Page 146 of Trust No One

“Bingo.”

“Bingo?” I looked back at the house, but from here there was no view of the driveway.

“I saw Bingo in a cartoon.”

“Great name.”

As the shadows lengthened, we left the barn and started back to the main house. Windows of darkened rooms glared back at us. The forensic van and Judson’s car were gone.

After the walk, I made tacos, but Molly refused to eat them. So dinner became a combo of bagels and peanut butter. After a little more television, we headed upstairs. Maria had once complained that the bedtime routine was sacred. Skip a step—disaster. But I had no idea what the steps were.

“Ready for a bath?” I glanced toward the door to the attic steps. Closed.

“Okay.”

I found a pair of bear pajamas and in the bathroom drew a bath. I wasn’t sure if she could do this on her own or not, but I opted to hang close. Slips in the tub happened.

When she was settled in the water, I washed her hair as she rubbed a washcloth on her face. Watching her splash, I decided tomorrow I’d bring a few plastic bowls and cups for her to play with. Out of the tub, I dried her off. She slipped on her pajamas, and I carefully combed out the tangles in her hair.

“Do you want to hear a story?” I’d grabbed a few books in my clothing haul.

“I can read.”

“Can you read to me?” I asked.

“Okay.”

We settled in the spare room bed under her comforter. I opened a book about Madeline, which had been a favorite of mine when I was a kid.

She began reading. I was surprised and relieved she could read so well. At the end, she flipped to the beginning and started over. We did this three times. Finally, she yawned. I took the book and tucked the blanket close to her chin.

“I’ll be right downstairs. Want me to leave a light on in the hallway?”

She looked around the room. Her wide green eyes reminded me so much of Gabe’s. How could such tender eyes kill his wife and lover?

“Yes.” She looked so small and pale. A fatigue in her gaze reminded me of a world-weary adult. Her life had changed. She knew it, but she didn’t have the words to express her feelings.

I couldn’t articulate my emotions, either.

A storm brewed in us both, and I didn’t know how to navigate around it.

“I’m going to sit in front of the TV. And in an hour, I’m coming up here to bed.” There were doors and windows to recheck. A house to secure.

“Okay.”

I left the hallway light on and tried to create some noise as I walked down the stairs. I poured a glass of wine, thought about Maria’s poisoned glass, and dumped the wine into the sink.

Switching on the TV, I kept the volume low, opened my laptop, and googled How to raise a five-year-old.

The suggestions were generic, and after a half hour of scrolling, I’d learned the importance of independence, social skills, consistent routines, and boundaries. Nothing groundbreaking.

Next, I searched Virginia adoption law. If the courts granted me custody, adoption seemed the next logical step.

Wind rattled branches outside. A knock on the front door startled me. I approached carefully—aware of a country night’s pitch black, trespassers, and Pete. It was Judson.

I opened the door. He was dressed casually in jeans, boots, and a flannel shirt. A holstered gun on his hip. “What brings you back?”

“Checking in.”