But not here. I had to get out of here. It hadn't occurred to me until that moment that the person who had killed Stefanie Knight might still be in the house, or returning to it shortly. It was time to get the hell out.
I unlocked the regular door that led from the garage to the outside, the one I'd peeked through earlier, and quietly walked down the driveway to my car parked at the curb. I unlocked it, got behind the wheel, and slipped my keys into the ignition. And stopped.
Fingerprints.
What had I touched?
A deadbolt, for starters.
And the front doorknob.
And the door to the laundry room, and the door from the laundry room to the garage, and the light switch, and the door from the garage to the outside...
I thought that was it.
I reached around into the back seat, where we keep a box of tissues on the floor, and grabbed a huge wad of them. There was no one on the street, so I got out of the car, walked back up the drive. I'd never relocked the front door, so as I turned the knob I wiped it down, then the inside doorknob, and the deadbolt. From there I went to the laundry room door, wiped down both knobs, then the door to the garage. It had a safety hinge, so the door would swing closed on its own to keep residents safe from a car spewing exhaust, and I didn't think I had touched the inside knob, but wiped it down just the same. Then the light switch, and the knobs on the door leading out of the garage.
My head was pounding. I was sure I'd touched nothing else, left no other clues behind. I didn't feel that I was keeping the police from finding the real killer. I hadn't wiped down the shovel handle, for example. Surely that would be the first thing the cops would dust for prints.
I'd been careful not to step in any of the blood, but looked at the soles of my shoes anyway. I rubbed my shoes on the grass once I'd stepped back outside, then got back into the car. Slipped the key back into the ignition, turned over the engine, put the car into gear, foot off the brake and onto the accelerator and -
Mailbox.
I hit the brake, glanced back up at the house, and backed up far enough that I could see the front door and the mailbox. There, peeking out from under the flap, was my signed note for Stefanie Knight.
Once I had it in my pocket and was driving home, I kept wondering if there was anything I'd missed. I swung into a fast-food joint, headed straight for the men's room, and flushed all the tissues, including the one I'd used to wipe the blood from my finger, down the toilet. I tore the note written on the back of my checkbook into a dozen pieces and flushed it as well. Then, as an afterthought, I ripped up the scrap of paper from Stefanie's mother and flushed a third time. As I exited the stall, a man washing his hands glanced at me, no doubt wondering just how severe my bowel disorder was.
I got back in the car and felt I'd thought of everything. I'd covered my tracks well.
Oh fuck.
My name and e-mail address were on a piece of paper in that woman's house. When the police came to tell her about her daughter's murder, she'd tell them about the man who'd been by earlier that evening, looking for her, supposedly to return a driver's license.
Think. Think.
My fingerprints weren't anywhere at Stefanie's house. As far as anyone could tell, I had not been inside. I could stick with the story that I'd found her driver's license. Ditch the purse behind Mindy's, if I had to. Police could think some kid stole the purse, driver's license fell out, I found it, attempted to return it. Went to the address on the license, met her mother, got a further address, went there, found no one at home, window smashed in, thought that looked funny, called 911.
That way, I'd look less suspicious. Being the guy to make the call.
I'd crack in an instant. Five minutes under the hot lights and I'd spill my guts.
No, no, I wouldn't. I could pull this off.
But first, I wanted to get home and look inside Stefanie Knight's purse. What I wanted to find in there was nothing. Nothing that would lead someone to want her dead if she'd lost it, been unable to produce it, to give it back.
When I got home I went straight to my study and was taking the purse out of the bag when I heard Sarah call to me from upstairs. "Zack? That you?"
I tossed the purse behind a box of old papers I kept under the desk and went upstairs, finding her in our bedroom, emptying a basket of clean laundry and slipping it into drawers.
"How's Kenny?" she asked.
Kenny? I thought. Was there something wrong with Kenny?
"Huh?" I said.
"Kenny's wife. How's she doing?"
It came back to me. "Aww, she's okay. She'll be fine. Should be out in a day or two."
"That's good," Sarah said. "He didn't say what's wrong with her?"
"No, not in detail, and I didn't want to ask unless he offered, you know."
"How long's Kenny been married?"
"I don't know exactly. He's about my age. Probably as long as we have, I'd guess."
"Have you ever met his wife?" Sarah asked. She seemed to have a lot of questions.
"No, she's never come into the shop when I was there, or if she did, I didn't know it was her."
"Do you know her name? In case you wanted to send a card?"