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“Dom? Is this Dom?” a woman asked.
“Uh-huh.”
My eyes had opened enough to figure out it was still dark. Very dark. It was the middle of the night.
“Could you come please?”
“Come where? Who is this?”
“I tried to call Brenda, but she said they wouldn’t let her come. I don’t want to call the police.”
Brenda was obviously Detective Wellesley. And she was police, so what she was saying was a bit contradictory. This had to have something to do with—
“Candy? Is this Candy Van Dyke?”
“I said that didn’t I?”
“Has something happened?”
She broke into wrenching, hiccupping sobs.
“I can be there in about ten minutes. Are you safe?”
She sobbed something that sounded something like a yes.
“Are you alone?”
She was.
“Do you need medical attention?”
“I don’t think so.”
Still holding the phone, I pulled on my jeans and found a shirt. I had a pair of sneakers downstairs by the back door. I slipped out of the bedroom before Ronnie could wake up. The clock on our nightstand said 3:14AM.
Once I was in the hall, I asked, “Someone hurt you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who?”
“Stu Whatley.”
I was at Candy’s door thirteen minutes later. The house was brightly lit. We’d stayed on the line right up until the time I parked. She became calmer, but I still didn’t get a whole lot of information about what had happened. Several times, she said, “He thinks he can get away with it. He doesn’t think anyone will believe me. I think he’s right. No onewillbelieve me.”
When she opened the door, she wore a two-pieced zebra-striped lounging outfit. Disconcerting. She could have been about to entertain. In fact, everything about her and her house said, ‘We’re about to have a party.’
I asked, “That’s not what you were wearing?”
She shook her head.
“Where are the clothes you were wearing?”
“In my bedroom hamper.”
“Do you have a paper bag?”
“Somewhere.”
