And She Was by Alison Gaylin

Author:Alison Gaylin [Gaylin, Alison]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins US
Published: 2012-02-23T06:47:33+00:00

Chapter 19

The press had all left by the time Brenna made it back to Nelson’s house. A good thing for him, too, because if any news outlet had been there, they’d have gotten the photo op of their lives: Nelson Wentz’s investigator, leaning on his bell, pounding on his door with the side of her fist, shouting his name like some spurned wife in a Lifetime movie.

It was Brenna’s fault, of course. She was the one who’d insisted he take the sleeping pill, then unplugged his upstairs phone, set his machine to pick up after one ring, and turned the volume way down, so that it was now just as impossible to wake him with a call as it was to accomplish the task via the too-thick front door, or this maddeningly feeble electronic bell.

Brenna backed up for a few moments, eyeing the bay window that made up most of Nelson’s living room wall. The pristine white draperies were drawn shut, as always. She moved closer and put her hand on the glass, gave it a tentative knock. The sound resonated. She wondered how hard she could bang on the window without breaking it, her gaze shifting to the small garden at the base of the window—a bed of impatiens, atop which staid white mums flowered at evenly spaced intervals, all framed by a line of smooth, fist-sized rocks. For a few moments, she imagined picking up one of the rocks and winging it at the bedroom window. Brenna had a good arm—she’d pitched for her high school softball team and even played for the Trumpet’s team as a ringer two years in a row, forcing the rival New York Post to insist on a “no spouses” clause for company games—but these rocks looked like they could do some serious damage. She wanted to talk to Nelson, not face him in small claims court.

Her gaze went to the rock at the center—slightly larger and rougher, with an odd, bloated shape. A familiar shape . . . Brenna grabbed it. Sure enough it was plastic, the same brand Brenna’s mother had bought from Ellory Hardware at 2975 Ocean Street and placed under that hedge by the side of the house twenty-three years ago. If you need to use the key, fine. But this rock needs to be our secret, Brenna. You make sure no one sees you opening it!

Brenna twisted open the rock, pulled the key out, unlocked Nelson Wentz’s front door, and hurried upstairs, following the sound of his snoring.

She found him in his bed, flat on his back in the type of deep sleep that ages you—blanket up around the chin, mouth wide open, cheeks sunken in. He could have been eighty or ninety years old. This could have been his deathbed. On the nightstand next to him, Brenna saw the book she’d noticed on the coffee table—Safekeeping: A Memoir. She put her hand on the cover, and Nelson gasped as if she’d touched a limb. His body jerked, and when Brenna turned, she saw him, sitting up in bed, his eyes wide open and confused.

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