Page 43 of The Drowned Woman
“Anyway,” Risa continued. “We think he’s buried in one of the hills of mulch or topsoil at his own landscaping place. His brother-in-law took it over after Miguel vanished, so they’re all still there. According to my research, the temperature inside one of those mounds can go as high as four hundred degrees. Sometimes they’ll even have a fire smoldering beneath the surface. So after all this time, there might be nothing left; even bones could be dissolved.”
“But his missing person’s report said he wore a white gold wedding band and had dental work, so they could find those if they sift through everything,” Dominic put in.
“If some unsuspecting gardener didn’t haul them home in a load of mulch.”
They sounded excited as they discussed the grisly demise of the landscaper, debating the possible condition of Miguel’s remains, arguing about the size of the mulch pile and how often it was turned. Leah could somewhat understand. A false front, denying the reality that a killer had been so close? But still, the casual, almost cheerful mood felt… off.
If Cliff was really the killer—even if he wasn’t, he absolutely was obsessed with Risa, so maybe her half-baked theory about his causing Risa’s symptoms still held? It was a long shot but wouldn’t hurt to ask. “Would Cliff have had access to any food you ate?”
Risa seemed startled. “No, I don’t think so. I mean, like I told the police, he’s been in the apartment, but I was always here and I never saw him go into the kitchen.”
“Maybe delivering groceries or takeout you ordered?”
“Jack does the shopping and the takeout guys come up—so they can get their tip.”
“Okay, it was just a thought.”
“We thought about it as well.” Dom spread his hands wide as if evoking a cinema marquee and lowering his voice as if he were a movie announcer. “Imagine a man so obsessed he’d poison a woman to keep her near. A man obsessed enough to kill, simply to entertain her with a story to investigate.” His eyes brightened. “A modern-day reverse Scheherazade. How’s that for an angle?”
“Dom, stop,” Risa snapped. “We don’t know that that’s what happened. Even if Chaos is Cliff, we can’t be sure he actually killed any of the people he wrote to me about.”
“We’re pretty sure about the landscaper,” Dom argued, not apologizing at all. “And definitely the cop’s girlfriend. Plus, how else do you explain your neighbor? It’s him, it’s got to be. And we’ve got the inside track on the story of a lifetime.”
“A reporter isn’t supposed to be part of the story,” Risa said. “I didn’t ask for this, I didn’t want any of what he wrote to actually be true. I mean—poor Trudy. And now Walt’s in the hospital. I still can’t believe it was Cliff.”
“You saw the camera they found,” Dom argued. “Believe it, get over it, and let’s nail this story before someone else does.”
Risa glared at Dom, who simply smiled in return.
Leah retreated to the kitchen, rethinking her theory. She realized that she’d gotten the timing all wrong: Risa’s symptoms had begun before the stalker began to write her. And before she’d moved to Cambria City, so Cliff couldn’t have caused them. Risa’s illness may have triggered the stalker but otherwise was unrelated.
As Leah helped herself to a glass of water, Jack gave her a bemused smile. “Don’t mind those two.” He put a large pot of water onto the stove. Jack’s movements around the tiny space were almost a dance; obviously he was familiar with the location of every utensil and ingredient. “When they get on the trail of a story, they’re incorrigible. Get lost in their own world.”
Risa had said something like that earlier, Leah remembered. “And you?”
His knuckles grew white as he wrenched a salt mill over the water with more force than the action required. “Me? I know better than to interfere. Risa, she’s been in the middle of battles—actual battles with bombs and bullets. To her, this is just another story. And Dom? He’s in full-on hustle mode. Knows that the first to break the story is the one who will cash in. But I won’t lie. I’m frightened—” He broke off, banging the salt mill on the counter.
“You’re angry she didn’t tell you about the stalker sooner,” Leah interpreted.
“Damn right I’m angry. It’s my job to protect her.” He glanced over his shoulder at Risa. Took a breath and blew it out. “Except I guess now it’s the police who will be doing that. So I—” He waved his hands at the assembled ingredients. “I cook. Maybe I don’t know anything about armies or wars or being shot at, but I know people need to eat.”
“It’s more important, in many ways, that you’re here for her. She’ll need that. Someone she can trust, talk to when it all hits her. It’s not easy, having your life dissected by the police.”
“You talk like you know—”
She grimaced. She still wasn’t sure exactly how to talk about Ian to strangers. “My husband—he was murdered.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” He turned away, busying himself with the food prep. “Can I ask? Did the police catch his killer? I know I won’t sleep, not until they get this guy.”
She didn’t want to tell him that even after Ian’s killer was caught the night terrors didn’t get any better. Instead, she stuck to the simplest truth. “They did. Ian’s killer was caught the day after Ian died.”
“Good.”
As he lifted three pasta bowls down from the cupboard, she asked, “Is Dom staying, then?”
“Are you kidding? With all this drama? Of course.” Jack sounded bitter. “He’s here all the time anyway, practically rents a suite in the hotel across the park.” His knife kept up a rhythmic smack against the cutting board, mincing parsley with such vigor that tiny bits of it flew into the air. “I want her to leave, but she’ll never go—not with Dom here. Too much pride. He’s the one person who has always believed in her—she’ll never risk letting him down or appearing weak to him. As soon as we finish eating, I’ll grab my stuff from my place.”
“I think Harper is arranging for the police to watch the apartment tonight,” she told him. “That should help her feel safer.”
