Three rings. Finally he answers, his voice groggy.
“Derek, did I wake you?” I blurt out. “It’s Bryn.”
“No, um . . .” I sense him looking at a clock or trying to get his bearings. “I was just listening to music. Is everything okay?”
“I think someone was trying to break into my house.”
“Christ, are you okay? Have you called the police?”
“I’m fine, but I’m scared the person’s still out there. And . . . and there’s a reason I can’t call the cops.”
“What about Guy? He’s not with you?”
“No. I’m alone.”
“Okay, I’m on my way. Give me ten minutes. I’ll come to the front.”
Ten minutes, I reassure myself as I head back to the hall. The wait seems interminable. Finally I hear a car screech to a halt on the street outside. Peering through the window, I spot Derek bolt from the car and race up the path to the house. As his feet touch the top step of the porch, I fling open the door.
“Thank you. I didn’t know who else to call.”
“Tell me what happened.” He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt that looks like it might have been lying rumpled on his floor a few minutes ago.
“Here, let me show you.” I lead him through the living room until we reach the windowed door to the screened porch. “I woke up hearing the handle being rattled.” I point out toward the screened door. “And I’m positive the outside door was locked when I went to bed.”
He stares through the glass, and I see his eyes reach the door to the side yard. He unbolts the door we’re standing at and grabs for the handle.
“Be careful,” I urge.
“Whoever was out there is probably gone by now, especially after seeing my car pull up.”
He swings open the door to the porch. The night is completely silent.
“Stay here, okay?” he says. He steps onto the brick floor and crosses the porch to the open doorway. I watch him examine the frame, and though I can see only half his face, I can tell he’s squinting. Reaching into the darkness, he grabs the screened door and pulls it close. A sigh escapes his lips.
“What is it?” Ignoring his earlier directive, I hurry toward his side.
“I wondered if the door blew open from the wind, but it looks like someone’s punched out both the hook and the eye. Come on, we’d better go back inside.” He takes my arm and ushers me into the house, where he bolts the door again.
My heart is back to racing. “Why don’t we go into the den,” I say, and Derek follows me in. As we both drop onto the couch, I realize that I’m still in my T-shirt and pajama bottoms.
“Is Guy away on business?” Derek asks.
I gnaw at my lip for a moment, trying to decide how much to reveal. It seems wrong to appeal for his help in the dead of night and then not be straight with him.
“Guy’s not living here at the moment. I . . . I’m not sure what’s going to happen to us.”
“Bryn, I’m so sorry,” he says. He touches my shoulder gently. The rustling that his hand makes when he pushes against the fabric of my T-shirt is the only sound in the room. “That’s tough in light of everything else going on.”
“It does feel pretty piled on at the moment.”
He glances away, as if distracted by a thought, and then back to me.
“Could it have been Guy out there tonight?” he asks. “Is that why you didn’t want to call the police?”
Oh God, he’s wondering if I’ve lured him into a riptide of marital stife.
“No, I’m pretty sure it’s not Guy. I think someone is trying to mess with my head.” I describe the call and the crackling-fire sound, clearly meant to conjure up memories of the car accident.
His face wrinkles in confusion. “But who would do something like that?”
“One of the people at the dinner party that night.” I take him up to speed on the missing money and the burnt matches left in my drawer.
“Did you even know the other guests that night?”
“It was the first time I’d met any of them. Initially, I thought one of the waiters was responsible, or even Eve, though I had no clue why they’d do it. Lately, I’ve suspected Kim was the guilty one. She seems to be nursing this weird, irrational dislike of me.”
“Bryn, you’ve got to alert the police. I can understand that your privacy is important, but you need to figure out who’s behind this.”
“It’s not about privacy, Derek. It’s more complicated—I’m a person of interest in Eve Blazer’s murder.”
His jaw drops in complete surprise.
“That’s absurd,” he says. “What motive are they suggesting? That you hate the taste of mango in your crème br?lée?”
“They think I suspected Guy was shacking up with her.”
He stares at me, clearly stunned again.
“Was he?” he says finally.
“Maybe. I just don’t know.”
“If that’s the case, why don’t the cops think he killed her?”