She went into her old bedroom, packed up Tyler’s diaper bag and her backpack with the few things she’d brought with her, and kissed her mother goodbye. Jean didn’t say a word. Carrying Tyler, Nicola walked out the front door.
Pete grinned through the windshield, his blond hair tousled, his pale gray-blue eyes shining with expectation and happiness. He got out of the car, opened the back door, took Tyler and buckled him into his car seat. He turned to Nicola, wrapped her in his arms, rocked her as they stood right there on the sidewalk. She knew her mother was watching.
“It will be better,” he whispered into her ear. “I promise. I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” she whispered, closing her eyes. Just before she did, she spotted a big black car parked down the street. Was it the detective, watching her? Were she and Pete about to be arrested? Or maybe it was just a car service, waiting to drive one of the neighbors somewhere. She didn’t know what to think anymore. She closed her eyes so tight she saw stars.
16
Kate flew through the cerulean sky, holding the controls steady as the Citation X hit turbulence over New York. She looked down at towering cumulonimbus clouds threatening thunderstorms on the ground. The jet bucked. Charlie MacDougal, her copilot, had white knuckles. Kate didn’t often say it out loud, but she loved rough weather. She did her best to steer above or around it for the passengers’ sakes, but when it was unavoidable, she rode through it and felt exhilarated, the way she imagined ocean racing sailors welcomed high winds and big seas and the chance to perform to the max.
She began her descent, and the clear blue gave way to dark gray. Clouds boiled around the jet, but she’d left the thunderheads over Fairfield County. No lightning in eastern Connecticut, just rain and the first storm gusts blowing in. After one stomach-dropping bump, she touched down at Groton-New London.
“That was special,” Charlie said.
Kate laughed. Taxiing from the runway to the terminal, she was surprised to see Conor’s car parked outside the anchor fence, windshield wipers going. They hadn’t made plans to meet. The ground crew rolled stairs to the port side, and Jenny, the flight attendant, opened the jet door. Kate adjusted her uniform jacket, tucked stray tendrils of hair up into her French twist, and exited the cockpit.
Jeremy and Peyton Pratt were regulars. He was a Hollywood producer, and she was a documentary director. They owned houses in Watch Hill, Rhode Island, and Brentwood, California, and they chartered jets at least twice a month, always requesting Kate as their captain.
“I’m sorry about the bumpy ride,” she said, greeting them in the cabin. It was lined with cream leather seats and polished exotic woods, a haven for the rich customers who flew Intrepid.
“Well, you can’t control the weather,” Jeremy said.
“Kate, do you have a minute?” Peyton asked.
“Sure, what is it?”
“Kate. I’ve known you a long time. I can only imagine what you’re going through, losing your sister. I’ll cut right to the chase. I want to make a documentary of her case.”
Kate paused, taken aback. “Thank you, Peyton, but no. We don’t need to relive this.”
“I understand,” Peyton said. “The whole thing must bring back the trauma of when you were young.” She paused, waiting for Kate’s reaction. “Being tied up all night. Your mother’s death—oh my God.”
Kate stared at her, stone faced.
“For Beth to have survived that experience and then to die in such a violent way. I just can’t tell you how affected I feel. This will not be a sensational, ripped-from-the-headlines, crime-of-the-week production.”
“Kate, Peyton knows what she is doing,” Jeremy said. “She will have your family’s interest at heart.”
“It will be an in-depth study of Beth,” Peyton said. “The fact she ran the very gallery where the defining moment of her life occurred: the trauma in the basement.”
“The defining moment?” Kate asked, thinking of all the shimmering, beautiful moments of Beth’s life. Love had defined her, not tragedy.
“Can we schedule an on-camera interview?” Peyton asked.
“No,” Kate said. It was all she could manage. She couldn’t even fake a smile as she turned her back. She heard the Pratts mutter as they gathered their belongings. She barely made it to the head before throwing up.
Her body remembered everything from those hours when the Andersons had tied them up in the basement. Retching over the toilet, she could feel her chafed wrists, bound to Beth’s and their mother’s. The weight of their mother’s body, slumping over, pulling at the ropes. Beth stiff, shaking uncontrollably and leaning into Kate for as much comfort as she could give.
Beth had spoken gibberish through the cotton gag.
“Beth, I’m here,” Kate had tried to say, choking on the cloth they’d stuffed into her mouth behind the strip of duct tape. She struggled like a madwoman to get free, but the harder she pulled, the tighter the ropes felt. She had known her mother was unconscious, but as time went by, her body grew cold, and the unthinkable hit Kate: her mother was dead. Yanking violently, she knocked her mother’s body over on her side so that both she and Beth were trapped beneath her. Beth screamed behind the gag. Kate had stroked Beth’s wrist with her thumb, trying to signal her to calm down, to stop fighting. She had been terrified that Beth would choke too.
“Hey, Kate.”
In the plane on the tarmac, she heard Conor’s voice now. He’d climbed the gangway and stood in the cabin. She washed her mouth out with water, spit into the sink, wiped her lips. Glancing in the mirror, she saw her eyes red rimmed and wet with tears she hadn’t even realized she’d cried. Stepping into the cabin, she saw him standing there, watching her.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
