Jean recoils. “I beg your pardon?”
“That’s so irresponsible,” Aimee says. “You didn’t even know her.” It hits her that those were the same words Lisa shouted at her last Friday at dinner. Lisa had been right. Aimee had made a terrible mistake. She had allowed her daughter to spend time with a complete stranger, just as Jean Brewster had allowed one into her home. They were both taken in by Cathy’s gentleness, duped into thinking that an older white woman in chunky glasses who drank tea could not be a threat.
Outside, Sababa barks, once, then again, then a series of short ones like the staccato of a machine gun.
“My friend’s husband is missing,” Gwen says. “This Cathy woman might know where he is. Do you have any idea where she might be? How did you pay her?”
“Through Venmo. I can give you her email if it helps.”
Sababa lets off another round of barking.
Gwen turns to Aimee. “You stay here and get the Venmo information. I’m going to go check on Sababa.”
Aimee waits on the sofa, leg shaking with impatience, as Jean fumbles with her phone. A wave of nausea washes over her. She’s trapped inside a maze, and every way she can turn seems like a dead end. When she needed her wits the most, she froze. ButGwen stepped in. She feels so confused, furious at her friend for her betrayal, yet grateful that she is here now.
Jean looks up from her phone. “I don’t know if this will be of much help, but I also have a picture of her. I remember now that she was not very happy when I took it, but I told her I like to have photos of all my contacts, so when I get calls at work I know straight away who it’s from.”
“That could be helpful.” She tells Jean her number and waits for her to text over the photo and a screenshot of Cathy’s Venmo account. When they both appear on her phone, Aimee examines them but finds nothing helpful. The photo Jean took of Cathy sitting on the floor holding a black-and-white kitten only confirms that there is nothing scary or sinister about her.
“Thank you for your help.” Aimee stands. “You should know I will be going to the police, and they might come by to ask you some questions. It looks like Cathy Stocker fooled us both.”
Jean walks her out to the front porch, but there is no sight of Gwen or the dog.
“Where did they go?” Aimee asks. She walks around the porch to the side of the house, where she spots Gwen standing below them next to the BMW, a strange look on her face.
“What is it?” Aimee calls from up on the porch.
“Sababa got loose and got into that barn,” Gwen says.
Aimee follows her gaze, and sure enough, she can hear the dog scratching. Aimee starts toward the staircase, a sense of dread growing in her.
“He must have found a gap where the door hasn’t fully shut,” Gwen says. “But can’t get out now.”
“An animal might have gotten in there,” Jean offers. “That happens a lot. I had a raccoon family take up residence there last year.”
“The ground is really muddy, and I’m wearing slippers,” Gwen says, looking down at her feet. “Jean, do you have boots I can borrow?
Aimee is already halfway down the wide steps, her heart thumping wildly. “What’s in the barn?” she calls to Jean. “Besides possibly raccoons?”
“Nothing. I don’t use it. You have to manually heave that door open. It’s very heavy.”
“Then why are there tire tracks going up to it?” Gwen asks.
“That’s impossible,” Jean says. “No one uses that barn. It’s not structurally sound.”
Aimee stops short next to where Gwen is standing and looks down. Gwen is right: in the mud leading to the barn are two lines of fresh tire tracks.
Her chest seizes. She knows what she has to do. She slogs through the thick, sticky mud to the barn door. She puts her shoulder against the immense wooden door and heaves, but it barely moves. The frustration swells in her. She has to get inside. She straightens up, trying to get her footing in the slippery mud, and then leans against the door once more. This time, she senses Gwen behind her, pushing as well. For a few seconds, nothing happens, and then the door begins to slide open with a low rumble. Once it’s open, Aimee straightens up, breathing heavily, nerves jangly. She takes a tentative step inside the large space, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. Dust mites dance in the air, and Sababa runs out, yapping, happy to be free.
And parked in the middle of the barn is Scott’s car.
34
NOW
Gwen stays at the entrance to the barn while Aimee runs to the car, flinging the doors open.
“Scott! Scott!” she cries, going from one side to the other.