looked like his last name was Pritchard.
He’s been weirding me out, Ashley had said . Checking up like he’s some kind of control freak.
Diana looked up Mr. Control Freak on Google. Back came links to a bunch of social and business networking Web sites. She clicked on the Facebook link. There were three Aaron Pritchards on Facebook. One in Bend, Oregon. The second one had a photo of what looked like an eight-year-old boy. The third one had to be him. His public profile pegged him as an investment banker. Single. Interested in dating. The photo was of a handsome guy with a well-tended beard. He was shirtless, on his back, bench-pressing what looked like fifty-pound dumbbells. Ick.
She’d send him a message, but what to say? She wanted to find out what he knew, not scare him away. She typed:
Hi, Aaron –
I’m Diana, Ashley’s sister. A friend of mine just came into some money and Ash said you’d be a good person for her to talk to. She wants to make the right decision. Needs to decide soon.
She ended with the number of her prepaid cell phone and hit send. She set the cell phone down on the desk. Beside it, her landline sat mute.
She checked the time. Did We’ll send a patrol car over mean right this very second? Even if it did, fifteen minutes was too soon to hear back. She hoped that an officer was at least on the way over to Ashley’s apartment.
Diana turned her attention back to Ashley’s e-mail. She sifted through the unread messages. There were Facebook and LinkedIn updates. A party invitation. A reply to a back-and-forth about a friend’s wedding shower that Ashley was helping to organize. Lots of ads and travel offers.
Diana stopped when she got to a message dated Sunday with the subject line “Everything okay?” Opened it. It was from Janine Gagne, a friend Diana vaguely remembered Ashley mentioning.
Guess you must have forgotten all about me. Sunday brunch at the Centre Street Cafe, your fave??? Hope he’s cute.
;-(
Diana stared out into space. Even if there was a new man in her life, Ashley would never have stood up a friend.
Were the police at Ashley’s apartment yet? Were they talking to the super? Diana imagined them trying Ashley’s door and finding it unlocked. As they opened the door, the menus that Mrs. Fiddler had said were stuck in the jamb fluttered to the ground . . .
A n hour later, Diana was holding Ashley’s lipstick and staring at the phone, willing it to ring when her intruder alarm went off. She bashed the button that silenced the Klaxon. Echoey silence followed. She felt a stone drop into her belly when she saw, in the front video monitors, a police cruiser parked in front of the house. A uniformed officer was striding up her walk. The doorbell rang.
Why come and not telephone? Diana pushed away the obvious answer. As she made her way to the door, she felt as if she were moving through sludge.
The doorbell rang again.
Hands shaking, she fumbled opening the dead bolts, pinched her finger removing the security bar, and finally punched the security pass code. She pulled the door open.
The officer filled the doorway—not so much with bulk as with uniformed presence. Before she could say anything, he said, “Diana Highsmith?”
Diana recognized the gravelly voice. “You’re the officer I talked to on the phone?”
He nodded. “Officer Wayne Gruder. Your sister doesn’t appear to be in her apartment.”
Appear to be? Was that good news or bad?
“But her mailbox has been emptied,” he added.
Only Ashley had the key to her mailbox. Diana’s hand flew to her throat. “Thank God, she’s back!”
From the way his sharp eyes probed her reaction, she knew there was more than just an all clear. “So why the hell hasn’t she returned my calls?”
He suppressed a smile, then his look turned somber again. “The thing is, she’s not answering her door. I knocked. Rang the bell three or four times. I haven’t got probable cause to bust down the
He’s been weirding me out, Ashley had said . Checking up like he’s some kind of control freak.
Diana looked up Mr. Control Freak on Google. Back came links to a bunch of social and business networking Web sites. She clicked on the Facebook link. There were three Aaron Pritchards on Facebook. One in Bend, Oregon. The second one had a photo of what looked like an eight-year-old boy. The third one had to be him. His public profile pegged him as an investment banker. Single. Interested in dating. The photo was of a handsome guy with a well-tended beard. He was shirtless, on his back, bench-pressing what looked like fifty-pound dumbbells. Ick.
She’d send him a message, but what to say? She wanted to find out what he knew, not scare him away. She typed:
Hi, Aaron –
I’m Diana, Ashley’s sister. A friend of mine just came into some money and Ash said you’d be a good person for her to talk to. She wants to make the right decision. Needs to decide soon.
She ended with the number of her prepaid cell phone and hit send. She set the cell phone down on the desk. Beside it, her landline sat mute.
She checked the time. Did We’ll send a patrol car over mean right this very second? Even if it did, fifteen minutes was too soon to hear back. She hoped that an officer was at least on the way over to Ashley’s apartment.
Diana turned her attention back to Ashley’s e-mail. She sifted through the unread messages. There were Facebook and LinkedIn updates. A party invitation. A reply to a back-and-forth about a friend’s wedding shower that Ashley was helping to organize. Lots of ads and travel offers.
Diana stopped when she got to a message dated Sunday with the subject line “Everything okay?” Opened it. It was from Janine Gagne, a friend Diana vaguely remembered Ashley mentioning.
Guess you must have forgotten all about me. Sunday brunch at the Centre Street Cafe, your fave??? Hope he’s cute.
;-(
Diana stared out into space. Even if there was a new man in her life, Ashley would never have stood up a friend.
Were the police at Ashley’s apartment yet? Were they talking to the super? Diana imagined them trying Ashley’s door and finding it unlocked. As they opened the door, the menus that Mrs. Fiddler had said were stuck in the jamb fluttered to the ground . . .
A n hour later, Diana was holding Ashley’s lipstick and staring at the phone, willing it to ring when her intruder alarm went off. She bashed the button that silenced the Klaxon. Echoey silence followed. She felt a stone drop into her belly when she saw, in the front video monitors, a police cruiser parked in front of the house. A uniformed officer was striding up her walk. The doorbell rang.
Why come and not telephone? Diana pushed away the obvious answer. As she made her way to the door, she felt as if she were moving through sludge.
The doorbell rang again.
Hands shaking, she fumbled opening the dead bolts, pinched her finger removing the security bar, and finally punched the security pass code. She pulled the door open.
The officer filled the doorway—not so much with bulk as with uniformed presence. Before she could say anything, he said, “Diana Highsmith?”
Diana recognized the gravelly voice. “You’re the officer I talked to on the phone?”
He nodded. “Officer Wayne Gruder. Your sister doesn’t appear to be in her apartment.”
Appear to be? Was that good news or bad?
“But her mailbox has been emptied,” he added.
Only Ashley had the key to her mailbox. Diana’s hand flew to her throat. “Thank God, she’s back!”
From the way his sharp eyes probed her reaction, she knew there was more than just an all clear. “So why the hell hasn’t she returned my calls?”
He suppressed a smile, then his look turned somber again. “The thing is, she’s not answering her door. I knocked. Rang the bell three or four times. I haven’t got probable cause to bust down the
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