“Hold on, it’s still loading.” There was a brief silence in the room. “This is interesting—it shows up for some insurance salesman.” She held up the phone to show us, and Julie and I clustered around her to look.
Heather approached more slowly, but self-interest overcame self-pity and she said, “Who is it? Do you have a name?”
Alison read it off the screen: “‘Kevin Sullivan, Insurance Broker, 126 Whitcrest Road.’”
“Let’s go get the bastard.” I gathered my purse, ready to charge, but Julie stopped me.
“Don’t be silly, we can’t just show up at this Kevin Sullivan’s door—wait a minute. Did you say Whitcrest Road?”
“Yes, number 126.”
“I think I know that address. That’s Terry Holloway’s house. Her husband is Kevin Sullivan. Their daughter—Megan?—is in the third grade at the elementary school. Not Owen and Lucy’s class—another one. Don’t you know who I’m talking about, Alison? We served with her on that soccer fund-raising thing a few years ago, remember? I can’t believe it.”
“You’re sure that’s her address?” Alison asked. “Sullivan is a common name.”
“I’m pretty sure. It makes sense—who else would have our phone numbers except someone we know through school? And she showed up at Heather’s house after Viktor died—remember, Heather? I should have guessed it was her. That bitch!”
“But it’s his phone,” I said. “Maybe Kevin Sullivan is the one blackmailing us.”
“Or he could have given her the phone if he has more than one,” Alison said.
Heather shuddered and at my quizzical look said, “She could be out there, right now, watching us.”
“Let’s go and get her phone,” I suggested.
“It’s not just the phone,” Alison said. “She probably saved the photos to a desktop or laptop.”
“Then we have to get them off her computer, too,” Julie said. “If we can somehow get you in her house, I’m sure you could erase the files.”
Alison looked as if she was torn between being flattered that Julie thought so highly of her skills and skeptical that she could live up to the endorsement.
In the end, the rest of them reached the same conclusion I had from the beginning—we would drive to the address on Whitcrest Road, find Terry Holloway, and figure out a way to get her phone and computer. We took Julie’s car, reasoning that if the police or anyone else spotted us, we could claim that she was showing us houses.
Julie drove with Alison riding shotgun, while I rode in the back with Heather. She hadn’t wanted to come, trying to argue that the police could be watching, but Alison had insisted.
“You’re in this up to your eyeballs—you’re going with us,” she’d said, but she wouldn’t sit next to Heather in the car. It was like being with a divorced couple, neither of them speaking to the other, while Julie and I tried to pretend we didn’t notice.
Whitcrest Road was in a pretty, tree-lined residential area with houses that Julie ticked off as ranch or two-story or Victorian or gingerbread. Number 126 was toward the beginning of the block and conveniently catty-corner to a Presbyterian church, a large brick building with an austere white spire. We turned into the church parking lot and pulled into a spot with a view of the house. There were a few other cars in the lot, so we weren’t too noticeable, and Julie’s car was partially obscured by saplings that someone must have recently planted to brighten up the medians serving as row dividers.
We’d tried to come up with a plan as we drove, deciding that the first thing to do was to figure out if this was even Terry Holloway’s house before we attempted to lure her out so Alison could sneak inside.
It was sunset, long shadows creating a glare off the home’s windows, making it impossible to tell if anyone was inside. As we sat there debating whether someone should knock on the door, we got lucky. A car turned onto the block and then into the driveway at 126, while we slunk down in our seats, trying to hide our faces as it pulled past us. We could hear the car doors slamming and the distant chatter of voices followed by a woman’s laughter.
Julie leaned forward as a couple came into view, the woman trotting ahead of the man, who had a large briefcase swinging from his shoulder.
“That’s her, that’s Terry.”
“You’re sure?” Alison asked, trying to peer at the figures now cast in shadow on the porch.
“Yes, definitely. Call her! Call the number.”
Alison hurriedly pressed the call button and we watched, breathless, waiting for Terry Holloway, or her husband, to pick up their phones. Terry dug in her purse and I thought, Gotcha, but she produced a key ring instead and unlocked the front door. Her husband was behind her, yawning and switching his bag to the other shoulder as if it were too heavy.
“Is it ringing?” I asked, looking from them to Alison and back again. “Maybe it hasn’t rung yet.”
“It’s ringing,” Alison said. “It’s rung at least four times.”
“It can’t be,” Julie said. “Neither of them is answering.”
“Did you hit the right number?” Heather asked. “Maybe you hit another number.”
“How could I have hit another number? I just pressed the number that shows up on my screen.”
“Let me see it.” Heather reached over the seat to try to grab the phone, but Alison fended her off. Terry and her husband went inside. We watched their large wooden door close.
“Maybe she won’t answer the phone in front of her husband,” I said. “Blackmailing is probably her dirty little secret. Maybe we’re not the only targets—what was she doing out that late at night anyway?”
“We could blackmail her,” Heather said excitedly, but none of us responded.
After five interminable minutes, Alison finally called the number again. It rang and rang and rang. No voice mail, nothing. “Maybe she’s got her phone on silent,” Julie said, so desperate to believe this that it hurt to hear. “Let’s give it another few minutes.”
We waited five more, which felt like fifty. There was no answer again. “We can’t just sit here all night,” I said, pissed off. I undid my seat belt and started to open the car door.
“What are you doing?” Julie hissed, panicked. “You can’t go out there!”
“You might be too afraid to do anything but sit here, but I’m not,” I said.
“You’re not sober enough to think straight,” Alison said. “Close the damn door.”
“Are you calling me a drunk?” I said. “How dare you.”
“I call them as I see them,” Alison said. “You need to get to an AA meeting.”
“Take care of your own problems,” I said. “You have plenty of them.”
“Stop it!” Julie cried. “Just stop it.”
Heather, the cause of all of this, remained silent, pushed up against her corner of the backseat, just waiting, as always, for things to be resolved. “We wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for you,” I said to her. “You should go get that fucking phone.”
“No one is going anywhere,” Alison said, but then Julie surprised us all by unbuckling her seat belt.
“We have to get that phone,” she said. “I’ll pretend I was in the neighborhood looking for houses to list.”
Before any of us could stop her, Julie got out of the car and crossed the street. We watched as she walked briskly up Terry Holloway’s walk and onto the porch. We could see her at the front door. When the door swung open, Alison inhaled sharply. We didn’t have a clear view and I couldn’t tell who had come to the door and stood talking to Julie.
“Do you think she’s scared to see Julie?” Heather said.
Neither Alison nor I answered her; we were too busy staring at the house. There was movement on the porch, and Terry came into view, walking to the top porch step and pointing up the street. Julie was right behind her and it was clear they were having an animated conversation.
“What the hell?” I said. “Terry looks totally relaxed.”
“There could be a good reason for that,” Alison said in a quiet voice. “It might not be her number.”