John Lutz - The Ex

“Not you, Deirdre. Nobody ever took you for stupid after they knew you for a while.”

“But when they did think I was stupid, I made them sorry.”

“It’s time to be honest with me. Honest all the way.”

“I learned to do to men what was done to me. To control them.”

“That must have proved useful.”

“It’s still useful.”

“What about the fire?” Darlene asked. “Remember that night? Mother and Father? It was like our house was screaming, only it was-”

“Shut up! Now!” Deirdre stood very straight and glared.

“You don’t like thinking about it, do you?”

“You don’t know about the fire!”

“Oh, sure I do. And I know about that place you ran away from.”

“I’m not surprised by that,” Deirdre said bitterly. “You’re nosy, a spy. You’ve spied on me for a long time, haven’t you?”

In the mirror, Darlene smiled. “You sound just like a little girl I used to know.”

“I didn’t do what they said I did,” Deirdre told her.

“Sure you did. But you don’t remember.”

“Hah! Like you were there!”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yes. Still spying, sneaking, working against me. You’ll tell the police what I did here, won’t you?”

“Of course I won’t. We’re sisters. You more than anyone know how certain things must stay within families.”

“Mother and Father! You’ll tell them!”

“They know all about you, anyway. Everybody who’s dead knows all about you. I won’t tell anyone who’s alive.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Darlene’s reflection said smugly. “You can’t trust me any farther than you can know me.”

Deirdre drew a deep breath, then turned away from the mirror and faced Darlene.

She raised the pickax.

Darlene didn’t move.

Only closed her eyes and smiled.

David took care of the matter the next morning, as promised.

He was aware of Molly watching him closely, standing in the center of the room with her arms crossed, her shoulders slightly hunched in a manner that was becoming habitual.

“This will solve the problem,” he said, looking down at the red-handled hammer and the small box of nails he’d bought at a hardware store on Second Avenue. Hammer and nails were lying on Michael’s bed, within easy reach of Muffin’s permanently propped-open window.

“Of course,” he said, “this is breaking the city code, interfering with access to a fire escape.”

“We don’t have fires in this building,” Molly said flatly, “only fire alarms.”

“Nevertheless, I bought long nails so we can leave them sticking out half an inch and I can easily pry them out with the hammer. We’ll keep the hammer on the top shelf of Michael’s bookcase, where he can’t reach it and we can get to it fast if it becomes necessary.”

She said nothing, and he was aware of her in the corner of his vision as he wielded the hammer and drove a long nail into each side of the wooden window frame.

“It’s always possible the faulty wiring that causes the alarm to sound might also cause a fire,” he said.

She remained silent and solemn, ignoring his pass at irony.

He tucked the hammer in his belt then, with effort, worked the paperback books loose that had been propping open the window. The rending action ripped the cover from the top book, a bestselling British mystery novel of a decade ago, and caused the pages of another to come loose from the binding.

“Do you want to keep any of these?” They were used paperbacks they’d bought years ago at the Strand, and he knew they wouldn’t have been used to prop open the window if they’d had any lasting value in the first place. But he thought he’d better ask the question anyway before he condemned the books to the incinerator.

“They’re out-of-date reference books and a couple of cozies,” Molly said. “Go ahead and pitch them.”

He dropped the books into Michael’s painted wicker wastebasket then returned to the window. It was frozen open six inches now. Spreading his feet wide for leverage, he yanked and pulled on the sash to demonstrate to Molly that the window was immovable.

“See, Mol,” he said, turning to her and smiling, “problem solved.”

She simply walked from the room, saying nothing.

He wondered if Molly knew or merely suspected that nailing the window frame had been a show for her benefit; that not even changing the locks would help. He had to find some way to stop Deirdre.

He propped his fists on his hips and stared at the window. At least his handiwork should be good for Molly’s peace of mind.

And they owed her some peace of mind, he thought guiltily as he laid the hammer and remaining nails on the bookshelf and left the room.

He walked into the living room and got his sport jacket from the coat closet, then picked up his attache case from the chair. Molly was nowhere in sight. She’d already dropped Michael off at Small Business. Maybe she was in the bathroom, or had decided to jog and was changing clothes in the bedroom.

“I’m going, Mol!”

There was no answer.

More concerned than angry, David draped his jacket over his shoulder and went out the door.

The business with the window had made him late leaving the apartment. Then someone had fallen ill on the subway, necessitating an unscheduled stop and emergency treatment, and causing all the trains on the line to grind to a halt and not move for more than an hour. It was almost eleven o’clock when he finally arrived at Sterling Morganson.

He’d barely gotten settled in his office when Josh, carrying a tall stack of manuscripts, stopped at his door and stuck his head in.

“Heard from Lisa, David?”

David looked away from his flickering computer monitor. “No. Should I have?”

“She didn’t come in this morning, and she doesn’t answer her phone.” Josh was obviously worried.

David didn’t see any big problem here. “Call her father’s number. It’s in her file. He might know where she is.”

“I called him. That’s what seems odd about this. He says she was supposed to meet him for dinner last night but didn’t show or call, and she didn’t answer her phone. He hasn’t heard from her this morning. He phoned back a few minutes ago and said he’d gone to her apartment but she wasn’t home, and there was no indication of where she might have gone.”

“It’s only ten minutes past eleven,” David said. “I don’t see why you’re concerned.”

“Her father noticed a throw rug in her bedroom where there hadn’t been one before. When he lifted it, there was a damp, dark stain underneath.”

David looked at him more closely. “Are you saying you suspect foul play?” God, he’d sounded like one of the characters in the manuscripts that poured into Sterling Morganson.

Josh seemed puzzled. “Well, I don’t know. But her being so late and not calling in, and standing up her father last night…it doesn’t seem like Lisa.”

“Maybe she would have called her father this morning, but she got sick and went to see a doctor. That would explain the stain on the carpet. Also explain why she hasn’t called in yet.”

“Waiting rooms have phones,” Josh pointed out.

David suspected that Lisa might have gone to an early job interview somewhere and had been taken seriously enough to be asked to stay for further consideration. She was overqualified for her work at the agency and had gone job hunting before, and now she was scheduled to do more work for the same salary. He wouldn’t blame her for switching jobs.

Josh smiled suddenly and shook his head at his own concern. “I guess it’s too early to bring in the police,” he said.