Page 37 of The Woman I’ve Become

“So it was you who delivered to my house earlier in the week.”

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Ms. Riggs placed and received the order.”

“Did you notice anyone else at the house while you were there?” Dread is creeping into my chest. This is not going where I hoped, no matter that I figured this was where we would end up.

Rick lied to me. It’s one thing to suspect as much but another entirely to have it confirmed.

“I didn’t, but there was an SUV there—besides the one Ms. Riggs drives, I mean. She shops for a lot of the part-time residents, so she’s a frequent customer here.”

My heart sinks. Apparently Helen lied as well.

“What kind of SUV?” I tell myself it could have been an actual plumber or electrician, or just someone helping with the opening of the house. But I have a sneaking suspicion that is not the case. Especially since Helen never mentioned any other type of service. I remind myself to breathe.

“Gray or silver. Ford Escape or something like that. I just glanced at it. Maybe an Explorer.”

“Did you notice the license plate?”

“I did. New York.”

“But you didn’t see anyone besides Helen?”

He shakes his head. “No, ma’am.”

“Thanks, Gil.”

I call Helen before I exit the market—it goes to her voicemail, so I leave a message. As difficult as it is to keep my voice calm, I do. Then I trek down the sidewalk in my stiff gait toward the ice cream shop. Luckily no reporters descend upon me.

It’s more than plausible, I realize, that Helen had help that day or even a friend with her for perfectly logical reasons. But she should have told me when I questioned her. Since she did not, that could mean she is hiding something. Whether that something is relevant or significant in any way is yet to be seen.

Damn. And I was so sure I could trust her completely.

How foolish of me. I have never met anyone in my life that I could trust completely. Why do I always choose to believe that will change?

At the ice cream shop, I’m just in time to have a small vanilla cone myself. Acacia has that look on her face that says she has questions. We’ll talk later. Right now I just need to clear my head. Maybe what I have in mind is not the best way to prompt reactions, but it is something I feel compelled to do.

“Our first drive-by is my old school,” I announce as we climb into the car. The seats are warm but not nearly as hot as they would be if it was summer already.

For the next hour we cruise around town. The school, the Starbucks, and then the little in-town house still surrounded by a picket fence. The yard isn’t so cluttered anymore. The paint is a different color and isn’t peeling. According to current property records—which I accessed online—a young couple now lives there. Memories flow like a movie trailer before I can stop them. The sound of laughter echoes in my head.

We stare at our reflection in the mirror. We’re really fucking hot.

Yes, we are. Very hot.

I blink the memories away. It’s never smart to stay too long in the past you want to forget.

“Where to next?” Acacia glances at me.

Pulling myself away from the memory, I turn to check on Olivia, who is fast asleep, a smudge of chocolate on her cheek. “Let’s go to Norwalk.” I look ahead. “I’ll give you the directions when we get there.” Norwalk isn’t that far, and there’s time to change my mind about our actual destination.

But I probably won’t.

The little house on Newfield Street doesn’t look the same. It was a rental twenty years ago. Not your typical rental now judging by the neatly manicured lawn. New siding and roof. Expertly designed landscape.

The only thing I know about the place with any measure of certainty is that Casey Duval no longer lives there.

“Where to now?”

I turn, and for a moment, instead of Acacia, I see her. I hear her laughter. Smell her perfume. Feel the excitement . . .