She said nothing in return. She already had a heel halfway out of one shoe.
“You’re on your way to see my wife.” The man said it slowly, as if she might be stupid. She didn’t want him to think she was dumb, so she cleared her throat.
“What’s her name?” She didn’t sound nearly as tough as she wanted to.
“Rosamund Harding. She’s very excited to meet you. I’m Mr. Harding,” he told her. “I’m heading home. Hop in and I’ll give you a ride. It’s cold and you’re limping.”
The cold hadn’t bothered her, but her feet ached from walking three miles in her funeral shoes. Still, she demurred. “That’s okay,” Mandy told him politely. “I could use the exercise.”
The man sighed. “Here,” he said, opening his wallet and pulling out his license. She bent forward without moving her feet. The name on the card was Spencer Harding. “My address is Eighteen Culling Pointe Road.”
That was the address she’d been given. Still, she stayed put.
“Don’t get me in trouble,” Spencer pleaded. “Rosamund will murder me if she finds out I let you walk the rest of the way.”
Mandy remembered the kind voice on the other end of the line. Mrs. Harding did seem like the sort of person who’d be upset by such things. And it was very cold, now that he mentioned it. And the back of her heels were worn raw.
“Okay,” Mandy agreed, trying to smile as she reached for the door handle. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” he assured her.
When, at last, she realized what was happening, Mandy cried for her mom, who was always so sad. Whenever Amber got drunk, she’d make Mandy promise to always be extra careful. She worried bad luck might have rubbed off on her girl.
Mandy refused to ever let her mom know that it had. So she opted to play it safe and not fight. And when it was over, she thought, she’d keep it all to herself.
In the end, it wasn’t a decision she got to make.
Mayday
Jo woke to the sound of the doorbell. She shoved back the duvet that a kind soul had draped over her after she’d passed out from exhaustion. Looking around the tidy living room, she concluded that she was on Nessa’s couch. She hadn’t even made it to the guest room the previous night. She’d dreamed of a mountain of bodies at the bottom of the ocean, all of them girls. One by one, she’d carried them up to the surface. The last one had been her own daughter, her limbs tied and a stuffed pig crammed into her mouth. Jo felt more tired than she had when she’d laid her head down.
According to her phone, it was just short of nine o’clock in the morning. Jo stood up and stared at the front door, wondering if she should chance a look out the peephole. Then a knock at the window behind her made Jo leap to her feet. The curtains were open a crack, and Jo could see a woman through the gap. She stood with her hands cupped around her eyes, peering in through the glass.
Sorry! she mouthed, and gestured for Jo to open the window.
Jo grabbed her phone and began to dial 911.
The woman rapped again. When Jo looked up, she was pinning a copy of the New York Post to the window with one hand. A photo of the same woman accompanied an article’s byline. She was a reporter.
Jo walked to the window, but didn’t unlock it. “What do you want?” she demanded.
The woman glanced over her shoulder as though she didn’t want to be overheard. Instead of answering, she fiddled with her phone, then placed the screen against the window. A news broadcast was playing, and the chyron at the bottom was crystal clear. It read Spencer Harding Presumed Dead.
Jo unlocked the window and lifted it. “What happened?”
“Spencer Harding’s helicopter crashed into New York Harbor late last night. It’s believed he was the only one on board. Would you care to comment?”
Jo had no comment. Only questions. Had his death been painful enough? Had he known the kind of fear she and her daughter had felt? “Me? Why?”
“Given the seriousness of the allegations you made against him yesterday, it’s hard to believe his death and your story aren’t related in some way.”
Jo resisted the urge to let out a whoop of joy. “Holy shit,” she marveled instead.
“Is it okay if I quote you?” the reporter asked.
“No,” Jo said, trying to remember the response she always heard people give on TV. “I have no comment at this time.”
She slid the window shut, locked it, and pulled the curtains. Then she raced upstairs to Nessa’s bedroom. She rapped once on the door but didn’t wait for an answer.
“Wake up!”
Nessa sat bolt upright. She was still wearing the outfit she’d worn out on the boat. Apparently, she hadn’t found the energy to change into her nightclothes. “What is it?” she said. “Is everyone okay? What’s happened?”
“Spencer Harding is dead,” Jo said.
“Jesus.” Nessa flopped back down on the bed. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”
“Someone just rang the doorbell, and when I got up, there was a reporter at the window. She said Spencer Harding is dead and people think it might have something to do with the podcast.”
“There’s a reporter outside?” Her curiosity piqued, Nessa hauled herself out of bed and went to the window. She let out a snort when she peeked out the blinds. “You said there was one reporter outside?”
Jo joined her. The street in front of Nessa’s house was jammed with television vans. “They’re going to ruin my damn yard,” Nessa said.
“If it makes you feel any better, I’m sure Harriett can fix it. You mind if I turn on the news?” Jo asked.
Nessa sighed. “I’d say that’s probably a good idea.”
The local news was filming live in front of Nessa’s house. When they pulled up the blinds and peered straight down from Nessa’s bedroom window, they could see the blond reporter standing in the middle of the lawn.
“These folks got a lot of nerve,” Nessa grumbled as Jo turned up the sound on the television.
“. . . the stunning allegations made against Harding have sent local police scrambling. Divers are currently scouring the ocean floor off Danskammer Beach in search of the two bodies filmed by Josh Gibbon, host of the true crime podcast They Walk Among Us. Detective Franklin Rees, the lead detective on the Jane Doe case, says that despite the compelling story told by Ms. James and Ms. Levison, it is still too early to draw conclusions.”
The program switched over to an interview that had been taped at Danskammer Beach while the sun was still rising in the east. Franklin stood in front of the camera with bags under his eyes and a coffee cup in his hand.