IT TOOK ONLY THREE calls, all placed from my classroom in the twenty minutes before first period, to get the right Amelia Kent. But I could reach her only at her place of work—I didn’t have access to her cell, and she didn’t seem to have a landline. Amelia Kent, according to a simple Internet search that led to her job profile on social media, was an accountant at Berger & Co., a mom-and-pop CPA firm in the White Mountains.
Amelia was overly cheerful for the early-morning hour, answering on the first ring when I asked to be transferred to her direct line. I introduced myself in relation to the police investigation, explaining that I was looking for a woman who’d briefly used her address—that we could trace her as far back as that, but then we lost her.
“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help,” she said. “I left a few months before my lease was up, figured my ex took over the rent, though I’m not sure. Never got my security deposit back. And I’d paid first and last months when I moved in. Figured the owners just pocketed the rest and called it even.”
“So you didn’t move back to California? You weren’t rooming with a girl at any point?”
“No, not any girl. I told that to the detective who called earlier—Kyle?”
“Donovan,” I added, so she would see the connection, believe I was telling the truth. “That’s right. I think he mentioned a Vince?”
She paused for the first time. “Yes. Vince had been my boyfriend for two years. He’d moved in with me back in January. And I caught him with someone else in May.” She laughed bitterly. “Made me wonder what he’d really been up to all that time.”
“Who?” I asked. Her name, I needed her name.
“I don’t know. I didn’t really stick around for introductions. You can’t really explain something like that away, though he sure as hell tried.”
“How did he try?”
“Denial, of course. But she was in our bed, God.” The memory still riled her up, still thrummed through her blood.
“Can I get his last name, Amelia? Please, it’s important. He’s the only lead I have.”
A pause, and then, “Mendelson. Please don’t mention my name. Please don’t mention I’m the one who sent you.”
Amazing how something that happened so long ago can feel so fresh. How it could come back to haunt you from nowhere—the innocuous ring of a telephone, the past come to call from the other end.
CHAPTER 27
Vince Mendelson was a little harder to track down. I made several calls during lunch and had finally come away with what I felt was a solid lead when I saw Kate standing in my doorway.
“Hey there, didn’t want to interrupt,” she said.
I placed the phone facedown on my desk, wondered how long she’d been standing there.
“You okay?” she asked.
This was a new game for me: How much did people know and What did they think and Why were they asking.
“Yes,” I said, and it was true. After the phone call to Amelia, I was actually feeling okay. It felt like the old days, the way one lead would spark to the next, and the next, until I had uncovered something and supported it with details that I had dug up myself.
I was in the middle of it now, but soon there would come an end. We dig until we get there.
“You heard about Cobb, right?”
I froze, tried to keep my face passive. “Heard what?”
She took a step closer. “He’s back.” My eyes must’ve widened, because she added, “Not right this second, but he’ll be coaching this afternoon, I heard. He’s been cleared.”
He’s been cleared. Which meant they were working under some other assumption now.
“Thanks for telling me,” I said. “No one else bothered.” Mitch hadn’t caught me on the way in, or cornered me in the hall, or paged me over the intercom.
The bell for end of lunch rang, and the sound of students in the halls grew—one voice, two—until the voices blended together, a buzzing hive, reduced to white noise.
* * *
AT THE END OF class, I was ready to make some more calls but saw I had a new message on my school email. A message from the TeachingLeahStevens account for the first time since Davis Cobb was picked up by the police. No subject. I sucked in a breath, hovered the mouse over the message, clicked open.
The message itself had only two lines:
There once was a woman in red
Who took a stranger to bed
My fingers trembled over the keyboard, my reflection staring back from the screen. My pale face; the long-sleeved red sweater. I felt it scratching the skin at my collarbone. I looked down, wondered if it was a coincidence. Or if he had seen me before writing this.
I imagined someone standing outside my house, peering in those front sliding doors, the inside of my house lit faintly by the amber light of the living room lamp. Looking down the hall to the open bedroom door, the darkness beyond. Seeing two pairs of kicked-off shoes. Kyle’s dark jeans.
I imagined Davis Cobb outside my window, watching us. Bold, I thought. He was getting way too bold. Escalating even now.
I forwarded the message to Kyle, adding my own note on top: You said you wanted to see them. Well, here it is. First one I’ve gotten since. I heard he’s back at school, by the way.
I didn’t say anything about the words in the message or what they implied. I’d let Kyle come to that conclusion all on his own.
Cobb watched my house.
It was a terrifying, skin-crawling thought, and yet . . . I wondered what else he might know, if he knew who Emmy was, if he’d seen her. I forwarded a copy to my personal email account before I left for the day—and for the first time, I debated responding.
Mitch caught me on the way out, beckoned me into his office. “Shut the door,” he said, his face pensive.
“I already heard,” I said, and his face dropped for a moment before his calm demeanor slid back into place.
“Okay, good, I’m glad. You’re okay with it? If you need anything, or want to talk, or anything at all—”
“I know where to find you,” I said.
He watched me go with a faint air of disappointment. As if one thing would lead to the next and he could watch the undoing of Leah Stevens, catching me on the way down.
* * *
THE PHONE RANG AFTER I parked in my driveway, and I flipped it over, seeing my sister’s name. I frowned, worried briefly about my mother. I hadn’t heard from her since I’d hung up on her Sunday.
“Hello?” I called, walking up the porch steps, keys out in my hand.
“Did you apply for a new job, Leah?”
“Did I . . . What? No.” I slid the door open, shut and locked it behind me.
“That’s what Mom said, too. But I thought I’d check with you.”