Influenced

by Eva Robinson

  “Not just America. In the eighteenth century, a middle-class weaver was stoned to death in East London by an angry mob. A century later, Jack the Ripper started killing prostitutes in the very same place.”

  “It’s a city of millions of people. The Victorian era was rife with murders. This really doesn’t make any sense.” His voice was rising, which intrigued her. He was always so calm, so composed.

  But his frustration was interesting.

  “Poveglia island, near Venice. Quarantine for plague victims, then the site of unethical lobotomy experiments.”

  “That’s one thing, Ciara. That one thing is a terrible hospital. Medicine was very bad in the past.”

  Ciara smiled. “This really annoys you.”

  “I’m not superstitious,” he said.

  Ah. There it was. She didn’t believe that for a second. She’d seen the way he tapped his fingers, counting out the numbers. He was as superstitious as they came. He just didn’t want to be.

  “Well, that’s good,” she said. “Because where you live is the worst place in Cambridge if you were superstitious.”

  “Garden Street? I think you’ll find it’s the nicest according to Cambridge Magazine, June 2018. Very walkable.”

  “Did they mention that the hill right behind your house was once Gallows Hill? They hanged witches there. And in the eighteenth century, a woman was burned at the stake, right about where you live on Garden Street—bottom of the hill. It used to be outside the Cambridge city boundaries. You know, where all the scary, un-Christian things dwelled. The demons and witches, the wild animals, the Wampanoag who gave them nightmares, the slaves they executed for trying to become free. All the terrifying wilderness outside the comfort of the city—that was right where you live. And it wasn’t enough to execute them; they had to royally screw up the burials, too. The woman’s accomplice was hanged a gibbet in Somerville for years. He was still there when Paul Revere rode by shouting about the British and freedom. And guess what she’d been accused of, that woman who was burned? Poisoning someone’s chocolate.”

  Michael fell silent.

  “The woman’s name was Phillis,” added Ciara, in an unsuccessful attempt to restore a sense of normalcy. “She was trying to escape slavery.”

  He turned left onto a leafy road. “Okay. Why exactly do you have this endless catalogue of historical misery at your fingertips?”

  “I like to know where terrible things have happened. Because tragic events can leave a sort of imprint on the world.”

  “So you believe in hauntings.”

  “No, not like hauntings.” She didn’t elaborate, because she didn’t really know how to explain what she meant. It was just a feeling that human tragedy left a sort of emotional stain on the landscape—that stones and wood and soil could soak up pain. Or evil, perhaps, if evil existed.

  “What in your life inspired this theory?”

  Now, instead of frustration, she could feel his curiosity, but she said, “Do not try to shrink me, Michael. I know what you’re doing. And here’s what I think. Peter died at Stella’s house, and now horror lingers there. And that makes it dangerous for everyone.”

  In Stella’s kitchen, Ciara stared at her. Long blond hair, braided with dandelions, and a delicate crochet dress that reached her ankles. She had a small chin, large eyes. She looked younger than her age, her skin dewy. Ciara wondered if she always looked this sad, or if it was her friend’s death that had knocked the world out from under her feet.

  Stella reminded Ciara so much of Jess that it made her chest ache. She wasn’t a spitting image, but they gave the same impression—fragile and witchy at the same time.

  A chill rippled over Ciara’s body, and she felt a sense of dread hanging over the place. But more importantly, if Ciara’s twin had grown up and become rich—which she would have—she’d have had a kitchen just like this one. Exposed wooden beams on the ceiling with pots hanging from them. A wall of sea-blue tiles; quirky lanterns hanging from the ceilings among dried herbs. A pale blue Aga. A bohemian paradise in a mansion. This was where Jess would have lived.

  But Ciara supposed it was the sadness in Stella’s eyes that was so like Jess. A slightly haunted look that spoke of mysteries. Stella wrapped her small hands around an enormous mug of herbal tea, explaining that she’d been up in the kids’ room when Peter disappeared.

  At that point, Ciara realized she’d been just staring at Stella, struggling to listen to the details of the party, so she forced herself to tune in.

  “So just take me through this one more time. You went to check on your children, and you’re not quite sure of the time.”

  “I didn’t check the time. But it was quite late.”

  “And you were in your daughter’s room for how long?” Michael asked.

  “Maybe a half-hour. I lay next to Ada for a bit to calm her down. Might’ve dozed a little.”

  “And the party just went on without you?”

  Stella shrugged. “They were all comfortable out there. They really had a lot of alcohol.”

  Michael prompted, “And when you returned…?”

  “Peter was gone. The others were quite drunk. Peter often walked home from my house.”

  “And you’re sure Peter ate brownies that evening?” Michael had asked this several times. The autopsy had shown an empty stomach, so it seemed an important point to get right.

  “I’m sure,” she said. “He has very severe nut allergy. I’m not sure if that helps.”

  “Let’s go back to the beginning,” said Ciara. “You were the only reasonably sober person that night. Can you tell us about the behavior of every person there, throughout the night?”

  “Everyone?”

  “Start with Hannah. When did she arrive? How did she look?”

  “She looked…” Stella trailed off, gazing up at the ceiling as if trying to remember. She clutched her mug, the steam curling in front of her face. “Well, she looked just like Rowan.”

  Thirty-Four

  Hannah poured three cups of coffee—one for herself, one for the redhead, and one for the handsome English cop. She wondered how closely they were watching her to read her body language. This must be how students felt when she was observing them, that feeling of being studied, the knowledge that every minute gesture could be analyzed.

  The redhead made something snag at the in the back of Hannah’s mind—a dull sort of nervousness.

  What had she said her name was? Detective Munroe? Her eyes seemed too sharp, perceptive, her shoulders too tense. She looked like she was ready to pounce at any moment.

  Still, they wouldn’t be able to tell much from Hannah’s body language. You could read anxiety in body language, but not truthfulness. And the Benadryl she’d taken that morning had given her that pleasant fog, dulling her emotions into a haze. It was like her nervousness was covered in cotton.

  The only problem was that it was a little hard to think straight, and she wanted to lay her head down on the soft pillow. After a minute, she realized that she’d poured the coffee, then just stopped to stare at the counter. Surely they were taking notes on her confused mental state…

  She cleared her throat. “Cream?”

  At least she’d managed to get the place completely clean. The poison had killed all the ants, and everything was in the right place again.

  “Yes, please,” said Detective Stewart. “For both of us.”

  Detective Munroe shifted in her seat. “Do you know why we’re here, Hannah?”

  Of course she did. But she couldn’t let on, which meant she’d already made a big misstep. Because she hadn’t seemed confused enough. This was the problem with putting her mind in a fog—she couldn’t think straight. “Oh, is it about Arabella? I assumed that since you interviewed Rowan, maybe that’s what it was about.” She set the cups of coffee on the wooden table.

  “Were you at a party Friday night? On Kendall Avenue, near Fresh Pond?”

  Frowning, she pulled out a chair at her little
kitchen table. “I was there, yes. At Stella’s house. Why?”

  “And was Peter Sylvestro there also?” asked Detective Munroe.

  Even through the haze of Benadryl, Hannah’s pulse started to race a little. Stick to the story. “Oh, Peter? Yes, I forgot his last name, but he was there. He got a grant funded. We were celebrating.”

  “How well do you know him?” asked Detective Stewart. He’d picked up a spoon from the table, and he seemed to be focusing on stirring the coffee, even though he hadn’t added any sugar.

  Hannah found herself as mesmerized by his stirring as he was, because it seemed oddly precise. He looked up again and met her gaze.

  “Oh, not well. I’d met him twice. We were working on a project together. The Cambridge Teen Center. I wasn’t as involved as the others. I just helped a bit with the marketing and writing.” Show curiosity. “Why are you asking about Peter?”

  Detective Munroe had somehow already finished half her coffee, and Hannah was struck again by that sense of time slipping by too fast. “Ms. Moreno, can you tell me exactly what happened that night?”

  “The whole night?”

  “Everything you can remember.”

  They’d all gotten their stories straight, and she’d been practicing this. She was supposed to give as many details as possible, and keep it all completely truthful. Except for the part where they’d dragged a body to the pond. “Did something happen?” She wasn’t sure if this second question was pushing it too far.

  “Ms. Moreno.” Detective Munroe sounded annoyed now. “Please tell us what you can remember from that night.”

  “Well, I got there around eight, I think. We knew we were celebrating, so I’d dressed up a bit. I talked to Daniel. He’s an artist; French. Peter was there. Stella laid food out like last time—she’s the one who owns the house. Rowan Harris was there. Um…” Hannah glanced at the photo hanging on her wall—it was a picture of the three of them: Luke, Nora, and her at a picnic. Both detectives followed her gaze. “My daughter, Nora, was staying with her dad, Luke. We’re not together. At some point, he came by with Nora, because she needed to see me before she went to sleep. And then Peter made the announcement: he got a huge grant for the teen center that would go toward the building. Honestly, I think we all had a little too much to drink that night.”

  In her pocket, Hannah’s phone started buzzing, but she ignored it.

  “Too much to drink?” Detective Stewart asked.

  The ceiling fan whirred overhead, making the room feel too cold. “Well, there was punch, champagne. It was a night to celebrate. I don’t normally drink that much… I might have taken a little nap, even, on the soft grass. It’s been very warm out.”

  “And do you remember when Peter left?” he asked.

  She frowned, shaking her head. “Only vaguely.”

  Detective Munroe leaned forward. “Tell us what you remember, even if it’s vague.”

  Hannah’s phone buzzed again, and her attention drifted away. What if Luke was trying to tell her something was wrong with Nora? “I think he said he wasn’t feeling well, but he was going to walk home. He lived within walking distance.”

  “He wasn’t feeling well,” Detective Munroe repeated.

  Hannah shook her head. “It’s all hazy, I’m afraid. Everyone had too much alcohol—even Peter, I think. Maybe that was why he wasn’t feeling well. But you know how punch can be. Deceptively strong. Won’t be making that mistake again anytime soon.” She attempted a laugh, then remembered she should be more concerned. “Is Peter okay?”

  Her phone was now buzzing for the fourth time, and even with the fog of Benadryl, she couldn’t take the suspense anymore. “One second. I just have to see if my daughter is okay.” She pulled her phone out. Four missed calls from Rowan. This was not a good time for this.

  Hannah held up a finger, then rose to cross toward the hallway. She could feel the detectives’ eyes on her, but she huddled in the corner. NOT NOW.

  The reply was almost immediate. I’M IN DANGER.

  Hannah swallowed hard. Had Rowan lost her mind? She wrote back, Talk in a bit. I’m in an interview.

  Three little dots pulsed at the bottom of the screen. Then, I’m getting death threats. Someone broke into my house. Laptop and phone stolen. I think they want to blackmail me. Meeting at Stella’s tonight.

  Honestly—how reckless could she be, typing all this out? And after Hannah had just said she was in an interview? She turned off her phone.

  When she turned around, she found both detectives staring at her. “Sorry about that. My daughter has an upset stomach, but she’ll be fine.” No, that was a mistake. A lie they could uncover later… She crossed back to her chair, and it creaked as she sat in it. “Anything else I can help with, or is that it?”

  “That’s not it,” said Detective Stewart. “We want to know about Arabella’s laptop.”

  She stared at them. “What?”

  “Arabella’s laptop was stolen just before she died. It was turned on in this neighborhood. Sunday, May first, at six thirty p.m.”

  Her heart was pounding louder now, the beat cutting through her haze of calm. How would they know where a laptop was turned on? “It wasn’t me. I wouldn’t be on a laptop then. That’s right after Luke drops Nora off, and I’d be feeding her before bedtime.”

  Detective Munroe leaned in closer, her arms resting on the table. “We thought maybe, with the history you have…”

  “What history?” Hannah snapped.

  “We want you to tell us what happened to Peter.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “But you were there,” said Detective Stewart.

  “Did he do something to make you angry?” asked Detective Munroe.

  “Why are you asking me that?”

  “We researched your records, Hannah. You were interviewed in 2009, your senior year of high school. Witnesses saw you standing right next to Thomas Holbrook when he went off the bridge. They thought you pushed him.”

  Hannah felt like the floor had fallen out from under her. “He fell.” But that wasn’t quite right, was it? “He jumped.”

  “Is that right?” asked Detective Stewart. “At the time, you said it was an accident. That he fell.”

  “It was ten years ago,” she stammered.

  Detective Stewart shrugged. “Look, I can tell you’re a good person. You’re a mom; you worked in special ed. You just raised a ton of money for the teen center.” He gestured at the photo of her on the wall. “You look after your family.”

  Her eyes had filled with tears. Why did he have to be nice? “Right.”

  “So that’s why we just want your help clearing this all up,” he went on. “Because of what the witnesses said about you ten years ago, how maybe you pushed Tom…”

  A high ringing rose in her mind. “I didn’t.”

  “Of course you didn’t. I’m just talking about how it looks. No one else at Stella’s party has anything like that in their history. And none of them turned on the laptop of a woman who was murdered the next day.”

  “If I were you, and if I wanted to stay out of jail, I might try to refresh my memory a bit,” added Detective Munroe. “I might try to remember what actually happened at that party. At least, that’s what I’d do if I had a daughter I didn’t want to leave behind while I went to jail.”

  Hannah wanted to throw up. “I didn’t push him. I didn’t push Tom,” she said again. After all this time… She’d thought it was all over, sunk beneath the dark waters of time. But that night would never leave her. “And I had nothing to do with Peter. It wasn’t my fault.”

  “Tom was Rowan’s boyfriend, wasn’t he?” asked Detective Stewart conversationally. “In high school. Someone thought maybe you were upset with him because he rejected you.”

  Her blood went cold. “Rowan broke up with him.”

  “It’s just interesting,” said Detective Munroe. “That all these people close to Rowan are cleared out of your way, and then you show up on her
Instagram. Her new best friend. You’re getting your own followers now. Building your own brand. Dressing a lot like her.”

  The Benadryl wasn’t working, because Hannah’s whole body was shaking now. “I don’t know how Peter died.”

  The room went silent, and she realized she’d made a mistake, but she was too dizzy to figure out what it was.

  Detective Stewart’s dark eyes were piercing. “We didn’t say he died.”

  Oh shit. “I just assumed.”

  “Why?” asked Detective Munroe. “A minute ago, you were asking if he was okay. Now you think he’s dead?”

  Think fast. “I drew that conclusion based on your questions. They wouldn’t get detectives involved if he wasn’t. But I don’t know what happened to him.”

  They stared at her, then Detective Munroe asked, “Do you have a baseball cap, Hannah?”

  “Yes.” She’d answered too quickly, before she had time to think about the implications.

  “What does it look like?”

  “It’s a regular Red Sox cap.”

  The fan buzzed overhead, but the whistle in her mind rose higher, the sound that made her nerve endings snap with fear and anger. She tried to stay rational, to remind herself that this was her fight-or-flight response, that her anxiety was building so much that her prefrontal cortex could no longer regulate the pure emotion of her amygdala. But the whistle drowned out her own thoughts, and she had nothing else to say.

  She stared at the table, shaking her head.

  She needed to talk to the others again. She needed their help, because this plan of theirs wasn’t working at all. The pressure was building up in her mind, the sound screeching louder and louder, until she was sure her skull would explode.

  Thirty-Five

  Rowan sat in the back of the Uber, staring at the dark streets of Cambridge as they whooshed past. Her head spun.

  She looked down at the little gold bracelet on her wrist, tracing her fingertip over the delicate chain.