Evie’s smirk made Rachel feel sick.
“So Stanford Royce holds a knife to my throat,” Evie said, “and you prevent me from sawing him in half with his own blade. But then a few months go by, and Mr. Royce disappears off the face of the earth. Cops can’t find him. No blood and no body. And pretty soon after that, you pack up and move to Ashby. Hell of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would say.”
“Sure. So when I saw my old friend Rachel on the television with the cops—”
“I’m not a cop,” Rachel interjected. “But if you don’t get to the point, I’ll call the actual cops.”
“No, you won’t. Because then they’ll ask who I am. And I’ll have to tell them the truth. About me. About you.” Evie paused and leaned forward. “About Stanford Royce. You don’t want them turning over that rock, do you? The police would love to know what happened to him. All I have to do is point the finger.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rachel said. “But if you threaten me again, I’ll break you in half.”
“Now that’s the girl I remember,” Evie said. She leaned back. Her voice softened. “Listen. Rachel. I’m not here to ruin your life. I don’t want to mess with what you have. That’s the honest truth. If I wanted to do that, I would have gone right to the cops. You’d do anything for your kids, right?”
Rachel nodded. “Yes.”
“So would I. You know I’m a mom, too, right?”
Rachel nodded. “I remember you telling me that.”
“But I’m not here to dredge up the past,” Evie said.
“So then why are you here?”
Evie paused, then said, “Matthew Linklater.”
Rachel felt her blood run cold.
“I know about the email he sent to you before he died,” Evie continued. “I need to know why he chose you. I need to know what you know.”
Rachel’s mind was going a million miles a minute. She knew, at that moment, that Evie had come because somebody had sent her. Somebody knew about Rachel and Evie’s past and was pushing on that pressure point hard. Somebody wanted Rachel to leave the Linklater murder alone.
“Evie, you know me well enough to know that I’m not going to say a damn word to you.”
Evie sighed. “There’s more at stake here than you realize. I know who you are, Rachel Marin. I know who you really are. You’re a survivor. But a survivor with two kids. I know about Harwood Greene. I know he murdered your husband and that he’s still out there somewhere. And I know that’s why you killed Stanford Royce. Because you didn’t want him to do to someone else what Harwood Greene did to you. Truthfully, I don’t know how you sleep at night.”
“I don’t,” Rachel said, both as a statement and a threat.
“But through all of it, you made it to Ashby and started over. Your children have a chance at life now, because of you. You need to protect what you have. Whatever you might know about Matthew Linklater, you need to stay away. Because trust me—I’m the good cop in this story. You don’t want to meet the bad cops. When they knock on your door, they don’t ask to come in for a drink.”
“Mommy?”
Both women turned around to see Megan standing at the top of the stairs. She had a puzzled look on her face. Her hands were covered with blue ink stains.
“Hey, honey,” Rachel said, keeping her voice even.
“I was writing my Sadie Scout book and heard you talking to someone.” She looked at Evie and smiled. “I’m Megan.”
“I’m Evie. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Megan.”
Megan came downstairs. Rachel wanted to tell her daughter to stay put but didn’t want to let her know anything was out of the ordinary. “Evie is an old friend of Mommy’s. Evie, this is my daughter, Megan.”
“I don’t remember you ever talking about an Evie,” Megan said, skeptically.
Rachel took her daughter’s hand. “There are a lot of things I don’t talk about,” she said. “That doesn’t mean they didn’t happen.”
Evie held out her hand to Megan, very proper. Megan took it hesitantly. Evie gave it a firm up and down. Rachel watched the exchange like Megan was slipping her hand into a piranha tank.
“Miss Megan Marin,” Evie said. “That sounds like a character from a book. Maybe a princess. Do you want to be a princess, Miss Megan Marin?”
Megan shook her head. “I want to be a detective or an adventurer.”
Evie smiled warmly. “I bet you’ll be great at both.”
Megan beamed.
Evie turned to Rachel. “You have a beautiful family.”
Rachel stared at Evie, wanting to leap across the couch and sink her fingers into the woman’s neck. Instead, she said, “Thank you.”
“Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time,” Evie said, standing up.
“Really? Are you sure?” Rachel said with mock sorrow.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Rachel. Maybe one of these days we’ll have that drink.”
“I certainly hope so.”
“I’ll show myself out,” Evie said. Rachel went to Megan, keeping herself between her daughter and the woman in her home. Evie opened the front door, then turned back.
“Miss Megan Marin?”
“Yes?” Megan replied, cheeks still red.
“If you’re going to be a detective, be a good one. Everyone is afraid of the bad ones. And for good reason.”
Then Evie Boggs closed the door behind her.
CHAPTER 10
Four and a half years ago
The two women sat on the bleachers inside the musty gym. They were alone. Sweat dripped from their chins, their arms, collecting in small puddles on the benches beneath them. It was a crisp fall evening, the kind ideally spent sipping a drink at an outdoor café or walking hand in hand with a loved one down a colorful, tree-lined promenade. But time stood still inside that gym. It could have been any day of the year.
The leaner woman wore yellow Lycra pants and a backless blue tank top. She was known simply as Blondie. The more muscular woman wearing black shorts and a white sports bra was Myra. Myra taught a self-defense class, which Blondie had learned about after moving to Torrington, Connecticut, with her two children. Blondie’s family had endured an unimaginable crime, but one that had spurred her into action, in the most literal of senses. She had been training with Myra for nearly two years, unearthing long-forgotten muscles, sharpening her mind, learning how to protect herself and her children.
Since the death of her husband, Blondie had floated, aimless, unsure of how to piece her life back together. She felt unmoored. It was only in Myra’s class that she regained some sense of control. The feeling that maybe, just maybe, if she punished her body enough, she could piece the fragments of her life back together.
Myra bit into a protein bar. Offered a bite to Blondie, who accepted it. The two women had been strangers at first. Myra maintained a distance from her students, both to protect them and herself. The “students” who took her class were broken men and women. No real names were allowed. No talking about personal lives once the gymnasium doors closed. Anyone who violated those rules was shown the door—quite literally. When it was learned that one student had found, and friended, another on Facebook, Myra put him in an ude gatame armlock, then tossed him across the parking lot like an empty coffee cup.