The image of the bedroom came to Maggie. Had Rachel Endicott invited a telephone repairman to her bedroom and then changed her mind?

“So you think she may have invited him in and that things got carried away?”

“Isn’t there something in the house that makes it look that way?”

Maggie hesitated. Were Susan Lyndell and Rachel Endicott really friends, or was Susan simply looking for some juicy gossip to share with the other neighbors?

Finally Maggie said, “Yes, there is something that makes it look like Rachel was taken from the house. That’s all I can tell you.”

Susan paled beneath the carefully applied makeup and leaned against the wall as though needing the support. This time, her response seemed genuine.

“I think you need to tell the police,” Maggie told her again.

“No,” she said quickly, and immediately her face grew scarlet. “I mean, I…I’m not even sure she met him. I wouldn’t want Rachel to get in trouble with Sid.”

“Then you need to at least tell them about the telephone repairman so they can question him. Have you seen him in the area?”

“Actually, I’ve never seen him. Just his van once—Northeastern Bell Telephone Company. I’d hate to have him lose his job because of my hunch.”

Maggie studied the woman who clutched and wrung the hem of her cardigan. Susan Lyndell didn’t care about some nameless repairman’s job.

“Then why are you telling me all this, Ms. Lyndell? What do you expect me to do?”

“I just thought…well…” She leaned against the wall again, and seemed flustered that she had no clue what she expected. Yet, she made a weak effort to continue. “You’re with the FBI. I thought maybe you could find out or do a check…you know, discreetly without…well, I guess I don’t know.”

Maggie let the silence hang between them as she examined the woman’s discomfort, her embarrassment.

“Rachel’s not the only one who’s flirted with a repairman, is she, Ms. Lyndell? Are you afraid of your husband finding out? Is that it?”

She didn’t need to answer. The anguished look in Susan Lyn-dell’s eyes told Maggie she was right. And she wondered if Ms. Lyndell would even call Detective Manx, though she promised to as she turned and left, hurrying away, her head pivoting with worried glances.

CHAPTER 13

Sunday, March 29

Maggie unpacked the last of the boxes labeled Kitchen, carefully washing, drying and placing the crystal goblets on the top cupboard shelf. It still surprised her that Greg had allowed her the set of eight. He claimed they had been a wedding gift from one of her relatives, though Maggie didn’t know anyone remotely related to her who could afford such an expensive gift or have such elegant taste. Her own mother had given them a toaster oven, a practical gift void of sentiment, which more likely reflected the characteristics of the O’Dells she knew.

The goblets reminded her that she needed to call her mother and give her the new phone number. Immediately, she felt the familiar tightness in her chest. Of course, there would be no need for the new address. Her mother rarely left Richmond and wouldn’t be visiting any time soon. Maggie cringed at the mere thought of her mother invading this new sanctuary. Even the obligatory phone call felt obtrusive to her quiet Sunday. But she should call before leaving for the airport. After years, flying still unhinged her, so why not take her mind off being out of control at thirty thousand feet with a conversation that was sure to clench her teeth?

Her fingers moved reluctantly over the numbers. How could this woman still make her feel like a twelve-year-old caretaker, vulnerable and anxious? Yet, Maggie had been more mature and competent at twelve than her mother ever was.

The phone rang six, seven times, and Maggie was ready to hang up when a low, raspy voice muttered something incomprehensible.

“Mom? It’s Maggie,” she said in place of a greeting.

“Mag-pie, I was just going to call you.”

Maggie grimaced, hearing her mother use the nickname her father had given her. The only time her mother called her Mag-pie was when she was drunk. Now Maggie wished she could just hang up. Her mother couldn’t call her without the new number. Maybe she wouldn’t even remember this call.

“You wouldn’t have gotten me, Mom. I just moved.”

“Mag-pie, I want you to tell your father to stop calling me.”

Maggie’s knees buckled. She leaned against the counter.

“What are you talking about, Mom?”

“Your father keeps calling me, saying stuff and then just hanging up.”

The counter wasn’t good enough. Maggie made it to the step stool and sat down. The sudden nausea and chill surprised and annoyed her. She placed her palm against her stomach as if that would calm it.

“Mom, Dad’s gone. He’s been dead for over twenty years.” She gripped a kitchen towel, the nearest thing she could lay her hands on. My God, could this be some new dementia brought on by the drinking?

“Oh, I know that, sweetie.” Her mother giggled.

Maggie couldn’t ever remember her mother giggling. Was this a sick joke? She closed her eyes and waited, not sure there would be an explanation, but certain she had no idea how to continue this conversation.

“Reverend Everett says it’s because your father still has something he needs to tell me. But hell, he keeps hanging up. Oh, I shouldn’t swear,” and she giggled, again.

“Mom, who’s Reverend Everett?”

“Reverend Joseph Everett. I told you about him, Mag-pie.”

“No, you haven’t told me anything about him.”

“I’m sure I have. Oh, Emily and Steven are here. I’ve got to go.”

“Mom, wait. Mom…” But it was too late. Her mother had already hung up.

Maggie dragged her fingers through her short hair, resisting the urge to yank. It had only been a week…okay, maybe two weeks, since she had talked to her last. How could she be making so little sense? She thought about calling her back. She hadn’t even given her the new phone number. But then her mother wasn’t in any condition to remember it. Maybe Emily and Steven or Reverend Everett—whoever the hell these people were—maybe they could take care of her. Maggie had been taking care of her mother for far too long. Maybe it was finally someone else’s turn.

The fact her mother was drinking again didn’t surprise Maggie. Years ago, she had accepted the compromise. At least when her mother was drinking she wasn’t attempting suicide. But that her mother thought she was talking to her dead husband disturbed Maggie. Plus, she hated the reminder that the one person who had truly loved her, loved her unconditionally, had been dead for more than twenty years.

Maggie tugged the chain around her neck and brought out the medallion from under her shirt collar. Her father had given her the silver cross for her First Holy Communion, claiming it would protect her from evil. Yet, Maggie couldn’t help remembering that his own identical cross had not saved him when he ran into that burning building. She often wondered if he had honestly believed it would protect him.

Since then Maggie had witnessed enough evil to know that a body armor of silver crosses would never be enough to protect her. Instead, she wore the medallion out of remembrance for her brave father. The medal against her chest dangled between her breasts and often felt as cool and hard as a knife blade. She let it remind her that there was a fine line between good and evil.

In the last nine years she had learned plenty about evil, its power to destroy completely, to leave behind empty shells that once were warm, breathing individuals. All those lessons were meant to train her to fight it, to control it, to eventually annihilate it. But in doing so, it was necessary to follow evil, to live as evil lives, to think as evil thinks. Was it possible that somewhere along the way evil had invaded her without her realizing it? Was that why she felt so much hatred, so much need for vengeance? Was that why she felt so hollow?