The woman who opened the front door of the For Sale house wore yoga pants, sneakers, and a “Free Britney” T-shirt and was holding a remote control. Beneath the bangs of her ashy blond bob, she eyed Lindsay suspiciously.
“I’m afraid no one was here Saturday night,” the woman said, sounding slightly short of breath. “We were away on vacation.”
“I was told she came by to get everything ready for an open house here the next day.” Lindsay peered over the woman’s head, trying to catch a glimpse of the home’s interior. “Please, can I ask you a few questions? I promise I’m not an ax murderer or something.” Nothing more comforting to strangers than assuring them you’re not going to hack them to pieces. Well done, Lindsay. She reached for a business card from her purse, identifying herself as a criminal defense attorney at Kelly & Associates, and offered it with an outstretched hand. “Please.”
The woman accepted it tentatively and gave the card a quick scan. In truth, the “associates” consisted of one junior lawyer—a former intern Lindsay had poached from the DA’s office when she left to open a defense practice.
“So you only represent ax murderers.”
“Well, only the one, but he was totally innocent.”
The tension fell from the woman’s face and she stepped back from the door, allowing Lindsay to enter. “My name’s Robin. Robin Stansfield. But I don’t know anyone named Hope. Our realtor is Evan Hunter.”
“I know. Hope works for Evan. Or at least she did.” Lindsay summarized everything she knew clearly and concisely, fighting back the panic that was building as she recited each disturbing fact.
“Oh, you must mean that adorable girl he had with her. Honestly, I think she’s the only reason my Stanley picked Evan as our broker. Pretty blondes are his kryptonite—as you can see,” she added with a sly smile. “But Evan didn’t say anything about her working at our house on her own.”
Lindsay fought to maintain an even tone. “She was working at Evan’s direction. They stage the houses, I guess—make it look more generic, like no one even lives there. Don’t take it the—”
“Oh, no. That’s not what I meant.” The woman set the remote control on a console table in the foyer. “I realize how horrible that must have sounded. Please, sit down. Can I get you something? Coffee or a soda?”
She gestured to the living room sofa, and Lindsay took a seat but waved away the offer of anything more.
“Evan mentioned that they’d be packing away some personal belongings during showings. I guess I just assumed he was doing it himself.”
Now that Lindsay was here, she felt even more helpless. What exactly had she expected to find? “That’s what I wanted to ask you—if anything seemed out of place. If there were any signs of, I don’t know, a struggle or something.”
“Nothing specific. Although . . . you know?” Robin tilted her head and paused. “When we came home, I just had this weird feeling, like I knew someone had been here. Then I remembered they were doing an open house, and it all seemed to make sense. But now your friend is missing.”
Lindsay could see a genuine look of worry cross the woman’s face. Maybe she had misread her. But she also saw no reason for this woman to know the real and very complicated reason Hope lived her daily life with a completely manufactured identity, so she used the same biography that Hope had borrowed from her former stepmother, Miriam. “Hope’s background is . . . complicated. She can’t use her real name in case her ex-husband were ever to look for her.”
“I see,” Robin said, a furrow working its way into her brow. “And you think he may have found her? Here, in our house?”
“I don’t know,” Lindsay said. “But this was one of the last places she definitely was. It’s my only lead, so here I am.”
“Well, have you told the police?” Robin asked.
Lindsay had driven to the East Hampton police station after talking to Evan, but then realized how the story would sound: a woman came to town a month before, using a fake name and a fabricated sad story, to fleece a man out of two grand before hitting the road again. Lindsay had come to the house instead.
“Without some sign of foul play, it’s going to be hard to get their attention. I’m not family, and I don’t even live here. I guess I just wanted to see your home for myself. Check for any signs of a disturbance—maybe something Evan didn’t notice during the open house.”
Robin was on her feet. For a second, Lindsay thought perhaps the woman had spotted something in the corner of the living room. Instead she walked to the kitchen, picked up a cell phone from the island, and placed a call.
“Are you home, Carter? I need a favor.”
7
Wednesday, June 16, 12:25 p.m.
Carter turned out to be a cop named Carter Decker who lived in the guest house at the property next door to the Stansfields’. Lindsay could tell from the way he cut through the backyard and headed straight for his neighbors’ back door that he was used to being called over.
Lindsay guessed he was about her age. Slim, with a long face, spiky brown hair, and three or so days of stubble. He wore a pair of faded jeans and a David Bowie T-shirt. Off duty.
Robin greeted him with a friendly hug.
“I thought you and Stan were off training for the PGA,” he said.
“Let me introduce you to my new friend, Lindsay Kelly.”
Carter looked at her and nodded once with a dry smile. She guessed that Carter was also used to being introduced by the Stansfields to women around his age.
“Were you around over the weekend?” Robin asked.
“In and out.”
“Did you see our realtor, by any chance?” Robin asked. “Evan Hunter—a little bald, about mid-fifties? A little . . . fat?” She whispered the last word as if it were contagious.
“No,” Carter whispered back. “Did he eat part of your house or something?”
Lindsay was aware of the passing minutes. “He has an assistant who staged the house. According to him, she definitely arrived to do the job on Saturday night, but then never came back on Sunday as expected, and no one has seen her since. She’s been missing now for four days.” She pulled up a photograph on her phone. It was an “ussie,” as Hope called a selfie with another person, from their trip to East Hampton in April. They were each holding up an ice cream cone from Scoop du Jour.
“I’m so sorry,” Carter asked. “Are you family?”
“No. Just a friend.” Lindsay felt a tug at the back of her throat.
“I didn’t want to believe it had anything to do with our house,” Robin said, “but then I remembered the chill I felt when Stan and I first came home. I was just certain something was wrong. The house felt . . . off. Broken somehow. Stan accused me of acting like a woo-woo, but when Lindsay showed up today looking for her friend, I had to wonder.”
Carter nodded, and Lindsay could tell he gave absolutely zero credence to Robin’s intuitions.
“Her friend just moved here from Hopewell, New Jersey. Oh, listen to that: Hope from Hopewell!” Robin lowered her voice again to a whisper. “She was on the run from an abusive ex.”