After splashing her face and pulling a bottle of water from the refrigerator, she wandered back to the living room, careful to steer clear of the windows. Her purse was still on the floor. She bent to pick it up, then froze when she spotted a rumpled copy of the Examiner inside, no doubt the work of one of the reporters in the scrum.
Her hands trembled as she smoothed out the wrinkles. The photo had clearly been taken at the morgue. But by whom? And how had it ended up on the front page of a national tabloid? Jane Doe’s face stared back at her in grainy black and white, her once vivid violet eyes reduced to a nondescript shade of gray. It took all the strength she had to keep turning pages until she located the actual story: a grisly two-page spread along with another splashy headline:
CAN YOU IDENTIFY THIS WOMAN?
There were four additional photos scattered throughout the article, each more disturbing than the last. The first was an enlarged shot and very blurry, and yet there was no mistaking the crescent-shaped birthmark on the woman’s right breast, highlighted now with a circle of bright-red ink. The next two shots were of her face, one taken straight on, the other in profile. The last photo was a shot of her lying on the gurney, the polished toes of her right foot peeking obscenely from the sheet draped over the lower half of her body.
The story itself was no better, full of dark implications and gruesome innuendo, though given the evidence, it was hard to draw any conclusion but the obvious one. Christine stared at the blackout boxes strategically placed over the woman’s breasts, certain their purpose had less to do with journalistic discretion than with heightening curiosity. Everything about the piece—the explicit photos, the celebrity name, the untimely death of a beautiful blonde—bore the distinct whiff of erotic tragedy, conjuring names like Mansfield and Monroe, as had no doubt been intended. Only this blonde had no name.
Though it was only a matter of time until the press learned her identity and went digging for the rest of the story. Battling a fresh wave of nausea, she reached for the TV remote and began surfing. It didn’t take long—only three clicks—to find Stephen’s face splashed across the screen. And hers. The picture was from their vacation in Barbados three years ago. How had they gotten it?
“Stephen and Christine Ludlow were married in 2008” the Entertainment Tonight anchor was saying as a fresh round of photographs appeared on screen. “By all accounts, their marriage had been a happy one. But recent developments are raising questions about whether Ludlow might have been romantically involved with the scantily clad woman whose photos have now appeared in several tabloids. No identification was found when divers retrieved her body from Ludlow’s car. Authorities tell us the investigation into the woman’s identity is ongoing. Ludlow’s wife has been unavailable for comment. We’ll continue to keep you updated on this story as information becomes available.”
Christine clicked, then clicked again, running through the list of cable news channels. The story was everywhere. Different talking heads, different photos, but the gist of the coverage was the same. Iconic author dies while cheating on wife with mystery blonde. Only now the story wasn’t just about Stephen or even the Jane Doe. It had become about her too.
In the kitchen, she picked up the phone and punched in the number for the Clear Harbor police. This time, when the desk sergeant answered, she refused to be handed off to Connelly’s voice mail.
“No, I do not want to leave a message,” she barked irritably. “I’ve left messages. Five of them to be precise, for all the good they’ve done me. So what I need you to do right now is put me on hold and go find him. Don’t come back and tell me he’s in an interview or out on a case. I’m a case. My dead husband is a case. So unless you want me to come down there and camp out in the lobby, you’ll put him on the phone.”
There was no response, just a curt click followed by empty silence as she was put on hold. While she waited, she picked up her water bottle and pressed it to her cheek, then her neck, wondering what excuse she’d be given this time. She nearly dropped the phone when Connelly’s voice came over the line.
“Christine, I’m sorry. I’ve been swamped. As I’m sure you’ve seen, there’s been . . . a development.”
“Yes, I’ve seen,” she snapped. “I’ve seen that my driveway is so full of reporters I can’t get out to attend my husband’s memorial service. I thought you said you could keep things quiet.”
There was a long pause, then a gravelly rumble as Connelly cleared his throat. “There was a leak, Christine. It sucks, but it happens. If the brass ever finds out who it was, they’ll be fired, but at this point the genie’s out of the bottle.”
“The genie’s out of the bottle? That’s what you have to say to me after a reporter just stuck a half-naked picture of your Jane Doe in my face? That’s how I found out about the leak. Not a phone call—a mob of reporters on my front steps.”
“I didn’t mean it like that, Christine, and I’m sorry. But it all just blew up. The pictures are out there, and the media wants to know what we know.”
“And what do you know?”
There was another long pause, the sound of a heavy breath being let out slowly. “Unfortunately, not much more than we did the night of the accident. We got a few tips this morning after the photos broke. We’re checking them out, but in cases like this, you tend to get a lot of crackpots. So far there’s nothing concrete. Whoever she was, no one’s looking for her. At least not yet.”
“So what do I do? I live on a private road, and I can’t get out of my house. They’re practically camped out on my front porch. I can’t even close the front gates.”
“I’ll send a car around to move them off your property and clear the street. I can’t guarantee they won’t be back, but for now at least, we can give you a little breathing room.”
“And you’ll call me when you finally know something?”
“Christine.” His voice was annoyingly paternal. “Sometimes the best thing for everyone is to just move on, to remember the good times instead of dwelling on a lot of unpleasantness. A name isn’t going to change anything. Why not leave the police business to us, hmm?”
“Because we’re not talking about police business, Detective. We’re talking about my life. My husband. My marriage. My driveway. So please don’t condescend to me. The way I see it a wife’s right to know the truth trumps a friend’s desire to sweep his poker buddy’s indiscretions under the rug. Come to think of it, you didn’t seem all that surprised that there was a woman in my husband’s car the night he died.”
“Christine—”
“You knew, didn’t you? Maybe not her name, but you knew there was someone.”
Another sigh, this one weightier than the last. “I wasn’t sure, but I suspected. He’d let a few things slip now and then. Nothing specific, just . . . things. He never mentioned a name, though, and I never pressed him for one.”
“Of course not. That would be breaking the rules.”
“Rules?”
“The cheater’s club or whatever you call it. All for one and one for all. Isn’t that how it works?”
“Look, Christine, I know this hasn’t been easy for you, especially the way it all went down, but one thing I do know is that Stephen—”
“Don’t!” she snapped, cutting him off. “Don’t you dare say he loved me. That isn’t why I called, to have you reassure me that a half-naked woman in my husband’s car doesn’t mean anything. She means something to me. I think I have the right to at least know her name—and I don’t mean by reading it in the tabloids. It’s been a week, and honestly, I’m beginning to wonder if you’re not dragging your feet on purpose.”
“What is it you’re accusing me of?” The paternal tone was gone, replaced with a gruff wariness.