Hannah Jayne - Under Suspicion

I bit my bottom lip. “I think I’ll do one better. Thanks, Alex.” I spun on my heel and was halfway into the hall when I felt his hand on my shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he wanted to know.

I shrugged. “Just going to make a pit stop.”

“Don’t get involved, Lawson.”

“Who’s getting involved?” I snaked the check out of Mrs. Henderson’s folder. “I’m just doing a friend a friendly favor.”

Mrs. Henderson and her two obnoxious teenagers lived in a gorgeous Old Hollywood–style house in a quiet neighborhood off Nineteenth Avenue. I was pleasantly surprised when I found it on my first try. I had been there numerous times for Mrs. Henderson’s Christmas parties, but generally there was an eight-foot winking Santa to guide me down the tree-lined streets.

The house, usually resplendent with an impeccably manicured lawn and showy dusting of baby pink impatiens, was hardly recognizable. The lawn was overgrown and the impatiens were leggy and capped with drooping brown blooms. I continued up the stone walk and stooped on the porch to gather up at least a week’s worth of Chronicle newspapers and local circulars advertising great prices on everything from fertilized duck eggs to tripe.

Clamping my mouth shut against a wave of nausea, I rapped on the door, then waited. The hairs on the back of my neck slowly started to rise, as did the suspicion that I was being watched. I pressed the newspapers to my chest and slowly turned my head over my shoulder. The Hendersons’ overgrown lawn and shaggy plants remained as they were and the street was empty, but I couldn’t shake the creepy feeling. I stepped off the porch and glanced up and down the street. Mainly deserted, except for a few parked cars—ticketed, of course—and an old man walking a basset hound four houses down.

“I’m just jumpy,” I muttered to myself. “Jumpy.”

I went back up the walk and I rapped again, harder this time. The door swung open. I jumped in and spun around, catching the taillights of a car as it sped down the street. The prickly feeling was still there; so I slammed the door, then pasted on a smile, ready to greet Mrs. Henderson or one of her annoying teens.

“Thank you so much,” I started to say. “Sorry, I just ... Hello?”

There was no one in the foyer and it was dim. All the curtains were drawn and the little wedge of outside light, which came in through a small crack in the fabric, illuminated dancing dust mites.

“Mrs. Henderson? It’s me, Sophie. From the UDA. You missed your appointment today... .” I stayed pressed up against the door, my shoulder blades wincing against the cold wood. “Is anybody home?”

My instinct told me that something was terribly wrong, that I should turn around and leave, drive straight back to the UDA.

But I was never very good at trusting my instincts.

Instead, I took tentative steps down the hallway, still clutching the newspapers, still calling into the empty house.

“I’m coming down the hall now,” I announced, giving the man with a hook who was likely waiting to gut me a play-by-play. “Is anyone home?” My voice rang out hollow in the gaping hallway and I tried to think of positive things—like a surprise dragon birthday party or Care Bears.

There was a crunch underneath my foot and I let out an embarrassing yowl, dropping the newspapers in a heap and leaping backward. I clawed at my chest as my heart hammered and my sweat glands went into hyperdrive. I could feel the kinks that I dutifully blow-dried out this morning popping back. I took giant gulps of air, spinning like a maniac to catch an intruder at all sides. Nothing. I toed the newspapers and pushed last week’s away, revealing a newly crushed hot pink iPod.

“Uh-oh,” I murmured.

I casually kicked the iPod aside, covering it again with the newspaper. When I found the Hendersons, I’d explain it. Silently I continued down the hall into the kitchen. I stopped dead, wincing, then pressed my hand to my nose. Either someone had gotten in on the fertilized-duck-egg deal or something was rotting. I didn’t want to go farther, plagued with crime scene images of dismembered bodies—their milky, staring eyes—but I had to see.

The kitchen would have looked homey under any other circumstance. There was a decorative fruit bowl on the large oak table, and a valance and chair pads all coordinated with a sea of Laura Ashley–inspired roses. I walked carefully around the tiled island. A crock, which had been stuffed with cooking utensils, was cracked and lying on its side; spatulas and slotted spoons littered the gray slate floor. There were two covered pots on the stovetop and I pushed one lid back a half inch. I tried to peer inside, but the overwhelming stench of rotting food made me gag. I rushed to the kitchen sink and heaved, feeling hot salty tears rush down my cheeks.

A cold rush of air whooshed over me and I looked up, for the first time seeing the jagged hole in the glass. The sink and the counter were littered with tiny glass pieces. I had mashed my palms into some and now the blood—searing hot—was dribbling over my wrists.

I don’t know how, but suddenly I found myself outside on the Hendersons’ lawn, speed dialing Alex and shifting my weight from foot to foot, silently imploring him to answer.

“Grace?” he said into the phone.

“Oh, thank God. Alex, you have to come out here. Something’s wrong. Something bad happened to the Hendersons.”

“Again with this? Lawson, didn’t we—”

A coil of anger overtook my fear. “No, Alex. Now.” I read him the address and paced nervously, trying to work the tiny shards of glass from my palm. When I saw Alex’s SUV round the corner, not ten minutes later, I let out a breathy sigh and a torrent of tears. He jerked the car to a stop and I ran toward him.

“Alex!”

He got out of the car and sped toward me, his blue eyes stormy and looking me up and down. “What happened to you? Are you okay?”

I shook my bloodied palms. “Nothing. Just broken glass. We have to go in there. Mrs. Henderson could be hurt. She could be dying!”

I snatched Alex by the shirtsleeve and dragged him toward Mrs. Henderson’s front door. “Something—something happened in there.”

“Was there anyone inside?”

I wagged my head, using the back of my hand to swipe at tears that had suddenly started to fall. “I don’t know.”

“Stay here.”

Alex tried to guide me back to the car; but the second he turned, I followed him. He crept up the porch and carefully pushed open the door. I ran up behind him. My breasts were just brushing against his back; my heart was thundering like a jackhammer.

“Doesn’t this look suspicious?” I whispered in Alex’s ear.

He held up a silencing hand and pulled his gun from the holster. I clapped a palm to my forehead, then grimaced at the sting from the broken glass. “I should have brought my gun. Or at least my Taser.”

Alex gave me a cursory look. “I think you’ve done enough.”

“What is that supposed to mean? If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be here, possibly putting both our lives in dan ... Oh. I see what you mean.”

“Stay out here.” Alex gave me a gentle but firm push back.

“I’m not staying out here!” I said, pushing back against him. “The perp is probably out here just waiting to gut me!”

“Fine. Just stay quiet and close.”

I clung to Alex’s back as he walked silently from room to room. On the upper floor there was slightly more damage—pictures knocked from the wall, clothing torn and scattered on the floor, drawers left open.

“So? What do you think? Homicide? Special circumstances?”

Last year I had the opportunity to work with Alex to solve a case, so I was pretty well-versed in the police lingo.