The night was hot, so she cracked a window and lit a cigarette, the low queries of hidden owls sailing in from the pines. She turned in her seat and checked the back footwell for the baseball bat she always kept stashed in the car.
Then she waited.
Stephen did not leave his car.
Margot grew increasingly frustrated by his lack of action, by the fact that no other cars arrived.
So she got out.
The velvet night took her in its embrace. She crouched low to the ground and crossed the gravel track covertly. Her heart was a noisy accompaniment, its thudding audible to her above the rustle of the trees and the soft water sounds of the lake. As she neared the Rolls-Royce, its black paint job slick and gleaming under moonlight, she got on her hands and knees and crept closer.
She knew what she was doing was ridiculous—if he saw her, how would she explain it?—but Margot was not a woman to be dissuaded by ridicule. So she approached the back of the car and peered in through the rear window.
Stephen was in the driver’s seat, reclined. His eyes were shut, and to her horror, she saw that his trousers had been pulled down around his thighs. She paused at the window, unsure if what she was seeing was correct. Stephen was touching himself, his hand moving rhythmically in the stillness of the car.
Margot ducked, her mind spinning. Why the hell had her husband driven miles out of town to sit in a parking lot and jerk off?
She stood slowly and squinted through the glass. In that instant, Stephen froze, and then he suddenly shot up in his seat.
She turned and ran as fast as she could, hoping the darkness would shield her. She couldn’t look back, couldn’t risk it, waiting for an inevitable hand to seize her shoulder. When she made it to the Porsche, she pulled the driver’s door open and jumped inside. Panicking, she turned the key in the ignition and drove, steering wheel jammed to the left, pulling the car wildly off the path and into the space between two trees. She made it just in time before Stephen’s car sped past. She half expected it to stop some yards up the track and then reverse with a slow crunch of gravel, but it didn’t. His car continued until the two taillights were out of sight and Margot felt safe enough to make her way slowly out of the forest.
Stephen never came home that night.
When Margot arrived back at their house, shaken, their bed was empty and his car was not in the driveway. It was only when she had crawled into bed, taut nerves dulled with scotch and her brain sifting through every memory she could locate, that she realized where shehad heard of Silver Lake Lookout before. It was last year. There were headlines on the news. She remembered the images, the faces, she saw as she flicked through the channels on the television. Two teenagers, high school sweethearts, had been killed while parked up at Silver Lake Lookout. The boyfriend had been shot in the kneecaps and then his throat had been slashed, some distance from the car, as he’d tried to escape. The girl was found tied up on the back seat, where she had been strangled before her throat was slit, too. The killer had never been found, and the police could find no motive.
Why, Margot thought, her body crushed by dread, was Stephen visiting the site of a double murder? Why was he jerking off in his car at that lake? It would be another two weeks before she found her smoking gun.
The sound of the store’s revolving doors shakes Margot from her stupor. She quickly closes the magazine and springs to attention, flashing a megawatt smile at whoever is dumb enough to shop when the sidewalks are melting.
A man glances up, barely acknowledging her, but as their eyes briefly meet Margot feels something scratching at her skin. The man is disheveled—his hair an unkempt mess, his skin lined, his eyes underscored by those dark pools that only the hardest of drinkers collect—but, although Margot can’t really explain why, he also looks smart, like he could catch you off guard if he wanted to.
She watches him from under lowered eyelids as he makes his way to the very back of the store and thumbs through the leather jackets.Leather? In this heat?She clears her throat quietly as he approaches the till, a George Harrison bomber slung under his arm.
He places it on the counter. The man reeks of whiskey.
She takes the jacket, folds it and runs the numbers through the till.
“Not too hot for leather?” she risks.
“Ah, I only come out at night,” he deadpans.
Margot scoffs drily, and the man’s eyes travel up to hers. He pulls his mouth into a tight, sarcastic smile.
Margot grabs a bag, stuffs the jacket in. She can feel him watching her, the familiar sensation of a man trailing his eyes down her body.
“My usual one got ruined,” he says on a bored exhale. “So…” He shrugs, gestures toward the bag.
Margot represses a smirk.His usual.Only the most uninteresting men feel the need to cultivate a “thing” by dressing like the Beatles.
The customer hands over his American Express card, and Margot reasons that he can’t be a bum if he uses a credit card. Her eyes flick to the name. R HESTON. She’s sure she recognizes it. She swipes the card through the imprinter, hands over the carbon receipt. He takes it, and she notices that his hands are covered in fading scars. Maybe he’s a manual worker, then, Margot hazards. Whatever. He’s certainly someone in need of a shower.
“Have a good day.” He nods as he turns and exits the store. Margot watches him leave, allowing herself to relax only when he’s slipped out through the double doors and back on the street.
Thirty-Two
The Farrers’ frontyard is sparse. There’s a broken swing seat and a sad, rusted grill that makes Elsie’s throat feel strangely dry. But the front door, which she is currently sizing up, is painted a classy robin’s-egg blue, and there’s a cheerful pair of olive bushes in terra-cotta pots on either side of the porch.
The house doesn’t look like somewhere a killer would live.
