That noise was the sound of two bullets being pumped into Ethan Sinclare’s stomach. He is believed to have died almost instantly, said Atlanta police lieutenant Jeff Packard.
Mrs. Sinclare tried to escape, but the intruder overpowered her, bound her wrists and ankles, and locked her in a laundry room adjacent to the kitchen, she said. She was discovered by the family’s longtime housekeeper the following morning. Based on Betsy Sinclare’s description, Lieutenant Packard said, police are searching for a man last seen wearing a red-and-black coat and gray pants.
I checked and checked again. Nowhere in the article did my name appear.
What the holy hell was this? There was no room for misinterpretation. No shades of gray. Betsy Sinclare had lied. Outright lied both to the newspaper and, by the sound of it, to the detectives investigating her husband’s murder.
The question was, why?
? ? ?
THE STORY MUST have been a plant.
They must have been trying to trick me into thinking I was safe, trying to tempt me from my hiding place. Admittedly, this theory had flaws. The police would blow all credibility if they got caught fabricating a story and shopping it to reporters. The newspaper would blow all credibility if it got caught wittingly printing a fake story. Neither institution would be cavalier about such risks.
Still. What other explanation could there be?
I threw down the prepaid phone in frustration. It was already blinking low on credit, and I’d only been online ten minutes. I borrowed a coat from the hall closet (a fur-trimmed cape this time, not the rain jacket, no point in being predictable) and set off for the Renaissance Hotel. I’d passed it on avenue Poincaré on my way home last night, had noticed the taxi rank and two bellhops in top hats idling outside the entrance. At times in life nothing feels so comforting as the high-end anonymity of a big American hotel. Usually these times occur when I’m in an unfamiliar city and in desperate need of a ladies’ room. Today I required a different amenity: the business center.
It was in the basement. As the computer whirred to life, I stole sideways glances at the room’s other occupants. Had the woman at the workstation closest to the door—the one wearing a malevolently striped suit and terry-cloth room slippers—had she stared at me longer than necessary? And why had the man beside her jumped up to leave so suddenly? I squeezed my head between my palms, a futile effort to quell the paranoia, and started typing.
The CNN.com story included a few details absent from the Journal--Constitution account. A neighbor said she had seen a purple minivan screeching away from the Sinclares’ house on the morning of the shooting. The man whom police were searching for was described as African--American, with a stocky build, around five feet ten inches to six feet tall. Ethan’s funeral was to be held at the Episcopal Cathedral of St. Philip, this coming Wednesday.
The fundamental thrust of the story remained the same, though. Betsy Sinclare swore that she and Ethan had been attacked by a crazed man wearing a ski mask (“like you wear in Aspen,” she had said. Priceless). I surfed around, checking other news sources. Alexandra James had not touched the story, and why would she? Ethan Sinclare may have been prominent in Atlanta, but he had not enjoyed national stature. Reporters outside Georgia had no reason to take an interest. I read every scrap of information I could find and then leaned back in utter bewilderment. After a while I cleared my search history, shut down the computer, and walked upstairs to the front desk. Screw disposable phones. I didn’t know where in this neighborhood to buy one, and I didn’t have time to run around. Was there somewhere I could make a private call? I asked.
I was shown to a quaint, wooden phone booth in a carpeted hallway running off the lobby. I had had no contact with my family since leaving Atlanta. No way to do so without compromising my security. But I was now frantic to speak with someone who would be on my side, to confirm whether it could possibly be true that Betsy Sinclare had not ratted me out.
Two minutes later Martin accepted the charges. “Sis! You know it’s, like, six in the morning here?”
Powerful, childlike relief coursed through me at the sound of his voice. “Martin. I know. I’m sorry, I—”
“It’s okay. I was up already. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you. You said you were disappearing off the grid for a while.”
I frowned. How much farther off the grid could a person get? I had fled to a different continent, cut up my credit cards, shaved off my hair, and changed my name to Simone. I’d converted my cash to loose diamonds and—aside from this call—limited my communications to burner phones. But Martin knew none of this. He didn’t even know I was in France.
“Sis? You there?”
“I’m here. Bit of a delay on the line.”
“So how’s Mexico? Enjoying the beach life?”
“Oh, you know. Mexico’s hot,” I said evasively. “Is, um—is everything okay at home?”
“Here? Sure. I checked your house over the weekend. Some trash blew into the storm drain, but I swept it out, and everything else looks fine. Haven’t actually laid eyes on Mom and Dad in a few days. Work’s been crazy. I’m getting slammed by this Abu Dhabi deal. But, let’s see . . . Dad’s got some new road race he’s training for. Not sure what Mom was up to this weekend. I guess church, Flower Guild, the usual.”
This all sounded spectacularly . . . normal. The police had not showed up. My family did not yet know what I had done. Incredible.
“This must be weird for you, being out of touch. I know you usually talk to Mom, like, seventeen times a day.”
“Slight exaggeration.”