“It’s been in my family for generations. It eventually came to me and Beth.”
After their mother’s death and their father’s conviction. He stared at Kate, debating how much to tell her about his role the day she was rescued. Could she be assuming Beth’s murder might be connected to what her father had done? He began to formulate an idea about who might have been inspired by that crime.
“You changed the gallery’s name,” Reid said. “Is your brother-in-law an owner?”
Kate shook her head. “No. Beth and I are. I let my sister make most decisions regarding the gallery, and she gave him the title. President.”
“Is it just a title?”
“Pretty much,” Kate said. “He just sits back and thinks about ... himself. Whatever he wants to do next.”
That’s what people had said about her father years ago.
“Why did she give it to him?”
“He’s an arrogant jerk with an inferiority complex. He acts as if he’s better than everyone—even Beth. But his feelings get hurt if you look at him sideways. Beth decided it was easier to let him have what he wanted. She isn’t someone who likes to fight.”
“But he is?” Reid asked.
“He likes getting his own way,” she said quietly. Again, Reid thought of the girls’ father. There were such parallels with Beth and Pete, two generations of secret lives. Kate and Beth’s mother had had the money and the gallery; she had given her husband a title and the power to run it the way he’d wanted, just like Beth and Pete.
How much did Kate really know about her sister’s marriage? The sisters had been traumatized by their time in the basement. He didn’t need a psychology degree to understand they would be deeply affected for the rest of their lives. For some time now, he had believed Beth’s earlier experience made her vulnerable to a predator—the man she had married.
Some nights, unable to sleep, Reid felt Kate’s small cold hand in his. He heard Beth’s high, thin animal wail. Twenty-three years ago, the Woodward sisters and their mother had been forced into the gallery’s basement, bound to each other with ropes and duct tape, while upstairs thieves had stolen priceless nineteenth-century landscapes. Reid had been the resident trooper and first on the scene.
Helen, the girls’ mother, had choked on the gag and died. Kate and Beth had been thrashing, screaming into the cotton wadded into their mouths behind the duct tape. Reid had cut them loose. He exhaled slowly now, remembering how Beth had thrown herself at her mother’s body, holding her and sobbing. Kate had gone silent. She had stood stiff and numb, in total shock, backing away from her mother and sister, eyes like a zombie’s. That’s when Reid had taken her hand, tried to get her to look at him, to focus on him instead of the horror right in front of her.
He stared at her now, her right hand clenched. He had to hold himself back from reaching for it. He felt dishonest, not being straight with her about his involvement—and not just with the previous case. The day he had pulled the Woodward girls from the basement, he had vowed to protect and keep track of them. He believed the old rule, that if you rescued someone, you were responsible for them forever. He had kept an eye on them as much as possible, and it was killing him right now to know that Beth was dead inside the house, to realize how badly he had failed.
After a few moments, Kate seemed to compose herself. She sighed, gave her shoulders a small shake, as if bringing herself out of a trance. Reid was wound tight, forcing himself to breathe, to be right here with Kate and hear what she had to tell him.
“Pete called me, looking for her too,” Kate said.
She hadn’t mentioned that before. Reid had a million questions, but he kept quiet and listened.
“Twice,” Kate said. “Once while I was in the air, and I didn’t get the message till after I landed in Van Nuys. That time he just asked if I knew whether Beth had plans. It seemed strange, but I didn’t think much of it. I didn’t even call him back before he rang again. He said he’d been trying her, not getting through. He knew she was tired, thought she might have been catching up on extra sleep. I told him that was definitely possible, but then I started getting nervous. And I couldn’t get her either.”
“Did you call anyone to go check on her?”
“Our friend Scotty Waterston,” Kate said. “She had been over very early, gardening with Beth. Then she came back, with muffins or something—they were going to have coffee—and saw that Beth had left a note on the front door for the UPS driver. It said she’d gone out for the morning, that he should leave packages without a signature.”
“Where’s the note now?” he asked.
“It’s still there. Scotty left it.” Kate pointed at the yellow paper taped to the doorframe.
“Is it Beth’s handwriting?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Were there boxes?” he asked.
“What?” she asked.
“Left by the UPS driver,” he said.
“No,” she said and frowned. “But the note made Scotty feel okay—as if Beth had just stepped out and would be home soon. Her husband is on the trip with Pete.”
Reid stared at the note. The paper looked rumpled, and he figured it was an all-purpose note, one Beth had written at some point to reuse whenever she went out. Plenty of people did that in towns like Black Hall, where they thought they could trust their neighbors. But anyone could have stuck it to the door—not necessarily Beth. The killer could have put it there.
