The main reason Max wanted to talk to the teacher was to have her share what she told the police, without expressly asking her to repeat what she’d told the police. And Ms. Pritchard came through with flying colors—yes, the police had asked if Peter had been abused, and she had never seen any signs of abuse. No bruises, no broken bones, nothing. Peter was a happy child in a loving, wealthy family. The only time he’d ever even missed school was when he was ill with the flu for a week right before Christmas break, but he caught up on his assignments.
Of course the police had asked about child abuse, Max thought, as she drove to Jane Nunez’s house in a quiet, established Phoenix neighborhood. They would want any evidence of abuse as a pattern to show the jury habitual violence leading up to murder. Historically, a parent who killed one of their children had been abusing them. But if there was any evidence of abuse, John would have known about it—and he wouldn’t have been so quick to think Blair was innocent.
Unless he was in complete denial.
Yet she couldn’t see John turning his back on physical abuse. Once might be an accident, but multiple times? Could he be that na?ve?
She couldn’t legally access Peter’s medical records, and she would have to wait until the trial to find out if the prosecution had uncovered any child abuse, but the teacher seemed certain that Peter was healthy and happy. Would she have caught on to the subtleties of abuse? Max couldn’t say, but in the thirty minutes she spent with the teacher, she was almost certain Ms. Pritchard would have been aware of any physical or emotional signs of abuse—and that she wouldn’t have kept that information to herself.
Max knocked on Jane Nunez’s house at two that afternoon; she wasn’t home. She drove to a nearby restaurant—a mom-and-pop Mexican diner. While the atmosphere was a far cry from the Biltmore where she’d eaten last night, Max had learned that some of the best food was found in the most nondescript places. She was not wrong in picking this hole-in-the-wall, if the salsa they put in front of her was any indication.
While she ate, Max read the report her staff had prepared on Jane Nunez.
Jane owned her own small business for the past fifteen years, employed more than a dozen housecleaners but also took her own clients. She owned her house, had no outstanding debt, and had only one social media account, a private page that seemed to be reserved for a limited number of friends and family. The business had a public Facebook page, but it was primarily to steer prospective clients to her Web site. There were comments from clients, most of them positive.
After enjoying a surprisingly fresh and spicy shrimp salad, Max relaxed in the booth and called several of Jane’s clients—using the excuse that she was checking references—and they all spoke highly of Jane, her staff, and their overall professionalism. She learned from one chatty older woman that Jane was a widow with four children and the “salt of the earth.”
Max glanced at her watch. It was three thirty—Jane might be home by now if she picked up her children from school. She seemed too young to have a child old enough to drive, but anything was possible.
Max paid for her meal and left. Jane’s house was only five minutes away; she was still not home. Max sat in her rental car under a tree across the street. She was in the middle of proofreading an article Ben wanted to post under her byline to the Maximum Exposure Web site when her phone rang.
Nick.
She almost sent him to voice mail. She should. But she had left him a message yesterday when she arrived at the Biltmore.
“Hello, Nick.”
“Hi, Max. I called you back as soon as I got your message.”
She had to give him credit for trying. She knew he was trying to fix what was broken in their relationship, but she didn’t know if what they had was worth fixing. Or if it could be fixed. Or if she wanted it to be fixed.
“I was in a meeting.”
“In Phoenix?”
“A case I’m looking into.”
“I’d love to hear about it.”
Max watched a new, generic minivan pull in to the garage. Before the door closed, four kids clamored out of the van and ran into the house.
“And I’d love to share with you, but now isn’t a good time. I have another interview in a few minutes.”
“I have swing shift this week.” For Nick, that meant he worked three until midnight. It was already nearly four; he was likely calling her from his desk.
“Call when you’re off duty. If I’m awake, I’ll answer.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m always okay, Nick. My interview is here. I’ll talk to you tonight.” She hung up before he—or she—prolonged the conversation.
She wished she hadn’t answered the phone at all. This dance she and Nick had been waltzing for the last four months had drained her. Four months? Maybe it started when they first started seeing each other nine months ago.
Long-distance relationships had always been best for her because she didn’t want to give up her independence or her autonomy. Plus, there was a layer of emotional distance that usually suited her. She could enjoy a weekend every month of fabulous sex and conversation and then resume her life when she returned to New York. But with Nick, she’d wanted more—she had shared more of herself with him than she had with nearly every other man she’d dated, yet he didn’t share with her. At least not what she felt was important, namely this routine with his ex-wife over the custody of their son. An important part of his life that he told her in no uncertain terms he would not discuss with her.
You should have broken it off months ago.
She should have, but she’d been in an emotional whirlwind and convinced herself that she could enjoy the relationship for what it was and simply pull back emotionally.
It hadn’t worked. She’d pulled back, but she wasn’t enjoying the relationship. She felt like she was in a perpetual state of mourning, or anger, or both.
Max pulled herself together, finished proofreading the article, sent the corrections to Ben, and left her car. She walked up to Jane’s front door and rang the bell.
A moment later she heard pounding footsteps and jostling behind the door. A young boy shouted, “Ouch!” then the door opened.
Two kids, a boy of about six and a girl of about eight, stood there, crowding into the space between the door and the frame. “Hi,” the boy said.
“Is your mom home?” Max asked.
“Yes, who are you?”
“Maxine Revere.”
They stood there, her name meaning nothing to either kid. “You’re not selling anything, are you?” the girl asked.
“No.”
“You sure? My mom doesn’t like solicitors.”
“I’m sure.”
“Then who are you?”
“Abby! Robbie! Rooms, now.”
Jane Nunez came to the door. Her kids scurried off. “I swear, they are impossible. May I help you?”
“I’m Maxine Revere. I’m a friend of John Caldwell’s.”
Jane didn’t say anything, but she straightened her spine and her friendly expression vanished.
“John and I went to college together,” Max continued. “He gave me your contact information.” Small white lie, but John had told her he would give her the information. Blair’s arrival prevented it.
“What do you want?”
Slightly suspicious. Why? “I’m an investigative reporter. I primarily investigate cold cases, and John asked me to look at similarities between Peter’s murder and that of three young boys in Southern California.”