“Do you know why Savannah Holmes was killed?” she asks the garda, though surely she’s aware it’s pointless. The guard can hardly give away confidential information.
“We’re investigating.”
“Look, maybe it was a random attack or a break-in,” I say, “but even if there’s the smallest chance someone thought she was me, I figured it was worth passing on the information.”
A nod, and she shuffles on her seat, squaring her notebook on the desk. I get the feeling now that it’s not so much that she thinks it’s impossible, more that she doesn’t know what to do with the information.
“How did the courier spot her?” I try.
“He could see the package through a crack in the blind and he peered in to get a better look.” A small hesitation. “She was in the hall.” A grimace.
“As far as we’ve read online, the courier was collecting a package from her, which I guess might have been delivered in error, and was possibly meant for me. Do you know where the package was?”
“Just inside the front door.”
“OK, so a parcel that may have had my name on it was sitting just inside her front door. She lives at 26 Oakpark, as do I, albeit five kilometers away. We’re similar age, same coloring, same build, I got a death threat earlier today, and my address was posted publicly online. Do you see why I’m anxious?”
A short nod. “I do, and I know you’re worried that if this hypothetical person realizes they got the wrong house, they’re going to come after you, but—”
“Oh god.” Leesa’s eyes widen. “I hadn’t even thought of that.”
Neither had I.
“But look,” the garda continues, “it’s more than likely not a case of mistaken identity. I don’t think you need to worry.”
This statement does the exact opposite of making me not worry.
“Could you look into it though?” Leesa asks. “Treat it as a serious line of inquiry?”
“Of course we will,” she says, closing her notebook and pushing back her chair. The notebook remains on the desk, and we are clearly dismissed.
• • •
At home, I flop on the couch, exhausted from all of it. Bella’s asleep, Jon tells me, ashen-faced, snapping the cap off a beer and sitting down to hear the full story. I can see Bella on the baby-monitor screen, eerily greeny-gray, her little chest rising and falling. The video monitor is a new addition to our array of baby goods, courtesy of Leesa. I’m still not sure weneed a camera in Bella’s cot, but Leesa says having video as well as audio is reassuring, and her old one was gathering dust.
Greta had stayed with Bella while Leesa and I went to the garda station, handing over to Jon when he arrived in from work, so this is the first time I’ve seen him since this morning. I fill him in now on all of it—the links with Savannah Holmes, the worry that someone thought she was me—and wait for him to tell me I’m losing it. That’s how our marriage works. I catastrophize and he placates. His role has always been easy-going charmer, while I’m a tiny bit neurotic. I worry, he reassures. But not this time. His complexion grays as I go through the story and, by the time I get to the end, he’s up and pacing, wearing a track in our faded oriental rug.
“It’s probably all coincidence,” I say, working to play it down. “Leesa was more worried about it than I was, and Greta doesn’t believe it’s a mistaken-identity thing,” I add, to reassure him. Jon tends to gravitate toward my older sister when we need advice. She’s the rock, the one who’s always looked out for us, taking on a pseudo-parent role when our mother died.
“Yeah, she said that when I got home.” He sits beside me again, his familiar smell grounding me, soothing me. “And I’d trust her judgment. It’s just…a lot. Amurder.”
“I know. Poor Savannah…” It hits me as the words come out that I’m speaking as though I knew her.
“AreyouOK?” he asks, and I realize he looks truly shaken, which makes me worry even more. I really wanted him to brush this off, but he’s doing the opposite. I force a smile and nod yes, then stare at my phone, my mind running over everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours. Was it really only last night that I sent the text to the Oakpark group? And I still haven’t managed to apologize to Celeste. I curl my legs under me and hit the call button. Still no answer. Texting is less than ideal but better than nothing, so I start to type.
Celeste, it’s Susan O’Donnell. I can’t begin to put into words how sorry I am for what I did. It was inexcusable. I apologize to you, your husband and your children. I wanted to say it on the phone instead of by text, but I completely understand why you wouldn’t want to answer. I’m also trying to reach you because of the murder of a woman in Oakpark (the Loughlinstown Oakpark)—I’ve been to the police already but wanted to tell you too. It sounds crazy, but a couple of people suggested there’s a tiny chance she may have been killed by someone who thought she was me. And that it may be linked to the message I sent about you. I don’t suppose you could shed any light?
I consider the last few lines. Does it sound like I’m trying to say one of her vehement defenders has committed murder on her behalf? But if there’s even a small chance that there’s someone unhinged in her life who might be involved, it’s worth asking the question. I send the message and wait.
10
Celeste
Wednesday
Celeste Geary tucks her hair behind her ear, examining her skin in the bathroom mirror. Still porcelain smooth at fifty. Not bad. Of course, nobody knows she’s fifty. She’s been five years younger than her passport says for the last decade and a half. Warren knows, but he’s the only one. And only because he needed her passport for their life assurance policy. The children don’t know. It’s a little silly now, she thinks, but somewhat difficult to backtrack. And anyway, it’s no one’s business but hers. She plucks her phone from the vanity and reads Susan’s text again. The absolute gall. First she sends a vile message, then tries to insinuate—what?—that Celeste has gone and killed someone because of it? Or one of Celeste’s friends? Or Warren? She grimaces. Warren probably would kill Susan O’Donnell if he could get away with it. She grits her teeth and goes downstairs. Evening sunlight filters through the huge hall window, casting an amber glow on the polished walnut floor, illuminating a smudge on the gilt-edged mirror that hangs above the console table. Celeste tsks and uses the cuff of her sleeve to clear the mark, and moves into the kitchen.
Warren is at the table, staring at his phone, as always.
