“Sounds like a good plan.”
He gave me a friendly, chaste kiss on the mouth then stared into my eyes for a handful of heartbeats. I wasn’t the first to look away. I didn’t want him thinking I was hiding something. I didn’t want him knowing I was afraid, or suspicious, or having second and third doubts about the move. More than anything, I didn’t want him suspecting I knew about that newspaper article.
He straightened up. “Shout if you need anything.”
“Will do.” I waited until he had closed the door at the top of the stairs before I turned back to the computer. This time, I was determined to read the whole article. I needed to find out the truth, ugly or not.
The article was dated September 22nd, 2008.
Michelle Stewart, 28, was rushed to University of Michigan Hospital on Saturday, September 20th, 2008. It was thought at the time she had attempted suicide, although that wouldn’t explain all the evidence found at the scene.
Stewart died at the hospital within hours of being admitted and mystery surrounds her death. On September 23rd, less than forty-eight hours after her death, Stewart’s husband, Jonathan Stewart, was brought in for questioning. At this time, no formal charges have been filed.
Authorities admit this case is shrouded in mystery. The Ann Arbor PD is not willing to provide many details in the case. However an informant has come forward to tell me Michelle Stewart had notified Jonathan that she wanted a divorce shortly before her death. At this time, that cannot be confirmed.
An autopsy has been performed but police are not releasing Michelle Stewart’s cause of death. Items removed from the home paint a gruesome picture. Until more details are released, we’re left to wonder and speculate on what happened on Saturday, September 20th. It’s possible we may never know.
I took a long, deep breath. It was far from condemning, much too vague to tell me if I had anything to worry about or not. I decided I needed to do a search, see if the reporter had written any follow-up articles on the case. Or see if the case had been reported by any other newspapers.
An hour later I had nothing else. Strangely, that article was the only one I could locate on the Internet. A search under both Michelle’s and Jon’s names had turned up nothing. Not even the expected online phone directory. It was as if, outside of that newspaper article, they didn’t exist in cyberspace. Just for kicks, I Googled my own name. Sure enough, there were pages of links, though many of them weren’t for me. My name wasn’t exactly unique. I shared a name with a famous handbag designer, for one. I was going to have to assume a new identity when I (hopefully) released my clothing line.
I decided to Google my new neighbors next. But I found nada, nothing, not one single blog entry, Facebook page, or Classmates profile. Like Jon and Michelle, Samantha Phillips, Lindsay Baker, and Erica Ross did not exist.
Feeling a little twitchy after having accomplished so little, I went back to sorting my sewing stuff, organizing it in the nifty boxes tucked into the floor-to-ceiling wall of built-in storage cubicles. I played episodes of Project Runway on my computer as I worked. The noise kept my mind somewhat occupied until, a little after six, Jon came down to check on me.
“Hey, baby. You’ve been down here all day. How’s it going?” he asked, looking all tall and dark and mysterious as he leaned against the door frame.
“I’m almost done. This room is amazing. So many places to store things.”
“I’m glad you like it.” Pushing away from the door, he prowled nearer, stopping so close I could easily reach out and run my hand down his broad chest. Despite what I’d been told about him, the familiar butterflies started fluttering in my belly. I was still wildly attracted to him. And, more than that, I wanted to believe he was being wrongfully accused of a nonexistent crime. “Are you hungry?”
My stomach growled. I’d been so busy, I’d forgotten to take a break for lunch. “Starved.”
“Come on up. I grilled us some steaks.”
My mouth watered. “Steaks? I haven’t had a steak since the last time you came to visit.”
He offered a hand and I accepted it, and together we clomped up the stairs. The moment we stepped into the kitchen, the aroma of grilled meat hit me.
“Oh wow, does that smell amazing.”
He escorted me to a chair at the dining room table. Josh was waiting, in his chair, his thumbs flying over the keyboard of his cell phone.
Jon’s eyes narrowed. “Josh. Phone.”
“Sure, Dad. Just a minute.” He punched a few buttons then slid the phone’s display over the keyboard and put it in his pocket. After giving me a weak “hey” he grabbed a foil-wrapped potato out of the bowl sitting in the table’s center and started unwrapping it.
I did the same. And, in silence, we ate our first dinner as a family. It was all very ordinary. Josh shoveled his food into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in weeks while Jon was more well-mannered, cutting small pieces of meat and chewing. I wasn’t more than halfway finished when Josh asked to be excused. At his father’s nod, he bounded from the table.
“I’m going to Ethan’s,” Josh announced.
“Be home by nine,” Jon called after him.
“I wonder if he tasted the food,” I said, chuckling as I listened to the distant thud of the front door.
“I doubt it.” Jon motioned to my plate. “What about you?”
“It’s delicious. I’m just taking my time, enjoying each bite.”
“Good. After dinner, how about we settle down to watch a movie? I have to head in to work for a few hours tonight—”
“Tonight? On a Sunday?” Was I really feeling so let down?
“I told you my hours would be rough. I need to take care of a few things so that there won’t be any snags tomorrow morning. And I’d rather do it now than at three A.M.” His look was apologetic as he stood with his empty plate.
Deciding I was full, I followed him into the kitchen, wrapping up the rest for tomorrow’s lunch. We headed into the family room and he turned on the ginormous TV while we made ourselves comfy on the couch. He pulled me into the crook of his arm as he channel-surfed. “What are you in the mood for?” he asked, blazing through the hundreds of channels in his satellite TV lineup.
“Actually, I’d like to talk.”
Click. The TV went black.
“Okay.” He set the remote down. “About what?”
“Your neighbors.”
His brows rose to the top of his forehead. “What happened this morning? Did they say something to you?”
“Something about what?” I asked.
“About Michelle.”
Truth? Or lie?
I didn’t move three hundred miles to live with a man I couldn’t trust. I had to hear his side of the story. I owed him that much ... didn’t I?
“Yes. They told me... .” Shit, this was rough. “They said... .”
“I killed Michelle,” he finished for me. “Is that what they said?”
I nodded.
His lips thinned. “What else did they tell you?”
“They said the case is still open.”
He shoved his fingers through his hair. He stared down at the floor. He sighed. He did all the things a man who is furious, but who doesn’t want to look angry, does. His jaw tensed. “That’s not true. I have an alibi. The case was closed.” He looked at me. “But you don’t know what to believe, do you? You’re scared.”
I hated feeling this way, I really did. “A little.”
“I’ll set up a meeting with the detective tomorrow. He’ll answer all your questions. Until you know where you stand”—he stood, turned stiffly away—“I’ll keep my distance. I can stay at the office.”
Oh shit. “Jon, I’m sorry. Please don’t—”
“Don’t be sorry. This isn’t your fault.” His jaw was clenched so tightly, the column of his neck protruded. “A word of advice. You might want to check out those new friends of yours, too, before you believe everything they tell you. They might not be killers, but they aren’t perfect. Nobody is.”
He left.
CHAPTER 4
“Hello, Miss Price, Jon Stewart said you needed to speak with me?” The police officer offered a hand. He wasn’t wearing a uniform. Worn jeans. T-shirt with an Ann Arbor Police Department logo printed on the left chest. If I had to guess, I’d say he was in his forties. But he was built like a guy twenty years younger. “Detective Foster.” He motioned through a doorway. “How about we go somewhere quiet?”
“That would be nice.” I followed Detective Foster down a white-walled corridor and into a small room furnished with a table and a couple of chairs. It was small. Cramped. Smelled like stale smoke and sweat. The overhead fluorescent light fixture flickered. At the detective’s invitation, I sat in one of the metal and plastic chairs.
He took the chair opposite me, leaned forward, resting his elbows on the tabletop. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“First, I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me.”
