“They took Conor to the police station,” Maeve was saying, as Kate walked into the foyer.
“What are you talking about?” Kate asked.
“She was wearing your dress, Kate! He slit her throat, and it turned red with her blood, the darkest red I’ve ever seen,” Maeve said, the words spilling out. “She’s dead!”
“Maeve, who’s dead? Who was wearing my dress?”
“Belinda,” Maeve said. “She was murdered, and they’re saying Conor did it.”
8
Saturday, July 3; 12:00 p.m.
Sam was used to seeing Kate in total control. Even when times were tough—after Sam’s mother had died—Kate had tempered grief with strength, helping Sam make sense of it all. Now, Sam wished she could be that steady person for Kate, but that didn’t seem possible. Sam was keeping a secret from her.
Word about Belinda’s murder spread fast, but the beach was the last place to receive the news. It was as if the sun and salt air, the cheerful blue umbrellas and yellow chaise longues, formed an invisible shield, protecting the peace and sanctuary of the sand for the beachgoers.
Sam knew the whole story, though. Hadley had told her and asked her to keep CeCe busy, to keep her from hearing anything about it, so she had taken her down to the beach. CeCe ran ahead to the damp sand at the water’s edge, and Sam got her started building a sandcastle.
Sam drizzled wet sand to make turrets, trying to settle her mind. It was that old question: If you know something that will hurt another person, do you tell them? Or do you hold it inside and let them go on not knowing, blissfully ignorant? Which is kinder, more loving?
Not that Kate was in any way blissful at this moment, but this would make it much worse. Sam was lost in dark thoughts when she heard her name. Anne waved from one of the white-curtained cabanas at the top of the beach.
“Mike just called,” Anne said, holding her cell phone. “He told me what happened. That woman from last night was murdered? Her throat was cut, how gruesome!”
Sam nodded.
“And Conor’s a suspect?”
“Well, they’re questioning him,” Sam said.
“That is insane,” Anne said. “Mike will straighten it out.”
Sam didn’t reply. She knew that as a judge, Mike was probably used to throwing his weight around, but she couldn’t see how he could straighten out a murder. And Conor either did or didn’t kill Belinda. Sam wanted to believe he didn’t, but the thoughts tormenting her made her wonder.
Anne talked on and on about how much she and Mike loved Conor, how he could never have done what he was suspected of, how ridiculous it was to even entertain the idea. Then she skipped to talking about the wedding being postponed.
“Good lord,” Anne said. “Last night with that woman was a shock, but Conor will be cleared. It’s early in the day—the wedding can go on.” She paused, looked sideways at Sam. “Whatdidhappen last night? We all saw the ruckus, but what caused it?”
“I don’t know,” Sam said, even though she did. She had been there when Kate had told Hadley about the baby picture, heard how Belinda had said the child was Conor’s.
CeCe came running up, and Sam was relieved for the distraction. Anne and Mike were members of the private club within the Ocean House, and they were able to use the cabana. It had a plate of fresh fruit and a small refrigerator full of water and juices. Sam made CeCe drink a glass of water and eat some grapes so she wouldn’t get dehydrated; CeCe immediately ran back to her sandcastle. Sam felt as if she was on autopilot, just going through the motions.
A friend of Anne’s walked up to the cabana, and Anne introduced her as Nola Aldrich. Sam heard them talking about the murder, how terrible it was, such a shock, who could have done it, there was no wayit had been Conor. Nola was saying something about the psychology of a murderer who would slash the victim’s throat, how it could be sexual in nature, how it exhibited passion. Sam briefly wondered if Nola was a psychologist or in law enforcement.
But then she blocked out their voices, and she spun back in time.
It was the night of the summer solstice—June 21—less than three weeks before the wedding. Sam was on the terrace outside the library at home at Cloudlands, stretched out on a wicker sofa. There had been a blazing sunset, but the vivid reds and purples had faded into peaceful darkness. The French doors into the library were open to the warm breeze. All the lights were off in the book-lined room, and she was half asleep, exhausted from work.
She heard someone in the library, but they didn’t turn on any lights. Sam craned her neck to look over the back of the sofa and saw that it was Conor. She was about to say hi, but he was bent over the desk with such purpose, she held back. Then he walked back to the door from the hallway and looked both ways—as if checking to make sure Kate wasn’t coming—so Sam stayed silent.
Conor stood by the desk. He turned on the green glass-shaded desk lamp—curved to keep most of the room in darkness—and focused it on an envelope he held in his hands. She saw him stare at his phone until it buzzed. He answered instantly. Sam had the feeling he’d been waiting for the call.
“Why did you send this to me?” he asked, his voice strained, without any greeting.
The person on the other end of the line must have had a lot to say, because he stood there in silence, listening for a long time.
“I want no part of it,” Conor said after a while. “Don’t contact me again.” He hung up without another word. Sam hunched down in the sofa; now she really didn’t want him to see her. She heard a desk drawer open, then close. He turned off the light and left the room.
