Waking the Witch

twenty-nine

Tiffany lay curled up on her side, under the covers. Her younger daughter still stood on the bed, uncertain. She gave a tentative bounce, and for a second, I saw myself years ago, bouncing away as my mother sang, Ten little monkeys bouncing on the bed...

My mom. Their mom. Oh, God. Please no.

I touched Tiffany’s neck. She was warm, but I couldn’t find a pulse. I shook her shoulder. Her head lolled back, eyes still closed.

I turned. “Adam—”

He was already running back into the hall. “I’ll get them.”

“Mom?” the older girl said, her voice wobbling.

“She’s sick,” I said. Liar, liar. “Take your sister and—”

I stopped. I wanted them out of that room. God, I wanted them out of that room. But I’d just been found over another dead body. I couldn’t stay in there alone. So I scooped up the younger girl and carried her out, motioning for her sister to follow.

“Let’s get the baby, okay?” I said. “The doctor is on the way and your mom—”

I stopped myself before I said “your mom will be fine.” I wouldn’t. When my mother died, they hadn’t told me for days, and that only made it worse.

The baby was howling again. When we walked into her room, she was sitting up, face red, chubby body trembling with exhaustion.

The oldest girl snatched a cartoon character pillow out of the crib. “She isn’t supposed to have that in bed.”

I lifted the baby out. She stopped crying and peered at me through red-rimmed eyes. A hiccup, as if she remembered me. Then a wail. I wasn’t a stranger, but I wasn’t her mother.

I motioned the older girl to the rocking chair and settled the baby in her lap as Bruyn headed down the hall. Seeing us, he stopped. The older officer, right on his heels, almost ran into him.

Bruyn stared at the girls for a second, winced, then turned toward the front door and yelled, “Mom?”

His mother hurried into the baby’s room, clucking and calling the girls by name. I slipped out to follow Bruyn. Adam came up behind me and squeezed my hand. We headed into the master bedroom.

“She’s dead,” I murmured when I was sure the girls couldn’t hear. “I didn’t tell her daughters—”

“Good.” Bruyn checked for a pulse. “Doc’s on the way. We’ll tell them she’s sick until their dad gets here. I’ve called him, but he’s not answering. Probably sees my number and figures I’m just harassing him.” Bruyn straightened and looked at me. “You seem to find a lot of dead bodies, don’t you?”

Adam stepped forward, ready to snap something.

I cut him off. “We just got here. You saw us coming up the road. I had an appointment. The girls got here right after we knocked. We didn’t go in before them. You can ask the neighbor.”

Bruyn picked up a needle that lay beside an open Bible.

So Tiffany Radu had killed herself ... right after I’d threatened her.

“Did you move anything?” Bruyn said.

I shook my head. Adam slipped out as I recited my steps. As I did my gaze kept going to that Bible. Its edges were so perfect it looked as if this was the first time it had been cracked open.

I glanced down at the page. Exodus 22. Something about that twanged a memory. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d been to church, but I knew that chapter. Why?

“Looking for comfort,” Bruyn said, following my gaze. “She wasn’t a churchgoing woman, but people do that at the end, wanting proof they’re going someplace else. Someplace better.”

When the doctor arrived, I went to find Adam. He was looking around the house. As we passed the baby’s room, I glanced in. My gaze went to that pillow on the floor, the one the oldest girl had thrown out of the crib. I paused, staring at it like I’d stared at the Bible, not quite knowing why. Adam didn’t say a word until we were halfway to the Jeep.

“You had nothing to do with Tiffany Radu’s death,” he said.

“Never said I did.”

“But you’re thinking it. That woman didn’t kill herself because of any threat from you, Savannah.”

“So it’s just a coincidence that she came home after a fight with me and committed suicide?”

“She didn’t commit suicide. She was murdered.”

I glanced over sharply. “What’d you see?”

“Not a damn thing. Whoever did it was careful.”

“If you’re trying to make me feel better—”

“I wouldn’t lie to do it.” He took my arm and steered me around a pile of dog shit on the sidewalk, then motioned to the scratches on my forearm. “This woman confronted you in the middle of Main Street yesterday. Told you to stay away from her family and clawed you good. This morning she lured you into an empty building and knocked you flying down the stairs. Does that strike you as someone who’d run off and kill herself?”

“She wanted to protect her family.”

“By tooth and by claw, not by lying down and dying for them.” He unlocked the Jeep’s passenger door and opened it for me. “She was lying on her right side, with her left arm on top of the covers. When the coroner gives his report, he’ll say the injection site was on her left arm.”

“So someone snuck in and injected her while she napped?”

He climbed into the driver’s seat, keys in hand, and turned to face me. “The yard is fenced. There’s a doghouse, but no sign of a dog. No bowls, nothing. My guess is that it died recently. Maybe not a natural death. There’s a vacant house behind theirs, with tall hedges. The killer enters there, hops the fence, picks the lock, and comes in when they know she’ll be alone and asleep. Her daughter said she always napped when the baby did. Someone knew that. Someone who knew her. Like her lover, who wasn’t at home when we got to his place.”

“Alastair.”

“That’s where I’m laying my money, but I’m not ruling out Cody either. Whoever killed Tiffany killed the others, too. She figured out that he killed Ginny, Brandi, and Claire and he realized she had to go-but quietly, so no one would connect the dots.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But Cody could have found out that she was the killer, and killed her quietly before she brought them all down. Or Tiffany’s killer could be the person who has been stalking both of us, related or unrelated to the other deaths.” I sighed and leaned back in the seat. “Aren’t clues supposed to eliminate suspects?”

“So you agree that Tiffany was murdered, then?” he said, finally putting the key in the ignition.

I hesitated. It made sense, but I wanted it to make sense.

“I’ll wait to hear the coroner’s report,” I said. “But it’s a possibility ...” When I trailed off, he glanced over.

“The pillow,” I said. “There was a pillow in the crib. The oldest girl said it didn’t belong there. I just remembered why. When Logan and Kate were little, Elena wouldn’t put pillows or stuffed animals in their cribs. They’re smothering hazards. Tiffany’s baby is a little old for that, but I didn’t notice anything else in the crib. Even if Tiffany did decide to start giving her pillows, that one was for decoration, not sleeping on.”

“So someone put a pillow in the crib—Shit.”

He didn’t say what he was thinking. I already knew. I could picture it, the killer standing over the crib, looking down at the screaming baby, pillow in hand, thinking the unthinkable ...

As we waited to turn onto Main Street, a tow truck drove by. Hoisted on the back was a black BMW. My gut seized, and I stared after it as it disappeared from sight.

“That Michael’s car?” Adam asked quietly.

I nodded.

“Okay, we’re getting you back to the motel. That’s enough for one day. Time for rest, dinner—”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I want to be,” I said, softly enough that I didn’t think he’d hear, but he reached over and squeezed my hand.

“I know,” he said. “But let’s take a break from toughing it out, okay? We’ve done a lot this afternoon. Time to back up, give it time to gel, and plan our next move.”

I couldn’t argue with that. A car honked behind us and Adam pulled onto Main Street.