Page 132 of Dying to Meet You
“Okay?” She’s struggling to catch up. “There’s nobody here.”
Or is there? Natalie springs to her feet and turns around, glancing upthe staircase and then into her father’s room. She seems to be alone. But her heart is pounding again.
“Go outside,” her mother repeats. “And hang up, because I have to call the police now.”
“Right,” she says, her voice wavering. Her phone beeps to tell her the call has ended. “Lickie! Let’s go outside.”
The dog is instantly on her feet. Natalie leashes her with shaking hands. And then she walks the dog out the front door so quickly she doesn’t even stop to find her shoes.
48
Rowan
“You said the door was open,” Detective Riley says. “How far open? How many inches?”
My daughter tries again to describe what she saw, while I rub my tired eyes.
We’re standing in the front yard. I’d made it home in under ten minutes, and the first police cruiser pulled up at the same time.
“Ma’am, can we take a look around inside?” a uniformed officer asked.
I waved him inside and it’s now dawning on me that I’ve given the cops carte blanche to search my house.
But at this point, I don’t care. I want this fucker caught. I can’t believe someone broke into my home in broad daylight. It’s terrifying.
“And you’re sure you locked the door when you left?” Riley asks a nervous-looking Natalie.
“I’m ninety percent sure,” she says, her gaze everywhere but on me. “I mean, I don’tthinkI’d leave it open. We’ve been locking up really tight, and I knew I was the only one home.”
“Okay. And your mom was at work. Anyone else in the home? Maybe Harrison came by while you were gone, and then left the door open?” Riley poises her pen above her notebook.
“No. He couldn’t have. I was at Docksiders applying for a job. And he was in the kitchen while I met with Mr. Baxter.”
“You got a job at Docksiders?” I demand. “You’re too young to work there. It’s abar.”
“It’s a fish restaurant,” she fires back. “And youtoldme to get a job!”
How I hate this idea. But I’m not going to argue about it in front of the detective. “So you saw Harrison,” I prompt.
“Yeah, he was back in the kitchen the whole time,” she says. “Besides—even if he had the wallet, which he didn’t, why would he leave it on our coffee table? That doesn’t make any sense.”
She isn’t wrong. But, as usual, Detective Riley doesn’t share her thoughts on the matter. “What time did you leave, and what time did you get home?”
“Not sure exactly when I left,” Natalie says with a shrug. “I couldn’t have been gone more than an hour and a half. And I got home about three minutes before I called Mom. That was at”—Natalie whips out her phone and checks it—“twelve twenty.”
“Tell me again what you did when you got home,” Riley says.
For the third time, Natalie describes her journey from the garage to the kitchen in excruciating detail.
“And how did the dog act when you called her?” Riley asks.
Natalie purses her lips. “Normal,” she says after a second. “She was happy to see me.”
“I’ve always said she makes a terrible guard dog,” I grumble.
Riley turns to me. “And where were you when you took your daughter’s call?”
“At my desk in the mansion.”
