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  “—I’m not a nurse. I don’t know your husband. I never met him before.”

  “You didn’t?” Joan blinked a few times, then wiped a smudge of mascara from under her lower lashes.

  “I’m not from here. I’m a teacher from Connecticut, and—”

  “How did you meet Grant?” Joan frowned, bewildered, but she seemed to be slowing down, breathing more normally.

  “I don’t know Grant. Truly, I never even saw him before today at—”

  “But why were you at Gail’s vigil if you’re not a nurse? Are you a friend of hers?”

  “Joan, please, relax. I can explain.” Christine dug in her purse, pulled out one of Griff’s business cards, and handed it over. “My name is Christine Nilsson, and I’m working as a paralegal with Francis Griffith, a lawyer in town who’s representing Zachary Jeffcoat. I’ve been investigating Gail’s murder for the defense, and I should really apologize to you because I mistakenly thought that your husband could have been a suspect. I was wrong.”

  “Oh my.” Joan looked up from the business card, and an astonished smile began to appear on her lovely face, which was heart-shaped and delicate, even fragile. She must’ve been in her late forties, but she barely looked thirty-five. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, completely. I really am sorry that I embarrassed your husband and you.” Christine almost welcomed the opportunity to absolve herself. The rain picked up, thundering on the roof of the car and fogging the windows. “Were you part of that group after the vigil?”

  “Yes, I was there with some of the administrators and the other wives. I was parked in the doctors’ lot, and I saw you get into your car, so I followed you.” Joan sighed happily and handed Christine back the business card. “I’ve never been so happy to find out that my husband was falsely accused of murder.”

  “Ha!” Christine liked Joan immediately. Any wife who could find the humor in the situation probably deserved a better husband, but Christine didn’t say so.

  “You have no reason to apologize.” Joan met her eye, her crow’s-feet wrinkling with irony. “Grant has a lot to answer for, God knows, but he wouldn’t kill anybody.”

  “I’m sorry, though.”

  “Don’t be, he deserved it.” Joan’s smile flattened. “I can’t say that I mind that he got called out in front of his boss for the affair. That’s the kind of thing that will make him think twice, too. He says he wants to save our marriage, so we’ll see.”

  “Right.” Christine was in no position to give marriage advice, so she kept her own counsel.

  “You represent Jeffcoat?”

  “The lawyer I work for does.”

  “You don’t think that he killed Gail? You don’t think he’s the Nurse Murderer?”

  “No, I don’t,” Christine answered, because she had to give the party line.

  “Why did you think Grant did it?”

  “I overheard Dink in the ladies’ room, saying that Gail was having an affair, so I went to Dink, who said it was with Grant, but then she flew off the handle. Evidently, I’m not as good a detective as I thought.” Christine felt uncomfortable talking about it so frankly, but Joan didn’t seem to mind. With the pounding rain and the foggy windows, the conversation turned girlfriendy.

  “You know, I did some snooping myself, when I started to suspect that Grant was fooling around with Gail.” Joan pursed her lips, with a sheepish half smile. “I looked up where she lives and started to go by her house, to see if I could catch his car in the backyard.”

  “Really?” Christine shifted forward, interested.

  “Yes, and I did catch him, and I confronted him and he admitted it.”

  “That must’ve been sad.”

  “It was, but it was also good in a way because it gave us a chance to turn it around. I think he deserves a second chance. I think everybody does.”

  “Right,” Christine said, thinking of Marcus.

  “You know, I saw Jeffcoat there one night, I think it was on a Thursday.”

  “Really?” Christine remembered that that was the same night that Jerri Choudhoury had seen him, too.

  “Yes, it was late at night. I went to Gail’s because Grant had told me that he had a meeting at the hospital and I didn’t trust him. It’s hard to break the habit when you find out someone’s been unfaithful. You check receipts, you check his phone and email, things like that.” Joan paused, her expression darkening. “I even checked Gail’s house the night she was murdered.”

  “You did?” Christine asked, surprised. “Did you see anything?”

  “I went there because Grant said he had a business trip with Milton Cohen, you heard him.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “But I wasn’t sure I believed him. I looked up online to see that the seminar was being held, which it was, but I didn’t know if Grant was really going or if it was just his story. I worried that he could sneak back to see Gail, so I drove over to her house.”

  “Did you see Jeffcoat’s car or did you see him going up the stairs?”

  “No I didn’t.”

  “Do you know what Jeffcoat looks like?”

  “Yes, he’s blond, but the man I saw wasn’t blond.”

  “Oh my God. You saw a man there the night she was murdered?” Christine’s juices started to flow. Joan could have seen Gail’s murderer, and it evidently wasn’t Zachary.

  “Yes, but I left after I saw him because I got a call from Grant, and I knew he really was at the seminar in New York.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?”

  Joan met Christine’s eye, newly defensive. “They said on the news that they caught the murderer red-handed, right at the scene, so I knew it couldn’t be the man that I saw.”

  “Who did you see? Did you know him?” Christine had to contain her excitement.

  “No, and I never saw him there before.”

  “Did you take any pictures of him?”

  “No.” Joan shook her head. “If it wasn’t Grant, I didn’t care who it was. I just wanted to make sure that he wasn’t lying to me anymore.”

  “What did the man you saw look like?” Christine felt her heart start to pound.

  “Let me think a minute. It was starting to get dark at that hour, too.” Joan frowned in thought. “He was white, decent-looking. I forget what he had on. A sweatshirt and pants?”

  Christine knew that could be anyone. “Tall or short?”

  “Medium?”

  “What kind of car did he drive?”

  “He drove a—” Joan stopped abruptly. “Come to think of it, he didn’t drive any car there. I just saw him on the steps going upstairs to Gail’s, without pulling into the parking lot in the back.”

  “So he walked to her house?”

  “I don’t know.” Joan shook her head. “All I know is, he didn’t drive there.”

  “So he could have been anyone.” Christine’s mind raced through the possibilities. “A transient who parked somewhere else, maybe because he didn’t want his car to be seen at Gail’s house—”

  “This man didn’t seem like a transient. He walked with purpose, went right up the stairs. Like he knew where he was going, like he’d been there before.”

  “He could have been a man who lived within walking distance, even a neighbor.” Christine felt appalled by the thought. “I interviewed the neighbors to see if they had seen anything that night. Most of them were women, but they all had husbands or boyfriends. Maybe it was one of the husbands? One who was cheating with Gail?”

  “Well, we know that’s possible.” Joan sniffed.

  “Sorry.” Christine hadn’t intended to be so tactless, but she was getting excited. She looked over, apologetically, then happened to see in the rearview mirror that a car was coming down the road behind Joan’s Mercedes. “Oh, a car.”

  “Does it have room to pass? I can’t see a thing for the fog and rain.” Joan turned around in the seat, and Christine squinted at the rearview to see that the car had just enough room to
get by.

  “It’s okay. We don’t have to move.”

  “Good, I’m wet enough.”

  “It’s also possible that the killer targeted Gail without their being in a relationship, because she was a nurse. They all knew she was a nurse. She gave block parties.” Christine grabbed her phone from her purse and started scrolling through the pictures she’d taken when she canvassed to see if they yielded anything, though she hadn’t been thinking of the neighbors as suspects.

  “A neighbor killed her?”

  “It’s possible. The only male neighbors I met were Phil Dresher, a student at West Chester who lives a few doors down from Gail, and Dom Gagliardi, who lives with his wife around the block. They were both at Gail’s vigil.” Christine realized that the car hadn’t passed yet, so she checked the rearview again. The car was parking behind Joan’s Mercedes, which seemed strange. “The guy’s pulling over, God knows why.”

  “Probably thinks we need help.”

  “In the rain?”

  “That’s how people are here. They help each other.” Joan smiled.

  “If he wanted to help, why not pull up beside us?”

  “He couldn’t see inside my car, maybe.” Joan gestured at the phone. “So, you were saying.”

  “Right.” Christine returned her attention to her phone and scrolled through her photos, which were all exterior shots of Warwick Street, but none of Phil. “Damn.”

  “No luck?”

  “Not yet.” Christine checked the rearview and saw that a man was getting out, hurrying toward them. She couldn’t see his face because he had the hood on his parka up against the driving rain, but she’d deal with him when he got here. Instead she scrolled ahead to the photos she had taken at Linda Kent’s, then pressed to enlarge one of Linda’s backyard, and in the corner of the picture, almost out of the frame, was Dom’s face.

  “That’s him.” Joan pointed to the photo. “I recognize him. I saw him going up Gail’s back steps that night she was killed.”

  “Oh my God. He told me he didn’t know Gail, but if you saw him that night at her place, then he lied.” Christine remembered with a jolt that Dom was the one who had found Linda Kent’s body. What if he was the one who had put it there? He could have surprised Linda in her apartment. He knew that she smoked outside at night.

  “Of course he’s going to lie if he thinks he’s getting away with cheating. Or murder.”

  “Joan, we have to go to the police with this.” Christine’s heart hammered. “Will you go with me?”

  “Yes.” Joan nodded, grave. “I couldn’t live with myself if my silence caused a serial killer to go free.”

  “Or an innocent man to stay in jail.” Christine looked at the rearview to see that the man had almost reached the car. The hood of the parka hid his eyes and nose, but he gave her a friendly wave and flashed a smile that she realized she had seen before. On Daley Street.

  It was Dom.

  Christine reached for the ignition and started the engine. “Joan—”

  “What’s going on?”

  Suddenly Dom wrenched Christine’s car door open, but she floored the gas pedal. The car lurched forward, but Dom clamped powerful hands down on her shoulders and lifted her bodily from the seat.

  “No!” Christine screamed, terrified.

  Dom yanked her from the moving car.

  Joan yelled for help.

  The car careened forward from momentum.

  Christine felt an agonizing blow to the head.

  And her world went black.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Christine regained consciousness, crumpled on the gravel road. Rain pounded everywhere, pouring from a dark gray sky. Her cheek lay in a puddle; water filled her nostrils. Her clothes were soaked. A bolt of agonizing pain shot through her skull. She willed herself to wake up, remembering what had happened. She had been wrenched from the car, she heard Joan screaming.

  Christine lifted herself up on her elbow. She whipped her head wildly around, blinking against the pouring rain. The car had rolled into the cornfield, askew. The engine was running. Her car door hung open. Dom was hurrying around the back fender to the passenger side. Joan was trying to get away, climbing over the console into the driver’s seat.

  Christine had to help Joan. She forced herself to move, to act. She staggered to her feet, but in the next moment, she saw Dom grab Joan’s hair and yank her back into the passenger seat. Christine couldn’t see what happened next. Horribly, Joan stopped screaming.

  “No!” Christine cried out, horrified. Terror seized her heart. She couldn’t save Joan. She had to save herself. She had to get away. Dom must have followed them from the vigil. He had to have been the serial killer.

  She lurched off the road and threw herself into the cornfield. She ran away as fast as she could, whacking the stalks away. There was no clear path to run, she couldn’t see any rows. The corn grew together like a thicket. Stalks sliced at her arms, and legs, razor-sharp. Bugs flew into her eyes. Crackling filled her ears, louder than the rain. She didn’t know if she was running to the right or left. She had no sense of direction. Her head pounded from the blow. She ran ahead as straight as possible. Away.

  “You bitch!” Dom yelled, raging. He didn’t sound that far behind her.

  Terror powered Christine forward. She couldn’t let him get her. He would kill her. He would kill her baby. She powered through the corn, her legs churning. Rain filled her eyes. She could barely see. The leaves cut like knives. Cornstalks crunched under her feet. She tripped and almost fell.

  She realized with horror that Dom could see her head as she ran. The corn only came up to her chest. She ducked her head and ran in a crouch. Her breath came raggedly. She got a stitch in her side. Her thighs burned, her feet ached. She suppressed the urge to scream. She couldn’t waste the energy. There was no one around to hear.

  Christine swung her arms like a machete, whacking away the cornstalks from her path. Rain set her shivering. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably. She stayed low so he wouldn’t know where she was in the vast cornfield. Suddenly a flock of huge black crows flew from the corn, flapping their black wings beside her head, startling her.

  “I’ll kill you, you bitch!” Dom shouted, drowned out by the rain.

  The crows gave away Christine’s position. She couldn’t stop now. She summoned every last ounce of strength, thinking of her baby. She had to save her baby. She was its mother. Her first duty was to protect her child. She thought of the butterfly heart on the ultrasound. The image powered her forward.

  She could hear Dom breaking stalks behind her. He was a runner. He would make up for her head start. He was gaining on her. She put on the afterburners and ran even harder. She kept as low as she could, visualizing herself like a prizefighter, punching the cornstalks as she ran. Rain thundered in her ears.

  Cornstalks crunched under her feet. Leaves sliced her hands and arms. The stems of the cornstalks were thick and strong. She whipped them aside with a backhand, cracking them in two.

  Rain pounded in her ears. She heard the faint sound of traffic. Trucks rumbled ahead, and a horn honked. She angled her run to the left. Route 842 was there, and traffic. If she could reach the road, somebody would see her. Cars would stop. Dom couldn’t slaughter her in full view.

  Hope lifted her heart. She protected her belly with her left arm and whacked cornstalks with her right. Tears of pure fear streamed down her face. She tasted blood in her mouth.

  “I’ll cut your throat!” Dom raged, louder.

  Christine felt a bolt of sheer terror. Dom sounded closer than before. She was losing ground. She panicked, tripping. She fell. She caught a faceful of cornstalks, filth, and bugs. Her hands plunged into mud and dirt. She could hear Dom’s footsteps behind her, the crunching and rustling of the stalks as he ran.

  She sprang up, lunging forward, trying to find ground with her feet. It was harder to run on an angle, against the grain of the rows. She threw herself at the cornstalks, desper
ate. Her breath sounded ragged. The rain poured. She whacked at the cornstalks with both arms. Some snapped back, others sliced her face. She winced in pain. Still the sound of the traffic got closer.

  Christine’s chest heaved. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep running. She kept stumbling. Rain and bugs flew in her eyes. Her legs burned, her arms were heavy. She thought of the baby. She remembered she had moved her belt buckle this morning. She couldn’t die. She had to save them both.

  Suddenly she heard another sound, a mechanical one. Instinctively she looked up, but raindrops drenched her face. She almost lost her balance and fell again. The sound intensified. A rhythmic thwacking sound came from the sky behind the dense cloud cover. She recognized the noise. It was a helicopter.

  “Help, help!” Christine screamed. She straightened up as she ran, waving her bloodied hands. She prayed the helicopter could see her cutting a swath through the cornfield. It sounded closer and closer, a mechanical thumping.

  She glanced up, blinking rain from her eyes. The helicopter popped through the cloud cover, its big rotors turning. It was flying low and coming toward her. She waved her hands as she ran. It got closer, and she felt the turbulence from its rotors. Bugs and birds flew everywhere. The helicopter was the corporate green of Chesterbrook Hospital. It was a medevac.

  Christine screamed for help, waving her hands in the turbulence. She was going to be rescued. Help was here. She didn’t have to die here, not now, not today. She looked up again only to see the helicopter fly past her.

  “No, no, help!” she screamed, running and running. The helicopter choppered to the gravel road. It must have been for Joan. Christine was on her own. She almost cried out with despair. No one was coming for her. She had to save herself and her baby. She didn’t know if Dom was behind her, but he wasn’t shouting anymore. He must’ve realized that he had to stay quiet and low or the helicopter would see him.

  Her chest heaved, her lungs burned. She was almost out of breath. She didn’t know if she could go another step, but she kept running, hacking away at the cornstalks, powering herself forward.

  Suddenly she heard the faint sound of a police siren cutting through the rain. The police were on their way, coming toward her, but too far away. She had to keep going. Behind her she could hear the crackling getting closer, less than six feet, then five. Dom was closing the gap between them. He could reach out and grab her. He could kill her and get away.