From the printouts, I learn that in addition to the old man Dave and I spoke to at Neighborhood House, the prosecutor’s star witness was a woman by the name of Cornelia Huck, a neighbor in 47c, the apartment flanking the abandoned one where the fire was started. Early on in the trial, Mrs. Huck testified she heard Will’s parents fighting the night of the fire, but that there were three voices, not two. Two adults and one teenage boy. Mrs. Huck recognized the distinction because she had a handful of kids, though she was careful to point out they were not friends with Will.
At some time after midnight, things quieted down. An hour and a half later, the building was in flames. Mrs. Huck managed to make it out, though she lost everything, and like most of the residents, she was uninsured.
“Do you think Mrs. Huck had an ax to grind?” I say, reaching for my wine. I say the name, and something niggles, a memory pushing at the back of my mind.
“Most definitely. Especially since she was already a little infamous for her regular 911 calls, accusing the Griffiths of disturbing the peace. She said, and I quote, ‘she couldn’t think straight with all that hollering.’”
“And meanwhile, where are her kids? She mentions them at the trial, but I don’t see anything in the reports from the scene of the fire.”
“If they’re not listed as witnesses or as victims, we can assume they were nothing more than bystanders.”
The memory slides into place now, fully formed. Will’s high-school friend, the one I never met because he was off in Costa Rica, teaching rich tourists how to surf. His name is Huck. I always assumed Huck was his first name, but now I’m not so sure. One of the neighboring kids?
I lean my head back on the leather, close my eyes and wonder where to begin unraveling the confusion of the past two weeks. With the crash? With Rainier Vista? With the notes and texts? I think back to the morning Will left, when our marriage seemed like the simplest thing on earth. We made each other feel lighter, better, happier. If I’d known all along what I know now about him, would I still feel that way?
I shake my head, shake off the thoughts. “So, now what?” By now it’s quarter to ten on a school night, and all I want to do is go to bed.
“I’ll sic my assistant on this tomorrow morning, and we’ll see what else she can dig up that might be relevant.”
“No, I meant about Corban. Should we be contacting the police?”
“And tell them what?”
“Uh, everything I told you tonight. The texts, the tracker, the creepy smile when I drove away.”
“A creepy smile isn’t a crime, and neither, technically, are the texts.”
I sit up a little straighter on the couch. “He’s pretending to be my dead husband!”
“Maybe. Right now all we know for sure is that Zeke traced the blocked number to a house where Corban was physically present, and who’s to say Will wasn’t hiding out in the basement? We don’t know that Corban was physically holding the phone that sent the texts, or that he even actually lives there. If anything, you’re the guilty one here, for invading his privacy. I know it’s frustrating, but I’m just saying, before we go to the police, we’re going to need more information.”
“Okay, then what about the tracker?”
“Again, we don’t know that Corban is the one who put it there. And, unfortunately, this is one area where technology is light-years ahead of the law. Those spyware apps aren’t illegal, and unless Zeke can trace the tracker back to Corban using legal means and not his shady hacker ways, we’re going to have a tough time proving Corban is guilty of anything.”
“Isn’t that what the police are for?”
“The police can only take action once sufficient evidence has been obtained, and we don’t have that yet. At this point, any suspicions against Corban are just that—suspicions.”
“What about a restraining order?”
“We could try for a temporary protective order, but we don’t have much to go on. We’d have to show that his behavior has been harassing and intimidating, and that it’s caused you to fear for your safety. That’s going to be hard to do after you offered the guy a beer for mowing your lawn.”
I huff a long sigh.
“Look, I’m not trying to be difficult. I’m just telling you how these things work. Our best course of action is to get a PI on the case first thing tomorrow morning and then come up with a next step based on what he finds. Does that sound like something you can live with?”
I nod, but it’s slow and bumpy.
“Good.” He slaps both hands to his knees and unfolds his long limbs from the couch. He smiles down at me, shoulders hunched and hands shoved into his pockets. The lawyer version of him is wiped away, and he’s back to being the sad-eyed man-boy, the one who, when I look at him too long, hurts my heart. “You sure you’re going to be okay here?”
“Of course.” An edge of fear shades my voice, and I cover it by dragging my smile wider. From the way his mouth draws tight, I don’t think I did a good job.
“If you don’t want to stay with me, you can always go to a hotel.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ve got the mac-daddy alarm, remember?”
“Right.”
Evan offers me a hand and pulls me off the couch, and I walk him to the front door. As he’s reaching for the knob, he pauses, turning back with a frown. “Did you ever hear back from Zeke about the 678 number?”
I slide my phone from my pocket, check the screen. “No. Nothing.”
“Wonder what’s taking him so long. I’ll give him a call on the way home. If he’s made any headway, I’ll let you know. And we’ll talk tomorrow about plans to go see Tiffany.”
“Sounds good.”
“Okay. Be smart. Keep your doors locked. Don’t open up to anyone. Trust your gut. If you have even the slightest suspicion there’s something wrong, use the panic buttons. That’s what they’re for.”
“Evan, seriously. I’ll be fine.”
He relents, yanking on the front doorknob, and a siren splits the air.
“Oh, shit!” I lurch to the pad and punch in the code, and the deafening screech stops. I know from experience what comes next. I run into the kitchen for the phone, which is already ringing.
“Rugby, rugby, rugby,” I say by way of greeting. “Sorry! I promise this is the last time.”
“Glad to hear all is well, Mrs. Griffith. Have a good night.”
I drop the phone onto the charger and make my way back into the hall, my heart settling.
Evan is standing just where I left him, his hands shoved into his pockets, his grin big and wide. “Well, at least we know the thing works.”
“My neighbors are going to hate me.”
He pulls me in for a quick hug, wrapping me in his praying-mantis arms and his scent of unfamiliar shampoo and aftershave. For a fleeting second, I reconsider his offer of his guest room, and just like that, the hug turns awkward. Too tight, too close, too soon for his chin to be resting on the crown of my head, his hand warm and dry in my neck.
I untangle myself and pull away.
“Be safe, okay?” I nod, and he smiles. “Call you in the morning.”