This Secret Thing, стр. 26
She let Barney out of the car and waited in the backyard as he sniffed around, then peed. She took a moment to orient herself, her eyes scanning the decent-size backyard, looking for a swing set, a playhouse, something that her granddaughter might’ve played with. But the yard was devoid of evidence that anyone lived there at all, save a half-empty water bottle that likely had fallen out of someone’s bag and been forgotten. There was an ornate cement bench that looked better suited to a cemetery than a yard, and several manicured areas, giving it a parklike feel. But a park no one ever came to. Completely encircled by woods, it was peaceful and secluded. Which was, Polly guessed, the draw for Norah. Barney flopped down in front of her, and she reached down and gave his ears a quick scratch. “Come on,” she said, and moved to the back door with her dog by her side.
She turned the knob and, sure enough, the door swung open. She let herself into her daughter’s kitchen and stood for a moment, looking around. Instead of a home kitchen, the room looked more like a set for a cooking show. Polly searched for something familiar, something that said her daughter lived there. She scanned the large austere kitchen once, then again, but nothing emerged. There was nothing homey or quaint or sentimental. Not a cookbook with a title she recognized, not a framed painting she’d seen in Norah’s old house, not even a name-brand food item that was familiar. It was as if her daughter had completely replaced the past with all new things, things that had nothing to do with her.
She resolved not to take any of this personally, not to make this about her. She was here for Violet. Her falling out with Norah long ago had nothing to do with her granddaughter’s need for her now. This was a new thing. That was old and best forgotten. And besides, Norah wasn’t there, so it didn’t matter. She didn’t have to think of her at all. Norah could deal with her own poor choices. And Polly would help Violet deal with what those choices had meant for her.
But first she had to hide the money she’d withdrawn on her way out of town. “Wait here,” she instructed the dog, then darted back out to her car. She rooted around in the back seat for the bag of cash she’d stowed out of sight, just in case. She couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt that nagged at her for taking the money and leaving town, but it was her money. She’d done nothing wrong, though she doubted Calvin would see it that way. Calvin, when he discovered she’d nearly cleaned out their bank account, would be unhappy. He’d be furious. She braced herself for that call and wondered how long it would be until he figured out he was dangerously close to being broke.
She’d considered turning off her phone, putting it into one of Norah’s drawers, and forgetting about it entirely. Letting this stay with Violet be a fresh start, hiding out here at this suspected crime scene. She could leave her old life behind, use the bag of money to start a new one. Hire an attorney to sort out a divorce from Calvin. Once her other money—the account she was pretty sure Calvin didn’t know about—was safely moved to a new and even more secure account, she might just do that.
She walked quickly through the house holding the bag, feeling the weight of the cash growing heavier with each room she passed through. In each room, she contemplated hiding places, somewhere nondescript, somewhere Calvin—if he ever found her, God forbid—would not look. In the den, her eyes came to rest on the fireplace, a massive stone-tiled display that took up most of the wall and looked like it belonged in some Tuscan vineyard, not a suburban McMansion. On the mantel were two gigantic urns meant to look like wine casks. Polly set down the bag and walked over to the front windows to make sure that Violet’s stepmother had not arrived to drop her off early. She saw no cars in the driveway and none approaching the house.
Satisfied, she scurried back to the mantel and stood on her tiptoes to reach one of the urns, which looked heavy but was surprisingly light. She pulled it down and set it gently on the floor. She attempted to lift the ornately carved lid from it, but it was stuck. She tugged harder, to no avail. She tried turning it, in case it was screwed on, but it didn’t move. Curious as to what she was doing, Barney put his nose on the lid. She gave the dog the side-eye. “You’re no help,” she said, and pushed his wet nose out of the way.
She was wrestling with the urn, her determination overriding her common sense, when she heard a car pull into the drive. She leapt up and put the urn back where it belonged. She frantically searched for somewhere—anywhere—to stow the money before her granddaughter walked into the house and found her holding it. Desperate, she shoved the bag underneath an overstuffed leather recliner in the corner of the room and raced out