day was gray and rainy. But some inner alarm clock caused her eyes to open in time. She automatically readied Jeremy for his day, and delivered him to the school. Then, she pulled a black baseball cap over her hair, turned up the collar on her jacket and drove back to South Philly. She parked, and waited near the corner of Hector Street. Some druggy-looking street people walked slowly by and stared into her car, but continued on their way. She remembered that Peggy had said that most days, her friend picked her up and took her to the church to volunteer, and that Bud no longer wanted to go. Shelby was lying in wait, hoping it was such a day.
She did not have to wait long. Peggy’s friend, a bustling, gray-haired woman, arrived in her car and went inside. After a short while, she emerged, helping Peggy down the steps. Shelby sat tight until they drove away. Then, she got out of her car and approached the house. She rang the bell and turned her back on the front window.
There was no answer from inside.
Dammit, she thought. Could he have left the house today? Then, she thought she saw the front curtain move slightly. He was there. She had taken precautions for just this eventuality. Her baseball cap and turned-up collar obscured her face.
Shelby rapped again. ‘Open up.’
Still no response.
‘I’m here from the police. We want to talk to you about a Faith Latimer.’
There was a silence from inside the house. Then, after a few moments, the locks were turned, and the front door opened.
Bud looked out, worry written all over his face. Shelby did not give him a chance to close the door. She pushed the door open and wedged her shoulder against it. ‘I thought that would get you,’ she said.
Bud glared at her. ‘Get out of here. You aren’t the cops.’
‘That’s true,’ said Shelby. ‘But I’m not leaving.’
He met her gaze and tried to stare her down but it was no use. He turned away from the door and Shelby followed him into the gloomy house, slamming the door behind her.
Bud sat down heavily in the Barcalounger in his living room, in front of the photographic shrine to his daughter, and licked his lips. He picked up the remote and switched on the television, staring at some frenetic game show. Shelby stared at him. He did not look up at her.
‘I want to talk to you,’ she said.
Bud had his palms planted on the arms of the chair as if he were trying to anchor himself in a gale. ‘Got nothing to say to you,’ he said.
The game show host’s jolly patter and audience applause was deafening. ‘Can you turn that off please?’ Shelby asked.
Bud increased the volume in response.
Shelby walked over to the television, bent down and turned off the power button. She placed herself in front of the digital box. Bud pressed impotently on the remote. Shelby was blocking the signal with her body.
‘Get out of the way,’ he growled.
‘Trying to win another cruise?’ Shelby asked sarcastically.
Bud avoided her angry gaze.
‘I saw your face when you walked in and saw me here yesterday. You looked like you’d seen a ghost. I want to know why,’ Shelby said.
Bud did not respond, or look at her.
‘You thought you’d never have to see me again, didn’t you?’
‘What do I care about seeing you?’ he growled.
‘I know that you didn’t win that cruise in a contest. I called the cruise line. They don’t do promotions like that. You lied to your wife when you told her that you won that cruise. You did no such thing.’
His defiant expression faded and he drew up his shoulders. ‘What business is that of yours?’
‘I want to know how you got on that cruise.’
‘I bought tickets,’ he said.
‘Do you have a receipt?’ she demanded. ‘A credit card bill?’
Bud looked at her in outrage. ‘Who do you think you are? I don’t have to show you anything of my . . . business.’
‘I think someone else paid for you to go on that cruise,’ she said accusingly.
‘You don’t know anything,’ he said.
‘Well, I know you didn’t pay for it. Let’s not be stupid. One look around here makes that pretty clear.’
He pursed his lips, and his gaze was flinty. ‘Must be nice to be rich and look down on everyone else,’ he said.
Shelby was not about to respond to, or be distracted by, this guilt trip. ‘Who paid for you to go on