“I would ask that you refrain from a word like ‘snuck,’ Detective.”
“We’re not in front of a jury, Ms. Bondurant.” He paused. “Not yet. As I was saying, Ms. Pickens here was stopped by hospital security before she could exit the building. Police were notified, but an accommodation was reached between the Westphalls and the hospital and no further action was taken. Would that accommodation have anything to do with the fact that your mother is the hospital administrator, Ms. Pickens?”
Her eyes were welling up with tears.
“Strikes me,” Duckworth said to Natalie, “that you haven’t been fully informed of your client’s previous activities.” He leaned over the table and eyed Marla sympathetically. “It’s a good thing Matthew’s okay, Marla. You looked out for him and that’s good. Maybe, when you tried to take him, Mrs. Gaynor came at you. Threatened to hurt you. Is that what happened? Were you just acting in self-defense?”
“It was the angel,” Marla said.
“Excuse me?”
“I didn’t take Matthew. It was the angel that brought her.”
“We’re done here,” Natalie said.
“Can you describe this angel?” Duckworth asked.
Marla shook her head. “I can’t.”
Duckworth slid the photo of Rosemary Gaynor toward her again. “Was this your angel?”
Marla gave the picture another look. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? Either this is her or it isn’t.”
“I . . . have trouble,” Marla said. “With faces.”
“But this only just happened in the last twenty-four hours.”
“It’s the prosopagnosia,” Marla said.
Confusion flashed across the faces of both lawyer and detective.
“I’m sorry. Proso – what?” Duckworth said.
“I have it,” Marla said. “Not real bad, but bad enough. Prosopagnosia.” She paused. “Face blindness.”
“What’s that?” Duckworth asked.
“I can’t remember faces. I can’t remember what people look like.” Marla pointed to the picture. “So it might have been that woman who gave me Matthew. But I just don’t know.”
TWENTY
David
“WHOA,” I said, backing away from the door, putting my hands in the air. The last thing I wanted to do was appear threatening as Sam—make that Samantha—Worthington pointed that shotgun at my head.
“Who’d you say you were?” she asked. “What are you doing asking about my boy? Did they send you?”
“I think there’s some kind of misunderstanding here,” I said, slowly lowering my arms, but still keeping lots of space between my hands and my body. For all I knew, she thought I was carrying a gun and might reach for it. Why else would you show up at the door with a shotgun?
I continued, trying to keep my voice even. “My name’s David Harwood. I’m Ethan’s dad. Our boys go to school together. Ethan and Carl.”
“What’s the name of the school?” Sam asked.
“What?”
“Name it. Name the school.”
“Clinton Street Elementary,” I said.
“What’s the teacher’s name?”
I had to think. “Ms. Moffat,” I said.
The shotgun began to lower. If she shot me now, it’d be my chest that got blown away and not my head. A slight improvement, perhaps.
“Did I pass the test?” I asked. Because that was certainly what it felt like.
“Maybe,” she said.
From inside the house, someone shouted, “Who is it, Mom?” A boy. Carl, presumably.
Sam whirled her head around, no more than a second. “Stay in the kitchen!” she said. There wasn’t another peep out of Carl.
“Brandon’s folks didn’t send you?” Sam asked me.
“I don’t know a Brandon,” I said.
She studied me another five seconds, breathing through her nose. Finally she lowered the shotgun all the way, pointing it at the floor. I let my arms go limp, but I didn’t move any closer to the door.
“What is it you want?” she asked.
“Right now, a change of shorts,” I said. I looked for any hint of a smile and did not find one. “My son gave your boy an antique watch. It was a mistake. It wasn’t his to give. It belongs to his grandfather. Actually, it was his father’s. It’s kind of a family memento.”
“A watch?”
“A pocket watch.” I made a circle with my thumb and forefinger. “A little bigger than an Oreo.”
“Just a minute,” she said. “Stay right there.” She closed the door. I heard a chain slide into place.
So I cooled my heels out front. Put my hands into my pockets. Smiled as an elderly woman wheeled past with a small grocery cart. She ignored me.
Here it was, only midafternoon. I’d found a body, been interrogated by the police, and now had been threatened with a shotgun. I was afraid to wonder what the rest of the day would bring.
My phone rang.
I dug the cell out of my pocket and looked at the number. It was not one I recognized. Maybe it was Detective Duckworth with more questions. I accepted the call and put the phone to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Is this David Harwood?” It was a man’s voice. Gruff, and louder than it needed to be.