two years.
But why should that matter? Abbie reasoned as she turned onto Elm Road. All married couples fought. She and Jack had had their share of bitter arguments during their stormy, five-year marriage. But she hadn’t killed him, just as Irene hadn’t killed Patrick McGregor. How could she? Abbie’s mother was the most gentle soul she knew. She
was kind, considerate and caring. And she had loved Abbie with all her heart. Why would she risk her little girl’s life in a blazing fire just to get rid of her husband? It didn’t make sense.
If only there wasn’t that letter. Alone, it wouldn’t be enough to convict Irene, but together with the neighbors’ possible testimony and Earl Kramer’s so-called confession, it spelled disaster.
At last, the two-story farmhouse with its stone facade and sloping roof came into view. The downstairs lights were on, a beacon of reassurance and safety. Tiffany, the baby-sitter, would be watching TV with the sound turned low, while upstairs, Ben would be sound asleep, his beloved bat and glove at the foot of the bed.
Pressing the remote control clipped to her sun visor, Abbie waited for the double doors of the two-car garage to open. Once inside, she stuffed the letter in her purse and took a couple of seconds to collect herself before going into the house.
Tiffany, an avid fan of 1940s films, was in the family room, watching an old black-and-white movie from Abbie’s extensive collection. Always alert, however, she turned her head at the sound of Abbie’s footsteps and stood up. She was a lovely nineteen-year-old college sophomore, with long blond hair parted in the middle, expressive hazel eyes and a quick smile. The older sister of three rambuctious boys, she knew exactly how to handle Ben without him being the least bit suspicious that he was being outsmarted.
“Hi, Ms. DiAngelo.”
“Hello, Tiffany. Sorry I’m so late.” Abbie dropped her purse on a chair. “Everything all right?” She rarely asked that question, but tonight she felt uneasy and needed to be reassured.
“Just fine.” Tiffany laughed as she gathered her schoolbooks from the coffee table. “Ben was so hyped up about his game, he didn’t even balk at the sight of the green beans on his dinner plate.”
Abbie smiled. Ben’s aversion for green vegetables was! legendary; her best friend, Claudia, had once told him, ‘ ‘I ( don’t trust, much less eat, anything that’s green,” and; thanks to her, he now assumed he could do the same.
After Tiffany left, Abbie turned off the lights and went! upstairs for one quick look at her son before going to bed, herself. The night-light was on, casting a soft golden glow, on the room, which she had redone the previous year in a baseball theme. On the walls were posters of Ben’s favorite; big leaguers—Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa, Barry Bonds,! and of course, Scott Rolen, the Philadelphia Phillies’ star: third baseman.
Ben was curled up on his side, his hands tucked under his cheek, his red hair mussed. Abbie was filled with a new fear. If Ian carried out his threat, Ben’s life would be affected, too. This was a small town, and thanks to that award she suddenly wished she had never won, the word would spread quickly. Would she be able to protect her son from the ugly publicity that was bound to erupt once an investigation was launched?
He had gone through so much already, she thought—the constant tension in his parents’ marriage, the eventual divorce, the acrimonious custody battle. How could she stand by and watch him be hurt again, see his happy, orderly life thrown into shambles.
For the first time since divorcing Jack, she wished she had a husband to talk to, someone strong and wise who could not only comfort her, but advise her and help her confront the enemy.
A bitter laugh caught in her throat. That definitely left
out Jack. He had never been the knight-in-shining-armor type. He didn’t even care that much about Ben. The only reason he