I’d also, unbeknownst to my husband, spent a great deal of time inside the home. It used to be interesting. Four years ago, before the IRS’s liquidation team swooped in and took everything, it had been a house full of memories and secrets. A life suddenly abandoned. Dresser drawers still open, a negligee set hanging half-out. The safe door open, the combination stuck to a Post-it on the inside wall, its shelves almost empty, a photo album cockeyed in the back corner. The Bakers had fled in the middle of the night, their Mercedes still sitting in the garage, their cell phones left on the kitchen counter. Tax evasion was the rumor in the neighborhood, though I found the more likely culprit behind neatly folded pillowcases in Claudia Baker’s linen closet.
Cocaine. Five wrapped bundles that weighed in at two pounds each, according to their bathroom scale. I found another ten in an upper cabinet in their kitchen, behind boxes of Frosted Flakes and Honey Nut Cheerios. I found another bundle ripped open in their office, two lines tapped out on the cover of a Rolling Stone magazine.
For months after the Bakers disappeared, I would duck between the line of bushes that separated our lots and roam their house. I pocketed a ring of keys that I found in their junk drawer and skipped over the window I had initially used, coming and going as I wished. I spent afternoons in the big leather chair behind John Baker’s desk, flipping through their files. I combed bank and credit card statements, fascinated by the personal glimpse into their life. I stood in Claudia’s bathroom, before her big, wide mirror, and carefully applied her lipstick and shadows.
She’d been an interesting housewife. In the drawers of their master closet, I’d found ball gags and blindfolds, furry handcuffs and phallic-shaped toys. I spent an afternoon sifting through her lingerie and naughty costumes. I claimed a mink stole and Vuitton clutch, along with several pieces of abandoned jewelry. I spent one morning stretched out on their bed, dressed in her clothes, listening to their playlist crackling through the overhead speakers. And one day, just a few weeks before the IRS came and took everything—I found the second safe.
This one didn’t have a lock. It was a fireproof box in a hidden floor compartment, underneath the faux Persian rug in their master bedroom. I’d been on my stomach, reaching underneath their bed, when my knee dug against a bump in the rug. I’d shimmied back from the bed and peeled back the rug, thrilled to discover the trapdoor. Excitement had hummed through me, my fingers slipping on the inset pull, and it had taken three tugs to get the door open. Inside, the iron cavity held a variety of empty money wrappers and a collection of crude porn. I had examined the construction of the secret compartment and considered installing a similar feature in our house. It might be a good place to put the thirty pounds of cocaine that I now had tucked in our attic, the parcels high and dry behind three rows of Christmas decorations, in a box labeled Dollhouse. There were, after all, things you never knew you might need. My mother had taught me that. Granted, she’d been referring to a heating pad that had been marked down at a yard sale two blocks from our home, but I had taken the advice to heart in more ways than one, and it had come in handy in a number of moments.
Now, I sipped a chilled glass of juice and wondered how one cleaning van could possibly tackle the layers of dust and grime inside that house. It would take them weeks. Not that I minded a delay before Matt and Neena Ryder moved in. I hadn’t quite warmed to the idea of a new woman moving into both Winthorpe Tech and our street. Especially this woman.
I settled into one of the balcony’s chaise lounges, trying to pinpoint the cause of my trepidation. She wouldn’t be the first attractive woman inside WT’s sleek corridors. William had hired more than a dozen female doctors and engineers, seeking the best of the best, regardless of their gender or appearance. Typically, the brighter the mind, the more unattractive the appearance, but every once in a while, there was a unicorn like Allyson Cho, our stunningly beautiful lead researcher. Or Nicole Finnegan, our public relations powerhouse. Both Nicole and Allyson were arguably more attractive than this blonde director of motivation—and what a stupid title that was. So, why were my hackles raised?
There was more movement at the front gate, and I sat up, surprised to see a moving semi attempt the tight turn through the Bakers’ front gate. Unless the moving truck contained a pile of cleaners, it was wasting its time. The truck stopped and reversed, and a beep echoed over the barren lawn. From the pocket of my cardigan sweater, my phone rang.
“Are you watching this?” Kelly’s voice hissed through the receiver, and I smiled, certain she was up on her widow’s walk, in earshot of the Bakers’ gate.
“I don’t think it’s going to make the turn,” I remarked.
“I thought you said the place was in ruins. How could they be bringing in furniture already?” There was a crackle of wind against her mouthpiece. “Oh my God, Cat. There’s a U-Haul coming down Greenoaks. We should call security. Tell them not to let any more in. They’re going to clog up the entire street.”
I didn’t respond, watching as the semi’s front wheels narrowly missed the cherub fountain.
“This is a disaster,” Kelly clipped on. “What if it’s still blocking the road when church gets out? Paul hasn’t left yet to pick the kids up. Paul?” The wind diminished as she made her way inside her home in search of their manny. “Paul!”
“William is calling me,” I lied. “Let me run.”
“Okay. But tennis tomorrow morning, right? Nine o’clock?”
“I’ll be there.” I ended the call and winced as the side of the shipping container scraped along the gate, then broke free, the truck lumbering down the drive. The sun moved behind a cloud, and I shivered at the sudden drop in temperature. Wrapping the cashmere tighter, I decided to abandon the view and move inside.
I found William on his phone in the kitchen and interrupted his call long enough to steal a kiss. I opened the fridge and removed a parcel of wrapped steaks, holding them up so that he could see the butcher’s writing on the front. He nodded, and I placed the package on the counter.
“Look, if you need a break, come up here. You can audit our books.”
I untied the knot on the package and took out the filets, tuning in to the conversation.
“Bring her with you. We’ve got the guesthouse you can stay in. Plus, Cat hasn’t seen Beth since last summer. They’ll enjoy hanging out.”
The clues aligned. Beth. A break. It had to be Mac. I slid the plate toward my husband and grabbed a spatula from the rack, setting it beside the blue china.
“It’s not charity,” William growled. “You’re my brother. And I could use you. I need someone I can trust with these numbers.”
Someone he could trust. I wasn’t sure that Mac fit that bill. I turned away from William and returned to the fridge, opening both sides of the Sub-Zero and staring at the contents. Unless we had specific plans, the chef had the weekends off, and I looked through the shelf of labeled salads. I pulled out a container of avocado and spring mix.
Over the last decade, I’d lost count of the things we’d done for William’s brother. It was like giving leftovers to a stray dog—the half rack of lamb didn’t solve its problems but still gave you the sense that you were doing something to help.