Conor and Tom got off on the fourth floor and took a left. The door straight ahead was flanked by glowing lanterns and bore a discreet plaque that readTower Suite. Conor used his key card to open it.
“Kate!” he called as he stepped inside.
No answer. He knew how upset she was, and he just wanted to get to her, put his arms around her, tell her how much he loved her. The suite had three levels. He checked the bedroom, then tore upstairs into the living area—their favorite place to sit by the fire while surroundedby windows that overlooked the ocean, the bay, and three states—but she wasn’t there.
A polished and gleaming wood spiral staircase went up to a reading nook on the top level—a spot Kate loved, where she could nap and dream. Conor ran up, two steps at a time, but she wasn’t there either.
He looked down from the high perch at Tom, standing in the living room. Tom was staring at one of the window seats, where Conor could see there was a pile of shredded white fabric.
“No,” Conor said, hurrying down the spiral stairs. “Kate’s veil.”
Tom started to touch it.
“Don’t,” Conor said, grabbing his brother’s wrist to stop him.
The veil was delicate lace, and it had been torn into small pieces. Conor had never seen Kate’s wedding dress—that was a sight to be saved for tomorrow, in the chapel—but he had seen her veil, and this was it. It had belonged to his and Tom’s mother. Jackie had worn it at her wedding to Tom, and they had given it to Kate, to wear at her wedding to Conor.
“Kate ripped it up?” Tom asked. “That’s how angry she is at you?”
Conor had an internal struggle between his two selves: detective and husband-to-be. In that instant, the detective won out. He crouched by the window seat, undistracted by the view of the dark night ocean, and looked more closely at the fabric. It had been cut, not torn. The edges were smooth with no trailing threads. A sharp blade had been used to slice the veil into fine ribbons.
“Kate didn’t do this,” Conor said. “She wouldn’t.”
“Then who?” Tom asked. “Does anyone else have a key?”
“No,” Conor said.
That’s when his heart began to crash. He had watched Dermot, the valet, hang the garment bag holding Kate’s wedding gown inside the bedroom closet. He ran down the stairs to the first level and opened the closet door.
Their regular clothes were still there, his and Kate’s. Her blouses, a pale-green linen jacket, a flowered summer dress, and the blue suit he was going to wear to their wedding. But the garment bag was gone.
And so was Kate.
Friday, July 2; 11:00 p.m.
After finding the ripped-up veil, Conor and Tom went through the whole hotel. Conor felt panic building. They spoke to the security manager, who said that he hadn’t seen Kate but would keep an eye out for her. Then they took the walkway from the hotel to Dune Cottage, the café by the beach, to see if Kate was there. The light was dim, perfect for candlelight dining, but not great for finding Kate.
Conor stared at the beach, listening to the sound of the steady surf. He heard the bell buoy tolling off Watch Hill Point. His stomach flipped to think of Kate being so upset that she wouldn’t even talk to him. The beach was dark other than the edge of the waves catching light, streaming down from the Ocean House, white foam fizzing on the wet sand.
Garrett came charging onto the Dune Cottage deck. “What the fuck, Conor?” he asked. “I’ve been looking for you all over.”
“I figured you would be,” Conor said. “Is Belinda okay?”
“No,” Garrett said. “She hit her head when you pushed her.”
“Is that what she told you?” Conor asked.
“It’s what I saw,” Garrett said.
“No,” Conor said. “You saw me reach for her phone and her faking a fall.”
“You lunged at her,” Garrett said. “You had the whole table watching you. And what’s this bullshit about you proposing to her, her having your kid?”
Conor stiffened up, wanting to shove Garrett away. He could feel Tom’s eyes on him. His brother had been sitting across the table and hadn’t heard that part.
“It’s bullshit,” Conor said.
“She showed me the ring you gave her,” Garrett said.
