“What is it? I haven’t sold any more keys, I swear.”
“No,” she said. “It’s not that. I’m going to show you a photo of my husband, and I want you to tell me whether he’s the man you sold the key to. All right? Can you do that for me?”
Brady looked wary, as if she was setting some sort of trap for him. “I guess,” he said, hunching his shoulders and crossing his arms to shove his hands into his armpits.
She pulled up a photo on her phone of John with Daltrey on his shoulders, but the light was good and you could clearly identify his features.
Brady took the phone from her hand and scrutinized it. “This is your husband?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not the guy.”
A shrill of terror bloomed in her gut. “You’re sure?”
“Definitely. That’s not the guy. The guy I talked to had a beard.”
“Well, picture this guy with a beard. What do you think now?”
Brady shook his head. “Still not him. Definitely not. His coloring’s all wrong. This guy has brown eyes, right? The guy who bought your keys had darker hair and he had . . . different eyes. Weird eyes.”
“Weird how?”
“I don’t know. Just weird.”
That was the same word Allen the drug dealer had used.
“Is there anything else you can tell me about the guy?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Thank you, Brady. Sorry to have bothered you.”
He closed the door and Nessa shivered, even though it was in the low nineties. She drove home and made a list of everything that needed to be done. She decided not to tell her in--laws about John until they returned with Daltrey. This was news better given in person. She then spent the day trimming and tending to the hops vines. She’d been following the advice on a hops--growing website she’d found, and they seemed to be doing well. It did her good to work outdoors, which she did until late afternoon, and she found her thoughts straying to Marlon all day long, thoughts she kept batting away. It was probably quite normal after a spouse’s death to obsess about the first semi--suitable mate that crossed your vision.
But that wasn’t fair. Marlon wasn’t just some guy. She knew him, she respected him. She trusted him.
Her phone rang, a number she didn’t recognize, and she let it go to voicemail. Then she listened to it.
“Mrs. Donati, this is Shanae Klerkse from Child Protective Ser-vices calling to make an appointment to interview Daltrey. Please call me back at your earliest convenience. Thank you, and have a nice day.”
That could definitely wait.
About five, her phone dinged with a text from Isabeau.
Consider this my two weeks’ notice. However, I will stay on until you find a replacement because I’d never leave that poor little boy alone.
What the actual hell? Nessa texted back, What’s going on? Is something wrong?
No reply.
Nessa resent hers. Still no answer, even fifteen minutes later. So she called Isabeau’s phone but it went straight to voicemail.
“Isabeau, it’s Nessa. Can we talk about this? I’m worried that something has happened. Can you please let me know? Please. Oh, and by the way, Detective Dirksen came by to let me know they think they’ve found John in Tuttle.”
Nessa was sure that last bit would pique Isabeau’s interest enough to call and find out the details.
But it didn’t. There was no return call.
It was an awfully strange coincidence that the only two -people semi--close to her had been turned against her in less than twenty--four hours. And there was only one person Nessa had accidentally told about Marlon’s suicide attempt.
But Isabeau idolized Marlon. Didn’t she? How well did Nessa really know her?
Goose bumps covered her skin.
But what had she done to Isabeau to anger her so much? Was there some connection between the two of them that she was unaware of?
Had Isabeau called the student newspaper?
Seething, infuriated, Nessa called Isabeau’s number again, and as she expected, it went to voicemail again.
“Hey, Isabeau, you lying sack of shit,” Nessa said. “Just so you know, I know why you’re quitting. It’s because your work here is done. It’s because you’re the fucking troll. You called the K--State student paper and told them about Marlon’s suicide attempt. I know it’s you, because you’re the only one I’ve ever said anything about it to. I don’t know what we did to make you want to destroy us, but I’m on to you. And I’m going to the police.” She hung up and waited.
Immediately her phone rang.
“I’d never do anything to hurt Marlon,” Isabeau yelled into the phone.
“Well, you did,” Nessa said.
“I didn’t call the paper, for God’s sake. I’m not the troll. You are. You set this whole thing up to get attention. You killed your husband because he was a pain in your ass. You emailed my dad’s best friend’s wife, you bitch.”
Nessa was speechless. For a moment, she didn’t know what Isabeau was talking about, but then she thought back to their heart--to--heart talk on Saturday night. Which was the same night she’d let the information about Marlon’s suicide attempt slip.