Page 73 of Not a Word

“Muddy,” she said, glancing back to that upstairs window again.

He paused a moment, coming to a decision. “The police would have to already know a lot before they’d think to drag the pond. If they’ve gotten to that point, you’re probably already in their crosshairs. So we can’t let it get to that point. Why are you looking at that window?”

“I’m not.”

“Oh shit,” he said quietly, figuring it out on his own. He closed the distance between them, grabbed her wrist firmly and drew her in, face-to-face. She tried to shake him off but he was locked on.

“Tell me.”

“He’s just a boy.”

“Your son?”

She nodded.

“Which one?”

“Please . . .”

“Which one?”

“Holden.”

“You’ve talked to him?”

“He doesn’t know what he saw. He’s a kid. You don’t have to worry about him. I made it very clear.”

Crane stared at the window.

“He’s not there now. He went to bed. It was dark. Crane, please.”

He was breathing in and out, slowly, hand still clamped around her wrist. “What did you tell him?”

“I put the fear of God into him. That if he ever told, we’d lose everything. He and Reece would be taken away from us. I told him . . .” And at this point, she choked on her words. “I told him I wouldn’t love him anymore.”

Crane’s face seemed to crack. He relaxed his grip.

“I had to . . .” Catherine said, turning away. “He had to know this was serious . . .” Her head was down, her shoulders hunched, as though closing in on herself. “I would never really . . . I never would have said that to Reece . . .”

Brent was returning, a black plastic tarp rolled up under his arm. With gloved hands, he handed it to Crane, who unfurled it onto the grass.

“Shoulders,” he said to Brent.

Brent got hold of Evelyn’s upper body, planting both his shoes—an expensive pair of Florsheims—into the water at the edge of the pond. Crane took the feet. They moved her body onto the center of the tarp, which was more than big enough to roll up her body and tuck in both ends.

Carrying her like a carpet, they went around the side of the house, through the gate, then set the body down at the back end of Crane’s car. He popped the trunk, and together they stuffed Evelyn in there. He walked over to Evelyn’s Porsche, tried the door, and found it unlocked. He glanced inside, then turned to Brent and said, “A purse?”

“On the deck.”

Brent disappeared around the back of the house, returned with a handbag and the leather case Evelyn had brought. “She had the documents in this.”

Crane had already taken the copies Evelyn had given Brent. He rooted around in the purse until he had found a set of keys for the Porsche.

“Tell me you can drive a stick,” he said to Brent.

He didn’t understand the point of the question at first, then said, “Yes.”

“You’ll follow me. But first . . .”