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Authors: Kevin O'Brien

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The latch mechanism suddenly flew off the edge of the door. It hit the basement floor with a clatter. Gasping, Natalie staggered back and laughed. The door creaked as she opened it. Setting the crowbar on the worktable, she stepped into the dark room and felt around by the door for a light switch. She found it and flicked it on. The bright, fluorescent overhead sputtered for a second, and then went on. It hummed quietly.
Natalie stared into the windowless room at what looked like a Ping-Pong table—covered with a huge white sheet. There seemed to be several different-sized boxes stacked and spaced about a foot from each other beneath the coverlet. Natalie carefully pulled off the sheet and gaped at a replica of Willow Tree Court, all made up of dollhouses and fake trees and foliage. The Nguyens’ house and Jill’s place were a bit smaller and not quite up to scale with the others. Walking around the table, she could see those two houses were just hollow facades—like the mock-ups of the unfinished houses on the cul-de-sac.
But this house, the Dennehys’ place, and the Hahns’ were all detailed and had certain rooms completely furnished. In the duplication of Rachel’s bedroom, a little blond doll about the size of a finger lay on a pale yellow carpet. A piece of lavender fabric was wrapped around it. A few globs of what looked like red nail polish were on the doll’s head, and it spilled over into the blond hair and onto the yellow carpet.
From earlier, when she’d peered through the glass doors at the Dennehys’ house, she knew the model accurately copied their family room—right down to the big-screen TV, sofa, coffee table, and grandfather clock. Two dolls—a brown-haired man and a blond woman—were leaning against a round breakfast table for four. It was almost as if they’d been set there temporarily—until Rachel found a better spot for them.
Natalie thought she heard something—a stair step or a floorboard creaking. She stood perfectly still and listened for a few moments. Nothing.
She moved over to yet another dollhouse, a two-story Colonial, set on a smaller table beside a bookcase against the wall. She didn’t recognize the house. But two bedrooms on the second floor, the kitchen, and the pantry were painstakingly furnished. There was a man doll in the open closet of the bigger bedroom and a woman doll in the closet of the smaller bedroom. Each one had been dotted with that same crimson color polish. A third doll—it looked like it was supposed to be a girl—was on the pantry floor. It too was marked with red nail polish. Natalie couldn’t help thinking it looked like a replication of a cul-de-sac-killing crime scene. “This is weird as shit,” she murmured to herself.
On the bookcase, along with stacks of dollhouse furniture in their cartons, there was another little model. It looked like a mock-up some set designer might have created in preparation for a play. It resembled a hotel room with a queen bed, TV, table, and chairs—and another little doll on the floor. This one was of a man, and he was naked.
Natalie picked it up and studied it.
“Put that down,”
someone whispered.
Startled, she swiveled around and saw Rachel standing in the doorway. She had a gun pointed at her.
A hand over her heart, Natalie stared at her. She started to say something, but when she opened her mouth to talk, the words wouldn’t come out. She just shook her head.
“I thought you were a prowler,” Rachel said. She took a step back, and then set the gun down on the worktable. “Are you deaf or something? I told you to put down the doll.”
“What is it?” Natalie asked.
“It’s for a special project. Put the doll back where you found it. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“Okay, okay, Jesus . . .” Natalie set the doll back inside the little replica of a hotel room.
Rachel was still standing on the other side of the doorway. “Now, get away from my models. I don’t want them ruined. . . .” She nodded toward the other corner of the room, where there was a tall cabinet.
Frowning, Natalie did what she was told. “I had no intention of ruining your stupid dollhouses,” she grumbled. “Now, just let me out of here, and I’ll—”
“But they would have been ruined,” Rachel interrupted. She reached back for something on the workbench behind her. “Your blood would have gotten all over them.”
“What?” Natalie murmured.
All at once, Rachel rushed toward her, raising the crowbar in the air.
Screaming, Natalie backed into the cabinet. The door opened and several small bottles of model paint fell out. They hit her shoulders and then clattered onto the cement floor. Rachel was practically on top of her. Natalie put her arm out, but it was too late. She felt the crowbar slam against her skull—just above her left eye.
She let out a frail cry and reeled back against the cabinet. More paint bottles fell out and crashed to the floor. She felt her legs giving out under her.
“This is just more work for me,” Rachel grumbled. “Now I have to make a doll for you.”
Natalie stared at her—until blood oozed into her eye.
She thought of that red nail polish.
She caught a glimpse of Rachel raising the crowbar in the air again. But then everything went out of focus. Natalie tried to hold herself up by leaning against the cabinet. Somehow, she still thought she could make it out of that room if she just kept standing.
But she heard Rachel grunt—and then a loud pop.
It was the sound of her skull cracking.
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SEVEN
She thanked God the receptionist was a temp. If it was Juliet, the usual receptionist, then she would have to hear her condolences and explain that she was feeling better—and saner—than she’d been yesterday at the funeral. She probably would have gotten emotional and cried. And Juliet would have called this coworker or that coworker of Jeff’s so they could give their condolences, and the whole damn thing would have gone on for an hour.
All she wanted to do was pick up the package Jeff had bought for his mistress, and then sneak out of there.
At the reception desk just inside the glass double doors to Kendall Pharmaceuticals, the temp explained that Peter had to run an errand. But yes, indeed, he’d left a package for her. She reached under the desk and then pulled out a large UPS box—about two by two feet. She set it on the desktop. “It’s not too heavy,” she said. “But if you’d like some help carrying it out, I can get someone. . . .”
Molly carefully lifted the box to get a feel for the weight. It was bulky, but weighed only about five pounds. “No, that’s all right,” she said. “Thank you.”
“I heard about your husband, Mrs. Dennehy,” the receptionist said, getting to her feet. She opened one of the glass doors for Molly. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” she said again, working up a smile as she peered at her over the top of the box. She made her way to the elevator, and managed to press the Down button. The package felt a bit heavier and more awkward as she waited for the elevator to arrive. She couldn’t help remembering the last time she was here, when Jeff’s mistress had called to taunt her—just hours before his death.
The elevator finally arrived, and she stepped aboard. It was crowded and stopped five times before she finally made it down to the lobby. As she walked to the garage elevators, Molly was sweating, and she felt a little dizzy. Some woman on a cell phone bumped into her and almost knocked the box out of her hands. Molly wanted to scream at her to watch where she was going, but she said nothing. The woman moved on without even looking at her, not a break in her conversation.
By the time Molly stepped off at Parking Level D (for
Dalmatian
, the sign said, with a photo of the spotted dog), she was so upset and sick that she just wanted to drop the box on the floor and kick it all the way to her car. But even though her arms ached, she carried the package to her car. She heard her own footsteps on the concrete, echoing in the dark, winding garage. In the distance—perhaps a level or two levels up—someone’s tires squealed as they turned the corners from one ramp to another.
Molly set the box down on the hood of her Saturn and caught her breath.
She couldn’t wait until she got home. She had to see what Jeff had secretly picked up while antique shopping with his mistress in La Conner last month. Molly took her keys out of her purse and ran one across the box’s taped top flaps.
But she heard something that made her stop. It seemed to come from the elevator alcove, but an SUV parked in the next row blocked her view. She heard a woman snickering. The laugh was kind of husky and scratchy.
Molly froze and listened to that voice—and the set of footsteps. All she could think about was that crazy woman on the phone, and how she seemed to know everything. Did she somehow know that Molly would be picking up this package today—
her
package? Had she somehow orchestrated it?
Molly heard the snickering again.
“Who’s there?” she called. Her heart was racing. The footsteps came closer.
“Oh, you have a dirty mind,” she heard the woman whisper. Then Molly saw her come around the corner and down the ramp. It was another woman on a cell phone. She snickered again. “I mean it, stop,” she said into the phone. “Now you’re just being gross. . . .”
Watching the woman climb inside her VW, Molly slouched against her car for a few moments. Her heartbeat finally started to slow down. She felt so stupid—and vulnerable, and angry. Taking a deep breath, she turned and tore open the top of the UPS box. It was full of Styrofoam peanuts. They stuck to the lower sleeve of her pea jacket as she clawed her way to another box within the box. Some Styrofoam peanuts fell out as she pulled out the smaller parcel. It was about half the size of the outside box. She used her key to cut away at the tape sealing it up.
Molly found an item wrapped in tissue paper. It felt heavy in her hands. As she tore away at the thin paper, she could discern the jade green color.
Then she saw the tusk.
She knew the jade piece wasn’t for his mistress. It was an elephant for her collection, and it was beautiful. Molly broke down. Hugging the figurine, she leaned against her car and sobbed.
For a few minutes, she didn’t feel sick or stupid or angry or scared. For those few minutes, she just missed her husband.
In only her bra and panties, the woman who called herself Rachel Cross mopped up the trail of blood on the basement floor. The crimson streak went from the corner of her secret workroom through the laundry room and into the bathroom. Natalie’s body was behind the fogged glass door of the shower stall, curled up on the floor. The drain now caught all the blood.
Jenna had gotten blood on her sweater and her jeans. She’d thrown them in the washing machine. The clothes were churning through the spin cycle now. She’d already rinsed the spattering of blood off her hands, face, and hair.
She’d changed her mind about making a doll for Natalie. There just wasn’t any time. For the last twenty minutes, she’d contemplated chopping up the body. She’d even gone through the box of tools on the workbench and took out two different saws, wondering if they could cut through bone. She imagined taking sections of the body outside in lawn bags, and then burying them in the forest in back.
But she decided it was best to leave the body in the house. From what Molly had told her, Natalie wasn’t supposed to be staying at the Nguyens’. According to the driver’s license Jenna had found in the wallet inside her fatigue jacket pocket, Natalie’s most recent address was on Mercer Street on Capitol Hill in Seattle. In that same pocket, Jenna had also found her own engagement ring, the pearl necklace Ray gave her on their tenth anniversary, some cash, and several of her blank checks. So—in addition to trespassing, Natalie was a thief. Jenna had met enough of her daughter’s street friends at Tracy’s shoddy little memorial service to recognize a crystal meth addict when she saw one.
Natalie’s mysterious presence on the block had actually bought Jenna some time yesterday and today. When after the funeral, her old friend, Laurie Bauer, rode by the church on her bike and called to her, Jenna had thought it was all over. But then Molly assumed Natalie was Jenna Corson. She thought Natalie was responsible for all the recent deaths, accidents, and tragedies on Willow Tree Court. Natalie was the perfect suspect.
But Jenna knew it was only a matter of time before Molly figured her out. She’d already suspected her. How long before Molly realized the peppermints she’d given her—along with those ginger capsules she’d picked up for her—only made her sicker, more sleepy, and a bit delirious? Molly had already stopped taking them.
And yesterday, when Molly uttered her name as she was leaving the bedroom, it was all Jenna could do to keep from reacting. She’d stifled the same natural instinct to react an hour before when Laurie had called to her in front of the church. She’d gone to a lot of lengths to become Rachel Cross—with forged driver’s licenses from Florida and Washington, a birth certificate, and other documents. Once she met up with Aldo, the killer-for-hire connected her to all sorts of criminals, who in turn provided her with so many illegal services. She’d had a computer hacker create an exceptional credit history for Rachel Cross. She’d already started getting junk mail for Rachel Cross before even moving into Kay’s old house.
She’d also sent herself that anonymous note and slipped it in Molly’s mailbox just minutes after the mailman had delivered the mail one day last month. Several pieces of her junk mail had made their way into the Dennehys’ mailbox with no help from her. Mail mixups just happened when people lived next door to each other. It somehow forced neighbors to look out for one another and get closer.
That had been why Kay was the first to die. Jenna wanted the house.
But she couldn’t stay. Laurie almost outing her wasn’t the only reason why Jenna had to wrap things up. Someone had murdered Aldo. They’d slit his throat the same day she’d killed Jeff. Of course, getting murdered was probably a professional risk in Aldo’s business. But if the police dug deep enough, they might find evidence linking Aldo to her and her late husband. After all, Ray and she had both employed his services.
Jenna had to finish everything tonight. After she killed Molly and Chris, she would set fire to all the houses on Willow Tree Court, including this one. She’d already reported a possible arson to the police a little over a week ago. Of course, no one knew she’d set her own toolshed on fire. She’d worked out the delay. She’d left a lit cigarette inside a pack of matches on a stack of old newspapers, half-soaked with gasoline. She’d been talking with Chris Dennehy for over ten minutes before he smelled the smoke.
So it was in police records that Willow Tree Court had a potential firebug.
Standing in the doorway to her workroom, she hated the idea of having to torch all her dollhouses. But she couldn’t afford to be sentimental. And it would be appropriate to start the fire in this room with the model of the cul-de-sac.
They’d expect Jill’s, the Hahns’, and the Nguyens’ houses to be empty.
Jenna fiddled with her bra strap as she sauntered back to the bathroom. She stared at the corpse behind the fogged glass door of the shower stall.
They would be expecting to find a body in this house. And they would find one. It might take a day or two before they realized it wasn’t Rachel Cross, and that Rachel Cross didn’t exist. By that time, Jenna, her son, and her new stepdaughter, Erin, would be far, far away.
Natalie was buying her some more time—again.
Jenna glanced at her wristwatch. She had to go pick up Erin from school and then buy gasoline.
Chris looked at the lighted numbers above the door.
He stood alone in the elevator with the bouquet of dried flowers in his hand. This was his third time in the building, and he still didn’t know his way around. But he was pretty sure he was headed to the right place.
He couldn’t think of anywhere else to go—or anyone else he could talk to.
Roseann had confirmed for him that Molly was right. His dad had been set up by some woman, and she’d most likely left him dead in that hotel room. Was Molly right about the rest of it, too? Had the same woman, this Natalie person, arranged his mother’s murder—along with Larry’s and Taylor’s? Had she murdered Mrs. Garvey, too—and made it look like an accident? Then that meant the same woman had rigged Courtney’s cell phone to explode. She’d broken into his locker and left him that note about Molly’s brother. She’d set fire to their next-door neighbor’s toolshed. And she’d seen to it that the police and reporters knew where and when to find Mr. Hahn with a teenage prostitute and a stash of drugs and porn.
Why was she doing all these things? What did she have against his family and his neighbors on Willow Tree Court?
He couldn’t go to the police without getting Roseann in trouble. So he’d come here. On the way, he’d driven past the Arboretum, where Mr. Corson was murdered. Chris kept thinking how much he could have used Mr. Corson’s guidance right now.
The elevator stopped and the doors opened on the fourth floor. Chris started down the hospital corridor toward the Intensive Care Unit.
Courtney was the only one he could think of who might have some answers. She’d survived an attempt on her life. If nothing else, at least they could commiserate with each other over what had happened to their fathers. He hated comparing his dad with Mr. Hahn, who was pretty damn perverted—and pompous. But his dad and Mr. Hahn had both been exposed in similar sleazy situations.
As he turned the corner for the ICU, he heard someone’s cell phone go off.
“Mrs. Hahn,” he heard a woman say. “I’m sorry, but you’re not allowed to use cell phones in here.”
“Oh, leave me alone. Don’t you have anything better to do?” Mrs. Hahn replied, all huffy-sounding. And then her voice took on a sweet tone. “Hello?”

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