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Authors: Kevin O'Brien

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Wincing, Molly felt gooseflesh prickling on her arms, and she nervously rubbed them. She’d read an account of the murders that indicated as much. But it was still unsettling to hear someone say it.
“From the looks of things inside the house on Alder Court,” Blazevich continued, “they were all killed very quickly, almost haphazardly. I saw photos of the scene, and it was a mess. There was blood all over the kitchen. They think Taylor Keegan almost got away—or at least, she put up a good fight. Her body was stashed in the kitchen pantry. She hadn’t been tied up at all.” He shook his head. “That’s another thing. The Cul-de-sac Killer rarely kills anyone on the first floor. The only exception—until Taylor—was Kurt Fontaine, who was murdered along with his wife in the Madrona neighborhood. They found his body in a coat closet on the first floor. But all of his other killings have taken place on the upper levels of the victims’ homes. The Cul-de-sac Killer would have tied up Taylor Keegan and put her in her bedroom closet upstairs. He wouldn’t have killed her in the kitchen.”
“Jeff isn’t a suspect, is he?” Molly whispered.
“Not really,” he replied. “But—well, let’s just say that he’ll have to account for where he was that night—for both the police and the press.”
Molly’s eyes searched his, and all at once she realized something. He knew.
The police had to know Jeff was at the Chateau Granville Hotel in Vancouver the night Angela was killed. They’d obviously checked his story about having stayed at the Capital Hilton in D.C., and known it was a lie from the start. All it would have taken was a check of his credit card records—just as she’d done. The police had probably figured out a lot sooner than she had that Jeff had been wining, dining, and screwing some woman in Vancouver the night his ex-wife was butchered. Maybe Jeff had used his connections to get investigators to clam up about his little indiscretion. Or perhaps the cops had decided to do him a favor and not expose him as a lying, cheating scumbag. For a while, there was really no reason for him to get his alibi straight—as long as they knew the truth. But soon the murders of Angela, Larry, and his daughter would no longer be considered another cul-de-sac killing—and Jeff’s lying about where he was that night would become a major issue—and an embarrassment. The press would eat it up.
Molly locked eyes with Chet Blazevich again. She realized he was doing her a favor, bracing her for the potential scandal. “Can I ask you something?” she whispered. “Is this an official police visit or did you come here on your own?”
Blushing, he gave a little shrug. “I came here on my own,” he admitted. “So this visit is very
unofficial
.”
“You’re looking after me, aren’t you?” she asked. “You don’t want to see me get hurt.”
He nodded. “I think you’ve been hurt enough, Molly. I think you deserve a break. And I think that husband of yours must have rocks in his head.”
Molly reached over and put her hand on his arm. “Thank you, Chet. Thank you, very much.”
Chris stood at the railing by the top of the stairs. He couldn’t see them down in the living room. But he could hear them pretty well—when they weren’t whispering. He’d gotten the gist of their discussion.
Molly and the cop were talking about his dad. He hadn’t been where he said he was the night of the murders. Chris remembered something his mother had said:
“Every time he goes out of town, it’s just another opportunity for him to screw whomever he wants. . . .”
Was that what he’d been doing the night she was killed?
Last night, Molly had stormed out of the house, telling them they could get their own dinner. She’d said something to him before she left, too—something about not being able to get a straight answer from his dad. Chris had thought at the time that she almost sounded like his mom used to.
The cop claimed his dad wasn’t really a suspect, but in all the TV crime shows, the cops always said that about the guy they ended up arresting. Chris knew his dad was capable of a lot of things, but not murder.
Right now, Molly and the cop were whispering back and forth. It was kind of weird the way they called each other by their first names. Their voices got a little louder, and he spotted them downstairs stepping into the foyer from the living room.
Chris quickly stepped back so they wouldn’t see him. He heard the front door click open while they murmured to each other. After a few moments, the door shut, and the lock clicked. He was about to head back into his room, but he hesitated. He heard her crying down there. Chris moved to the top of the stairs. “Are you okay?” he called to her.
She quickly wiped her eyes and glanced up at him. “I’m fine, Chris.”
“What did that guy want?”
“Oh, he’s a policeman,” she said, her voice a little shaky. “He just wanted to follow up on some stuff about the prowler I spotted in the backyard yesterday.”
He couldn’t help frowning at her for lying—again. His dad wasn’t the only one who didn’t give straight answers. The other night, Mrs. Hahn had said everyone’s troubles started when Molly had moved onto the cul-de-sac. She kind of had a point.
Chris wished he could run around the track with Mr. Corson after school tomorrow. Everything in his life was falling apart again, and he missed his counselor.
He turned and headed into his bedroom, leaving the door open a crack. He wanted to hear when his dad came home.
A few minutes later, Erin stomped upstairs and got ready for bed.
While his sister was in the bathroom, he heard Molly coming up the steps. He crept to his door and saw her from behind—going down the hall toward the master bedroom. She was carrying a steak knife. She held it tight against her side—like she was trying to hide it in case he or Erin spotted her.
He watched Molly duck into the master bedroom and close the door.
At 9:05, someone gently knocked on the front door.
Molly jumped up from the sofa in the family room. By now, she was convinced something awful had happened to Jeff. She’d been waiting for the sound of his key in the door.
He wouldn’t have knocked.
Hurrying down the hall, she checked the peephole. Rachel stood on the other side of the door. Molly unlocked the door and flung it open. “Hi,” she said a little breathless.
“Sorry to drop by so late,” she said, wincing. She wore jeans and had a cardigan over her pink T-shirt. “I saw your lights were on, and I—well, I just got another call from that freaky woman.”
“Oh God, come in,” Molly said, stepping aside for her.
“You must think I’m such a baby,” Rachel said. “But after that creepy guy in the backyard yesterday, I’m so jumpy it’s not even funny.”
Molly motioned to her. “Please, come in,” she said again.
Rachel stepped into the foyer. “I’m pretty sure it was the same nutcase,” she said. “The phone rang, and I saw the number was blocked. But I picked it up anyway, and this raspy, weird breathing came on the other end. They didn’t say anything. Like an idiot, I kept asking, ‘Who is this?’ Then they hung up.” She rubbed her forehead. “It’s silly of me to get so scared. I’m sorry to bother you. I hope I didn’t wake anyone up.”
Molly shook her head. “No, it’s fine. Erin’s in bed, reading, and I think Chris is taking a shower. In fact, I could use a friend just about now. . . .” Molly couldn’t help it. She started crying.
“You poor thing, what’s going on?” Rachel asked.
“Jeff still hasn’t come home from work yet,” she admitted. She led Rachel into the living room, where they sat down on the sofa together. “I’m so worried about him—and so mad at him! I have no idea where he is. I talked to his assistant. Jeff took off from work at noon, and he never came back. I keep calling his cell, and I keep getting his damn voice mail. . . .”
Even though she didn’t give Rachel the whole story, it felt good to cry on someone’s shoulder. Molly went through three Kleenexes from the pockets of her jeans. She was just wiping her eyes, when she heard Chris coming down the stairs.
“Dad?” he called. He rounded the corner and stopped at the living room entrance. “Oh, hi,” he said to Rachel. “I thought you were my dad. . . .”
“Well, there’s my hero,” Rachel said, “the handsomest fireman in North Seattle. Chris, could you do us a huge favor, and pour Molly a great big glass of wine?” She patted her arm. “That’ll help take the edge off. What do you want, white or red?”
“No, I can’t,” Molly said, shaking her head. “I—thanks anyway, no.”
Rachel gave her a look. Then she turned and smiled at Chris. “Never mind, honey. We’ll give a yell if we need you.”
He nodded. “I’ll be downstairs, watching TV.” Then he headed toward the kitchen.
“He’s a sweetie pie,” Rachel said.
Molly just nodded. She heard the basement door yawn open, and then Chris’s footsteps on the stairs.
Rachel took hold of her hand. “So—what’s going on with the no wine?” she whispered. “Are you pregnant?”
Molly hesitated, and then nodded. “Nobody else knows yet,” she said, her voice still hoarse from crying.
“Oh, that’s so exciting!” Rachel whispered, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. “And guess what?”
Molly numbly gazed at her and shrugged.
“I’m pregnant, too, Molly!” Laughing, she squeezed her hand. “I’m about eight weeks along. That’s what I get for sex with the ex. But I’m keeping it. . . .”
“Well, congratulations,” Molly said, with a dazed smile. But then she started to cry again. “I’m sorry. I’m happy for you, really. But I’m such a mess right now. I’m just so worried about Jeff, and so uncertain about everything. . . .”
“You’re just
so hormonal
, is what’s going on,” Rachel said. She dug into her pocket, pulled out a tissue, and handed it to Molly. “Believe me, I know. I’m going through the exact same thing. Every day I’m on an emotional rollercoaster ride. And nauseous? Let me tell you, I’ve got a tiger in my tank.”
Molly blew her nose, and leaned back on the sofa. She laughed.
“Don’t worry,” Rachel said. “I’m sure Jeff will be home soon.” She leaned back on the couch so they were shoulder to shoulder. She took Molly’s hand and placed it over her belly, and then she put her hand over Molly’s belly. “Meanwhile, the four of us will all wait up for him.”
“Rachel, thank you,” Molly whispered. “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here. . . .”
Maria was listening to “Walking on Sunshine” on her iPod, and she was in a pretty good mood that Saturday morning. The guest who had checked out of room 102 had left a five-dollar bill on the TV—along with a
Thank You!
scribbled on the notepad. Plus they’d left behind a
People
magazine, two unopened cans of Coke, and an unopened bag of Cheetos. Not a bad haul.
Wheeling her cart to the next room down the hall, she noticed there wasn’t a sign on the door. Putting her iPod on pause, she plucked out her earplugs, took out her passkey, and knocked. “Housekeeping!” she called.
There was no response. Maria unlocked the door with her passkey, then propped it open with the cart. “Oh, phew,” she grumbled. Every once in a while she got a really smelly room. This one was a mess, too. The bedspread and sheets had been pulled off the mattress and strewn onto the floor. On the nightstand were a glass, a tipped-over ice bucket, and some powdery substance that had to be drugs. The flickering TV was on the adult channel menu.
Maria started across the room so she could open the sliding glass door. She stepped on something lumpy beneath the white sheet. She almost tripped over it. That was when Maria noticed the blue-gray hand sticking out from that sheet.
She realized she’d just stepped on someone’s arm. Then she saw the man, lying there naked on the floor. Maria screamed so loud she might have woken the dead.
But she didn’t.
The clipping from Jeff’s T-shirt was under the doll’s right leg—just where she’d left the shirt. One of the dark-haired doll’s little arms was covered with the miniature bedsheet.
She was almost finished with the hotel-room scene, which was slightly bigger than a large shoe box. It just needed a few more flourishes. She’d gotten a head start on the project. She’d been in several hotel rooms with Jeff, and they all looked alike after a while. She just needed to capture the essence of it. She was particularly proud of the tiny light that flickered in the miniature TV. It cast an interesting shadow on the nude doll when she turned off the lights in her workroom. She could imagine it was how Jeff looked last night, on the floor of the hotel room—nothing on but the TV.
And nothing on him
, she thought. She was toying with the idea of drawing on the doll to make it anatomically correct and accentuate the nudity. And the thought of drawing a penis on the doll gave her a melancholy smile. She would miss him in bed. She’d have to do Jeff justice with her rendering.
Justice,
she thought, gazing at the unfinished Dennehy dollhouse on her worktable.
Her cell phone rang. It was also on the worktable.
She checked the caller ID and let out an exasperated sigh. She answered it anyway. “Hi, Elaine,” she said. “Now really isn’t a good time.”

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