44 Charles Street

“I’ve been great,” she said, her voice shaking a little. She felt silly for calling him now. Everything was probably fine in the house. But she couldn’t explain the shattered chair in her living room, or the hair standing up on her arms. She wondered if they had been robbed. But if there had been a burglary, why hadn’t Eileen called her? The pieces of the puzzle didn’t quite fit together. “I had a great vacation. How’s yours?”

“Wonderful. We went down to Newport a few days ago, and this is our last weekend here. You won’t recognize Ian. He’s ten feet tall.” She smiled at his description, and took a breath to steady her nerves.

“I’m sorry to bother you, and I feel really stupid calling you. But I just got back to the house about five minutes ago, and I got a really strange feeling when I walked in. And this sounds even crazier, but my living room door was open, and it looks like someone smashed one of my chairs. Nothing else looks disturbed. But it was eerie, and I ran back outside. I’m sitting on the front steps, feeling like a moron, but I’m scared to go into the house. What if someone is in there? Like intruders, or burglars. I called Eileen’s name, but she’s not home.” The alarm hadn’t been on. And Francesca hadn’t even thought to call her, and felt stupid for that now too. And it seemed pretty wimpy to be calling him, like a damsel in distress, or a coward sitting on the front steps of her own house. But she was scared.

Chris didn’t hesitate for a minute, and he frowned as he answered her. “Trust your instincts. Whatever you do, don’t go back in. Call the police. There may be someone in there. There are a lot of burglaries in the summer, when they figure people are away. I’d call the police right now.”

“They’ll think I’m crazy,” she said, feeling foolish, but she wondered if he was right.

“Better foolish than injured, or shot by a burglar in your own house. Call the cops. And call me back once they check it out.”

“Okay.” She hung up then and called the police. She told them she had just gotten back from vacation, and she thought there might have been a burglary or might be someone in the house. She couldn’t explain the shattered chair to herself, unless one of Eileen’s Internet boyfriends had gotten drunk and gone nuts.

The police told her it wasn’t a problem, instructed her not to go back in, and promised to be there in ten minutes. They were there in five, they had a car with two patrolmen nearby. She described the feeling she’d gotten and what she’d seen, and they told her to wait outside. They asked her if anyone else lived in the house. She described the other occupants and said that all of them were still away, except one who had stayed in town, and she might be at work, or asleep upstairs. She described the layout of the house and who lived where. She said Eileen lived on the top floor, and everyone else was gone. Both patrolmen walked in, looking alert, with their hands resting loosely on their guns. It told her that they had taken her seriously. She thought of calling Chris while she waited, but she didn’t want to bother him again, and more than likely they would find nothing more than the broken chair. She didn’t want to sound like a hysteric, and she started to relax after they’d been inside for a while. Obviously nothing was wrong, nothing had happened, there had been no gunshots, no burglars had come running out. She had moved slightly away from the direct line of the door, but it was fully twenty minutes later when one of them came out. They had made a thorough search. The officer came slowly down the stairs and looked at Francesca with an unreadable expression.

“Everything okay?” Francesca smiled at him, feeling foolish again. His partner was still inside.

He spoke to her in a quiet, calm voice. “Your instincts were right. Your tenant on the top floor is dead.” Eileen. Oh my God. That couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. Francesca felt like she was going to faint. He led her back to the steps and helped her to sit down. She looked so pale that he told her to put her head between her legs. It took Francesca a minute to catch her breath.

“She can’t be dead,” Francesca said in a choked voice. “She’s twenty-three years old.” As though that made it impossible. Francesca’s mind was a blur. She couldn’t think.

“She was severely beaten, and strangled. We’re not sure, but she may have been raped. She’s naked in her bed. She’s been dead for about three days. Do you have any idea who might have done this? Did she have a boyfriend? An ex-husband? It doesn’t look like it was done by an intruder. Very little is disturbed in the house. A couple of chairs, and that’s about it.”