by Kate White
“I know this isn’t an easy time,” he says, “and I’m going to do everything possible to help you through it. I’ve already had the chance to check in with Nick, and I’ll debrief soon with each of you individually about your interview with the state police. But since it’s late, and we need everyone to be fresh over the next days, why don’t I give you a brief overview now, and touch base with you tomorrow. Sound good?”
We all nod without enthusiasm.
“Unfortunately, tomorrow’s going to be another tough day,” he continues. “The police will be back, searching the property. We’ve given them permission to do so, but not, let me stress, to enter the house or any of the outbuildings. I suggest doing your best to avoid contact with them, and under no circumstances should you answer any questions. If any of them asks you a question, you can just politely say they should speak to me first. That goes for any requests from the media as well. Frankly, I’m surprised they’re not here yet, but they’ll turn up soon enough. Do you have any questions?”
“I have one,” Marcus says. “What about going back to the city at some point? Are we allowed to leave?”
Mizel cocks his head a little to one side. “They aren’t actually requiring that you remain here, but I’d advise staying put for as long as feasible,” he says. “For starters, we want to present a united front. And since the police will surely have additional questions as the investigation proceeds, you might end up having to rush back here if you leave now.”
Marcus nods, and I see Keira bite her lip. There are no other questions, so Ash announces he wants to let Paul get on the road, and the lawyer departs with a promise to speak to us early tomorrow.
“A couple more things,” Ash says after we have the room to ourselves. “For starters, I’m postponing the burial for a few days. This isn’t the time for it. Also, we do have four extra bedrooms in the house, besides the one Marcus and Keira are using, so if any of you would feel more comfortable sleeping here, you’re more than welcome. It seems impossible to believe that the sick monster who killed Jillian will show up on the property again, but there are no guarantees.”
So that’s the official Keaton stance on the matter: that a psychopathic, probably random killer is to blame for Jillian’s death.
Looking grim as gravestones, the family members rise and disperse. Gabe nearly dashes out of the room, but I catch up with him in the hall.
“Do you want to stay here, in the house?” I ask quietly.
“No, we’ll be okay in the cottage,” he says, his tone still aloof. “There are decent locks on the doors.”
I take a moment to tell Ash that I’ve given Bonnie the next day off and then, after shoving leftover food from the sidebar into the fridge, I start with Gabe down the path to the cottage, neither of us saying a word. Though the sky is overcast, the rain never came, I realize. As soon as we’re inside the cottage, with the door locked and the lights on, I turn to Gabe.
“Honey, you have to believe me,” I say. “I wasn’t accusing you of anything earlier. I’d never think you could hurt Jillian. That’s absurd.”
“Maybe not Jillian. But you acted like I was dancing on my mother’s grave.”
“That’s not what I meant. It’s just that the timing of everything caught me off guard. And though this isn’t an excuse, I’ve felt in the dark about a lot of things lately. I had no idea you’d been having issues with Jillian. No idea you spoke to her.”
“Well, how about you witnessing that scene between Jillian and my father and not informing me?”
“That was because Marcus wanted to be the one to tell you . . . . Please, Gabe, we need each other now more than ever. We can’t let there be a rift between us.”
He sighs deeply. “Okay. Okay.”
This seems like the best I can hope for tonight.
“How did your interview go?” I ask gently.
“Ugh, it was exactly like Blake warned me. They clearly think one of us did it. But my brain’s too fried to talk about it now.”
“Okay. I’m going to pour myself a glass of wine to help me sleep. Do you want one?”
“No. All I want is to be in bed.”
As he mounts the stairs, I open one of the Spanish riojas and settle at the kitchen table to unwind for a few minutes. I pick up my phone, which I’ve barely looked at today.
It turns out I haven’t missed much. There’s an email from my agent saying she’s booked me for yet another voice-over job a week from Monday. I’m glad for the news, but it’s hard to derive any thrill from it right now.
Taking another sip of wine, I move on to texts, and see that there’s a new one from Billy Dean. I’ve been so caught up in today’s horror show that I’ve completely forgotten about our conversation. He’s not only done his homework but dropped a bombshell.
Hannah DID go to USC but was kicked out soph year. Don’t know why yet, but apparently it was very fishy. Still working on it. U really owe me for this one, sweetheart.
It doesn’t line up with what Wendy’s guy dug up for her, but it makes total sense, given Claire’s hint to me about Hannah’s undergrad years. Is this what she discovered? Is it even relevant to anything? I’m so confused tonight, I don’t even know how to evaluate this piece of information.
The rain finally starts, drumming on the cottage roof. I take one last sip of wine and struggle up from the chair. Passing through the sitting room, I check that the French doors are locked, too. To my relief, the latch is on.
Ash’s words from earlier play again in my head—that a sick monster somehow found his way onto the property today and murdered Jillian. If only, I think. Because for all I know, the monster is right here in our midst.
25
The next morning, I head over to the main house just after seven. Gabe and I both woke early after a restless night—when he wasn’t thrashing around in bed, I was. Though things still feel strained between us, we at least had coffee together and managed a few words of conversation. About the text he got from Henry, via Amanda’s phone, saying he was sad to be gone. About the fact that it’ll be warm today but with thunderstorms expected in the late afternoon or evening.
Nothing, however, about Jillian’s murder or the investigation. I don’t think either of us wanted to go there this morning.
I’d brought Gabe’s keys to the house in case no one was up yet, but it turns out I don’t need them. The kitchen door is unlocked, and once inside I’m greeted by the aroma of fresh coffee wafting from a mostly full carafe. Though the dogs aren’t anywhere in sight, there’s fresh food in their bowls.
I pour myself a cup of coffee and then kick operation modified continental breakfast into gear. I dig out muffins and bagels from the bread drawer and drop them in a basket, which I cart outside along with plates, cups, a loaf of bread, and a bowl of fresh berries. Other family members, I’m sure, will chip in and help as the day progresses. I wonder how Claire would feel if she knew anyone besides her or Bonnie was running the kitchen right now.
Claire. For the first time since last night, I revisit Amanda’s bitter view of her, that she needed to control everything, particularly her children’s lives and destinies. On the one hand, it doesn’t seem like the Claire I knew, and yet it echoes recent comments from both Wendy and Ellen about her being extremely judgmental. And hadn’t she dug up a damaging secret about Hannah, one that led her to say, You do the right thing—or I will?
Maybe I didn’t know my mother-in-law as well as I thought I did. Was I in denial all this time about who she was and what she was capable of?
My attention is torn away as the door to the dining room opens and Nick saunters into the kitchen, dressed in khaki shorts and a wrinkled pink polo shirt, his hair rumpled.
“Morning,” he says, stifling a yawn and letting the door swing closed behind him.
“Morning, Nick. Did you decide to sleep in the house last night?”
“Yeah. Staying in an isolated carriage house the day after a murder seemed too close to a Scream
sequel for my liking.”
“What about Blake and Wendy?” I ask. I’m eager to tell Wendy about Billy’s text from last night.
“Yup, they’re here, too. She seems pretty shaken. I think they’d love to get out of here, just like the rest of us, but we’re all sitting tight for now.” His gaze briefly roams the countertops. “Any clue where Bonnie’s stashing the muffins?”
“I put a basket of them out on the patio.”
“Sweet, thanks, Summer.”
“Before you leave, can I ask how your debrief with Paul went? I want to know what to expect.” What I want even more is to observe Nick when he answers a question or two about yesterday. I’m wondering if he’s worried the police might suspect him. And though I hate to admit it to myself, I’m still wondering if he actually killed Jillian, thinking it was Hannah.
“It was all right, I guess. He seems like a smart guy.”
“I’m so sorry about yesterday, by the way. Telling you Hannah was dead. That must have terrified you.”
He shakes his head. “Yeah, I wouldn’t want to repeat that moment, but I can see now how you made the mistake.”
“Bonnie thought it was Hannah, too,” I say, studying his face. “Because she’d seen her walking across the lawn earlier, like she was going for a walk.”
“Right, Hannah mentioned she might do that.”
Nick’s never been a good liar. I used to wonder how he managed to succeed in real estate, but I guess people in that game often hear what they want to hear. And because he’s a gregarious, expressive guy, it’s always been easy for me to notice his tells—either his body language won’t match what his face is saying, or he’ll scratch the side of his nose.
Well, he’s scratching his nose at the moment. Is he simply feeling embarrassed that he and Hannah had been fighting and he had no clue what she was up to?
He excuses himself to grab a muffin. As he slips out the back door, I feel a pang of guilt, for sitting here in this room I’ve always felt so happy in while trying to get a bead on my brother-in-law, attempting to sense whether or not he’s a murderer.
I sigh, then try to redirect my anxiety. I collect the remaining dishes from the dining room, wipe the sideboard with a wet sponge, and then check the living room. As I’m returning through the hall, carrying a couple of drinking glasses, I hear a faint sound from the side corridor and turn to investigate.
Hannah’s standing in there, her hand in the pocket of one of the slickers.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“What am I doing? Why does that matter to you?” Her haughtiness might have been subdued yesterday, but it’s back full throttle now.
“It just does.”
“Well, if you must know, I wore one of these coats yesterday and I left my earbuds in them.”
She’s obviously telling the truth because the next moment she extracts two wireless earbuds from the pocket and holds them up for me. “Satisfied?”
“Actually, no. You shouldn’t be around here. Jillian was wearing one of the slickers yesterday and the police might need to examine this area later.”
“How do you know that?” she asks.
“I watch cop shows. Police examine things.”
“No, I mean how do you know what she was wearing?”
“Because I saw her body, remember?”
She hesitates briefly and then brushes past me, looking suddenly flustered. It’s easy to see that a certain thought is starting to form in her head, the way it formed in mine.
When I return to the kitchen, I spot Wendy through the window, sitting alone at the table under the pergola and drinking what must be a cup of tea. Just the person I wanted to see. I step outside and wish her good morning.
“Hi,” she says, her voice subdued. “Want to join me?”
“I’d love to.” I slide into the chair across from hers. “How’d you sleep?”
“Staying upstairs beat being in the carriage house, but mainly I want to get out of here.”
“I know, and hopefully it won’t be much longer.” I pitch forward in my chair a little, so she can hear me as I lower my voice to tell her about the text from Billy. I’m worried she’s going to think I’m beating a dead horse, but her expression reads pensive, not annoyed.
“Okay, my bad,” she says. “I told my guy to only find out if she’d actually attended USC, not whether she graduated. She must have done something pretty serious to get thrown out on her ass, right?”
“I know,” I say, grateful to have her interest back. “What do you think it could be?”
“People get expelled from college for plagiarism, but do you write many term papers in a school for dramatic arts?” I shake my head. “Maybe she presented someone else’s play or screenplay as her own. Or cheated in another way?”
“I wish we could find out.”
“Let me go back to my guy and ask him to dig deeper.”
“Thanks so much, Wendy.” If only Gabe was this receptive to my concerns. “I know we have a lot going on here, but I don’t want to let this go in case it’s a serious issue.”
I’m about to rise when I see Wendy’s attention snagged by something behind me. I turn to see four state troopers tramping across the yard, obviously headed for the crime scene. Two of them nod in greeting. Wendy and I return the gesture and then immediately look away, not wanting to encourage any further interaction.
“What do you think they’re looking for?” she whispers.
“Evidence, I guess. Footprints through the woods—though the rain last night must have washed those away. Even the murder weapon.”
She pulls her lips into a gesture of distaste. “Do you think they’ve found it yet?”
I shrug. “I have no idea.”
There wasn’t anything lying by the body, at least that I noticed. And then I see Jillian in my mind all over again, the vultures tearing flesh from the wound with their beaks. I shake my head, trying to chase the image away.
“What?” Wendy asks.
“Nothing.” I’m not really supposed to be discussing the crime scene. In fact, I probably shouldn’t have mentioned the detail about the slicker to Hannah, I’m realizing now.
With the troopers now out of sight, I bid Wendy good-bye and return to the cottage and to Gabe. In an attempt to busy myself, I strip the sheets from Henry’s bed, make cups of coffee that I don’t end up drinking, and try to read the news online—which Gabe seems to be doing, too—but I feel so anxious it’s impossible to focus.
Just after eleven Paul Mizel, the attorney, calls my cell, asking if I have a few minutes to talk. I relocate to the kitchen and ease the door closed. It’s not that I have any secrets from Gabe about the events of the last twenty-four hours, but he seems to be doing his best to chill and I don’t want to disturb him.
“So you’re aware,” Paul starts, “I’m acting—for the time being at least—as ‘pool counsel.’ This means I’m representing and guiding all of you. There might come a time when people need or want separate representation, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
His words send a chill through me. I’m not a lawyer—and, ha, I’ve never even played one on TV—but it seems the only reason one of us would need to splinter from the pack isn’t a good one.
“Understood,” is all I say.
“Let’s work our way backward, shall we?” he says in a polite but efficient way. “I’d like to hear all the questions you were asked last night.”
I go through the interview in as much detail as I can recall, and when I finish up by telling him how the red-haired detective insinuated that family members must have been getting on each other’s nerves, he says, “Good, that’s exactly the kind of information I need to be aware of. Now tell me what you can about the crime scene.”
I do my best to describe what I saw, including the wound.
“Could it have been a bullet wound?” he asks.
“Uh, I’ve been wondering about that. If she’d been shot with a hunter’
s rifle—and as you’ve probably heard, there’ve been hunters around—I think the wound would have been bigger and messier. To me, it looked like a puncture wound, made with something very sharp.”
“Can you make a guess about the weapon?”
“Maybe a pointy rock. Or . . . a tool even. You know, like the claw part on a hammer—though why would anyone be carrying one around the woods with him?”
“That’s helpful, thank you, Summer.”
“Does that mean the police haven’t found the weapon yet?”
“I don’t know. That’s not something they’d tell me or anyone else at this stage, because they don’t want people being interviewed to tailor their stories to the evidence or lack thereof.”
I nod even though he can’t see me. “Makes sense.”
“My guess, though, is that they haven’t found it. They asked how much of that wooded area belongs to the Keatons, which means they’re planning a wider search today. And they’re eager to get into the house as soon as they can.”
“Are you going to let them?”
“They don’t have a warrant at this point, so for now, no. Listen, Summer, I hate to wrap this up, but I have a few more people to touch base with this morning.”
“Sure,” I say, and sign off.
I wasn’t expecting his call to be all warm and fuzzy, but I’d been hoping for something reassuring, like the fact that the police already suspected a local hunter and were conducting a house-to-house search or had put out an APB or whatever they’re called. But our conversation has only unsettled me more.
About sixty seconds after I hang up, I hear Gabe’s phone ring, followed by the sound of the French doors to the patio opening. He must be talking to Mizel now.
I hadn’t planned to leave the cottage, but as Gabe’s voice drones from the patio, I find myself drifting out the front door and along the flagstone path. The yard is empty, and I assume the troopers I saw earlier are off in the woods.
I keep moving, something tugging at me that I can’t quite identify. After reaching the patio, I wander to the eastern end of the house, and eventually find myself in front of the potting shed.