“It says ‘help her.’”
“Her?” Tom asked.
Just then, they saw a marked Westerly police car speed up Bluff Avenue. It was a jarring sight, just past the white tent standing ready for a wedding that looked increasingly unlikely.
The patrol car stopped in front of a gray-shingled house with white shutters diagonally across the street. Tom saw Conor snap out of his numbness; he walked, then began to run toward the officers. Tom recognized them from the Maddie Morrison case—Officers Miles Cutler and George Bouchard waved when they saw him and Conor rushing over.
“Hey, Conor. Hey, Tom,” Miles said.
“What’s going on?” Conor asked.
“We got a call about blood in the house,” George said.
“Seeping under a bedroom door upstairs,” Miles said. “The caller didn’t want to open it.”
“We’ll go up with you,” Conor said.
“You don’t have to,” George said with a tight smile. “Word is, you’re getting married today. Isn’t that your tent?”
“Come on, let’s go,” Conor said, ignoring the question. “Someone texted me for help. It might be about Kate.”
Tom understood; this wasn’t Conor’s jurisdiction. But his brother had worked with these officers before, and they trusted him. Tom’s pulse was pounding as hard as he imagined it was for Conor. A feeling of tragedy was already in the air, and Conor had gotten that text. Tom silently repeated the wordsDon’t let it be Kate. They walked around a navy-blue Ford pickup parked in the driveway—Tom was pretty sure it was the same one that had nearly hit them on the way up from the harbor yesterday.
Maeve, Kate’s gallery assistant, stood just inside the door. She steadied herself against the wall.
“Did you text me?” Conor asked. “‘Help her’? Who, Kate?”
“What? No, I didn’t text you,” she said, looking bewildered.
“But you’re the one who called 911?” George asked.
“Yes,” she said. Then, “Oh god, Conor. It’s bad.” She pointed toward the second floor, and Conor tore up the stairs.
While the Westerly officers rushed up behind Conor, Tom said to her, “Don’t leave. They’ll need to talk to you.”
Maeve nodded, and Tom saw tears glittering in her eyes. He then ran up after his brother and the two officers.
By the time he reached the landing, the others had already entered the room. The two Westerly cops stood back, to avoid stepping in the blood pooling on the parquet floor. But Conor had rushed straight toward the woman lying on her side, her white dress soaked with blood.
Tom let out a groan, even before Conor did. Tom recognized the dress. He had seen it when Kate had come to his and Jackie’s house right after her last fitting, when she had stopped by to pick up the veil.
“Kate,” Tom said, his voice breaking.
“No,” Conor said, turning toward him. And in that moment, Tom saw the woman’s lifeless eyes were wide open, and he saw that her throat had been slit.
And he saw that the victim wasn’t Kate at all.
It was that woman from last night, the one he and Conor had known as children, the one who had ruined the rehearsal dinner and started this family heartbreak.
It was Belinda.
6
Saturday, July 3; 8:00 a.m.
Conor was used to securing crime scenes, not messing them up. He stood in the hallway, just outside the bedroom where he’d found Belinda’s body thirty minutes earlier. He knew that the fact that he was allowed to stay here was just a courtesy. If he hadn’t had a long and respected career as a Connecticut State Police detective and hadn’t worked closely with Rhode Island law enforcement on a high-profile murder case, they would be treating him differently. Even so, he understood that he would have to be questioned.
He felt sick. His shoes were covered with blood. He had stepped in it, and he had it on his hands and on his face, and on his sleeves and the front of his shirt, from when he had lunged forward, leaned down, turning the victim’s face toward him—from when he had been convinced it was Kate, when he had crouched beside her, wanting to take her in his arms.
