The Silent Widow

Anne Bateman drove carefully, blinded by her own tears as well as by the rain that was lashing down across her windshield.

It never rained in Los Angeles in May. But tonight the heavens had made an exception, as if the gods were watching the tragedy unfold below. Not Anne’s personal tragedy. She wasn’t arrogant or delusional enough to think that her own, small life counted for much. Her dashed hopes, her broken dreams, her loneliness. But the bigger tragedy, the one that seemed to emanate out from her in ripples, as if she were a stone dropped into a calm, clear lake. That, surely, was worthy of celestial attention. All she’d ever wanted to do was make music. And yet somehow pain and suffering seemed to cling to her, an unwanted smell she could never quite wash away.

And now here she was, again, turning to Nikki Roberts for help, for advice that she already knew in her heart she wouldn’t have the strength to take. And yet Anne Bateman still needed Nikki. She needed the adulation, the adoration. The way that she, Anne, looked through the lens of Nikki’s admiring, understanding, forgiving eyes. On some level, what Nikki gave her had replaced what Luis used to give her. Because he’d adored her too. If she could hold on to that fact somehow – choose good over evil, the future over the past, Nikki over Luis – then maybe, just maybe, the ripples would stop?

It was late, almost eleven o’clock, and the hour combined with the heavy rain meant th

e roads were practically empty. A full moon flickered in and out of the moving clouds. It bathed Brentwood’s slick streets in a silvery glow, giving the grand homes and lush gardens an air of magic. Heading up Tigertail towards Nikki’s house, Anne felt as if she were driving through an enchanted kingdom, a land where everything was clean and shiny and beautiful, where happy children slept soundly in their beds and bad things didn’t happen.

What if I’m the bad thing? What if I’m the monster, sneaking through the night, ready to pounce, to destroy, to devour?

In her calmer, more rational moments, Anne knew that she wasn’t intrinsically a bad person. It was Luis who’d brought the chaos into her life, Luis who’d made everything so very hard. But at other times, like tonight, she was gripped with a terrible self-loathing.

Why couldn’t she break free, cut the ties for good? When Luis had failed to show up for the End Addiction Ball, why had she felt so desolate, so abandoned, so hurt? She’d complained to Nikki countless times about Luis refusing to let her go. But tonight it struck her for the first time that perhaps she was the one clinging on? That when she ran, there had always been a part of her that had expected – hoped – Luis would come running after.

And now he had, and with him, it seemed, the hounds of hell.

Anne needed Nikki. Not for advice this time but for something much more profound. For absolution.

Pulling up outside the house, she stepped out of her car into the rain. The downpour was less dramatic than it had been a few minutes ago, but still heavy enough to make a loud rat-tat-tat rhythm on the roof of Anne’s car and the newly tarred street. The double gates were locked, but a wooden side door next to them opened easily, despite its slippery handle. Soaked to the skin, Anne stood in Nikki’s forecourt looking up at the house. It was a gorgeous property, romantic and charming with its shutters and balconies and climbing roses, giving it an old world, European feel. All the lights were off – unsurprisingly, given the lateness of the hour – but Nikki was home. Her car was parked out front, raindrops bouncing off it in the moonlight like tiny silver bullets.

Anne was about to ring the bell – she felt foolish, rousing Nikki from sleep, but she’d driven all this way and her need to see her ‘friend’ had long since spilled over into a compulsion – but an unexpected noise made her hesitate. It was a cry. Not of fear but of sorrow. Anguish, even. Short at first but then followed by another, longer sound, keening and awful like an animal’s howl. It was coming from the backyard.

A narrow passage led along the side of the house to the rear of the property. Anne followed it, being careful not to slip on the slick stone tiles. Rounding the corner at the end she saw Nikki, kneeling underneath a beautiful, spreading magnolia tree. The tree was in bloom, but the night’s heavy rains had dashed many of its oversized white blossoms to the ground, creating a carpet of silken petals on the wet grass. It was on this carpet that Nikki knelt, wetter even than Anne was, her blouse clinging to her shivering body like damp seaweed on a rock. Her head was tilted up towards the moon, but her eyes were closed, and she was crying out piteously, like a dying she-wolf. Her kicked off shoes lay on the ground beside her and she was holding something in her right hand. Only as Anne drew nearer did she see what it was: a tiny, elegant pistol, glinting silver in the shadows.

‘Nikki!’ Anne called out to her loudly, shouting to make herself heard above both the howling and the rain. Running over, she sank down on the grass beside her friend. ‘Nikki, it’s me. It’s Anne! Are you all right? What’s happened?’

With a start, Nikki opened her eyes and turned to look at her. For what felt like a long time, both women stared at one another in shocked silence. Soaking wet, freezing cold, side by side beneath the magnolia tree Nikki had planted with Doug on their first wedding anniversary, there was so much to say. Too much. So instead they said nothing. Eventually Nikki stood up, as if in a trance. Still holding the Glock in her right hand, she offered Anne her left.

‘You’d better come inside and get dry.’

Anne nodded. ‘Thank you.’

Like two bedraggled ghosts, the two women went into the house.

Half an hour later, wearing a pair of Nikki’s pajamas and swaddled in a faux fur blanket in front of the fire on Nikki’s couch, Anne allowed herself to be coaxed into a deep, satisfying sleep. Nikki stroked her hair with an absent, repeating rhythm, her voice hypnotic and heavy as she told Anne to rest, to close her eyes, to let the warmth surround her and take her.

Nikki watched as the younger woman slipped effortlessly into sleep. Like a baby, she thought. That was the one part of the dream that she and Doug had missed out on: a child of their own. Long before she learned about Lenka, Nikki remembered how despairing her infertility had made her at the time. How not having children had felt like the biggest tragedy in the world. Before she knew what tragedy meant.

Would she have gone through with it tonight, if Anne hadn’t shown up? Would she really have pulled the trigger and blown her own brains out? Her instinct told her that she would. But she would never know for sure now. All she did know was that the moment had passed. Anne had appeared, like an angel of mercy, and Nikki had taken the gun inside and put it back in the drawer and locked it, and she no longer wanted to die. Not today, anyway. There was too much left to do. Too much she still needed to understand.

Had God sent Anne to save her?

Or perhaps it was Doug who’d intervened, in some mysterious, spiritual way, from the afterlife? That was a nice thought.

Standing at the window, Nikki gazed out into the night. The rain had stopped, and all was peace and calm and stillness. She thought about Derek Williams, how he’d given his life for the truth. Her truth. She owed it to Williams to see this through.

From the safety of a warm, dry car, a figure watched in the darkness, their night vision goggles trained onto Nikki Roberts’ living room window.

Sliding lower in their seat, they settled in for the night.

It wouldn’t be long now.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Goodman sat alone in the booth at Joe’s Diner, staring morosely at his phone. Johnson was in the men’s room, where he’d been locked away ever since his ill-advised third cup of coffee twenty minutes ago. They were due back at Derek Williams’ apartment for a meeting with forensics. But Nikki’s email, sent at five this morning, had already thrown Goodman for a loop.

‘Been thinking all last night,’ she wrote. ‘Not sure what to tell you, but I guess now Williams is dead I have to tell someone. Brandon Grolsch is alive. He called me yesterday, very distressed. I don’t know where he is, or how he’s connected to any of this, but I lied to you about not knowing him. I’m sorry.’