Chapter 37: The Accident

Mark looked at Chloe, then at the officer, his face shifting into a mask of weary apology. He stepped between the women, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace that felt entirely fabricated.

"Officer, I am so sorry," Mark said, his voice smooth, dripping with faux concern. "Mrs. Gable has... episodes. She’s confused my sister with a news story she saw years ago. We’ve had complaints about her harassment before."

"Harassment?" Mrs. Gable sputtered, her face turning a mottled red. "I am the head of the Neighborhood Watch! I know a criminal when I see one. That woman is Elena Rostova, and she is wanted for murder!"

She pointed a shaking finger at Chloe, who shrank back against the kitchen island, performing the role of the terrified victim to perfection.

"Please," Chloe whimpered. "I don't know who she's talking about."

"Ma'am," the officer said, stepping toward Mrs. Gable. "You need to lower your voice."

"I will not!" Mrs. Gable backed toward the open door, clutching her phone like a shield. "I have the clippings in my scrapbook. I have proof! I’m going to get them right now."

She turned and marched out onto the porch, her orthopedic shoes loud on the wood. "And don't you try to stop me!" she yelled back over her shoulder.

"Mrs. Gable, wait!" Mark called out. He looked at the officer. "The steps on her porch are loose. She has a bad hip. If she falls..."

"Go ahead, sir," the officer said, distracted by his radio squawking. "I'll stay here with your wife."

"No!" I screamed, lunging forward. "Don't let him go with her! He's going to hurt her!"

The officer caught me by the arm, restraining me with practiced ease. "Sit down, ma'am. You're bleeding."

"Mark!" I shrieked.

Mark didn't look back. He walked out the front door, closing it firmly behind him. The sound of the latch clicking into place felt like a sentence.

I was trapped in the foyer with the officer and Chloe.

"I'll get a first aid kit," Chloe said softly, brushing past the officer. She gave me a look as she passed—a cold, dead stare that promised retribution.

The officer guided me to the bench near the door. "Just breathe, ma'am. The EMTs are en route for a psych eval."

"I don't need a psych eval," I gasped, pain radiating from my ribs where Chloe had kicked me. "I need you to listen. My husband is a con artist. That woman is his ex-wife. They have my baby locked in the guest room with a convict named Nadia."

The officer sighed, pulling a notepad from his pocket. He clearly didn't believe a word. "And the neighbor? Is she part of the conspiracy too?"

"She's a witness," I said, tears spilling over. "And he's out there right now silencing her."

Minutes ticked by. The grandfather clock in the hall counted them off, each second a hammer blow to my chest. One minute. Five. Seven.

Chloe returned with a wet washcloth. She dabbed at the cut on my cheek, her touch gentle but her fingers digging in just hard enough to hurt.

"You're making a scene, Elara," she whispered, leaning in so the officer couldn't hear. "It's embarrassing."

"Did you kill her?" I whispered back. "Did you tell him to kill her?"

Chloe didn't answer. She just smiled, a small, tight curving of her lips.

Ten minutes passed.

The front door handle turned.

Mark walked in.

He was alone.

He wasn't running. He wasn't panicked. He walked with a strange, heavy calmness. He smoothed the front of his shirt, adjusting his collar. There was a smudge of dirt on his knee that hadn't been there before.

"Where is she?" I asked, my voice trembling.

Mark looked at the officer, shaking his head sadly.

"She wouldn't listen," he said. "She was so agitated. She was running up her porch steps to get her... her evidence."

He paused, looking down at his hands. He rubbed a speck of something dark from his thumb.

"She tripped," Mark said. "It happened so fast. She went backward. Hit her head on the concrete planter."

"No," I breathed.

"I tried to catch her," he lied, looking me dead in the eye. "But I was too late."

From outside, the wail of a siren cut through the suburban silence. Not a police siren. An ambulance.

"She's old," Mark said, wiping his hands on his trousers. "Bones break easily."