might have stayed under the radar. But the former Mrs. Dennehy has really gone on the warpath. I wonder how much of her animosity toward me is based on genuine concern for her son. Or is it a means for Angela Dennehy to reestablish her maternal turf & show up her successor as an ineffectual & incompetent mother? I used to feel sorry for Angela Dennehy, but not anymore. . . .
The woman carefully folded the small patch cut from Angela Dennehy’s nightgown. She slipped it inside a little plastic bag and stashed it into her purse. She gazed over at the two Mrs. Dennehys again.
She decided that Ray Corson was a better person than her. She never felt sorry for Angela Dennehy. In fact, it gave her great satisfaction telling Angela over the phone that she was going to pay for what she’d done.
The digital clock on her nightstand read 1:42
A.M.
Molly was pretty certain both Chris and Erin were asleep. She was the only one hearing the sounds of the house settling and that one tree branch scraping against the bathroom window screen every time the wind kicked up. She pulled the sheets up around her neck and rolled over to face the bedroom door. The glow from Erin’s
Cinderella
night-light spilled beyond her room, bathing the hallway in dim blue shadows.
Molly thought about how she’d given away all of Charlie’s things to charity—except for a dozen of the two hundred elephant figurines he’d collected in his lifetime. Those were the only things from her past that she wanted to hold on to.
But now someone had dug everything up again. She’d thought Angela was behind it. She’d thought Jeff’s ex was responsible for all the recent strange occurrences. But it was someone else.
Molly had a feeling they were just getting started.
The last thing on her mind right now was the Cul-de-sac Killer.
In a split-level home on a Bellevue cul-de-sac called Alder Court, another woman, a year older than Molly, was also lying in bed alone. Her husband was out of town on business, too. The pretty redhead named Paulette LaBlanc had two children asleep down the hall from her, Matt, six, and Brendan, three. Brendan was getting over a cold.

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