Myles and Lisa are in potential danger. There has to be something I can do. I chew the inside of my cheek for a moment before rolling down the driver’s side window. That’s when I hear the shouting coming from inside the house. Women’s voices. Two of them. One belongs to Lisa. The other…I think it belongs to Rhonda Robinson, although she is not using the professional voice I’ve heard at press conferences.
It’s panicked and high pitched. And imploring.
“Please. Please. Listen to me. I did not kill your brother!”
“Like I said, I believe you! Just get out! The police are coming.”
“Don’t you understand? I can’t be interrogated by the police. There are eyes everywhere in this place. Nosy retirees and busybody mamas who would love nothing more than to knock me from my perch, and oh believe me, this would do it. Oh, this would definitely do it. The mayor being investigated for murder? Do you think my career would survive that?” Several seconds tick by, a murmuring of voices. “I have no way of knowing you’ll keep my name out of this. Why would you?”
There is just a hint of movement on the left side of the house. It’s Myles with his back to the wall, peering into the side window, gun pointed at the ground between his feet. My wild rush of relief to see him still unharmed is quickly marred by his dark expression when he notices me sitting in the parked car. Teeth gritted, he jerks his chin down the road. “Go, Taylor,” he mouths. “Now.”
There’s a loud crash inside the house.
Myles jerks backward, then slowly peers inside, but I can tell he’s also watching me out of the corner of his eye. I’m distracting him. I can see that now. As much as I want to help, the best thing I can do in this moment is get my butt back to the end of the block and flag down the police. Putting my car into drive, I start to edge away from the curb.
The front door of the house flies open. Rhonda Robinson comes running down the steps, a knife in her hand. A knife? Considering the way Oscar Stanley was murdered, I expected a gun, but I don’t have time to consider this now. She’s running toward a black sedan, which is parked at an angle and partially blocking the driveway of Lisa’s neighbor. Clearly she parked in a hurry and she was definitely rushing again now. Trying to make a run for it before the cops arrive?
Myles steps out from the shadow of the house, gun trained on Rhonda.
“Stop where you are, Rhonda. Get down on the ground.”
The mayor jerks around with an expression of shocked dread. She starts to go down on one knee and Myles approaches slowly.
“Hands behind your head. Do it.”
Another, louder siren is added to the cacophony of sound and it seems to spook Rhonda. She springs back up and sprints for her vehicle, knife in one hand, keys in the other.
My eyes search the rearview, praying for red and white lights. Where are the police?
It feels like we’ve been waiting on them for an hour, when in reality, it has probably only been three or four minutes. Too long, though. Rhonda is going to get away—and she is clearly the murderer. Her name is on the property records, along with Oscar Stanley. She was profiting off vacation rentals while lying to voters about eradicating rental homes from Cape Cod. Her motive was to keep Oscar silent. Those threatening notes, written by Oscar, were intended for the mayor. She was on the verge of being outed. Her motive is rock solid.
Meaning she’s the one who threw a buoy through my window.
The one who bashed me in the head with a book.
She killed a man. Someone’s brother. If that happened to Jude, wouldn’t I want someone to intervene so she could be brought to justice?
Am I just going to let her drive away or am I going to do something?
She could be on her way to do something drastic. Or hurt another person.
When she hops into her sedan and the engine roars to life, I make a decision. Out of the corner of my eye, I sense Myles running in my direction. He must guess what I’m planning because he belts out my name.
I’ll apologize for scaring him later.
I lay my foot down on the gas, whip my car across the street and skid sideways in front of the mayor’s vehicle, blocking her from leaving. Frantically, she glances back over her shoulder, but the neighbor’s car is preventing her from reversing. The sirens are very close now. A quarter mile maybe. So many of them. Myles pounds a fist on the roof of Rhonda’s car, ordering her to step out of the vehicle with her hands up, but she’s not listening. She’s looking right at me, screaming at me to move. Thank God she only has a knife or I’m certain she would have already fired a bullet through my windshield in her desperation. I’ve never seen anguish like this, up close and personal, and in those minutes that pass while the sirens approach, sympathy wells inside of me, despite everything she’s done.