She tried going out at night. She crept out of her own house like a criminal, getting in her car and driving around Claire Lake as it slept. But even at night she was noticeable, her big Cadillac gliding through the silent streets. Ever since the night with Detective Black, the police had almost always been on her tail, and even during her night drives, she’d see headlights behind her. So she gave up and went home.
She’d gone last night, not getting home until almost four. The tension was going to kill her; alcohol was the only thing that killed it. She was lying on the sofa, halfway through a bottle of wine and blearily watching TV with all of the curtains closed at two in the afternoon when the phone rang. She reached a hand to the end table and picked it up. “Hello?”
There was the sound of breathing on the other end of the line. In the background, wind and traffic, as if the call was coming from a roadside phone booth.
And just like that, she knew who it was. She knew what voice would be on the other end, even though she hadn’t heard it in two years. The voice she’d been searching for. The voice she hated. The haziness of the wine started to drain away.
“Lily,” Beth said.
The voice on the other end was beloved and terrifying, strange and also as familiar as her own. “They’re coming for you,” Lily said.
The police. She was talking about the police. “They’re coming now?”
“Yes, they are.”
“How do you know?”
“They think they’re so discreet.” The voice was disgusted. “Honestly. I could see them from the road.”
Beth sat up. If Lily was talking about the road, then she was near the house.
No, she couldn’t be. But she’d driven past. While Beth had been sitting on this sofa, drinking and waiting, Lily had driven past before finding a phone booth. How many times had she done that, when Beth had been looking for her for so many days?
“You bitch,” Beth said.
“Maybe, but I’m sitting here while you’re about to be arrested. This is all your fault, Beth. You could have stopped it.”
She wasn’t drunk now, not at all. Panic tried to climb up her throat. “I didn’t do all of this. You did.”
“Only because you made me.” Lily sighed into the phone. “I even left a note. Did you read it?”
Of course she had. The note had been in all the papers. Am I bitter or am I sweet? Ladies can be either.
Which one are you today? Mariana would say when they were little girls. Are you bitter, or are you sweet?
And the girls would have to choose. Lily always chose bitter, which would make Mariana laugh and shake her head.
Beth would say she was sweet. Mariana never laughed at that. She’d just nod and say, “How nice.”
“Why are you calling?” Beth asked Lily now, listening to her breathe on the other end of the line.
“I want to know what you’ll do,” Lily said. “Whether you’ll run. Whether you’ll break. Whether you’ll talk.”
“I could tell them everything.”
“Will you tell them how you could have stopped it?” Lily asked. “You’ve been looking for me, haven’t you? Driving the streets, searching. Too bad you didn’t find me. You should have looked harder.”
She should have. She knew that now. She’d been panicked and half-drunk, and for some reason she’d thought she’d have more time. But now she was out of time.
Was that the crunch of gravel, the low hum of a motor? More than one? There wasn’t a lot of traffic in Arlen Heights, especially in the middle of the day. The police were coming, and Beth’s time was up.
Lily’s voice was clear, unhurried, as if she knew Beth would obey even as the police closed in. “You’re not leaving, Beth,” she said. “You’re not talking.”
“I hate you,” Beth said, her throat choking and her eyes burning with unshed tears.
“No, you don’t,” Lily said. “You really don’t.”
Beth put down the phone, her breath sawing in her throat. Her palms tingled with sweat. She needed to call Ransom.
There was the sound of another car outside. Lily was a liar, but she wasn’t lying about this. Beth was about to be arrested for murder.
This is all your fault, Beth.
You’re not leaving. You’re not talking.
And just like it had during the police interview, the fear snapped and the anger took over. That cold, comforting rage.
Beth went upstairs, changed her clothes. Put on dark high-waisted jeans, a cream blouse with a pattern of brown diamonds on it, her favorite shirt. Red lipstick. Hoops in her ears. There were more sounds now, low voices at the side of the house. Did they think they were being stealthy? Lily was right; it was ridiculous. Did they think she would run? Where did they think she would go?
Beth put on heeled boots, and then as a final gesture she put on her trench coat, belting it at the waist. She picked up her purse. She walked to the windows in the living room and dragged open the curtains.
There were men outside. Uniformed cops, bracing in position. They looked startled at the sight of her.
Beth gave them a wave.
She walked calmly to the front door and opened it. There were cops here, too, on the lawn. A brown Pontiac at the end of the driveway, pulled up behind her Cadillac. Marked cruisers parked farther down the street. A crowd of neighbors was gathering, and the press was already here, two reporters and two photographers flashing pictures of Beth standing in her doorway. As she watched, a van pulled up two doors down and a female reporter got out, followed by a TV cameraman. The woman left the cameraman behind with his heavy equipment and jogged up the street in her high heels when she saw Beth.
Beth watched the chaos building in front of her house, feeling oddly calm. She wondered if Lily would drive by again, just to see the scene she’d created. It would be a crazy move, but you never knew what Lily would do.
The doors of the brown Pontiac opened, and Detectives Black and Washington got out. They were wearing suits, and both of them looked unhappy. This circus wasn’t what they’d wanted; someone somewhere must have leaked information to the press. Beth took a grim satisfaction in the frowns on their faces, the angry displeasure in Washington’s eyes. What did Beth care about a few photographs if this mess embarrassed them?
As the detectives came up the driveway, yet another car pulled up to the curb. Ransom got out, his hair a little disheveled and his tie askew. He saw her on the front porch and pointed at her. “Don’t say anything, Beth!” he shouted. “Not a word!”
“Miss Greer!” the female reporter called to her, jogging up the driveway behind the detectives, flanking them. A flashbulb went off. “Miss Greer, do you have anything to say on the day of your arrest for the Lady Killer murders?”
“Get out of here,” Detective Washington growled. The reporter fell back a step but didn’t leave.
Beth put her hands in the pockets of her trench coat and watched. Ransom started across her lawn toward her, his expensive shoes sinking into the damp grass.
“Detective Black!” one of the other reporters shouted. “What evidence do you have that Beth Greer is the Lady Killer? Was she having an affair with the victims?”
“What the hell is going on?” shouted the man who lived two doors down, his face going red as he stood in the street. “This is a good neighborhood!”
As if in response, another police cruiser came around the corner, this one flashing its lights and blaring its siren. Someone in Arlen Heights had called the police—on the police. The uniformed cops on the lawn shouted, and Black and Washington turned and waved their arms at the cruiser, signaling it to shut up. It, too, pulled over, and the siren went quiet, though the lights still flashed, flickering over the sunny day. Another reporter showed up, and another camera flashed. The TV cameraman had gotten his bulky equipment up and running and was now shooting the whole scene.
Washington gestured to one of the uniforms. “Help us out over here.” The uniform hurried over, and Washington said, “We need you to handcuff her.”
“We don’t need handcuffs, for God’s sake,” Detective Black said.