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"Okay, kiddo," I said to Tim. "This is it."
"Present?"
"I don't know, big guy. But I'm thinking no."
I took a deep breath, then lifted the lid, not at all sure what I'd see.
Nothing. I saw absolutely nothing.
I frowned. That couldn't be right.
I held the box on end and shook it. Sure enough, a folded piece of paper fell out. I stared at it, somehow
knowing that it was from Eric. I wanted to touch it, to smell it, to hold it to my heart. The one thing I
didn't want to do was read it. It was bad news. Somehow, I just knew that whatever was on that paper
was bad news.
I considered pocketing it for later, but abandoned the idea. I couldn't walk out of this room without
knowing what that note said. Doing that would be like walking away from Eric.
The paper had a ragged edge, as if it had been ripped from a notebook, then folded over on itself four
times. I unfolded it slowly, hesitating only briefly over the final fold. Then I opened the paper, smoothed it
on the table, and read these words:
My darling Katie,
I'm writing this because I'm afraid that I've gone too far. If you're reading this, it's because my
fears are correct. I'm sorry. So sorry. And I love you. You and Allie are my whole world. My
everything. And I wouldn't trade our years together for anything. Please, don't ever forget that.
And please, don't ever doubt it.
But there were things I had to do, and for that, I hope you can forgive me. I want you to know
what happened, Katie. I need you to finish what I started. I hate asking you to do that and I regret
opening the door in the first place. But some doors, once opened, can never be closed again. We
tried, though, didn't we? And I wish I could say that we succeeded. But we didn't. There's a crack,
and everything we thought we'd left behind is rushing through it.
I know you don't understand. Not really. And I wish I could say it plainly, but that's impossible,
too. I can't be certain that it will be you who finds this. So I can't risk telling you the full story. But
if you look to the best of us, you'll see that you already have all the pieces you need.
At least to get started.
But darling Katie, be careful. Watch your back. I didn't pay enough attention. Please, sweetheart,
don't make my mistake. Eternally yours,
Eric
I read the note twice, only stopping because I couldn't make the words out through my tears. I blinked,
and the tears streamed down my face, falling in fat drops from my cheeks to the paper. I wiped one
away, then pulled the paper to my heart, hugging it close.
"Momma?" Timmy was by my side, stroking my arm. I managed a watery smile, then hoisted him up onto
my lap, hugging him tight, too. He looked at me with big, serious eyes, then somberly kissed my cheek.
"Kiss and make better," he said. "Momma better now?"
I nodded and forced the words to leave my throat. "Absolutely. Thanks, big guy."
But it wasn't true. Not at all. Because as cryptic as this note was, it made one thing crystal clear: Eric
hadn't been the victim of a random mugging all those years ago.
Someone had intentionally murdered my husband.
Chapter Nine
I think Timmy could sense my mood, because he not only behaved beautifully all the way home, but he
kept blowing kisses from the backseat to the front. Do I have a great kid, or what?
I needed those kisses, too. Because the truth was, I was smothering under a blanket of guilt. Murder.
The San Francisco police had never even suggested premeditated murder. The theory had always been a
mugging gone bad. Murder, yes. But not planned. My husband had simply been in the wrong place at the
wrong time. We'd been ten years out of the demon business. Our lives were boring. Wonderful, but
boring. Murder wasn't even on my radar.
Now, though, that little bubble had burst, and I was kicking myself for not having been suspicious. For
having blithely gone along with what the police had told me. Why didn't I see? Why didn't I know?
Because there'd been nothing suspicious about his death. Nothing, that is, except the fact that he'd died at
all. And the fact that a mugger had actually been able to take down my husband. We might not have been
actively training every day, but Eric hadn't been a slacker. He'd never let his body go soft.
I thought about that, my stomach tightening more and more as the reality of the situation settled in my
bones. My husband had been murdered. And I, the woman who knew and loved him best, hadn't even
suspected.
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, thinking about the odd timing of the note's appearance. Could it
be fake? A trap?
Part of me wanted to believe that, but I knew it wasn't true. Too many phrases in the note sounded like
him. And even after all these years I recognized the handwriting. No, the note was from Eric.
How the key had landed on my doorstep, though. Well, that was still a mystery.
I glanced toward the passenger seat and my purse. The note was inside. For five years, I'd let Eric down,
and I couldn't help but believe that the key was some sort of silent accusation. A shout out to me that I'd
failed.
Not anymore. Somehow, I was going to find out what had happened. I was going to interpret his cryptic
message and I was going to find the truth.
I only hoped that after five years of doing nothing, the trail hadn't gone completely cold.
I steered the car home on autopilot, ignoring the list of errands I'd planned to do while I was out and
about. While the garage door creaked open, I tried to think what Eric could have meant. The best of us?
What was that? I really didn't have a clue. And, unfortunately, that was where I needed to start. That was
me, a demon-hunting Nancy Drew.
The first thing my sleuthing discovered was a note on the table. Short and to the point, Stuart had said
that he'd come home for a bit, but he had to get back to work. He was going to miss both dinner and
Allies beach party. And he was sorry.
I closed my eyes, expecting a rush of irritation. Lately I was seeing evidence of my husband (damp
shower stalls, laundry on the floor, rumpled sheets) more than the man himself. For weeks now, that little
fact had been driving me crazy, a flash point for frequent fights when we did cross paths.
But the annoyance didn't surface. This time, I only felt relief. My senses and memories were full of Eric. I
wanted to wallow. And unless I wanted more fights added to our regularly scheduled program, I knew
that wallowing about the dead first husband in front of the second was a really bad idea.
Not that I had time to wallow. For better or for worse, life with kids prevents deep descents into
morbidity. I needed to get Timmy settled, check on Eddie, hide a body, and then get myself to the beach.
Not that I had to go to the beach, but I had a feeling that the number of times Allie was going to invite
me to accompany her when she was on a date (or, rather, a pseudo-date) were exactly one. In other
words, this wasn't an opportunity I was going to let slide by.
I found Eddie where I'd left him, sound asleep in the armchair, the television blaring. I clicked it off, then
opened the cabinet and pulled out Timmy's tiny toy piano. He honed in on it immediately, and I figured
I'd just bought myself a solid if noisy ten minutes.
Normally, I'd ask Laura to babysit, but even though Mindy wasn't in the surf club, she'd decided to go to
the cookout. And she'd also granted Laura permission to come to the beach party ("so long as you
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