Suzette Lowell is dressed as casually as I have ever seen her, in jeans and a light cardigan. She looks me up and down in my pajamas, my hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, clutching the flashlight for dear life. She laughs, although it’s not a happy laugh.
“What are you doing in my backyard, Millie?” she demands to know.
“I, uh…” I hike up my pajama pants. “I heard a noise.”
She lifts an eyebrow. It’s a weak excuse, and she knows it. “Don’t you think your family has done enough to me?”
I tighten my grip on the flashlight until my fingers hurt. “We haven’t done anything.”
“Seriously?” The shadows cast dark circles under her eyes. “Your husband murdered my husband last night.”
“That’s not true,” I say, even though I have my private doubts.
“Are you kidding me?” she says. “Janice saw him enter the house. He was there when Jonathan was killed. Are you really telling me he didn’t do it?”
“Why would he do something like that?”
I am curious to hear Suzette’s answer, because everything I have heard so far involves some sort of conspiracy between her and Enzo. But clearly, Suzette would deny something like that because she wouldn’t admit to being involved.
“Millie,” she says, “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but Enzo was obsessed with me.”
“Obsessed with you?” I repeat incredulously.
“Do you think I asked him to come over here every minute?” She shakes her head. “He always had an excuse to be here. Always flirting with me. And he was intensely jealous of Jonathan.”
This is almost laughable. Enzo wasn’t flirting with her. I could see with my own eyes that she was the instigator. At this point, I can tell when a woman is throwing herself at my husband.
“After all,” she says, “you saw the way he was all over me at the beach. Do you think I wanted him to practically carry me back to the car? I couldn’t get him away from me.”
“It didn’t look like you minded,” I comment.
“Well, I did,” she sniffs. “And he told me he wasn’t happy. He said he felt trapped into getting married. Because you were pregnant.”
What?
Her words finally hit home. Because it’s absolutely true. Enzo married me because I was pregnant with Ada. Yes, we had been living together, but there was little talk of marriage. Okay, there was no talk of marriage.
I certainly never mentioned to Suzette that Enzo and I got married because I was knocked up. That means he must have told her. Why would he say that to her? Unless…
“I’m sorry you have to hear it from me,” she says, “but your husband is a dangerous man.” She cocks her head to the side. “But maybe you already know.”
A sudden cool breeze sends a shiver through me. “There’s nothing to know. Enzo wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
She laughs. “Oh, Millie. I’m sure you don’t really believe that.”
I do believe it. My husband has never done anything violent to another person during the time I have known him. Threatened it, maybe. But I’ve never even seen him throw a punch.
Although there’s a small chance he may have broken some fingers. Oh yeah, and he did once almost beat a man to death.
“Anyway.” Suzette steps out of the beam of the flashlight. “I need to get some stuff from the house without the paparazzi catching wind of me. I figured I’d slip in through the back.”
“The reporters are all gone.”
“Really?”
She frowns, clearly disappointed by the lack of attention from the press. Whether Suzette killed Jonathan or not, she does not seem terribly broken up about his death. It’s like she doesn’t even care. And talking to her has not helped matters. But I have found out one very important thing tonight.
There absolutely is a way for somebody to get into the back of the house without Janice Archer seeing them from across the street.
FIFTY-FOUR
The next morning, we are woken up by the doorbell ringing downstairs and red and blue lights flashing outside the house. I shake Enzo awake, and he is instantly alert and joins me at the window.
“What this time?” he mutters.
Is there a chance that the detective has come to arrest my husband? I can’t even wrap my head around that possibility.
I throw on jeans and a T-shirt, and I race downstairs in my bare feet, practically tripping on the stairs. I haven’t even showered yet or brushed my teeth, and my hair is greasy. But you can’t exactly tell the police waiting at your front door to give you a few minutes to pop in the shower.
When I crack open the door, a sober-faced Willard is standing on our front porch, dressed in a crisp white shirt, his tie cinched close to his neck. “Mrs. Accardi,” he says.
“How… how can I help you?”
“I got a search warrant here.”
Cecelia mentioned this as a strong possibility, but it still shocks me that they’re here. It’s been two days since Jonathan Lowell was murdered, and it seems like there should be other more realistic suspects by now. The fact that they are still looking at Enzo scares me.
“Can I wake up the kids first please?” I ask.
“We can start downstairs,” he offers.
That is the best I can hope for.
When I get upstairs, Enzo has managed to throw on jeans and a T-shirt. He can hear the officers entering our house, and his face fills with concern. “They are searching? Now?”
I nod. “This will take a while. You stay here, and I’m going to drive the kids to school.”
The kids are understandably a bit frightened and confused about what is happening. I tell them to get dressed, and I run to take a quick shower and brush my teeth. It’s way too early for school, so maybe I’ll take them to a diner for some breakfast. I don’t want to be here while this is happening anyway.
When I get out of the bathroom, both the kids are dressed and look like they’re ready to go. They are both in Nico’s bedroom, wearing identical worried expressions on their faces. Enzo is in there with them, sitting on Nico’s bed and talking to them softly. I hang back for a moment, listening to the conversation.
“Daddy,” Ada whimpers. “Why are they searching our house? What are they looking for?”
“I don’t know,” Enzo answers. “But they are not going to find anything interesting. So we will let them finish, then this will be over.”
“Are you in trouble?” she presses him.
“No.” His voice is firm. “Not at all.”
