Free Deadly Intent by Christiane Heggan

doorbell.
    Something about Abbie’s reaction earlier, when he had asked if she’d talked to her mother, hadn’t set right with him. Abbie had never been much of a liar, and when he had caught a slight hesitation in her voice and the way she had averted her eyes, he had known she was hiding something. And he wanted to know what.
    He was still wondering how to approach Irene, when the front door opened and a woman stepped out, looking hesitant, almost fearful.
    Although close to thirty years had passed since he had last seen her, he recognized her right away. Irene DiAngelo. Most of her dark hair had turned gray, but other than that, she hadn’t changed much. She was still the same petite, attractive woman he had known way back when. Something about her was different though. She was acting weird, like she didn’t know where she was, which didn’t make sense since she had just walked out of her own front door.
    He kept watching her, one elbow resting over the edge of the open car window, waiting for her to do something. She just stood there, looking uncertain. Then, before Ian could duck, she turned in his direction and stared right at
    him, not moving or blinking. Ian cursed under his breath. Jesus, that’s all he needed, for her to call the cops and report a Peeping Tom.
    Quickly, he grabbed the Mercer County road map from the passenger seat, unfolded it and held it in front of him while watching Irene from the corner of his eye. The ruse seemed to have worked because she was no longer looking at him, but walking toward a rose bed along the front of the house.
    As he watched her, a blue van turned the corner of Shaw Drive and pulled into the driveway. A teenage boy, no more than seventeen or eighteen, jumped out and waved at the woman.
    “Hi, Mrs. DiAngelo.”
    She looked at the boy as if she had never seen him before. Weird, Ian thought. Really weird.
    “I’m here to cut the grass,” the kid said. Apparently her strange behavior didn’t seem to bother him as much as it bothered Ian.
    As the kid chatted about the weather, he dragged a lawn mower out of the back of the van and set it on the driveway. But when he started wheeling it toward the front yard, Irene’s expression turned into one of sheer panic. As if she had just seen the devil himself, she spun around and ran back inside the house.
    Ian sat there for a moment, his mouth gaping. What the hell was going on? What was wrong with Irene?
    Well, he thought, opening the car door, there was only one way to find out. He got out of the Oldsmobile and approached the house at a fast pace, like a man on a mission. The boy had just returned to the van to get his Weed Whacker and was watching him.
    “Hi,” Ian said affably. Then, still holding his map, he gestured toward the house. “Maybe you can help me. I’m
    a real-estate appraiser. I was sent here by my company to take a look at the houses on this block, but when I rang Mrs. DiAngelo’s bell a while ago, she acted strangely and wouldn’t let me in. She has a problem or something?”
    The kid shrugged. “Mrs. Di’s all right. Her memory comes and goes, that’s all. Drop back in an hour or so and she should be fine.”
    “What do you mean, her memory comes and goes? What’s wrong with her?”
    The teenager unscrewed the cap of a gasoline can and started to fill the lawn mower. “She’s got some disease that affects the memory. I forgot what’s it called.”
    “Alzheimer’s?”
    “Yeah, that’s it. Alzheimer’s. Most of the time she’s okay. And real nice. Other times, like now, she can’t remember who you are.”
    Ian could barely hold his jubilation. Irene had Alzheimer’s. That’s why Abbie had acted so peculiar earlier. And why she hadn’t mentioned the fire or his accusations to her mother. What would be the point if Irene couldn’t remember anything about that night? And if she couldn’t remember, how could she deny the accusations?
    If that wasn’t a stroke of pure luck he didn’t