“You’re lucky I got a last-minute cancellation,” Louise said. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have a vacancy on a holiday weekend. This is the last hurrah, though. Foliage is past peak, and the camp will be emptied out by this time Monday. I hope you like peace and quiet.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Then I won’t bother you. You can see that it’s impossible for me to get up that way these days, anyway.” Louise gestured at her useless legs propped on the chair’s footrest. “My housekeeping girl comes in every few days to clean the bathhouse and stock it with towels. Other than that, you probably won’t see anyone around.”
“That’s fine.”
“Well, if you get lonely, feel free to come on down here and chat or play a hand of cards with me.”
“I will, if I get lonely,” Cassie told her, knowing she won’t.
“What are you doing up here by yourself, anyway?”
“Writing a book.” She was glad she had come up with a believable story in advance. “It’s due to my editor next month and I needed to get away from everything to finish it.”
“How exciting! I’ll make sure nobody disturbs you up there.”
“Thanks.”
The other cabins might still be occupied right now, but they’re all so far apart and secluded that Cassie has yet to see another living soul—human, anyway. There’s plenty of wildlife; she was unnerved by rustling in the undergrowth as she walked down to the bathroom last night at dusk, carrying the flashlight provided in the cabin.
“That’s prime time to see a moose,” Louise mentioned. “So keep your eyes open.”
She’ll keep her eyes open, all right.
She has to remind herself repeatedly that she’s in no danger here; nobody is lurking, watching her, waiting to strike…
Today.
Today, she remembers, is her birthday.
She’s thirty years old.
And there’s no one around to wish her Happy Birthday.
But that’s fine with me, she thinks staunchly.
As long as there’s no one around, and no other living soul can possibly know where I am, I can be sure that I’ll live to see another day.
Fiona is freshly showered and changed into a navy sheath, her hair pulled back in its usual chignon, when Pat arrives with Ashley.
“Hi, Mom!” Ashley has on a pair of jeans and a denim jacket, her hair pulled back in a straggly ponytail.
“Hi, sweetie.” Fiona hugs her quickly with one arm. “Hurry up and go get ready for mass.”
“Can’t I go like this?”
“What do you think?”
Ashley sighs and gives her father a fierce hug.
“Thanks for a great weekend, Daddy! Can we do our sunrise hike next time I come?”
“We’ll see.”
“Sunrise hike?” Fiona asks as Ashley heads for the stairs.
“She’s been wanting to see the sun come up over the mountains,” he explains.
She has? I never knew that.
But then, there seems to be a lot Fiona doesn’t know about her daughter these days. That wouldn’t bother her if it wasn’t sometimes obvious that Pat does know those things…and more.
Well, that’s how girls are, she tells herself. They adore their daddies and resent their mothers. Especially at this age.
Then again, Ashley isn’t an adolescent yet.
But she’s always been a Daddy’s Girl.
And anyway, Fiona isn’t a sunrise-hike kind of mom. She has other things to offer her daughter. Things Pat can’t possibly give her. A sense of responsibility, financial stability, career ambition, personal style, a beautiful home, a solid work ethic…
“Bye, Daddy!” Ashley calls from the top of the stairs.
“Bye, sweetie.”
Left alone with Pat, Fiona finds him watching her, looking concerned.
“So, how was your weekend?” she asks, to fill the awkward silence.
“We went to see that new Disney movie with the Reynoldses.”
The Reynoldses.
Fiona is blank.
Of course, Pat notices. He seems to gloat a little as he clarifies, “Her friend Meg and her mom.”
“I know.”
“Then we played minigolf, and went out to dinner at Applebee’s.”
“That’s nice.” Fiona finds herself surprisingly envious. Not that she particularly wants to hang out with Meg’s mother—she doesn’t have time for that. And she likes minigolf about as much as she likes Applebee’s. Still, her ex-husband shouldn’t be socializing more with Ashley’s friends and their parents than she does.
She makes a mental note to invite Cynthia and Meg Reynolds to lunch sometime.
“So, Fee…How are you?” Pat asks, not in a casual way.
“I’m okay.” Uncomfortable under his gaze, she decides it’s easier when he’s not being civil to her.
“The funeral had to be hard.”
“It wasn’t fun. And it wasn’t a funeral, it was a memorial service.” Why does she find it necessary to keep clarifying that detail?
She knows why. Because she’s feeling ornery.
And that’s partly because she feels that way whenever she’s around Pat, but, today, it’s mostly because James didn’t mention seeing her again when they said good-bye earlier. Nor did he protest when she told him she had to leave.
“I have to get back home anyway,” he told her.
“Aren’t you spending the weekend here?” she asked, disappointed that there wouldn’t be another opportunity to see him in the next day or two.
“No, I’ve got some things to do in the office back in Boston.”
It wasn’t that he was rude. More like…disinterested, and preoccupied with whatever it is he’s got to do today.
She, of all people, should be familiar with that mode. But for the first time in a long time, her current obsession isn’t her work.
“Well, Ashley and I had a good weekend. I think she really liked the room I set up for her.”
“Good. That’s great.” Fiona wonders if she should call James after church, just to thank him for the nice evening.
“Oh, I heard her sniffling a little this morning. I’m thinking it might be because of the sawdust—not that I didn’t clean it up really well, but that stuff sticks in every crack for awhile. Anyway, it could be that she’s coming down with a cold.”
“Mmm-hmm.” No, she shouldn’t call James. She should let him call her.
And he will, she assures herself.
“You should get her some strawberries. Did you know they have more vitamin C than citrus fruit?”
Fiona shakes her head impatiently. “I had no idea. Well, we’ve got to get ready for church now, so…thanks.”
Pat is getting on her nerves now, just as Brynn was getting on her nerves yesterday, hinting around again at going to the police.
But that’s not going to happen, she assures herself, closing the door after her ex-husband.
All Fiona has to do if her friend brings it up again is mention the prospect of prison. Brynn can’t bear the thought of anything coming between her and her family.
Two kids and a terrific husband—that was Brynn’s description of her life in a nutshell. Fiona overheard her say it when she was catching up with one of their old sorority sisters before the funeral.
Two kids…But how terrific is her husband?
Fiona can’t help but remember that June night at Aura in Boston, when Tildy introduced her to James. The three of them were having a nightcap at the bar when Fiona spotted Garth, of all people. It turned out he was staying there at the Seaport Hotel for an academic conference.
He’d already had a couple of beers and was more than willing to ditch his stuffy colleagues when Tildy invited him to join them.
Fiona didn’t miss the silent look that passed between the two of them. Maybe, if she hadn’t been so preoccupied with James at the time, she’d have nipped it in the bud right there.
“It” bei
ng whatever might have happened between Garth and Tildy after James drove Fiona back to her own hotel at Copley Plaza.
Was it a mere flirtation that wound up with both of them going their separate ways at closing time?
Or was it a repeat performance of their secret tryst that began back in college and continued—right under Brynn’s nose—well into the year after graduation?
They were living together at the time. And Fee doesn’t think Tildy and Garth were constantly hot and heavy. But Tildy had a thing for older men, and she could be intensely seductive. It isn’t hard to see why Garth continued their on-and-off fling for awhile after meeting Brynn.
It stopped when they got married, though. Tildy confided in Fiona that Garth told her to steer clear; he was taking his vows seriously.
That was before he and Brynn had kids, though, and she went from doting wife to supermom housefrau.
Garth was probably ripe for some seductive attention by the time he ran into Tildy in Boston. Fiona doesn’t know exactly what happened, though.
She keeps trying to tell herself she doesn’t care.
But she does, for Brynn’s sake.
She alone realized the potential implications of the investigation into Tildy’s death.
If the detectives start sniffing around her past in Cedar Crest, tracking down every man she ever slept with…Well, the trail would eventually lead to the Saddlers’ door.
Fiona knows Brynn well enough to realize what her husband’s premarital infidelity—with one of her closest friends, no less—would do to her. Never mind how she would react to Garth’s postmarital infidelity, if that really is the case.
I should have confronted Tildy about it while I had the chance.
Now there’s a very good chance she’ll never know what happened that night.
She certainly isn’t about to ask Garth, and she doubts he’d tell her the truth anyway.
But she has other things to worry about right now. Things that are far more important than the true state of the Saddlers’ fairy-tale marriage.
Brynn waits until noon to dial Garth’s cell phone.
Yesterday morning, she made the mistake of calling him at five in the morning his time, having forgotten he was on the opposite side of the country. Pregnancy hormones again, afflicting her with temporary amnesia.
He called her back in the afternoon, as she was driving back to the Cape after lunch with Isaac.
“How horrible was it?” he asked.
“Pretty horrible,” she admitted around a sudden lump in her throat, missing him desperately.
He’s so far away, she realized. And she was acknowledging not just the hundreds of miles, but the monumental secrets—hers—that lay between them.
Weighted by guilt, she filled Garth in as briefly as she could about the church service, then told him she couldn’t stay on the phone because she was behind the wheel.
They haven’t talked since.
She’s about to hang up now when Garth answers sleepily.
“There you are! Did I wake you?”
He yawns. “No, I was up.”
Brynn laughs. “No, you weren’t. Sorry. But I wanted to hear your voice.”
“Well, I don’t mind hearing yours, either. In fact, I wish today were tomorrow and I were headed home.”
“Me, too. How did you do yesterday with your presentation?”
“You know. The usual. Everyone listened politely and asked pertinent questions, but all they really wanted to do was present their own material. How are the boys?”
“Still in bed. They’re worn out. Late night last night.”
“Did you have fun?”
It’s Brynn’s turn to say, “You know. The usual.”
“What are you doing today?”
“More of the same, I’m sure.”
“Are you okay? You sound wiped out.”
She hesitates, wishing she could tell him the truth about what’s going on with her. All of it.
But she can’t tell him any of it, so she assures him that she’s fine, just tired.
“Me, too. I can’t wait until we’re home again, and everything’s back to normal,” Garth says.
Back to normal.
So easy for him to say.
If he had any idea…
But, of course, he has no way of knowing that for the Saddler household, normal is a long way off.
Isaac doesn’t recognize the number in his cell phone’s caller ID window.
He answers it anyway, standing on the street, on his way to the deli for sandwiches. Kylah said she needed carbs.
“Mr. Halpern?” an unfamiliar voice asks.
“Yes?”
“This is Detective Hiles of the Boston Police Department.”
Isaac’s heart lurches into his throat, rendering him momentarily mute.
“I’m investigating Matilda Harrington’s death and I’d like to speak to you as soon as possible.”
“To me?” Isaac has recovered his voice—or someone else’s, judging by the uncharacteristically high pitch. He clears his throat in an attempt to lower it. “Why do you need to talk to me?”
“Routine.”
“I really didn’t know her well. I was there more because she was a friend of my sister’s, years ago.”
“That’s fine. This is just routine,” the detective repeats. “We’re talking to everyone who’s had any contact with her.”
“But I haven’t. Not in years, and even then…”
“It’s just routine.” The detective emphasizes the word yet again. “We’re touching base with everyone who was at the memorial service yesterday. I’ll be in New York tomorrow. What time is good for you?”
Cassie never should have waited until late afternoon to try and find her way back to that grocery. Especially on a Sunday.
The place was closed by the time she arrived. A couple of teenagers on skateboards in the parking lot told her how to get to a larger market, but either they gave her the wrong directions, or she took a wrong turn.
Hopelessly lost, she drove in circles, finally deciding to forego food in favor of making it back to the cabin before dark.
That didn’t happen; she had traveled farther than she thought, in unfamiliar territory.
Now, at last, she’s made it back.
She parks at the designated spot about a hundred yards down the path from her cabin, cuts the headlights, and immediately wishes she’d thought to bring the flashlight.
Wow. It’s pitch-black out here.
Never in her life has she experienced such complete darkness. There’s no moon tonight; the dense canopy of trees would probably obstruct the light even if there was.
Her heart is pounding as she begins to pick her way over the rutted path.
Again, she hears an unnerving rustling in the bushes.
Again, she reminds herself that it’s just a moose.
But then, Louise did say the best time to see a moose was in the hour before dusk…not two hours after.
Are moose—or is it mooses?—nocturnal creatures?
It doesn’t matter, surely plenty of other animals are.
Still, the closer she gets to her safe haven, the cabin, the more incongruously uneasy she feels.
You’re fine, she assures herself.
Nobody even knows where you are.
She reaches into her pocket to find the key to the cabin. The lock is a joke, really. It’s an old-fashioned one, with an old-fashioned key—the kind hotels stopped using years ago because they aren’t secure.
Cassie inserts the key in the lock, thinking of her alarm system and series of dead bolts back home.
But none of that is necessary up here, she reminds herself as she opens the door and steps into the cabin, which is even darker than the inky night beyond the threshold.
She’s safe here.
No one knows where she is.
There’s no way anyone could—
“Happy birthday, dear Cassie,” a voice sings, close to her ea
r.
Then she hears the click of a lighter, and the darkness is pierced with an eerie glow.
In that one, terrifying instant, Cassie takes it all in.
The cake.
The candles.
The decorations.
The face…
She opens her mouth, but a hand roughly closes over it, stifling what would have been Cassandra Ashford’s dread-drenched last words.
What are you doing here?
She recognized me.
That’s obvious. Even in the dim light, even in this godforsaken spot where she would never expect to see a familiar face…
Let alone mine.
And as much as I’d like to look her in the eye and tell her exactly what she did to me…and what I plan to do to her…
She’s struggling, instinctively raking her fingers at her captor, fingernails acting as weapons.
This isn’t good; she’s fighting and clawing like a panther, leaving telltale marks that may be hard to conceal.
No, this isn’t good at all; there can be no delay.
If she manages to wriggle free, there might not be another living soul nearby to help her, but there will be plenty of places to hide out here in the wilderness.
A person can get lost for days, weeks, months, even. Just wandering around in the middle of nowhere, unable—no, unwilling—to be found.
Right.
That can’t be allowed to happen now.
I’ve found her, and I’m not letting her go. All I have to do is drag her a little closer, suppress those hands of hers, and get a good angle on her throat…
“Happy Birthday, dear Caaaa—”
Arms pinned but legs still flailing, she lands a well-placed kick.
But, unlike Matilda Harrington, she fails to succeed in freeing herself. No, she succeeds only in interrupting the song. But just for an instant.
“—ssie…Happy Birthday to yoooouuuu.”
There.
The singing has been completed.
Check.
Next task: incapacitate the birthday girl so that the party can go on uninterrupted.
Not easily accomplished with all this violent writhing, but not impossible, either.
All you need to do is get hold of her hair with your left hand…
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