I’ve got to call 911. Now.
Of course, there is no saving Jonathan Lowell. He is very much dead. But what scares me even more is that there is still blood leaking from his neck. That means that whoever killed him did it extremely recently.
Is it possible they are still in the house?
A door slams somewhere in the house. It sounds like the back door. Is that somebody leaving the house? Or are they coming back inside to get rid of witnesses?
I pat my pockets, searching for my phone. All I can find are my house keys. And then I remember: I made a call while I was in my car and then dropped my phone in my purse. Which is currently back at my house. I don’t know if Jonathan has a phone in his pocket that I could use, but there’s no way I’m going to touch him. I’ve got to get back to my house to call the police.
I try not to think about the possibility that the killer could have escaped next door, to the house where my children live, as I do an about-face and run for the front door. I don’t even look behind me. I make a beeline out of the house and back to my own home. I don’t stop running until I get to my front door, and then I come inside and slam it behind me.
When I get into the house, the first thing I hear is the sound of running water coming from the kitchen. Then I hear the swears in Italian—my husband is home. At least he will know what to do in this situation.
I’ve been in scenarios like this before, and he is one of the few people I can trust.
When I get to the kitchen, Enzo is bent over the sink, washing his hands. Again, he swears under his breath. As I come closer, I catch a glimpse of the dark red liquid circling the drain.
What is he washing off his hands? “Enzo?” I say.
He glances over his shoulder. “Millie, give me one second. I slipped and cut my hand with clippers. Stupido.”
Except I don’t see a cut on his hand. All I see is a lot of blood going down the drain.
“Something is wrong?” he asks me.
I open my mouth to tell him the terrible thing that I just saw. Jonathan Lowell is dead in the house next door. But as he turns around to reveal the blood all over his white T-shirt, I have a horrible feeling he already knows.
“Millie?” he says.
In the distance, the sound of sirens grows louder. Except I never called the police. Somehow, they are coming anyway. Somehow, they know what has happened.
He furrows his dark eyebrows. “Millie? What is going on?” “Jonathan Lowell is dead,” I choke out. “Somebody stabbed him.” “What?”
I wasn’t sure if he was lying two days ago when he disappeared from our bedroom in the middle of the night. But at this moment, Enzo truly looks astonished. I could almost swear on my life that he is shocked by what I am telling him.
Almost.
Enzo’s gaze drops to his shirt, speckled in still-damp blood. When he lifts his eyes again and sees my face, he takes a step back. “I told you, I cut myself. This is my blood. My blood.”
The sirens are much louder now. The police car will be here any moment.
“Change your shirt,” I tell him.
Enzo is frozen for a moment, but finally, he nods. He runs upstairs to get rid of his bloody shirt. And whatever else he needs to get rid of.
