“She isn’t involved,” I said.
“Maybe. Either way, I don’t want you anywhere near this.”
I watched her drive off, then took out my cell phone and speed-dialed Sarah.
“Hey, it’s me again,” I told her voice mail. “I’m praying you can hear this. It’s been two weeks now. I miss you. I need to know you’re okay. I need you to come home. Whatever happened, you need to come home.”
I hung up, headed for my car. My phone rang just as I stuck the key in the ignition. I grabbed it off the dashboard without checking the caller ID.
“Sarah?” I said.
“Next best thing. You got something to write with? ’Cause I got an address.”
It was Lenny Stone, ex-cop turned PI. I’d hired him to track down Sarah.
“Where?” I said. “Where is she?”
“About a hundred miles south of the middle of nowhere. Nearest town is Kerens, Texas. Time to dust off that Stetson, partner.”
Part I
* * *
CHAPTER 1
SARAH ROBERTS-WALSH
October 12
9:30 a.m.
Interview Room C
“FORENSICS FOUND traces of Costello’s blood on your clothes, so why don’t you tell us what happened?”
We were sitting in a plain white room with a drop ceiling and a mirror I assumed was two-way. Me and Detective Heidi Haagen. She leaned across the metal table.
“This is serious, Sarah,” she said. “Your own husband brought you in.”
“Where is Sean?”
They were the first words I’d spoken since we sat down. My voice cracked like a teenage boy’s.
“Doesn’t matter,” Haagen said. “He can’t help you.”
“But I didn’t do anything.”
“Then just tell the truth.”
“Where do you want me to start?” I asked.
“That day. Everything you remember. Begin at the beginning and don’t hold back. No detail is too small.”
All right, I told myself. You can do this.
I gripped the sides of my chair, took a breath, started talking. I kept my eyes pointed straight ahead, away from the mirror. I knew damn well who was standing on the other side.
The morning of Anthony Costello’s murder, I woke up to find myself lying on a moss-covered boulder, surrounded by kudzu. I had no idea where I was or how I’d gotten there. I made to stand but my legs were wobbly and my feet kept slipping on the moss. I felt my pockets: no phone, no wallet. For a long while I just sat there, trying to think things through. Maybe I’d gone camping with friends, wandered off by myself, and gotten lost. Maybe I’d forgotten to bring my insulin with me, which would explain why I’d blacked out.
“You’re diabetic?” Haagen interrupted.
“That’s right,” I said. “If I miss an injection, life can get real fuzzy.”
She jotted something in her notebook.
“Go on,” she said. “What did you do next?”
I yelled for help. I figured if I’d come here with friends, they couldn’t be too far away. I shouted and kept shouting, but no one shouted back. I took a deep breath, ordered myself not to panic.
“Anybody hear me?” I tried again. “Please, I need help.”
Silence. Nothing but birds fighting off in the woods.
All right, Sarah, I told myself. It’s up to you.
I lay on my belly, slid down the boulder, and landed ankle-deep in a thick patch of marsh grass. The front of my blouse was stained green. I started to brush myself off, looked down, noticed for the first time that there was blood on my sleeves, blood on my jeans, blood all over my white sneakers. Not wet, but not dry, either. Had I fallen? Been attacked? I scanned my body for any hint of a wound, felt the back of my head for lumps or abrasions. Nothing. The blood wasn’t mine.
So whose was it? I struggled to push my mind back but came up empty.
I wasn’t wearing a watch, had no idea how long I’d been unconscious. I looked up at the sky. The light seemed to be growing stronger. I figured it was somewhere between 8:00 and 9:00 a.m. Where would I normally be between 8:00 and 9:00 a.m.? I couldn’t remember. I could remember my name, my age, my weight, the fact that I was a diabetic—but where I lived and what I did all day were gone.
I felt dizzy and a little nauseous. Assuming I was right about the time, my last insulin injection would have been late last night, maybe eight hours ago. Eight hours wasn’t the end of the world. If I’d passed out atop that boulder all on my own, it might have had more to do with dehydration than blood sugar.
I needed water. I needed insulin. I looked around for a path or a landmark. Nothing. The boulder was lodged at the summit of a small incline. If I was looking for civilization, then downhill seemed like the best bet. I started to walk, then run. The running set off a sharp pain in my right calf. I stopped, knelt down in the grass, and rolled up my pant leg. There was a gash, maybe an inch wide. Something had pierced the thick denim of my jeans. I was wounded after all, though this cut didn’t begin to explain all the blood.
“Keep moving,” I told myself.
The morning was cool by Florida standards, but my forehead and the small of my back were soaked. I’d been walking for what felt like hours when I passed through a wooded area and emerged in a wholly different world: a painstakingly landscaped and manicured world. Palm trees instead of kudzu, a freshly mowed lawn instead of swamp grass and weeds. And at the other end of that lawn, a house. More than a house: a mansion. An old-fashioned plantation manor refurbished to look as though it were built yesterday.
I’m on someone’s estate, I thought. I have been all along.
“Hello?” I yelled.
Once again, no answer.
There was a fence along the back of the house separating the lawn from a colorful maze of perennials and fruit trees. I hurried over to the back gate, feeling I’d made it to safety, only to find something that brought me up short and made me wonder if I’d ever be safe again: there was blood on the handle, blood spotting the gate’s white wooden planks.
Little by little, then all at once, my memory came alive. I’d been to this house before. I’d been here every day for the last year. I was personal chef to a man named Anthony Costello and his wife, Anna. This was their house. This was where I made three meals a day for them, where I’d made breakfast for Anthony as recently as this morning.
My legs wanted to buckle, but I kept moving forward, through the gate and up the steps to the wraparound porch. The sliding back door was open. I stepped inside.
“Anna?” I called out. “Anthony?”
Nothing. The silence scared me more than waking up on that rock. This time of day, the place was normally bustling. Serena, the maid, would be singing to herself as she polished the dining room table; Anna would be watching Good Morning Florida with the volume turned full blast; Anthony would be pacing the marble hallway, cursing into his phone.
“Serena?” I tried.
Still no answer. Something was seismically wrong. I crept like a cat burglar through the dining room, the laundry room, the family room, the living room, the parlor, Anthony’s office. Ten thousand square feet of real estate and not a whiff of life.