Free The Neighbor by Lisa Gardner Page B

I harm Mr. Smith?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Did you ever read about Ted Bundy? He murdered and mutilated over thirty women, yet he wouldn’t steal an uninsured car because he thought it was cruel. Now, a husband who murders his wife rather than settle for a divorce is clearly psychopathic. His needs come first. His wife is little more than an animated object. She interferes with his needs. He feels justified in disposing of her.”
    D.D. didn’t say anything. She was still trying to figure out if she’d just heard a confession.
    “But the cat, Sergeant. Mr. Smith. Even if I had objectified my wife to a point where I decided I would be better off without her, what had the cat ever done to me? Maybe I could justify taking my daughter’s mother from her. But harming my daughter’s pet, that would be just plain cruel.”
    “Then what happened to your wife, Mr. Jones?”
    “I have no idea.”
    “Has she ever disappeared before?”
    “Never.”
    “Has she ever not shown up for something, without bothering to call?”
    “Sandra is very conscientious. Ask the middle school where she works. She says what she’s going to do, she does what she says.”
    “Does she have a history of going to bars, drinking heavily, doing drugs? By your own admission, she’s still very young.”
    “No. We don’t drink. We don’t do drugs.”
    “She sleepwalk, use any prescription medication?”
    “No.”
    “Hang out socially?”
    “We lead a very quiet life, Sergeant. Our first priority is our daughter.”
    “In other words, you’re just regular, everyday folks.”
    “Regular as clockwork.”
    “Who happen to live in a house with reinforced windows and steel doors?”
    “We live in an urban environment. Home security is nothing to be taken lightly.”
    “Didn’t realize Southie was that rough.”
    “Didn’t realize the police had issues with citizens who favor locks.”
    D.D. decided to declare that interaction a draw. She paused again, trying to find her bearings in a conversation that should be taking place in person and not by phone.
    “When you first arrived home, Mr. Jones, were the doors locked?”
    “Yes.”
    “Anything out of the ordinary catch your eye? In the kitchen, hallway, entryway, anything at all as you entered your house?”
    “I didn’t notice a thing.”
    “When you first realized your wife was not home, Mr. Jones, what did you do?”
    “I called her cell. Which turned out to be in her purse on the kitchen counter.”
    “Then what did you do?”
    “I walked outside, to see if she had stepped out back for something, was maybe stargazing. I don’t know. She wasn’t inside, so I checked outside.”
    “Then what?”
    “Then I checked her car.”
    “And then?”
    “Then … what?”
    “What you described takes about three minutes. According to the first responders, you didn’t dial nine-one-one for another three hours. Who did you call, Mr. Jones? What did you do?”
    “I called no one. I did nothing.”
    “For three hours?”
    “I waited, Sergeant. I sat on the sofa and I waited for my world to right itself again. Then, when that didn’t magically happen, I called the police.”
    “I don’t believe you,” D.D. said flatly.
    “I know. But maybe that also proves my innocence. Wouldn’t a guilty man manufacture a better alibi?”
    She sighed heavily. “So what do you think happened to your wife, Mr. Jones?”
    She heard him pause now, also considering.
    He said finally, “Well, there is a registered sex offender who lives down the street.”

| CHAPTER SEVEN |
    On October 22, 1989, a boy named Jacob Wetterling was kidnapped by a masked man at gunpoint, and never seen again. Now, in 1989, I was only three years old, so you can trust me when I say I didn’t do it. But thanks to the abduction of Jacob Wetterling nearly twenty years ago, my adult life was changed forever. Because Jacob’s parents formed the Jacob Wetterling Institute, which got the Jacob Wetterling Crimes Against Children