would tell me. I picked it up, the words MISSED CALL and the number on the digital readout. The area code was 207. I would double-check the number against the number of Cooley’s pay phone that I’d jotted down on the back of the napkin, but I was pretty sure they would be the same. The phone call meant that Brad had set up the meeting with Miranda for later that night. It was all going as planned. The visit from the detective had made me a little nervous, but as he’d said, he was simply eliminating me from the investigation.
I opened the fridge and peered inside, deciding what to make for dinner.
CHAPTER 23
MIRANDA
Back when Brad and I had been planning Ted’s murder, I had briefly considered getting a pair of untraceable temporary cell phones. Just in case. I had stupidly discarded that idea, not wanting any physical evidence that pointed to our guilt. Right now, I desperately wished we had them. I was pacing the house in the South End, going out of my fucking mind, wondering if I should just call Brad, warn him that he was going to be questioned. I didn’t even know if it would help. Maybe he would panic more if he knew they were coming. And part of me wondered if I should tell Brad that he was recognized by a witness, and that he should pack his truck and leave town, go on the run.
Scenarios unfolded in my mind.
According to your cell phone records, Mrs. Severson, after you identified Brad Daggett as the man who had been spotted entering your house, you called the same Mr. Daggett that evening. And now we can’t find him. What exactly did you talk about during that ten-minute conversation?
I’d tell them that I’d called Brad to let him know that the police might question him, that I’d identified a suspect as possibly looking like him. I told him not to worry, that no one really thought he was involved. I had no idea, Detective. I mean, why would I?
You’ll be glad to hear, Mrs. Severson, that we caught Brad Daggett this morning. He didn’t get far, actually. They got him at the Canadian border. He’s confessed to murdering your husband, and he has quite the story to go with it. Would you mind coming into the station for questioning?
No, Brad running was not an option. He needed to hold his nerve, long enough for the investigation to become cold. I had plans for Brad eventually, but those plans needed to wait.
I stood in front of the wide window in the second-floor living room. It was dark outside, the rain steady, almost comforting. Across the street were the lighted rooms of my neighbors’ brownstones. I saw a figure move across one of them, a curtain being pulled.
I stood at the window for a while. I had yet to turn on any lights in my home, and I felt invisible, looking out at my corner of the city. A car moved slowly down the street, hitting a pothole and sending a cresting spray of rain onto the sidewalk. Would the police be watching me yet? Was I a suspect? It was Monday. The murder had happened on Friday and no one had been arrested yet. They must be getting nervous, and I knew that, on one level, I would have to be a suspect. I was the wife of a rich man who had died a suspicious death. But was it more than that? I pulled the curtains across the window, making sure that they met in the middle, then snapped on a lamp. It sent a circle of pale light into the room. I blinked rapidly, then shut the lamp off. I lay down on the couch in the dark, wondering if it had been a mistake to return to my house. Maybe I’d have been better off in a hotel room, like that baby-faced detective had suggested.
I kept imagining Brad at the moment when a detective approached him with questions about where he had been on Friday night. I pictured him sweaty and stammering, the detective instantly suspicious. I knew that the wheels would come off fast. I’d misjudged Brad. When we’d first met, all I saw was a cocky, slightly stupid contractor. Seducing him had been way too easy. I’d waited until we were alone in the house. I bummed a cigarette, telling Brad not to tell my husband. “Hey,” he’d said. “I won’t tell