She said nothing.
“Lydia,” I said. “Do you understand the meaning behind these questions?”
“I don’t know, Sunny,” she said. “I feel like a more important question is: Why is my son shooting people?”
I exhaled. “What I’m saying is, I think it might have been someone else who left Dylan’s watch at the crime scene.”
“And I think you’re grasping at straws,” Lydia said. “Believe me, I appreciate the effort. But Dylan has not taken off that watch since we gave it to him.”
I remembered the picture Lydia had posted on Facebook and tagged her son in—that long-ago weekend in Nantucket, Dylan posing with his parents, his cousins, Teresa at his side, Dylan the dictionary definition ofprivilege, that pearly Rolex glinting in the sun as proof. I’d seen it in the family pictures on Dylan’s computer, in that happy Gonzo staff shot in the Common, announcing its owner’s wealth from behind Sky’s glass frame.
But I’d also seen it somewhere else…My brain could have been playing tricks on me, recalling things I hadn’t seen, just to fit into this freshly forming narrative. But still, it was worth checking, because, if it was true, Dylan most assuredly did take off the watch from time to time. I pulled my phone out of my purse and opened my photographs.
“What are you doing?” Lydia said.
I found it before I needed to answer: the close-up of Bella (Some influencer,according to Sky). I gazed at that perfectly manicured hand against the side of her face. Those coral fingernails.That unusual pearlescent watch. I showed it to Lydia. Tapped Bella’s wrist. “Isn’t this Dylan’s Rolex?”
Lydia’s eyes widened. “Yes,” she said, very quietly. “That’s it.”
“See?” I said. “He doesn’t always keep track of the watch. He might have given it to someone. It might have been stolen from him and planted at the crime scene.” I thought about Sky again, but I didn’t want to say her name. Not now, with Lydia’s emotions at this pitch, knowing how deeply she cared for Sky.Like a second child.I couldn’t do that to her now. “More and more, Lydia,” I said, “I feel like someone might be trying to frame your son.”
I reached for my phone, but she held on to it. She was staring at the image. “Where did you get this picture?” she asked.
“It was on Dylan’s work computer,” I said. He had four photos of this girl, including his screensaver. So I figured it was worth saving.”
I looked at Lydia. She was still staring at my phone. “I didn’t know they were still in touch,” she said.
“Who?”
“The girl in this picture is Anna Horton,” she said. “Dylan’s prom date from Exeter. She’s changed a lot. But I’d know her anywhere. She and Dylan were quite close back then.”
“She was on your list,” I said. “The one that you gave me.”
“I put down everyone I could think of, but I certainly didn’t think Anna’s contact info would help you. The last I heard, she was in a very bad way—like Dylan. Maybe worse.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “After graduation, her father left her motherfor a twenty-two-year-old actress. He moved out to Hollywood. Her mother was hospitalized for mental health issues. Anna dropped out of college and just…disappeared for a while.”
“And resurfaced in Boston, apparently,” I said.
“Apparently.” She touched the picture on my screen. “You know, I always hoped that Anna and Dylan would find each other again,” she said. “Two lost souls. I thought maybe they could heal together.”
My gaze shifted from Lydia’s face to the photograph on my phone. “I thought her name was Bella,” I said. “That’s what Dylan named the photo files.”
Lydia looked up at me, her eyes wistful and sad. “Her full name is Annabella,” she said. “She must have changed what she calls herself. Who could blame her, really?”
Thirty-Nine
“You’re holding back on me,” I told Lee Farrell. I was in my car, in heavy traffic again, on my way home to walk and feed Rosie before meeting my dad at The Street Bar. Blake had reminded me about our standing drinks date—again—when I went back to the office to answer emails, shut down my computer, and listen to Blake’s updates. Sadly, none of the contacts on Lydia’s list had returned our phone calls, and there had been no replies to Blake’s emails, either. I couldn’t even share in Blake’s disappointment because I could hardly speak. I was that tired. One thing was certain: I planned on taking an Uber to The Newbury. After all the time I’d spent in my car over the past few days, I really needed a break from driving.
“What do you mean, I’m holding back on you?” Lee said.
“Hello? Dylan’s Rolex. Found near Trevor Weiss’s body. I had to find out from Lydia Welch.”
Lee let out an enormous sigh. “I needed a positive identification on the watch before I could even consider it evidence. It would have been pointless to tell you about it this early,” he said. “And anyway, you’re holding back on me, too.”
“What do you mean?”
