“You should take a nap before your meeting,” David told Max after they checked in.
“I don’t nap,” she said.
“Start.”
She ignored him. “Go see Emma’s mother and try to get into her good graces for the week. If you’re not back by five, I’ll take a taxi to my meeting with Detective Martin.”
He glanced at his watch, then turned and left her suite without further comment.
You need to stay out of it, Max. She suspected David’s advice was not only directed toward her relationship with Nick.
While Max had three hours, she had no time to take it easy—for a soak in the Jacuzzi bath or for a nap. First, she unpacked. She hated living out of suitcases. She’d done that for the first ten years of her life. She took the time to put away her clothes in drawers or hang them up in her closet. She unpacked her toiletries into the bathroom drawers, then frowned. There was no bathtub. The shower was large and wide, but no Jacuzzi. Dammit.
She caught a glance of herself in the mirror. David was right; she looked tired. A cross-country flight would do that, and she hadn’t slept well last night. Insomnia was par for the course—when Max did sleep, she slept deep, but when she woke up, whether it was 2:00 A.M. or four or six, she could never get back to sleep. Last night she went to bed at eleven and woke up at two. And that was it.
Once she stowed her suitcases, she went to the living room and opened the doors that led to the balcony. The salty air of the San Francisco Bay refreshed her and the mild headache that had followed her from New York faded. The bright blue sky crystallized the bay, jewels of light sparkling as far as she could see, the water dotted with boats. She loved Sausalito, a community nestled on the edge of the bay, with unique shops, delicious restaurants, and numerous bike trails.
Sitting on a chair on the balcony, she kicked off her shoes. She could take a minute before getting to work. The last time she’d stayed at the Madrona had been solely for pleasure. Was it really three years ago? Before she’d started hosting “Maximum Exposure,” she’d had a major argument with her then-lover, FBI Agent Marco Lopez, and Max had traveled almost as far from Miami as she could get while remaining in the continental United States. Still, Marco had followed her. They’d argued and made up, basically the cycle of their on-again/off-again relationship. After a weekend of hot sex, good food, and invigorating sailing she’d talked herself into the false idea that everything would work out between them.
The peace didn’t last. Marco wanted to change her. Max didn’t want to change, and resented that Marco thought he could mold her into his perfect woman. And how many times had he interfered with her job?
She didn’t want to change—and Marco couldn’t change. That it took her so long to realize the truth was a testament to how much she cared for him and had wanted their tumultuous relationship to work.
If Nancy Santini had been Marco’s ex-wife, he would never have put up with her bullshit. Max instantly regretted the thought. Comparing Nick to Marco—she didn’t want to go down that path.
Nick wasn’t weak. He more than held his own against Max, and she knew she wasn’t the easiest woman to be involved with. Nick was methodical and cool-headed and extremely intelligent. She had a thing for smart guys. Nick went above and beyond not to make waves or disrupt his son Logan’s life in any way. She loved how Nick was with his son. How he played baseball with him. How he talked to him daily about schoolwork or sports or movies or whatever Logan was interested in. Yet Max could see, as clear as this beautiful late summer afternoon, that Nancy Santini used Nick’s love for and desire to protect his son as a weapon against him.
“Stay out of it,” she whispered, trying to take David’s advice to heart.
Maybe it was best that Nick had canceled this weekend. Max didn’t know if she could have kept her mouth shut for that long about Nancy.
Her stomach growled and she considered ordering room service, but Max didn’t like eating in her hotel room. Back inside, she unpacked her carry-on—her laptop and all the files related to the Ivy Lake investigation. She unrolled a long piece of butcher paper and affixed it to the wall next to the desk. At home she’d created the timeline based on the facts: when Ivy was killed was the midpoint. Prior to that event was the suicide of Heather Brock, the girl who’d allegedly been bullied by Ivy so severely that she’d killed herself. “Allegedly,” only because Max had seen none of the evidence—Ivy’s social media accounts had been taken down, Heather’s family hadn’t returned Max’s call, and no police charges had been filed against Ivy or her family.
There had been a civil case filed by the Brock family, but the filing wasn’t yet online. Max had read a copy that had been sent to her, but it was poor quality and names had been redacted because they were minors. None of the exhibits had been attached. Still, the allegations had been serious.
It wasn’t that Max necessarily assumed Heather’s suicide had anything to do with Ivy’s murder … but two teenage deaths in six months in a town as small as Corte Madera? Her staff was putting together an archive of all of Ivy Lake’s deleted social media pages. Most people thought once something was deleted from the Internet it was gone forever but that was rarely the case. Time, skill, and sometimes bribery could retrieve almost everything. Heather Brock’s family would likely have documentation to prove their civil case.
Max changed into a sundress that, with a light jacket, would work for her meeting with Grace Martin, then she grabbed her oversized purse and left the hotel in search of a light meal. Later tonight she and David had reservations at Scoma’s, one of her favorite seafood restaurants, but a salad or sandwich would tide her over until then.
The streets were crowded, and while Max thrived in the pace of New York City, the crowds in California didn’t move. They crept along, stopping without warning or care, meandering and blocking the way, unmindful of anyone possibly in a hurry right behind them. East Coast, West Coast … two completely different mentalities.
She crossed the street and as she stepped up on the curb noticed a kid who looked familiar. Odd, considering she didn’t know anyone here … she looked again. He was about thirteen and carried a skateboard. It took her a second, but she thought she’d seen him earlier, outside the hotel when she and David had first arrived.
Max never forgot a face. This kid had been at her hotel and was watching her. Dark hair in need of a haircut weeks ago, dark eyes following her. When she caught his eye, he immediately turned away.
Max could ignore him, but that wasn’t in her nature. She strode toward him, brushing past lazy tourists window-shopping. As soon as the kid saw her approach, he hopped on his skateboard and tried to speed up, but he had the same problem that she did—people—so he stepped off the sidewalk and into the street.
Signs everywhere stated that skateboarding was prohibited, but he didn’t care. He took off in the bike lane with a glance back to her, a half grin on his face.
Max was irritated, but curious. Who knew she was in town? Nick. Detective Grace Martin. Tommy Wallace. The kid wasn’t eighteen, so couldn’t be Tommy. And the Wallaces lived in Corte Madera, ten miles north.
Max gave up. She couldn’t keep up with the kid. Frustrated, she entered a nearby café and ordered a salad and a glass of white wine. She pulled her iPad out of her purse and started reviewing the Ivy Lake files sent by her staff. She skimmed the file names and descriptions, looking for photos. She spotted the Wallaces wedding announcement from seven years ago.
She tapped on the screen to open the pdf file. It was a page from the local paper, saved from their online archive. Bill Wallace had married Paula Alden Lake. They’d included their wedding picture—a bit elaborate, Max thought, considering it was a second marriage for both of them—as well as an engagement picture that showed their entire blended family sitting around a park bench, with San Francisco Bay behind them. Bill’s two children, Tommy and Amanda, then eleven and nine, stood behind the couple; Paula’s two children, Ivy and Austin, then ten and si
x, sat on either side of the couple. Boys on the left, girls on the right. Artistically, the photo was perfect. White shirts and jeans—trendy for family photos—contrasted well with the red bench, blue sky, and darker water. Green grass around the edges. It was the kind of picture families framed and hung above the fireplace.
The only one of the six with a genuine smile was Tommy. The engaged couple looked as if they were made of plastic, heads tilted toward each other just so, too perfect smiles on attractive faces. Amanda had forced a smile; Ivy had a closed-mouth I-have-a-secret grin; and Austin … he wasn’t smiling or frowning.
It was Austin who’d been on his skateboard following Max from the hotel.
Here in the photograph, he seemed contemplative, looking older than his years. His eyes—sharp. The kind of eyes that her great-grandmother would call “an old soul.”
She’d often told Max that she was an old soul.
Max surprisingly felt a kick of nostalgia and grief thinking about her great-grandmother Genie who’d died twelve years ago, when Max was nineteen. She should have had more time with her.
Thinking more about Austin, Max drained her wine and closed her iPad.
Max had e-mailed Tommy on Thursday to tell him she’d decided to look into his stepsister’s death and would be in town “next week.” She hadn’t been specific because she hadn’t finalized her arrangements with Nick. She rarely gave anyone outside of the people she worked with her entire itinerary. She usually wanted a day or two to immerse herself in the community, talk to people before they found out she was a reporter, visit the crime scene without anyone waiting for her or pushing her to think one way or the other. In her head, Max started with a pencil sketch about each cold case she investigated, faint lines that gave her a direction based on the information she knew and the research she’d done. She fleshed the picture out with her own impressions, then added detail and color by talking to the individuals involved. Family. Friends. Law enforcement. Suspects.
Max had planned to talk to Austin. She’d prefer to get his mother’s permission, but she wasn’t sure yet how she was going to handle the investigation and wouldn’t know until after she’d spoken to Detective Martin. According to Tommy, his stepmother thought he’d killed his stepsister, so Max couldn’t know if Paula Wallace would support her involvement.
Max would have to tread carefully. She’d let it go for now. Austin was long gone, and this time alone gave her the chance to review her notes and maybe even dig around a little more on Tommy’s stepbrother.
Max’s instincts twitched. She sent a note off to Ben to find out if anyone on staff had fielded a call about her today. As a reporter, she had to be accessible, but her staff would not give anyone her exact location. Could a thirteen-year-old boy have conned one of them into giving out her hotel information? Possibly.
Just because he was a kid didn’t mean he wasn’t a seasoned liar.
* * *
Before hopping a bus back to Corte Madera, Austin made sure that the reporter wasn’t following him.
He’d almost blown it.
He probably shouldn’t have sat outside the hotel, waiting for her to arrive. What had he expected? Well, he knew what he expected—he expected her not to show up. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe she would … but most people disappointed him. And she’d never told Tommy when she’d get here. If she sent that e-mail, then changed her mind, Tommy would be distraught. He was already nervous about sending her the letter.
But then Emma had called him last night.
“I can’t talk long, my mom is in one of those moods,” Emma said.
“You can come over,” Austin said, both hopeful and nervous at once.
“I don’t dare leave my room. But I overheard her talking to my dad. Max will be here tomorrow. I don’t know what time, but my dad is coming over tomorrow afternoon.”
“That’s cool.” Austin was cautiously optimistic. He didn’t want to tell Tommy, just in case.
“Not really,” said Emma.
“I thought you liked your dad.”
“Of course I do! I just hate how my mom is when he’s around.”
“Divorce sucks.”
“Yeah, well, maybe—anyway, I gotta go.”
“Wait—where’s she staying?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know—I guess I’m just surprised she’s really coming.”
“I told you she would. I’ll find out and text you. I really gotta go.”
Austin considered going to Emma’s and waiting until her mom went to bed, then texting her to meet him at the park. It’s not like anyone would miss them for an hour or two, or that they’d be doing anything wrong. Emma’s mom was ultrastrict, but Austin’s mom mostly didn’t give a shit what he did. All he wanted to do was talk with Emma. Try to figure out what was going to happen when the reporter came and what he should say to her.
But Austin didn’t want to get Emma in trouble, so he didn’t go. He was jumpy. He didn’t know what to expect, and that kinda scared him. He really didn’t think a famous reporter with her own TV show would actually come here to Corte Madera all the way from New York just to find out who killed Ivy. Why? Ivy wasn’t anyone special. Truthfully, she was a total bitch and Austin hated her.
Guilt washed over him as he turned his face against the bus window. Ivy was dead. She wasn’t coming back. He must be an awful person not to miss his own sister. He’d never wanted her dead, he just wanted her gone. And now she was, but things were even worse than before. Tommy was banned from the house and Austin’s mom wanted to keep Bella too busy to be sad. She had to make sure Bella was entertained 100 percent of the time. Ballet. Gymnastics. Playdates. Bella was starting kindergarten tomorrow and you’d think it was the first day of college with all the supplies and clothes his mother had bought for the kid. Austin knew his mother missed Ivy, but she didn’t really know Ivy. She didn’t even want to. She ignored everything that didn’t fit into her pretty box. Now Ivy was on this pedestal, all perfect and glowing like an angel, and if anyone said one word that wasn’t about how perfect and beautiful Ivy was, his mom would lose it. Austin steered clear of home whenever possible, and no one missed him. He had baseball in the spring, and in the summer he just rode his bike and hung out with Tommy.
Of course, he couldn’t tell his mom he saw Tommy nearly every day. She’d have a shit fit.
The bus ride was short, but Austin was antsy and couldn’t wait for the doors to open. Hopping off, he walked to the bike rack, stowed his skateboard on his bike, and unlocked it. Today was his first day not being grounded in two weeks. He supposed he had his stepdad to thank for it, but he didn’t like thanking Bill for anything. It was just as much Bill’s fault as his mother’s for Tommy not being at the house. Ivy had once said Bill was pussy-whipped. At the time, Austin had no idea what it meant, so he asked someone at school. He wished he hadn’t. He knew all about sex, but he sure didn’t want to think about his mom that way.
Still, it fit Bill Wallace. He’d do anything Paula said, even if that meant kicking his own son Tommy out of the house for no good reason.
Jerk.
Austin rode his bike the two miles from the bus stop to Tommy’s house. It was a trek he made all the time.
Maxine Revere had better do what she promised. Emma thought she was some sort of superwoman, but Austin was skeptical. Why did she care what happened to Ivy? No one else did. His mom said she did, but she already had her mind made up. She didn’t care about the truth, she only wanted to hurt Tommy.
Tommy, who used to be a happy guy, wasn’t happy anymore. Before Ivy was killed, Austin and Tommy would bike to his house after school because Tommy’s mom Jenny Wallace often worked late and Tommy’s sister was either out or in her room talking on the phone or doing homework. Tommy didn’t like being alone. They’d play video games, or go to the park, or watch cartoons. Tommy loved cartoons. “SpongeBob SquarePants,” “the Fairly OddParents,” and his favorite—“Jimmy Neutron.” Bill had an old co
llection of “Looney Tunes,” which he would let them watch, and Tommy could watch Bugs Bunny for hours. He didn’t like the Road Runner because he said the Road Runner made Wile E. Coyote feel stupid. They’d take Bella to the park down the street and Tommy never got tired of pushing her on the swing or spinning her on the merry-go-round. He’d play as long as Bella wanted, or until it was time to go home for dinner.
All that ended last year. Now Austin lied about where he was going so he could hang with Tommy. Sometimes he snuck out of the house. His mom didn’t care, so Austin grew careless. Two weeks ago she’d caught him sneaking back into the house—someone had ratted him out, probably Tommy’s old fart neighbor. Austin didn’t mind so much being grounded, but now Tommy thought it was his fault that Austin got in trouble.
Ever since Paula wouldn’t let Tommy come to Bella’s birthday party, Austin had known they had to do something. Paula had even told Bill that all the other mothers were scared of Tommy, that they didn’t trust him around their little girls. Paula said no one would come to Bella’s party if Tommy was there and she would be heartbroken. Austin didn’t believe his mother—but Bill did.
Tommy had cried. Austin didn’t know what to do. He went to his mom and pleaded with her to let Tommy come to the party. When she said no, Austin found her favorite earrings in the bathroom and pushed them down the drain. She would never find them.
Tommy still talked about the party.
“Did you give Bella my present? The baby doll with the pretty blue eyes and the pink dress? Pink is Bella’s favorite color.”
“She loves the doll, Tommy. She sleeps with her every night.” That was the truth.
“Did you tell her thank you for the piece of cake? I love cake almost as much as ice cream.”
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