would you think that?’
Stephanie doesn’t believe her. ‘Because Patrick saw it in your living room, through the window.’
‘He was at my apartment?’ Erica says, surprised.
Stephanie doesn’t answer that. ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she insists.
‘Shouldn’t you bring the other baby in?’ Erica asks.
Stephanie steps back a few paces and looks out the door at Jackie, still buckled into the buggy. She stands in the doorway, not sure what to do. Erica is inside her house; she’s been waiting for her. Should she take the babies and flee? Should she grab her phone from her pocket and try to dial 911?
‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ Erica says again calmly. ‘But there are some things you should know. About your husband.’
Stephanie hesitates. She remembers her earlier decision – this woman knows things about Patrick that she doesn’t. Erica knew him back then, when it happened. She wants to hear what she has to say, even if it might be all lies. She might learn something useful. So far she’s heard everything from Patrick’s perspective. She looks at the woman now leaning against her kitchen doorway as if she might be a friend, dropping by for a visit. Surely she isn’t actually dangerous?
She can’t take the chance. She’s not going to bring her twins into the house with this woman – who knows what she might do behind closed doors?
‘We can talk,’ Stephanie says finally. ‘Outside, on the porch.’ She turns away and buckles Emma back into the buggy at the bottom of the steps. She makes sure each baby has a toy clutched in a little hand and then sits in the chair on the front porch closest to the buggy. Her phone is in her pocket. She’s not really frightened here, where they can be seen; people go up and down this street all day long. But she is distraught.
Erica has come out of the house and seated herself in the other chair. ‘Nice neighbourhood,’ she begins.
Stephanie doesn’t say anything for a moment. She’s trying to gather her scattered thoughts – and her courage. Finally, she turns to Erica and says, ‘I know what you’re doing, and it’s not going to work. We aren’t going to pay you. I thought Patrick made that clear.’
‘Are you absolutely sure about that?’
‘You’re not going to get a dime out of us, much less two hundred thousand dollars.’
Erica gives her an annoyed look. She doesn’t speak for a moment, but then she bites her lip and says, ‘So he’s been telling you what’s going on? I wasn’t sure. He didn’t tell his first wife much.’
Stephanie feels a sense of revulsion overtake her. She says bitterly, ‘How would you know what he told his first wife?’
Erica turns and looks at her. There’s no hatred on her face, no venom in her voice. ‘You know we were lovers?’
‘He told me, yes.’
‘He must actually love you, then.’
‘Of course he loves me,’ Stephanie says firmly. ‘And I love him. And all this crap you’re threatening us with isn’t going to go anywhere. I don’t know why you’re bothering. He didn’t kill his first wife. You must know that.’ Her voice is shaking.
‘You have no idea who you’re dealing with,’ Erica says seriously.
‘Don’t threaten me,’ Stephanie says in a hard voice.
‘I don’t mean me,’ Erica clarifies. ‘I mean your husband.’
Stephanie recoils from her. ‘Look, I know my husband far better than you ever did. Just because you slept together a couple of times doesn’t mean you actually know him at all.’
‘Is that what he told you? That we slept together a couple of times?’
Now Stephanie looks back at her warily, afraid of what she might say next. But she needs to hear it. She knows that Patrick and this woman are going to have very different versions of events, and she wasn’t there. She can never know for sure. ‘What’s your version?’ Stephanie asks dryly.
‘We were in love,’ she says simply.
Stephanie goes cold. The woman is delusional. Fully delusional. ‘That’s not what Patrick says.’
‘That’s what he wants you to believe.’ She looks earnestly at Stephanie. ‘But I was there. I was with him. We were very secretive, because he was married, and Lindsey was my friend. I feel terrible about it now, that I treated her that way. That I’m at least partially responsible – morally responsible – for her death.’
‘That’s bullshit,’ Stephanie says, her heart hammering.
Erica shakes her head. ‘He would come to my apartment at lunchtime almost every day. He told everyone he went home to eat, but