just give me the boost I needed.
I grabbed the books and placed them on top of the planter box then climbed up holding on to the old window trim, praying it wouldn’t give. I was able to pull myself high enough to peer through the window into the dining room.
Michelle was sprawled across the floor.
I rapped sharply on the window. She didn’t move. I swallowed the fear in my throat and rapped again.
Nothing.
Maybe she’s fainted. Maybe she’s passed out drunk.
I started to climb off the phone books and lost my footing. I fell off the planter box, tearing my slacks on a protruding nail.
I sat dumbfounded on the cement, the back of my right thigh throbbing from the fall.
Michelle!
I picked myself up and hobbled to the front of the house and up the steps again. Leaning on the doorbell, I willed Michelle to get up and answer the door.
In a last-ditch effort, I tried the knob. It turned in my hand. Pushing it open, I called, “Michelle! Michelle!”
I ran to her and turned her over.
Her body was limp. She was pale as a ghost, her black hair strewn across her face. I brushed it away with my hand. “Michelle? Oh Michelle, please don’t be dead,” I whispered even though I knew she was.
Oddly, she had a peaceful expression. There was a small cut on her temple where blood had trickled. I imagined her collapsing and cutting her head against the coffee table.
I looked around the room and noticed two wineglasses on her coffee table. She’d had company. My God, what could have happened?
I dialed 9-1-1 from Michelle’s phone.
After I reported Michelle dead, the operator said, “I’m sending someone now. Did you try CPR?”
“Oh my God. I don’t think . . .”
The operator instructed me to feel for a pulse.
I knelt next to Michelle and took her hand in mine, placing two fingers over her wrist. I confirmed the lack of a pulse.
“Ma’am, the police will be there shortly. Please don’t touch anything in the house,” the operator instructed. “Stay on the line.”
I remained kneeling next to Michelle, helplessly holding her hand and feeling a heaviness in my gut.
Someone had killed Michelle. My high school friend. Someone had killed her, had murdered her husband. Someone had broken into my cars.
I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to think his name. It popped into my head anyway.
George? Charming, flaky, pain-in-the-ass George.
Please, no. Please, don’t be behind this.
•CHAPTER EIGHT•
The Second Week—Seeing is Believing
I waited in stunned silence until I heard sirens down the street. I told the 9-1-1 operator that the paramedics had arrived.
“All right, ma’am. Please wait for the police. They’ll be there shortly to take your statement.”
My statement?
I opened the door for the paramedics. They tried to resuscitate Michelle. They couldn’t. Soon the police arrived, headed by Inspector McNearny, the same cop who’d helped me with Jim’s car the day before. He came into the house and barely looked at Michelle. Instead, he looked straight at me, cocking his head to the side. “Well, well, well, who do we have here? Mrs. Connolly, is it?” He jutted his chin at me a bit, challenging me. “Kind of a surprise to find you here. How’s your car? File that insurance claim yet?”
What was he accusing me of? Insurance fraud? Something worse?
“No. I didn’t. Not yet.” I could feel his gaze. I supposed he was waiting for an explanation. “I came over to see my friend, Michelle.”
McNearny nodded at me, then at his partner. “Jones, this is Ms. Connolly.”
Jones was younger than McNearny, with kind eyes and short dark hair that was gelled back. He smiled sympathetically at me.
McNearny gestured toward the wineglasses. “Did you have wine with her?”
“No. No! I just got here. She didn’t answer the door. I tried her phone and left a message. I saw her through the window . . . on the floor. I . . . the door was open. I thought maybe she passed out.”
Inspector
I grabbed the books and placed them on top of the planter box then climbed up holding on to the old window trim, praying it wouldn’t give. I was able to pull myself high enough to peer through the window into the dining room.
Michelle was sprawled across the floor.
I rapped sharply on the window. She didn’t move. I swallowed the fear in my throat and rapped again.
Nothing.
Maybe she’s fainted. Maybe she’s passed out drunk.
I started to climb off the phone books and lost my footing. I fell off the planter box, tearing my slacks on a protruding nail.
I sat dumbfounded on the cement, the back of my right thigh throbbing from the fall.
Michelle!
I picked myself up and hobbled to the front of the house and up the steps again. Leaning on the doorbell, I willed Michelle to get up and answer the door.
In a last-ditch effort, I tried the knob. It turned in my hand. Pushing it open, I called, “Michelle! Michelle!”
I ran to her and turned her over.
Her body was limp. She was pale as a ghost, her black hair strewn across her face. I brushed it away with my hand. “Michelle? Oh Michelle, please don’t be dead,” I whispered even though I knew she was.
Oddly, she had a peaceful expression. There was a small cut on her temple where blood had trickled. I imagined her collapsing and cutting her head against the coffee table.
I looked around the room and noticed two wineglasses on her coffee table. She’d had company. My God, what could have happened?
I dialed 9-1-1 from Michelle’s phone.
After I reported Michelle dead, the operator said, “I’m sending someone now. Did you try CPR?”
“Oh my God. I don’t think . . .”
The operator instructed me to feel for a pulse.
I knelt next to Michelle and took her hand in mine, placing two fingers over her wrist. I confirmed the lack of a pulse.
“Ma’am, the police will be there shortly. Please don’t touch anything in the house,” the operator instructed. “Stay on the line.”
I remained kneeling next to Michelle, helplessly holding her hand and feeling a heaviness in my gut.
Someone had killed Michelle. My high school friend. Someone had killed her, had murdered her husband. Someone had broken into my cars.
I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to think his name. It popped into my head anyway.
George? Charming, flaky, pain-in-the-ass George.
Please, no. Please, don’t be behind this.
•CHAPTER EIGHT•
The Second Week—Seeing is Believing
I waited in stunned silence until I heard sirens down the street. I told the 9-1-1 operator that the paramedics had arrived.
“All right, ma’am. Please wait for the police. They’ll be there shortly to take your statement.”
My statement?
I opened the door for the paramedics. They tried to resuscitate Michelle. They couldn’t. Soon the police arrived, headed by Inspector McNearny, the same cop who’d helped me with Jim’s car the day before. He came into the house and barely looked at Michelle. Instead, he looked straight at me, cocking his head to the side. “Well, well, well, who do we have here? Mrs. Connolly, is it?” He jutted his chin at me a bit, challenging me. “Kind of a surprise to find you here. How’s your car? File that insurance claim yet?”
What was he accusing me of? Insurance fraud? Something worse?
“No. I didn’t. Not yet.” I could feel his gaze. I supposed he was waiting for an explanation. “I came over to see my friend, Michelle.”
McNearny nodded at me, then at his partner. “Jones, this is Ms. Connolly.”
Jones was younger than McNearny, with kind eyes and short dark hair that was gelled back. He smiled sympathetically at me.
McNearny gestured toward the wineglasses. “Did you have wine with her?”
“No. No! I just got here. She didn’t answer the door. I tried her phone and left a message. I saw her through the window . . . on the floor. I . . . the door was open. I thought maybe she passed out.”
Inspector
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