Authors: Tara McTiernan
Sharon watched Dean walk off in a huff, crossing the lawn toward his own house with long strides, head down. Why had she done that? Made such a big deal out of it? But she knew.
Since that morning in the diner, she and Dean had become almost inseparable. With the exception of when they were both at work - Dean managing a group of programmers at a small local software company and Sharon now working with a different team of analysts at TMB and out from under Bob Crandall thanks to the kind and ever-so-interested help of Molly Knowles - Sharon and Dean did everything together. On the weekends when the weather was good, they were out on Dean's boat, a Cobalt 220, and when rain was forecasted, they stayed in, watching movies and playing board games with competitive zeal. Dean was always at Sharon's house, staying over every night and belting out AC/DC and Rolling Stones songs in the shower every morning, his off-tune earnest voice cute at first.
Everything had been cute at first, wonderful actually. Here was life, real noisy messy life. And then it just got too messy, too noisy. Did Dean have to drop his clothes and moist towels all over the floor? Couldn't he put them in the hamper or hang them up? Did he have to be the big chef almost every night, cooking her dinner, but then leaving her kitchen a wreck with piles of dirty pots and pans in the sink and the counter slovenly with bits of leftover chopped vegetables and puddles of oil decorating it? And did he have to play the radio or the television all the time? Couldn't they just have a moment of silence? And the bathroom singing!
This morning, when he started hollering the lyrics to "You Can't Always Get What You Want" before she'd even fully woken up, she'd jumped out of bed and shrieked.
"What?" Dean called over the pattering sound of water hitting the shower liner.
"I said," Sharon said, sticking her head into the steamy bathroom. "I'm trying to sleep!"
"Oh...sorry."
He'd been apologetic and sweet after that, getting back in bed with her and nuzzling her once he was dried off, offering to make her pancakes.
"No, I have to go to work. I don't have time to clean up," she said, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice and barely succeeding.
But tonight she'd taken off from work early, wanted to enjoy her house alone, revel in the silence and clean neatness she'd managed to effect before leaving for work. Luxuriating in it as she walked through the house, she straightened the cushions on the couch and perked her ears to take in the pure sound of sighing quiet while Fred followed her and waited for her to sit down so he could climb into her lap. She realized then that she felt more at home and truly relaxed than she'd felt in ages. Well, since Dean and she became a couple.
Then she heard it. The key in the front door.
She spun around. What? Only Dean had a key? Fred took off, skittish with anyone besides Sharon.
The door opened and Dean walked in, spotted her, and threw his arms wide open. "Surprise! When you said you were leaving early, all I could think about was you all alone and lonely, so here I am, da-da-
da
!"
Sharon struggled to catch her breath. "What? Don't you have to be at work?"
"Nah, I've got plenty of PTO. I never use it. Speaking of which, we've got to plan our summer vaca soon. Why don't we do that tonight?"
"I...," Sharon sputtered, frustration making her muscles clench. All she'd wanted was an hour alone. Was that too much to ask? "No! Not tonight!"
He walked over to her and putting his hand on her shoulder. "Is it the dinner party? We could have gone. I don't mind if your friend ribs us a little. Who cares what she thinks?"
"No, it's not the party. I just...it's nothing," Sharon said, not knowing how to put it.
"Oh, okay. I guess we can wait. But we can't wait too long if we want to go to the Cape - things book up fast. You know, maybe we could invite our friends? Do a big group thing, get a whole house! That would rock!"
Sharon winced a little, thinking of them with a group at some beach house, the whole vacation rowdy and aggravating with every plan and decision having to be unanimous. When she'd suggested the Cape, she'd pictured just the two of them at a quiet inn, long walks along the beach and watching the sunset holding hands.
Before she could stop herself, she said, "No, it wouldn't! It would drive me crazy! You're driving me crazy! I just wanted a little peace tonight, a moment to breathe. It's always something with you. Let's do this and let's do that. Can't we just sit? Just do nothing?"
Dean blinked and shook his head, pulling his hand away. "What? We do? We sat on the couch last night, watching TV?"
"No! I mean, doing nothing. Not even watching TV. I just like to hear nothing sometimes. No music, no television, nothing."
"Fine, we'll do that. Whatever you want," Dean said, shrugging and looking perplexed.
"But you don't get it!"
"What?" he shouted back at her, his face hardening.
"I just want some time alone!"
Dean rolled his eyes at ceiling and threw his hands out. "Is that all? Fine. I've got a house right next door. I'll go there. You'll be alone. Okay?"
In that moment, looking at him, angry but still trying so hard, Sharon felt contrite. "Oh, Dean, I just-"
"No, you've got it. Bye." He turned and walked out.
Sharon following him to the door, not knowing what to say. This was what she wanted, wasn't it? But now, watching him cross the lawn and disappear around the corner, she wasn't so sure. The quiet settling again in her house sounded hollow. She turned away and walked into the living room. The recently plumped couch cushions seemed to slouch. Maybe Dean was right. They should have just gone to Bianca's party, put up with the inevitable teasing from Bianca. It wouldn't have been that bad.
But it was bad, the terrible feeling she'd had about Bianca stayed on. Sharon kept seeing that movement Bianca had made at the top of the steps at The Birdcage, the way Bianca had smiled a little before turning to look around and spotting Sharon. The way their eyes had locked. The whole thing had taken only seconds and it had been seen from across a room, yet Sharon knew in her gut that something had happened that night. Even when her head told her she was being crazy, even when Lucie and Chelsea and Kate disputed her claims, getting their backs up about it, Sharon couldn't ignore the heavy dark feeling inside of her.
And tonight, it felt heavier than ever.
Sharon shook her head quickly, trying to shake the feeling once again, but it clung, tenacious and solid. Then she had an idea. Why not do a little research on the web? Find out if there was anything there about Bianca? She knew that Bianca's hometown was Stamford and that she'd once worked at Pinnacle Funds. She also knew Bianca's married name was Rossi, but she could find out her maiden name easily enough by looking for their wedding announcement in the
Greenwich Time
. It was probably also in
The
New York Times
, too, as their wedding had been held at the boat house in Central Park. Bianca had talked about it once, how September was supposed to have the best weather, but it had poured on their wedding day and she'd been so glad they'd been under a roof and not in some flimsy tent.
Two hours later Sharon knew that there was nothing on the internet about Bianca that justified her fears. As she had thought, it was easy to find out her maiden name, Moretti, as the lavish wedding had been announced in both papers. Digging for more, Sharon found out that Bianca's father, a lawyer who was now deceased, had run for mayor in Stamford and lost to the incumbent. Bianca's mother was either a housewife or had done nothing newsworthy, as Sharon couldn't find anything on her. Bianca had an older brother, Anthony, who had graduated with honors from Yale Law School. Bianca, evidently less academically gifted, had graduated from non-Ivy-League Fairfield University with a B.A. in Psychology and no mention of any honors. That was all Sharon could find.
She leaned back in her chair and sipped her peppermint tea, absently stroking Fred, who was purring in her lap. Nothing. It was hard to swallow, how wrong she'd been. And worse, her bad feeling was growing, not abating as she had expected. There was one last thing she could check. The
Stamford Herald
had its older archives in downloadable PDF format. Not as easy to search as the newer archives, where you could just type a name and pull up any stories on a person, but Sharon could at least scan through the headlines. She'd start with Bianca's senior year in high school, go back until junior high, and then work her way forward. She was glad she knew that Chelsea was the same age, thirty-three, making it easy to pinpoint the year.
It was only fifteen minutes later when Sharon leaned forward suddenly, startling Fred, who let out a little yelping growl. "Hello? What's this?" she said. She read:
Student Person of Interest in High School Car Bomb Murder
Stamford police are investigating a possible connection between the car-bomb death of Stamford High School student, Jenna Butler, and a fellow student.
The Stamford Police Department said Thursday that a detective has been assigned to investigate whether Bianca Moretti, also a student at Stamford High, is linked to this year's Homecoming Queen, Butler, who died last Wednesday when a car bomb was detonated in her car while she was behind the wheel in the school's parking lot, killing her and causing significant property damage to nearby parked cars. Moretti was identified by another student as having been in the parking lot next to the victim's car during school hours before the bomb went off.
Bloomington police said there is no known connection between Butler and Moretti, but said they are still investigating the matter. At this time, Moretti remains a person of interest.
"Holy shit!" Sharon said, her eyes wide as she re-read the piece. Searching for a follow-up story, she found it in an edition three days later under the headline, "High School Car Bomb Murder Still Unsolved", which stated that Bianca had been cleared and was no longer being investigated.
Sharon fell back against her seat and lifted her chin up, staring into space. Was this what Chelsea had been holding back the other night? More importantly, had Bianca been cleared because she was innocent? Sharon's head said that of course she was: the police had investigated and found nothing. Her gut said, emphatically, Bianca was not innocent. Her instincts went even further, saying that Bianca was a killer, a cold blooded one. And right now, this very minute, her friends were about to have dinner with Bianca in her home, might even be seated and eating and obliviously at her mercy. Lucie was catering, her book proposal on the line. Sharon's gut screamed: watch out!
Not being able to stand it one more minute, Sharon lifted Fred off her lap and jumped to her feet, Fred's scratchy-voiced complaint barely heard. She had to go there, right now. She still had the directions and address Bianca had sent to all of them. She would go, make some excuse, figure something out. But she had to go because they could all be in danger and, after reading the news story, Sharon knew exactly how serious it could be.
An hour later, after sitting in stop-and-go traffic on the Merritt and then racing down back roads through Greenwich and down to the shore, Sharon pulled up to the security gate barring entry to the elite neighborhood where Bianca and John lived. Had Bianca mentioned a security checkpoint? Sharon couldn't remember, had only hurriedly scribbled down the address and directions before running out the door.
Looking down at her jeans and white cotton button-down shirt, she realized she should have changed into something appropriate, but as soon as she had decided to go to party after all, the feeling of urgency only increased and Sharon had felt she couldn't get there fast enough, speeding like a demon down the road and not caring for once about safety, or even about being a law-abiding citizen.
She rolled down her window as the older white-haired man in a gray uniform with a black tie stepped out of his booth holding a clipboard. Sharon looked up into his kind round face hopefully. "Hi. I'm a guest of the Rossi's? I'm a little late."