I suddenly remembered something.
Her son smirking when she accused me.
Her daughter standing with her arms crossed.
Neither had looked surprised.
“Mrs. Whitmore,” I
said slowly, “did they know you were going to accuse me?”
“No.”
“Then why were they so calm?”
“Because they were expecting something else.”
“What?”
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she said:
“Go to the address.”
“And then?”
“You’ll meet Daniel.”
“Who is Daniel?”
Her voice became even quieter.
“Someone my husband trusted before he died.”
I looked toward the garage door.
“Are you in danger?”
Mrs. Whitmore didn’t answer directly.
“Stan, whatever happens tonight, don’t come back to the house.”
“Why?”
“Because my children believe you’re driving somewhere with the car.”
I froze.
“They’re following me?”
“I don’t know.”
Then she whispered:
“But if they find out about the note, they will come after you.”
