This Secret Thing, стр. 71

Nico

After they were gone, he went into the room where the mother-and-child reunion had taken place. He could still smell the grandmother’s perfume, floral and cloying, the kind of stuff older women wore, the only thing that gave a hint as to her age. It had been a study in genetics, watching the three of them together. It wasn’t just looks or body types that were similar, but speech and movement. Sometimes he’d forgotten to pay close attention to what they were saying because he was paying closer attention to how they were saying it. They were quite a trio: they made him uneasy enough one at a time, but all together was almost too much to take.

He stood in the small, windowless room and collected himself as he waited for the smell of Polly’s perfume to evaporate. He had to get it together so he could go after them. He’d picked up on something there at the end of their conversation. It was the story Norah had told Violet. She’d been trying to be sneaky. She thought she was smart—smarter than him—but his spidey senses had gone off. (It was a pleasure to know they still could.)

He suspected there was subtext to what she’d said to her daughter. It hadn’t been just a heartwarming story meant to comfort the child. It had been a clue. He’d give them time to get home. Get dinner going. Be lulled into a false sense of the coast being clear. Then he would show up, ask to see the bride doll she’d mentioned. He’d tear the thing apart if he had to, pull the stuffing out of it till he found what Norah was hiding.

In his pocket, his phone buzzed. Matteo’s autopsy results were due back at any moment. He pulled the phone from his pocket and frowned at it. It wasn’t the medical examiner. It was an alert from his security system, signaling that the cameras had picked up movement in his driveway, which didn’t make sense. Earlier he’d watched Karen, Lauren, and Ian all arrive home. Maybe one of them was leaving. He opened the app to see who it was.

But the person in his driveway wasn’t related to him by blood or vow. He wasn’t related to him at all, save the fact that they’d been neighbors for years, sharing bits of news, garden tools, and the occasional beers. If pressed, Nico would’ve called him a friend. When Matteo went missing, Mike had brought over a six-pack and offered to sit with him on the deck and drink it. It had been spring, and normally Nico would’ve done it. But he’d declined, saying he wasn’t up to it and that he wasn’t good company, all of which was true.

He couldn’t imagine passing the time with anyone but his brother. Mike Lewis was a poor substitute. He’d accepted the beers, though, drinking them alone out on the deck, getting drunk as he watched his family pass by the windows inside, getting ready for bed without him. He’d waited till they were all asleep to go inside.

Now Mike Lewis knocked on Nico’s door, unaware or unconcerned that he was being recorded. As he waited for someone to answer his knock, he whistled. Nico tried to place the song. Mike whistled a few more bars, and, for a blissful moment, Nico thought that no one was going to come to the door and Mike Lewis would go back where he came from, back to his homely wife and hellion twin boys. Mike Lewis had been coming around more and more, making lame excuses, which Karen fell for, offering his help in Nico’s absence, playing the concerned neighbor. He’d had to refrain from telling Karen, “Listen, about Mike Lewis. No man is that concerned about a woman without having some sort of motive.”

Then Karen would know he was watching. And he wasn’t supposed to have this app on his phone anymore. He’d gone as far as to delete it in front of her when she had asked. So he had to play it cool now, only make a move if it was truly necessary. He took a deep breath and spoke out loud in the small, windowless room. “Turn around and go home, asshole.” No, Mike Lewis was not, and never had been his friend. He was glad he’d turned him away that night.

Karen answered the door, stepping out onto the porch. She smiled when she saw him. She’d showered since she got home; wet strands were visible. She’d put on lipstick. She was wearing a skirt. He gripped the phone tighter, squeezing it so hard he wished it would break. Nothing good came in on his phone anymore. The device was an interruption, a nuisance. He’d like to throw it away. Yet he could not be without it. It