Yumi shrugs. “I live alone.”
Only when I am sure Daniel is secured do I call 911. His moans are so loud that I have to walk outside so the operator can hear me speak. My heart is racing as I tell her my address and the basic facts of what just happened. As I speak, the block thrums with the sounds of early-evening suburban life. A groupof kids dragging towels trudge home from the pool while a young couple on bicycles pass by, their son, clearly a beginner, wobbling several yards behind them. The contrast with what just happened inside my house is surreal.
When I get off the phone, I turn to see that Yumi has joined me outside.
“The police are on their way.”
“Good. He’s not going anywhere for now.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask her. “What did he mean that you said I would drop it?”
Yumi hangs her head. “I need to sit down. Can we sit down?”
We take a few steps back to the front stoop, where we sit down side by side. Yumi pulls her braid over her shoulder and undoes it, letting her long black-and-gray hair loose.
“Yumi, you need to tell me.” My voice is kind but firm. “What did Daniel mean?”
She shrugs. “Shouldn’t we wait for the police? I don’t want to have to tell this story twice.”
“That’s too bad,” I say. “What did he mean? Did you see Van go into Tori Price’s house that night?”
She shakes her head. “No. I did not.”
“Then what?”
“I did hear the shots that night, the night that Autumn was murdered. I went to the window of my porch to see what was going on. But I saw nothing.”
She turns her head away from me and I have to resist the urge to shake her by the shoulders, to scream at her to keep talking. My phone pings. I debate pulling it out at all, but I want to check and see if it’s Rachel, maybe texting me a heart emojilike she does sometimes after we fight. But it’s a message from Kenya.
That nanny was killed 8/9 last year. Van was with Noah and friends that weekend at our house in Bethany. See pic below—playing poker on the back porch.
I click on the photo she sent—it’s a group of teenagers around a table on a deck, holding beer cans aloft, the flash turning the night sky black. They’re grinning and some are sticking their tongues out. High school boys having a good time. Except for one boy. In the corner, Van sits, arms crossed, a foul look on his face, not facing the camera.
Misery rises off him like steam.
But Kenya is right.
Van was on the Delaware shore, three hours away from Bethesda, exactly when Autumn was killed.
Whoever shot Autumn, it wasn’t Van.
I thrust my phone at Yumi.
“What’s that?” she asks.
“Van wasn’t in town the night Autumn was shot. Yumi, what’s going on?”
After a few moments she gives me a nod. “I was on my porch when I heard the shots. After a while, maybe five or six minutes, I saw someone coming through the backyard. Heading toward the hedge, carrying some stuff.”
“Someone? Who was it?”
“A woman. It was Jo. She seemed drunk. She stumbled once and fell and picked herself back up.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police?”
“At first, I didn’t connect the two things. I mean, Jo kill someone? I truly didn’t believe she had anything to do with the murder. I swear. But Jo saw me looking down from the porch that night. She looked straight at me. And a few days later she and Daniel came to see me.” Yumi hung her head.
“And said what?”