The nanny murders by Merry Bloch Jones Page A

finger? Apparently, that never happened. This just shows you that the news doesn’t mean anything. Reporters read whatever gets put in front of them. They don’t know what’s really going on. The cops aren’t releasing all the facts on this one. And guess who’s in charge of the cops? Your boyfriend.”
    I didn’t take the bait. “Maybe,” I breathed, “they held off telling about my finger so people wouldn’t panic.”
    “Maybe. But the cops aren’t telling us everything. We’re having a moms’ meeting Thursday night. At gymnastics.”
    “What are you whispering about, Mommy? Your boyfriend? Come on, tell me. Who is he?”
    “Molly, I don’t have a boyfriend.”
    “Is he that guy who always stares at you?”What was she talking about? “What guy who stares at me?” “You know who. That guy—on our street.” “On our street? You mean Victor? Or the new guy with the Santa Claus—Mr. Woods? Or Charlie?” “Charlie? Charlie’s your boyfriend!” She reeled with laughter. I leaned over and kissed her. It was time to go. “See you later. Be good. I love you.”
    “Zoe, wait—take that shampoo.” Susan rushed out of the room. “No, thanks.”
    “Yes. Try it. I’ll be right down.”
    The girls painted bread with garlic butter. The house was unusually calm. No television, no bickering kids. Where was the chaos, the conflict, the general tumult that typically surrounded Susan? Mozart floated through the house. Dinner was simmering, and the children were happy and organized. There was no trace of turmoil, no sense of danger here. Even grisly news of vanished women, of a finger found in the park, couldn’t shake the pervasive warmth.
    I suddenly felt very alone. I went to Molly and stood beside her at the table. A dish towel was tucked into her sweatshirt for protection, but she concentrated, trying not to drip. I smoothed her hair, and she squirmed.
    “Stop, Mom. You’ll make me spill.”
    “Sorry.”
    I took my hand away.
    “I won’t be late,” I said. “Have fun. I love you, Mollybear.” “Have fun, too. I love you, too.” Her words were distracted, automatic.
    “Remember, she can spend the night, if you want.” Susan was back, handing me a bottle of shampoo.
    “I can? Can I sleep over, Mom?” Molly asked, carelessly dripping butter all over the counter. Emily chimed in, begging.
    “Please? Please?” They were a duet, a chorus of begging. “Can we have a sleepover?”
    Susan’s skin glowed, her house gleamed clean, her children were radiant, and her husband was around somewhere, upstairs. Her home was warm and alive. “It’s fine with us,” she said.
    I looked at my daughter. She was happy here, blending in, entirely at home. “Not tonight,” I said. “Another time.”
    “Why? Why not tonight? Please?”
    They continued pleading as I buttoned my coat, and I left quickly, selfishly, before I could be swayed.

FIFTEEN
    O UTSIDE, THE WEATHER HAD CHANGED FOR THE WORSE . THE temperature had dropped suddenly, refreezing the latest melt and the new rain, creating a world sheathed in glass. Trees along Pine Street sparkled like crystal under a darkening sky; branches glistened, heavy and stiff. Sidewalks and steps—even the stone bears in Three Bears Park—were treacherously glazed. The stretch of blocks between my house and Susan’s seemed endless as I stepped carefully, trying not to slip; my face stung, assailed by bits of jagged ice. Raw wind sliced through my jacket, and each breath pulled precious heat out of my body. The streets were empty; I walked home on feet that had lost all feeling, darkness grabbing at my back, a chain of icy air circling my throat.
    When I reached my house, I turned away from the wind, fumbling to take my keys out of my pocket with numbed gloved hands. Frustrated, pulling off a glove to try again, I saw something move in the backseat of an old, ice-coated Pontiac parked at the curb. Gradually, I realized that the something was a hand, waving to me.