He held his palms up in protest. “Wait a second. You’ve got this all wrong.” He looked at her intently and sighed, as if coming to terms with some internal debate. “Fine. Have a seat and let me explain.”
“I’d rather stand, if that’s okay with you.” The front of the office space was glass, so she was in plain view of passersby outside. If the situation became dangerous, she could dart out to the parking lot.
“Look, you’re right. It wasn’t only because of my schedule that I didn’t call you back. I could tell from your message that you’re genuinely concerned about your friend, and I was trying to figure out how to respond. I guess what I’m trying to say is . . . your friend suckered me. The last time she was in the office, she talked me into advancing her two thousand dollars. Then, what do you know: she no-shows all this week and seems to have turned off her phone.”
Lindsay shook her head. “I’ve known Hope for fifteen years. She wouldn’t do that. She was really excited to have this job. When did you supposedly give her this money?”
“Supposedly? Jeez, you’re not going to believe anything I say, are you? So if you’ve known her fifteen years, that means you must know the abusive husband she’s supposedly hiding out from under a fake name. Is that story even true?”
That was the part of Miriam’s backstory that Hope had borrowed for her new life in East Hampton. Before Miriam moved to Hopewell, where she eventually married Lindsay’s father, she was Karen Henderson in Fresno, California, living with a very different kind of man. She had tried leaving before, only to have him find her, drag her home, and beat her even harder to teach her a lesson. The last time she “set him off,” in his words, she ended up in the emergency room with a fractured skull and a ruptured spleen. As Miriam explained it, she decided that she’d try one last time to leave, and if he ever did find her, at least one of them might just have to die. Through a contact at an underground network of resources for battered women, she was able to change her name and move to a small town where the local police chief, Lindsay’s father, would keep an eye out on the newest citizen of Hopewell.
Lindsay was realizing how bad this was going to look to people who didn’t understand Hope’s situation. “The situation’s complicated,” she finally said.
“See? I knew it. A con job. And I bought it hook, line, and sinker. Sure, I was skirting some payroll taxes or whatever, but I also thought I was helping out a woman who could use a break. I knew I was taking a leap of faith giving her that cash, but she’d been working so hard, I decided that for once I wasn’t going to be my usual cynical self.”
“So when was this?” Lindsay asked again.
“I gave her the cash here in the office on Friday. Then Saturday night she texted me, saying she was done with a project I’d assigned to her since I had my kids for the weekend.”
“What time did she text you?”
He picked up his cell from his desktop, scrolled through his screen, and handed the device to her. “See for yourself.”
The place is all set. I did it tonight to make sure I didn’t run into a time crunch tomorrow morning. Thanks again for trusting me, Evan. Hope you and the kids are having the best time! It was sent at 10:33 p.m.
“It was a prep for an open house. When I got there the next day, the house was close to perfect. But then she didn’t show up to help with the actual event. I thought maybe I hadn’t made it clear I wanted her to go, but then she didn’t answer my messages. No apology. No follow-up. Then she didn’t come into work Monday or any day since. Bye-bye, two grand.”
“Your employee vanished, and you didn’t think to tell anyone?”
“So I can get in trouble for paying her under the table, on top of getting ripped off? No, thank you.”
On instinct, Lindsay took a step closer to the exit. She wasn’t buying this story. If Hope needed money, she would have asked Lindsay for it. Or had she really meant it when she said she wanted to make this move on her own?
“I know you think she’s some kind of scammer, but I swear, that’s not who she is. Something is seriously wrong. Did she ever give any indication that she was having problems out here?”
He shook his head but then stopped, pressing his lips together with a dawning recollection. “It was a while ago. Maybe her second week working for me. She asked me not to say anything about her in the event anyone ever asked questions. I assumed it was related to the ex-husband, back when I thought that he actually existed. So I told her that of course I would never do that. But then she said, even if it was someone local from around here. I made a joke about how she was already making enemies, but she didn’t seem to think it was funny. She just asked me to let her know if anyone ever came around asking about her. Then one day we were going to see a listing, and I noticed she kept checking the rearview mirror. I asked her what was wrong, but she said it was a habit—a survival instinct that all women have. I mean, maybe that’s true, but again, I chalked it up to her background with the ex-husband.”
“That day with the rearview mirror, did you notice anyone following you? Or did anyone ever contact you, asking questions about her?”
“No, nothing like that. See, this is why I was putting off calling you. The writing’s pretty much on the wall from my perspective. She got as much as she could out of me and moved on to another town. I bet you good money she took anything that wasn’t nailed down from that poor lady’s cottage. She’s probably trying to sell it now, along with that rug she stole from me.”
“What rug?”
“Right, I left that part out. I mean, it’s a cheapie from IKEA, but she probably assumed it was the real deal. She followed my instructions for the open house to a tee—better than I expected. But the area rug I gave her to cover up the wood in the foyer wasn’t down. Like I said, she ripped me off.”
Lindsay suddenly flashed back to the sight of Hope’s rain-soaked body splayed so unnaturally at the side of the road, but now she imagined her in that same position on a cheap knockoff Persian rug, blood caking into her sandy blond hair, an unidentified man leaning over her.
“Where was this open house?”
6
Wednesday, June 16, 12:10 p.m.
According to the countdown bar at the top of her television screen, Robin Stansfield had two minutes and forty-seven seconds remaining in her hip-hop cardio workout when she heard a knock on the door. Stan, back from the driving range, too lazy to use his keys, but also an excuse for her to stop early. She hit the power button on the remote on her way to the front door, checking the peephole out of habit. She was surprised to see an unfamiliar woman, probably in her mid-thirties. Dark brown, shoulder-length hair. Big, ocean-blue eyes behind tortoiseshell glasses. A coat of nude lip gloss, if any makeup at all. Professional. Presumably she’d arrived in the white Audi station wagon that was parked at the curb.
It was probably about that darn For Sale sign in the yard. “If you’re here about the listing, you can call the broker. The number’s on the sign,” she said through the closed door.
“It’s not about the house. Or not about buying it, at least. Can I ask you a couple of questions? My friend is missing, and she was here by herself last weekend. Her name is Hope Miller.”