by Kate White
“What do you mean, Summer?” Wendy asks. “What’s going on?”
I take a deep breath. “Okay, you’re going to think I’m insane, but bear with me. I’m pretty sure Hannah killed Claire.”
Keira gasps and Wendy’s lips part in surprise, then both women listen in stunned silence as I spill it all: the confrontation with Claire that Henry overheard, the missing foxgloves, the lost jug, the symptoms of digitalis poisoning that Claire presented on Sunday, the fact that Hannah knew the plant was poisonous, the foxglove blossom in my drawer, the newly planted foxgloves.
“I know the individual details don’t seem like much,” I continue, “but when you add them up, the result is impossible to ignore.”
Neither of them says anything. Without warning, I feel myself choke up.
“Please,” I nearly beg, “I need someone to believe me. We can’t let Hannah get away with murder.”
Wendy rises from the table and crosses to me, then touches my shoulder gently.
“It’s not that we don’t believe you, Summer, but it’s a lot to take in.” She turns toward Keira, who’s still frozen in place by the stove. “What do you think, Keira?”
“I don’t know,” she replies. “I’m not a fan of Hannah’s, but poisoning . . . It seems so nineteenth century.”
“And that makes it all the more cunning,” I say. “She was clearly counting on the fact that no one would even consider it.”
“But does that mean there are two murderers around here?” Keira asks. “Hannah and the person who killed Jillian?”
“I . . . I guess so.” It sounds unlikely to me, but if there’s actually only one murderer at large, then what was Hannah’s motive for killing Jillian?
More silence. Even the thunder has ceased. I catch Wendy and Keira shoot nervous side looks at each other.
“Look, Summer,” Wendy says finally. “Why don’t you let me discuss this with Blake? He’s a doctor. He may have a sense of how feasible this could be—and also know what steps we can take to find out more.”
I exhale in what feels like the first time in ten minutes. “That would be so helpful, Wendy,” I tell her. Maybe I should have pushed my conversation with Blake further last night.
A marimba ringtone reverberates faintly from another room.
“That must be mine,” Keira says. “I left it in the hall.”
She hurries from the room, perhaps eager for a chance to escape from me and my lunatic theories.
“Don’t worry,” Wendy says. “Like I said, it’s a lot to digest, but we have your back. Do you have any physical proof whatsoever? Something I can share with Blake?”
“Um, sort of,” I say, and fill her in on what Henry told me earlier and about finding the book.
“Oh wow,” Wendy says, a hand on her chest. “That’s telling. And the book’s there now?”
“Yup.”
She nods. “Okay, I’ll definitely talk to Bl—”
The door opens with a bang. We look over to see Keira, still holding her phone.
“You’re not going to believe this,” she says. “Ash started having trouble breathing on the way home, and they’re in the ER with him.”
“Oh, no,” I exclaim. “Which hospital?”
“It’s about halfway between here and Princeton. The doctor doesn’t think it’s serious. Just stress, maybe the start of a panic attack.”
What if Hannah’s done something to Ash as well?
“Is Blake with them?” Wendy asks urgently.
“No, he’s already on his way back in his own car. He apparently left the meeting early because he wanted to check on you.”
Wendy slips her hand into the pocket of her cotton sweater, yanks out her phone, and immediately taps the screen. “Blake, where are you?” she asks after the call’s clearly gone to voice mail. “Call me. Please.”
“Maybe he’s in that dead zone,” I venture.
I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all. Ash isn’t well. Blake can’t be reached. And we’re alone in the house—with Hannah. Outside, dusk has morphed into darkness and once again I hear a far-off rumble of thunder. The houselights briefly flicker. I glance at the exterior kitchen door to confirm I turned the bolt after returning from the cottage.
Across the room, Keira removes her apron and tells us the lasagna has another thirty minutes to go, and she intends to wait in her bedroom and try to read. She departs without acknowledging the bomb I detonated a few minutes ago. Is she simply going to ignore it?
As soon as she’s gone, I fish out my own phone and text Gabe.
Heard the news. Is there anything I can do? I could Uber there if you need me.
I can’t help but feel a pang that he didn’t reach out to me directly, just counted on Keira to spread the word. Meanwhile, Wendy is still urgently tapping away at her phone screen.
“Still no luck?” I ask.
“No, and it’s worrying me. I think I’ll try calling him from the landline in the den and see if the problem might be with the cell service here. What are you going to do?”
“I guess I’ll wait here.” My gaze drifts to Bella and Ginger, who are both staring at me intently. They’re wigged-out by the thunder, but I also suspect they need a potty break. “And I guess I should take the dogs out.”
“Good idea.” As she steps toward the door, she turns back and smiles wanly at me. “I’ll talk to Blake tonight, I promise.”
“Thanks, Wendy, I appreciate that so much.”
I’m pretty sure I can count on her to inform him. But will it be couched in the words Summer’s gone insane? I have this terrible feeling that I might regret sharing my knowledge with my sisters-in-law, that nothing will result except a widening of the rift between Gabe and me.
Desperate for a task to slow my pulse, I whisk together olive oil and vinegar for the salad, then check my phone, hoping that Gabe’s texted me back, but there’s nothing. The only ones eager for contact with me appear to be Bella and Ginger, who are now waiting anxiously by the kitchen door. I wish I could stall and take them out when everyone’s back, but it wouldn’t be fair.
I flick on the outdoor lights from the switch in the kitchen, unlock the door, and cautiously step outside, glancing up and down the patio. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. The coywolf? A sexual predator? All I know for sure is that it’s dark out here, and there’s an aggressive wind whipping through the tree leaves. I’m under the pergola so it takes a minute for me to realize that it’s finally raining now.
“Stay,” I yell to the dogs, who by now are off the patio and sniffing around the lawn.
They take their damn sweet time, but I can hardly blame them. How much have they even been out today? As they press their noses into the wet grass, I stand near the doorway, my arms crossed over my chest, praying they’ll make it quick.
“C’mon,” I call nervously after a couple of minutes. Ginger raises her head with a cheerless expression that seems to ask, Really? but she lumbers toward me obediently, shakes off the rainwater, and trots into the house. Bella, however, refuses to budge. And then just like last night, she suddenly dissolves into the darkness.
“Bella,” I shout. “Get over here.”
A sudden streak of lightning splits the sky directly in front of me, briefly illuminating the night. Bella is now pretty far from the patio, I see, and exploring the underside of a bush. Leaving the back door open, I make a mad dash across the lawn, but as I’m about to swoop her up in my arms, there’s a deafening clap of thunder and she takes off like a rocket toward the area north of the pool.
“Bella,” I scream, unable to see her. “Don’t be stupid.”
I race back to the house, grab her leash from a hook in the kitchen, and nearly rip open the drawer where the flashlights are stored. After grabbing a torch and flicking it on, I tear back outside.
“Bella . . . Bella,” I yell, approaching the end of the pool. The beam of my flashlight bobs as I go, making it hard to focus.
There’s no si
gn of her. Torn between an urge to cry and another to strangle her, I pause long enough to train the light toward the small hill that descends to the tennis court. She might be cowering in the shrubbery there . . . . Nothing.
I start down the hill, being careful not to slip on the slick grass, the wind whipping my hair. Up until now, I’d been helped a little by the glow cast from the house, but I’m beyond it at this point. There’s another huge bolt of lightning and then, almost simultaneously, the deafening sound of thunder rolling over the yard.
Finally, I hear her. A whimpering noise not far ahead. And a rustling, too.
“Bella, come here, girl,” I call. “Bella, please.”
For a split second the wind ceases, and finally Bella inches into the beam of the flashlight.
“Good girl,” I call out. I squat down and reach my arm out to her in a beckoning gesture.
Without warning, she flinches, her eyes trained on a spot behind me and to my right. There’s a movement there, too, which I catch from the corner of my eye. And then a sudden whooshing sound in the dark.
A second later the top of my head explodes in pain.
27
Have I been struck by lightning? The pain’s white-hot, like a wildfire’s radiating from my skull through every inch of me. My legs give out and I pitch forward onto the wet ground, facedown. I try to grab a breath but manage only short, desperate gasps.
Help me, I think. Someone, please.
A dog barks in the darkness. Desperate yaps. Bella. I try to call to her, but nothing escapes my lips. I succeed in moving my hand and fumble for the flashlight but realize it’s rolled to a spot I can’t see. Something’s in my left hand, though. I’m still holding the leash.
Other sounds now. The squeak of a shoe on grass, a swish of fabric. There’s someone behind me.
And then I feel hands on my bare calves. They’re pawing at the fabric of my capris. The person grabs hold with both hands and pulls. Fear shoots through my body, fighting for space with the pain.
I summon whatever energy I can find and heave my body in a half turn to the right. And then the rest of the way. I’m facing upward now, woozy.
I sense the other person stumbling backward, maybe in surprise, and then, a few seconds later, rushing forward again. Feebly, I kick out with one leg, trying to halt the approach.
Even in the dark and rain, I finally see who it is. Because of the hair, the white-blond shock of it.
Wendy.
She’s looming above me, her face twisted as she stares.
“Wendy,” I say, more a moan than a word. “Wha—?”
I don’t understand what’s happening. And my head’s pounding even harder now, the pain practically erasing all thought. Has she come looking for me? But there’s a horrible sneer on her face.
“Help me,” I manage. “Please.”
She’s gripping something—a hammer. But no, not a hammer, another kind of tool, whose head I can make out in outline. My heart lurches. That’s what struck me, I realize. She raises it high now, ready to drive it down on my skull again. I force my left arm up and away from my body, and flick the leash like a whip at her. I barely make contact, but she yelps in surprise and staggers backward.
She comes at me again, the tool raised.
She’s going to crush my skull.
I gasp for air and roll my body again, hurling myself into the shrub next to me. The blow misses my head but nails my shoulder, piercing skin through my shirt. I grunt in pain.
I force myself up onto my hands and knees, trying to fight my way through the shrub. Blood from my head wound runs into my eyes and my mouth, mixing with rain and tasting like metal. In the dense and prickly branches, I cover almost zero ground, and I let out a cry of despair, still trying to crawl. There seems to be no escape.
I see the light then. A flashlight beam, coming from behind and erratically slicing the darkness ahead of me. And a man calling out above the rain.
“Wendy, what the hell’s going on?” I’ve never been so relieved to hear my husband.
“Gabe,” I scream. As I twist around to see him, my head fills with swooshing sounds. “She . . . she’s trying to kill me.”
I sense him jerking back in surprise, halting in his steps.
Please, don’t let her hurt him.
“Get away from her, Wendy,” Gabe shouts.
“You have no idea what’s going on,” Wendy screams.
“I said, get the fuck away from her.”
He charges her, I can tell from the sound, and soon I hear their bodies dropping to the ground with a thud. Then scuffling, shoes slipping on soaking wet grass. I twist my head again, pushing against the pain, but can see only their outlines. I think Gabe’s on top, but I can’t be sure. I let out an anguished cry. “Gabe, are you okay?”
More scuffling. Gabe grunting, I think. Someone struggles to their feet. Gabe.
Then from behind us, the sound of heavy feet, booted maybe, tramping on the ground.
I wiggle a little, edging myself back out of the shrubbery, and raise my head, higher this time. There’s rainwater and blood running in my eyes but I can see two beams of light penetrating the darkness.
“Freeze,” two voices shout in unison.
“She was trying to kill my wife,” Gabe calls out to them, jabbing an arm in my direction.
One of the beams of light ferrets me out, snagging me in the eyes and making me squint.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Wendy protests from the ground. She struggles up and stands. Her clothes are sopping wet, and her hair’s slicked back tight. “I was trying to help her.”
“I said freeze,” someone calls again. It’s a trooper, I realize, from the outline of the hat, two of them actually. A man and a woman. “Every one of you.”
“Please,” I say, not moving a muscle. “I’m injured. She smashed me on the head with some kind of hammer.”
“Are you bleeding?” the female voice asks.
“Yes.”
“You’ve got to help her,” Gabe pleads.
“Officer Belker is going to call you an ambulance,” the male trooper shouts to me. “And I’m going to put the other two of you in cuffs until we sort this out. Then we’re going to wait for a second unit before we escort you back to the house.”
As Gabe mutters his consent, I slowly lower my body facedown onto the wet grass. Could I be wrong about what’s happened? No. I saw the weapon in Wendy’s hand—and the rage on her face. A question fights its way through my wooziness. Why? Why would Wendy do this to me? My thoughts are like ragged puzzle pieces that refuse to align.
The hard snap of metal cuts through the darkness—handcuffs being secured—and there’s a sudden burst of light in front of me, followed by a crack of thunder so loud I nearly levitate.
“We have to get my wife to the house,” Gabe calls out. “Please. She’s bleeding, and she shouldn’t be out in this weather.”
“I can walk,” I say to the troopers, raising my head again. “But I need a little help.”
A discussion ensues between the two troopers, too low for me to hear more than a few words: risk . . . wait . . . statements. Belker approaches and squats near me.
“You sure?” she asks.
“Yes, please.”
By now the other three have started up the rise to the house. With Belker’s assistance I manage to struggle to my feet and adjust my pants and then half stagger through the darkness, with her gripping my forearm. My head throbs like hell, but my thoughts finally start to fit together.
Wendy tried to kill me.
And . . . she tried to kill me with the same type of weapon used to kill Jillian. And dishevel my clothes.
But why? And why Jillian? Because she must be the one who murdered her. Only the killer would have known about the jeans around Jillian’s ankles.
When we finally approach the house, I look ahead to the patio, where the male trooper stands under the pergola with a handcuffed Gabe and Wendy. Blake, Keira, and Hannah are
clustered near the door. Bella’s there, too, I notice, dripping wet and looking shamefaced.
“What in god’s name is going on?” I hear Blake shout.
The trooper must order them to get inside because I watch the group quickly disperse into the house. He then calls out to Belker, advising her to take my statement in the kitchen. By the time she and I are inside, we have the room to ourselves.
“Are you okay to sit?” she asks. “That’s a pretty ugly gash you’ve got.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to lie down.”
As I settle at the table, she wets paper towels and tells me to gently press them on the wound, which is on the crown of my head, a bit toward the front. It’s only as I lift my arm to my head that I remember the blow to my shoulder, which is throbbing, too.
“I need to take your statement before the ambulance arrives,” she says, withdrawing a pad and pen from her pocket. “Please tell me what happened tonight.”
I explain about how I went after Bella and was frantically trying to coax her to me when Wendy came up from behind and bashed my head.
“Had there been an altercation between the two of you earlier?” she asks, locking eyes with me.
I picture my last few minutes with Wendy in the kitchen, talking about Hannah and the foxgloves. She seemed so sympathetic, so eager to help.
“Nothing. Not now or ever. And she killed someone else, I think.” I touch a hand to my temple, trying to think. “Can you tell me . . . What’s happening to my husband?” From far off, maybe in the living room, I can hear the sound of a raised voice, and I’m pretty sure it’s Wendy’s.
“Officer Palmer is waiting for a backup unit and then someone will take your husband’s statement. Please try to stay calm for now.”
As soon as the words are out of her mouth, the low wail of an ambulance pierces the air, and I drop my face into my hands, relieved not to have to talk anymore. Soon I’m being lain on a gurney, and a paramedic stabilizes my neck with a surgical collar. There’s no sign of Gabe, but as I’m loaded into the back of the ambulance, I can see Keira standing on the front stoop, watching.
The doors close with a double click, and a paramedic presses gauze against my head wound, assuring me that I’m going to be okay. I can feel how fast my heart is racing, so she probably thinks I’m fearing for my life, but it’s not that. I’m worried about Gabe, worried that Wendy will somehow convince the police that it was a stranger who attacked me and not her.