Page 3 of Witness 8

She also remembered the bad times. That’s what her mother called them.

One night, she had sat Ruby down and told her there would be some changes to their lives. That money was now a problem. Her father had made a mistake. Ruby, like children in most rich families, had never had to think about money. It was always there, like water from the faucet, and there was no reason to question it. In the days and weeks following that conversation, Ruby had walked this same street with a different feeling. She’d gazed through the same windows, wondering why their lives were now so different. What did it feel like to have so muchmoney? What would you do if you didn’t have to worry about money, ever? What would it feel like to be free?

Tonight, the homes on Ruby’s side of the street were in darkness. Only four homes on the opposite side had lights on.

Peter and Petra Schwartzman were having a party. They often held parties, always for residents only, with exceptions made for celebrities. Ruby could hear tasteful jazz and the low buzz of a house filled with people drinking and probably talking about their third and fourth homes, their cars, their boats and their favorite vineyards. Ruby saw that the front door of the Schwarztman’s home was slightly ajar. A narrow strip of light spilled onto the street along with the music. For a second, Ruby longed to be inside that home, rubbing elbows with the neighbors. She wondered what would happen if she walked in through the open door. She knew almost everyone in there.

But she wasn’tone of themany more. Not really. There would be strange looks, perhaps. Questions asked. And the Schwarztmans would be milling around, telling people that Ruby had most definitelynotbeen invited.

Everyone who was anyone in the street was probably there. The Pullers couldn’t have gone because they were at a gala. The only other residents who were not in attendance probably weren’t invited.

The Colchesters had a lamp on in one of the bedrooms, casting a warm red glow from the window. Once the residents had discovered that they’d made a campaign donation to a president who was unpopular in this city, they’d stopped speaking to the Colchesters. Next door’s open-plan lounge area was bathed in cold blue light from the underlit refrigerator and low-level LED strip lighting hitting their black kitchen tiles. Just because the Satrianis were rich didn’t mean that they had any taste, not when it came to interior design, at least. They were seen as a tacky couple. The Satrianis made their money fromselling mattresses. Not the kind of people who were invited to the Schwarztmans’ parties.

There were probably one or two other families in the street who weren’t partying with the Schwarztmans that night. But their homes were in darkness.

The last illuminated home belonged to Margaret and Alan Blakemore. They had lived in the street for a long time. More than thirty years at least. In their fifties, married but no kids, Margaret had enjoyed a twenty-year career as a model. Alan didn’t need to work. As a young man he had enjoyed his trust fund, traveling the world. That’s when he’d developed a talent for photography and decided that this would be his career. He’d met Maggs, as she liked to be called, on a shoot forVogue, and when she learned he was a billionaire the rather plain-looking Alan suddenly became more attractive. Their marriage was happy at first, but soon Maggs embarked on a series of scandalous affairs with musicians, actors and other models, and the couple had grown apart. But she always came back to Alan’s money.

Maggs was definitely not invited to the Schwarztmans. Not after the rumors. Maggs had been romantically linked to a number of men in the street. Some of them married. And Maggs liked to flirt with men who had nine-figure checking accounts. None of the rich wives could stand Maggs. She was not welcome at these kinds of soirées. Perhaps because Maggs was something of an outsider to the reserved residents of the street, she had found a kindred spirit in Ruby. After Ruby cleaned her house, Maggs took the time to sit with her, have some coffee, ask about her life. Get the gossip. It was a small thing, but Ruby had always appreciated and liked Maggs for this kindness. To the rest of the street, Ruby was all but invisible. Maggs tipped well, but giving Ruby her time meant a lot more. Even though she wasalways entangled with more than one man, Ruby felt Maggs was haunted by a loneliness no affair could banish.

The chandelier in Maggs’s lounge was lit. A harsh, bright, white light. Maggs hated the thing. She lit her living room by antique brass lamps with colored glass shades that she had imported from Hong Kong. Ruby was told to be extra careful when dusting these. Ruby thought it must’ve been Alan who was up late, because Maggs preferred soft lighting now that she was in her fifties, but still carried the vanity of a catwalk queen.

Ruby was wrong.

As she got closer, she saw Maggs from across the street. She had her back to the window and her hands outstretched, palms upwards. Ruby watched Maggs shake her dyed chestnut hair, as if saying ‘no’ or pleading with someone. Then she saw who Maggs was talking to.

It wasn’t Alan. It was another resident. She knew his face. Knew his name.

He pointed a gun at Maggs. She was backing away.

Ruby’s breath caught in her throat and she ducked down behind the hood of a large SUV with gold-plated rims.

She heard the shot, but only just. It was muted, somehow. Maggs disappeared from view – thrown to the floor by the kinetic force of the bullet.

The man pointed the weapon to the floor. Ruby could no longer see Maggs, only the upper half of the man’s body from her position behind the SUV across the street.

He fired twice more, turned and left her view.

The front door to the Blakemore house opened and the man, dressed in black, gun in hand, leapt down the steps to the street. Ruby ducked as he looked left and then right. He walked back up the street in the direction Ruby had just come from. Stopped for a second, then moved on, running now.

Ruby crouched low, holding her breath for fear he would see her.

He ran back to the open front door to the Schwartzman’s party. They were all probably too drunk to notice him leaving and then coming back in.

Ruby could feel her heartbeat in her throat. Still crouched, she moved round the hood of the car, then crossed the street.

The man was gone. The street empty.

There hadn’t been a huge amount of noise from the gun. It must’ve been silenced, but Ruby had definitely heard the crack from that pistol. Like somebody splintering wood.

She gazed up at the house. The front door was wide open.

She quickly moved up the steps, into the hallway and turned left into the living space.

Maggs was dead on the floor. Blood on her face and pooling behind her head. The feeling in Ruby’s stomach reminded her of being on a rollercoaster – it felt as if her insides were doing somersaults and she found it hard to breathe.

She recognized the sensation.

It wasn’t fear.