Kate took the box from Dermot and thanked him. It was about four inches square, wrapped in pale-yellow paper and tied with a turquoise bow. An envelope was tucked under the ribbon. Kate opened it and read the note inside:
Kate, I don’t even really know you, but I can only imagine how you’re feeling ... My heart hurts for you. There’s something I’d like to tell you, if you have time to talk before we check out. In the meantime, this memento is for you.
All my best, Miranda
Kate stared at the note. She knew that Miranda must have meant well. But getting a sympathy note from a near stranger made everything feel even more raw.
“What is it?” Sam asked.
“I’ll open it later,” Kate said. She set it on the seat beside her, wondering whether it had initially been intended as a wedding gift. “Where are we going?”
“A place called Maynard-King,” Sam said.
“What’s that?” Kate asked.
“A psychiatric hospital in Narragansett,” Sam said.
“It’s a very private place,” Maeve said. “I’m pretty sure they pay a publicist to keep anything about them out of the media. But, you know, stories leak ... and if you’re a pop culture junkie, it’s kind of common knowledge that celebrities get treated there.” She named a few—an actor, a famous athlete, the wife of a politician.
“What does it have to do with us?” Kate asked.
“How much do you know about Belinda’s first marriage?” Sam asked.
“Nothing, except that her husband died,” Kate said.
“He didn’t just die,” Sam said. “He was murdered.”
Kate didn’t think she could feel any more shock after the last few days, but she did. She heard herself asking, “When? How?”
Sam explained as they drove north on Route 1. Kate listened to how Sam had researched Belinda online, learned that in 2010 she had married Dr. Jonathan Tyler—a psychiatrist who was the medical director of Maynard-King—and that he had been murdered in 2014.
“The killer slit his throat,” Sam said.
“Same as what was done to Belinda,” Maeve said.
Kate took that in. “What does that mean? It can’t be a coincidence.”
“I agree,” Sam said.
“But what’s the point of going to the hospital right now?” Kate asked.
“Just to see it, maybe ask questions,” Sam said. “That’s where her husband was killed.”
“If it’s a psychiatric hospital,” Kate said, “we won’t be able to get onto the grounds.”
“There’s a way,” Sam said.
“It’s the Fourth of July, Sam,” Kate said. “People are on vacation, no one will be there to answer any questions.”
“Just wait and see, okay?” Sam asked.
“Okay,” Kate said.
They headed east. Traffic was heavy, with people on their way to the beaches and the Block Island Ferry. There was a slowdown approaching Point Judith, but soon they were driving through town with Narragansett Bay sparkling blue in front of them.
GPS had sent them up Boston Neck Road, then a right onto Lovecraft Lane. They stopped at a gated drive. Kate looked at the closed wrought iron gate and the stone pillars for any sign that they were at the entrance to Maynard-King, but the property was completely unmarked. The bay was visible through the trees. Sun glittered on the surface. A small stone building stood inside the fence. Kate saw a camera pointed at them, mounted on a pole. A uniformed guard came out and stared at the car.
“May I help you?” the guard asked.
