“Can you at least tell me what you plan to do?”
“Why? So you can arrest me for intent?”
“If it’s for your own good, yes.”
“You’ll just have to trust that I know what I’m doing.”
Nick swore under his breath as I turned toward Penny Dupree’s house. He put a hand on either side of me, boxing me against the side of my hood before I could start walking. “Just promise me you won’t do anything that will give her grounds to press charges. Whatever she says, violence is not the answer.”
“Except when it is.”
“Finn!”
“Fine, I promise.”
“Then I’m coming with you.” When I didn’t object, he let his arms fall. “We’re going to identify ourselves.Politely,” he emphasized, keeping pace with me as I stormed up the walkway to her door. “We’re going to tell her why we’re here and ask her if she’d be willing to step outside and talk to us. We’re not going in,” he said firmly as I smacked her doorbell. “And if she asks us to leave, we’re going to respect that decision and—”
Mrs. Dupree’s door swung open.
If I had seen her face on the news I hadn’t bothered to remember it, but seeing it now stole the words right off my tongue.
Penny’s blond hair hung in casual waves. She wore close-fitting jeans that showed off her long, toned legs and a deep V-neck sweater that revealed a hint of cleavage. Steven definitely had a type, and Penny was it. She wasn’t a young woman, by any stretch—maybe ten years older than me, if I had to guess—but her similarities to Steven’s ex-fiancée were undeniable. I could tell by the sudden shift in Nick’s posture that he noticed them, too.
“Hello, Mrs. Dupree. I’m Detective Nicholas Anthony with the Fairfax County Police Department, and this is—”
“Finlay Donovan,” I said, once I’d managed to recover. “My ex-husband is Steven Donovan, the landscaper who delivered your mulch the summer before your husband went missing. I’d like a word with you,” I said, taking a step closer to the threshold.
Nick cut his eyes to me, a warning in them.
Penny held the door open and stepped aside. It took a moment for my brain to catch up. I had fully expected her to tell us to leave. Had visions of throwing a foot in the door to keep her from slamming it in my face. But she just stood there, politely waiting for me to enter her home. “I figured you might find your way here eventually. You’re welcome to come in.”
Nick’s hand tightened against the small of my back. “Maybe it would be better if we speak outsi—”
I walked through the door, forcing him to follow me into her home.
“Sorry for the mess,” Penny said, leading us into an immaculate living room. Every surface was spotless. Every magazine and coffee-table book felt intentionally placed, every potted plant and flower vase perfectly staged, every book on her elaborate shelves organized by color and height. I skimmed the spines as I walked past them on my way to her designer sofa. The books were all popular bestsellers, a curated collection of commercial Oprah-and-Reese–approved titles that had probably been chosen as much for their shelf appeal as their content. Her interior could have been showcased on a Home & Garden TV program.
“Please, sit down.” She gestured to the sofa, taking the love seat for herself.
Nick sat beside me, close enough for our elbows to brush.
Penny sat at an angle to face us, her legs crossed at the knees, her fingers laced and resting loosely atop them. “I’m assuming you’re here because you want to know if your husband was unfaithful. You want to know if he slept with me while he was married to you.”
The casual way she said it took me off guard, and frankly stole some of the wind from my sails. I had expected her to be defensive. To be offended. To refuse to discuss it. But Penny didn’t seem to mind.
I nodded once. Then again, more certainly this time. “Steven was taken to the station a few hours ago for questioning,” I said. “The police seem to think he knows you.”
“He does.”
“Because he delivered mulch to your home five years ago,” I suggested.
“Because I invited him inside when he was done, so I could write him a check. It was hot. I offered him a cold beer, we talked for a while, and one thing led to another.” There was no shame in the woman’s confession. Only an elegant shrug. She wasn’t outraged or emotional the way Steven had been when he’d sworn up and down he’d never touched her. Her reaction was all painfully matter-of-fact. It was also suspiciously vague.
“What if I don’t believe you?”
Her smile was both sympathetic and sad, and not nearly guilty enough. “You don’t have to believe me. The police do, and Steven knows the truth. I suppose that’s all that matters.”
“Prove it,” I said.
