The dark Hermès blazer Ava wore to the courthouse—a gift from Claire, she’d said—that Joanne was convinced would fit a ten-year-old was there. Expensive looking even from across the room, the dulled gold buttons, the attention to fit and detail. Ava would throw it on over black trousers for work, or ripped jeans in the evening. The ultimate I-have-money luxury item. She ran her fingers over the fabric. Wool? Or a wool-cashmere blend? It was soft and gorgeous.
Joanne slung it over her arm and peered into Claire’s bedroom. The duvet had been pulled up hastily, the pillows haphazard. A towel was hanging on the knob of the bathroom door. Joanne reached out and then hesitated, her fingers afraid to touch it. When she clasped it, it was damp. She stared, trying to put the pieces together. A real-estate woman might make coffee or bring a sandwich to an open house, and maybe even smoke in the kitchen, but there’s no way she’d be showering. She pushed the bathroom door open and looked inside. There were drops of water still clinging to the shower door.
Just then she heard a noise. A scraping coming from downstairs. She froze, her whole body listening. Damn it, it could be Russell. Then she heard it again. Louder. She slunk to the wall and waited. It was a rattling, like someone was pulling at the windows. Then nothing. She tried to slow her breaths. Then the unmistakable sound of a door opening somewhere in the house.
The office. She needed to get to the office. She yanked off her boots and slid across the hallway. When she pulled the closet door open, she saw it was filled with boxes. She shoved them to the side and sat with her back to the wall. Her head dropped to her knees and she breathed. She still had the blazer, now balled up in her lap.
Her fingers ran over the buttons, tracing the H repeatedly. Joanne wasn’t letting it go. Not until she saw her friend wearing it again. Not until she could stand next to her at the Victor Club and see her throw back vodka on the rocks or shots of tequila with the blazer draped over the back of a chair.
A close-by noise jolted her. Joanne squeezed the fabric in her fist. Someone was in the hallway. She heard the scuffle of feet, then saw the flicker of light. Whoever it was thought better of it and left the lights off. More shuffling of feet.
It’s not Russell. He’d never do that and draw attention to the house.
Joanne’s heart began to pick up its pace. She’d been wrong. So wrong. The thing to fear most in coming here was not that she might get caught by the police and possibly arrested. It was this—being trapped with no one to rescue her.
She heard movement close by, maybe just in the doorway of the office. Soft rustling. Then a whispering voice. The door to the closet was open a crack, the office was shadowed, but from Joanne’s vantage point she could see the back of a woman, tallish, wearing a bulky coat. The woman moved, seeming to take in the room, then muttering the word merde. Then a rattling of French words in a low tone.
Joanne knew enough French from hanging by Ava’s side to know that merde meant shit. The muttering got closer, and Joanne sensed she’d moved nearer to the closet. Joanne peered through the crack to see her back as she turned. Thin face, hair cut just to her shoulders. The hood was bunched up so her full profile was hidden.
Oh my God. Oh my God. It’s Claire.
Joanne started to push herself up, to crawl from the space in a panic, and then stopped. She dropped back down and put her head into the coat, rocking back and forth. This woman was alive, walking around, calling people on her cell phone, despite the fact that she’d been buried weeks ago. How was this possible?
When her heart slowed down and the sweat left her skin, she realized she was sitting in a closet with a potential murder weapon. She shuddered. The boxes nearby were open, stacked on top of each other. Her fingers reached in one and felt just papers. Papers on top of papers. She turned to the side and pulled at a flap. A small table lamp, an ornate ashtray, some coasters, knickknacks. And then there it was. A collection of three candlesticks. She pulled at one and heard the crash of items falling around it back into the box. Joanne sat still and waited. She counted to sixty. There were no footsteps. She examined the shapes of the candlesticks with her fingers. Two matched, one was odd. Gold, from what she could tell in the light. Heavy. Square. She wrapped the candlestick in the jacket. It was making her skin crawl. The images of the crime scene. The blood. The bodies. That this sharp end might have punctured the woman’s skull.
Her mind jumped to Russell. She realized that he might show up and have no idea anyone else was in the house. She had to warn him about this. She immediately went to check her pockets for her phone, then remembered she was wearing leggings.
Her phone was in her glove box three streets over.
CHAPTER 55
Ava’s hair was brushing against his arm. She moved slightly and the strands trailed along his skin.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
She held the glass to her lips and drained the contents. “I’m looking with you. Don’t you want my help?” Her mouth was near his ear, he felt the breaths hit his ear and smelled the wine at the same time. He glanced up, seeing she was biting her top lip as she read over his shoulder.
He smiled. “I need your help. But maybe you should start over there.” He pointed. “You’re distracting me.”
“Am I?” She leaned down so her chin rested on his shoulder. He picked up his own glass and realized it was empty. It had been full only ten minutes before. “Do you need a refill?” she asked, taking it from him, letting her fingers touch his for a moment.
He knew what she was doing but he couldn’t understand why. The timing was weird and it seemed forced, even through the three glasses of wine he’d consumed. He wasn’t against a woman taking the lead, but it was almost like she was putting on a performance.
She set his glass back in front of him. It was filled right to the rim. “Drink. It’s going to be a long night.” Then she sat on the edge of the desk, covering some of the photographs he’d been looking at.
He picked up the glass, trying to keep the wine from spilling over the edge. The redness dripped all over everything, the desk, papers, his hands. She licked the wine from his skin and leaned in to kiss him.
He moved back. “Ava?”
“I like you, Russell.” Her words were slurring, melting together. “And there might not be another time.”
He put his hands on her shoulders to keep her from moving. “Why wouldn’t there be another time?”
She leaned so that her mouth was inches from his. “It’s almost all over. You just don’t know it.” Then her lips were on his and he forgot what she’d said. The buzz in his brain was pulling things in and out of focus. He felt her move so that she was in his lap, the lightness of her body against his. “You’re smart. And you’ll get there,” she whispered. “I know you will.”
“Get where?” He was lost in the moment.
“To the end of this,” she said. She unbuttoned her shirt. “And when you do? It’ll be shocking.”
His hands were on her waist, the bones against his fingers. “What’s shocking?” He was swimming; he needed more wine. He started to reach for the glass and she stopped him. “Let me.” She picked it up and moved it to his mouth, tipping it slightly against his lips. “Tell me when.” His mouth was full and he touched the glass, pushing it back and swallowing.
“Enough.” He wiped his mouth with his fingers.
“The truth is shocking.” She kissed him briefly. “And the truth will set all of us free.” Then she laughed. “Well, maybe not all of us. It’ll bury some of us.” She stared at him, her eyes taking on a tenderness he’d never seen in her before. “But know that I like you, Russell. I really like you. It’s why I let Joanne choose you. Now I might be sorry.” She stood up and began unzipping her pants.
“Whad’you mean?” His lips were having trouble forming the words. “Choose me for what?”
She was stripped of her clothes, intoxicated and vulnerable, yet he felt she was completely in control and always had been. She straddled him, pre
ssing into him. “It might have been different with us. With you, maybe.” She kissed him. “But now it can’t be. Just tonight—”
She was beautiful. He thought briefly of Juliette. Then he didn’t. He ran his hands over her body. “Why just tonight?”
“Because if I die, and I might, remember this—Loyal’s house is just the beginning. It’s where we needed to start. Follow the trail from there to Frankford and—”
“What?” He was startled and pulled his hands back.
She pressed her index finger against his lips. “Shh. Listen. To Saint Francis de Sales. Find out the woman’s name. It’ll lead you in a circle back to Claire and Marie. Find the truth. For me?”
Russell buried his face in her hair. It smelled of lavender and Pinot Noir. “Claire’s dead,” he muttered. “And you think you’re going to die? I won’t let that happen.”
“There’s a French expression, sentir le sapin. That’s how I feel.” She rubbed her hand along his neck and then started unbuttoning his shirt. “And yes, Claire’s dead,” she whispered in his ear. “Or is she?”
Russell bolted up. He was sweating, his heart pounding. He looked around. His living room was filled with fading late-afternoon light. He heard the grandfather clock chiming five thirty. He rubbed his head, disoriented. Had that really happened? Was it a dream? It was so vivid. He could still smell her. Russell lifted his fingers to his nose, disoriented, thinking lavender and wine would fill his nostrils.
What had she said? That they needed to start at Loyal’s? And follow the trail back to Claire. And find out the woman’s name. He’d dreamed it. All of it, he was sure.
Juliette came into the room, dressed in jeans and a sweater. “You up, sleepy boy? I went to the store, got steaks for dinner—”
He stood up. “Hold off on the steaks, Jules.” He headed for the steps, taking them two at a time. “I need to get to the house.”
“Now?”
He stopped midway. “You don’t know Joanne. She’s probably there now, breaking a window. I can’t believe I slept so long.”
Juliette smiled, which took Russell by surprise. “Funny. Someone needs to give you a run for your money. Go. Text me on your way home and I’ll start dinner.” She turned to go back to the kitchen when she stopped. “Don’t get caught, Russell. The banks are closed. It’ll be hard getting your bail money tonight.”
He laughed. “Right. Leave me overnight. It might be good for me.”
He kissed her cheek on the way out. “Thanks for understanding.” She simply nodded. “And think about a way to identify the woman who was killed with the priest? That would be great.”
Even when he was driving to Haddonfield, he still felt as if he were in the dream. He could see her face. It was real, but like most dreams, it was fading. Crumbling around the edges. How could she know she was going to die? What was the expression she used? Sentir le sapin. He practiced the syllables over in his head so he wouldn’t forget, though he knew it was nonsense his brain had concocted to sound French. And why did she question whether Claire was really dead or not? It was all surreal and impossible. God, Ava, are you really dead? And what did you get me into?
CHAPTER 56
Marie sat at the bar at the Liberté. The lights were dimmed, and a jazz ensemble played softly in the background. She sipped her martini and stared into the mirror across from her. She was unrecognizable. She’d stopped at Macy’s and had her makeup done, purchasing all the items they’d used to make her eyes jump out of her face, her cheekbones contoured, her lips lightly blushed. Four men had already tried to sit near her, buy her a drink, but she wanted to be alone.
After pondering her options, she’d driven her rusty Hyundai to Philadelphia, parked it at a meter with no intention of ever retrieving it, booked a room at the Sofitel hotel, so very French, and waited.
She thought about an afternoon seventeen years before. Five-year-old Ava had given up her crying fits, only occasionally babbling gibberish in her native tongue, only now and then screaming Mamma, and only once in a blue moon mentioning the events of that night two years before, the details ever fading, changing in the little girl’s mind.
The day had been hot at only nine o’clock in the morning in Bakersfield, California. The sun, searing. Claire had rented a two-bedroom ground-floor apartment in a complex that looked to be filled with unnoticing transients. The air conditioning was only able to pull some of the heaviness from the air. Ava had been whiny and miserable since the sun came up. Crying, sweat collecting on her forehead and rolling down her round cheeks. Claire had tried everything. Cups of cold water, VHS tapes of her favorite shows, toys, dress up. None of it worked.
In desperation she’d filled a shallow wading pool in the front yard with cold water and put Ava in to soak while she made some phone calls. The child stomped and splashed, filled plastic cups with water and poured them out. All was well until a neighbor passed by and stopped to chat with the child, the questions innocuous—Are you having fun? What’s your name? How old are you? Claire was deep in conversation, not concerned about what was happening, until the neighbor hung around, the conversation with the girl taking too long for simple questioning. Claire moved toward them, the phone still against her ear, to hear Ava saying in a loud, clear voice, “My mother is dead. She’s with the angels.” When Claire approached, Ava looked up into her face and pointed at her. “She helped take her to the angels.”
Claire snapped the phone shut, picked the girl up from the water, and smiled at the neighbor. But the older woman wasn’t budging.
“What does she mean by that? She said her mother was killed? And that you helped?” The woman tilted her head to the side, waiting.
“She has an imagination” was all that Claire could manage. “She must have been watching something on television.” The lies, the subterfuge, were still unpracticed. This life was new to Claire.
“Are you her mother?” she asked.
“Of course I am. I’m Joan, by the way,” she lied. Her heart was pounding, but she kept the frozen smile firmly in place.
Ava shook her head. “No. She’s not Mamma.” The pronunciation of that word unmistakably Italian.
“Why would a child say such a thing?”
Claire’s hands began to tremble. “Like I said, television. We need to go now.” Claire turned abruptly and started to walk toward her front door.
“Wait, you said your name was Joan. What’s your last name?” she asked, and Claire shut the front door in her face. Claire and the little girl evacuated the apartment at two in the morning. Their belongings shoved into boxes. Their taillights disappearing down the road and out of California forever.
Family was family. And Marie had been there for it all, helping to pack meager items into cardboard boxes and shove them into the back of the Volvo station wagon—in the snow in North Dakota; in the rain in Edmonds, Washington; in the stifling heat and humidity of Fort Myers, Florida. She’d been torn from convents in the middle of the night, claiming family emergency, the invention of excuses testing her creativity. She’d kept track of Claire, finding her at the Bayside Inn when she disappeared altogether. Marie had been her assistant, confidant, and bank when funds were short. To think this was what it had come to was heartbreaking.
She had no clue where she was going from here. But she didn’t have long to figure it out. She only knew for sure that she was done with the convent. And that her sister’s house was now off limits. She was ready to reinvent herself and move on.
Marie sipped the last drops from her glass and tapped the side of it again. Another one would make three. Her head was starting to buzz. The bartender came and took the glass away, quickly replacing it with a fresh one. Someone sat down on a stool a few away from hers. She sensed his presence before she even turned her head to get a look. He was youngish, maybe early thirties. Dirty-blond hair. He wore a black hoodie with a red hood and red sneakers to match. He glanced at her twice and she noticed his eyes were gray with little speckles of blue. T
he third time, he held her gaze and smiled.
CHAPTER 57
Russell pulled up in front of the house and turned off his engine. How he hated this. The thought of risking his career again to break into a house to try and find a murder weapon from twenty years ago was ludicrous. Why was he putting so much at risk for this woman? The reasons why had apparently jumped onto a hamster wheel and were racing through his brain constantly, to no avail. The answer was elusive.
Ava was elusive. The first time he’d caught sight of her, months before in the courthouse, winding through the halls, her thin body dressed completely in black, he was curious. Curious in a generic way—the culture of the place, a relatively small, incestuous environment, dictated that newbies, particularly women, be vetted, interrogated, sized up, and then pigeonholed. He’d sidled up to her at the snack bar, where she was getting black coffee, no sugar, and made an attempt at small talk.
“Are you new here?” Not original. “I’m Russell. I work over at the Prosecutor’s Office.”
She turned and smiled. Her eyes warming toward him, taking him in. “Ah, a lawyer? How very nice.” Her accent was American but it wasn’t. She took her coffee to a table and sat down as if he didn’t exist.
He followed her only because she’d blown him off. The women who worked in the courthouse were usually friendly, accommodating, flirtatious, or at least tolerant. It helped pass the time. He sat down and saw the flicker of irritation cross her face and then quickly disappear. “I’m not a lawyer. Detective,” he said. “At the Prosecutor’s Office.”
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