Noah studied the image, taken at the park, which showed a dark sedan with tinted windows parked along the road.
Not the SUV he’d seen the night before. Did Lena have two cars?
There was no front license plate, a red flag. “What happened?”
“Nothing, really. I saw it on Magnolia Street, then on Cedar, then again there, across from the playground.”
“You were followed?” His heart thumped erratically.
“Maybe?” She shrugged one shoulder. “Or maybe I was being paranoid.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture he was beginning to recognize as nervous. “A friend I met at the park?—”
“What friend?”
Miss Wright’s eyes widened.
“Sorry, I don’t mean…” He took a breath to calm down. “Of course you can meet friends at the park.”
“Um, okay.” Her tone shifted back to that insecure one she’d used a lot when she’d first moved into his house. “I’d seen her at the park before, and we got to talking. I told her about the car, and she suggested it could be a delivery driver or something. The car was gone when we left, so maybe?—”
“You should have told me right away.”
The woman on Miss Wright’s other side glanced in his direction. He needed to lower his voice.
Miss Wright was more careful, speaking at one click above a whisper. “I know you don’t like to be bothered at work, so?—”
“I never said that.”
She blinked. “Oh. I guess I just…assumed.”
“Don’t make assumptions about what I want. I told you to let me know if you had any suspicions. I meant it.”
She faced forward again. “You’re right. I just talked myself into believing it was nothing.”
“Maybe it was.” His heart was racing. This day was going to send him into cardiac arrest.
He didn’t recognize the car in the photo. It probably hadn’t been following her. It probably hadn’t been anyone who had anything to do with Charlotte or himself or Miss Wright.
But there’d been someone watching Charlotte the day he’d hired Miss Wright, or so she’d thought. And there’d been that break-in.
Lena had called the morning after that. And she’d shown up this afternoon.
Keeping his voice low, he asked, “What’s your new friend’s name?”
“Heather.”
“What does she look like?”
“Dark, curly hair. Attractive. About my age.”
That could describe thousands of women in Virginia alone. Or it could describe Lena.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, navigated to Facebook, and found Lena’s profile. He clicked on her photo and showed it to Miss Wright. “Is that her?”
She studied the photo, then shook her head. “No. Heather’s hair is naturally curly. That woman’s curls come from an iron.”
“How do you know?”
She smiled. “I have four sisters, Mr. Aylett. Trust me, I know my way around hair. Besides, Heather’s much more down-to-earth looking than”—she glanced at the screen—“Lena Monroe. Less sophisticated.”
