Jennifer reddened and looked away.
“What do you mean by ‘one of us’?” Kate asked.
“Nothing,” Jennifer said. Then hurriedly, as if regretting her question and covering her mistake, “Just that people admire what he did here. He cared so much for his patients.”
“You were a patient?” Sam asked.
“If you’re ready to go, I’ll take you to the gate,” Jennifer said brusquely.
“Jennifer,” Kate said. “Did you know Dr. Tyler personally?”
But Jennifer just revved the engine and gestured for them to drive ahead. Kate, Sam, and Maeve climbed into their car and headed down the hill. This time, instead of leading them, Jennifer brought up the rear.
When Sam reached the main road, she waved at the guard. He acknowledged her with a nod, and the gate slid open. Kate glanced out the rear window. She saw Jennifer staring after them. Then she began typing on her phone screen.
Kate wondered who she was reporting to.
19
Sunday, July 4; 4:00 p.m.
Conor and Joe climbed up the hill, toward the highest point on Bellevigne Island. In the far distance, Conor saw Watch Hill shimmering across the water, almost like a mirage, a place he had merely imagined. He felt haunted by love, as if what he and Kate had had moved into another realm, like Grace’s Ghost Girls.
Kate had done the math and said that given their ages, Suzanne could be his daughter. But when Conor remembered details from the biggest mistake of his life, he knew that there was no way. Even so, the truth was bad enough—he had been involved with Belinda long after they’d been next-door neighbors, and he hadn’t told Kate. And now, he was out here with Joe, looking for leads in Belinda’s murder.
Grace was right: There was a mansion on the hill’s crest. Built of gray fieldstone, it had a portico with tall columns that were covered with vines. Two of the front windows were broken, repaired with squares of plywood. The steps were overgrown. Birds had built nests in the eaves. The mortar holding stones in place was cracked. A storm had sent a branch from a tall tree crashing onto the slate roof, sending slate tiles cascading to the ground next to the chimney. The house looked as if it hadn’t been occupied for years.
“Is this the right place?” Joe asked doubtfully. Conor didn’t answer.
The two detectives walked around the perimeter. Untrimmed hedges grew close to the foundation. Curtains were drawn across most of the windows, but it was possible to look through the French doors, into what appeared to be a living room. The furniture was covered in white sheets, and so were paintings on the walls—a practice of summer house owners, to protect upholstery and art from being damaged by sunlight and dust.
Conor and Joe continued their circuit, looking for a way in. After seeing the scene on the boat and having Grace direct them to this mansion, after speaking about girls being “taken,” the detectives realized that timing could be critical. Conor pictured those blood-smeared handcuffs on the boat and knew that someone could be held prisoner inside. They rounded the house and came upon stone stairs leading down to a basement door. Conor tried the knob. It turned, and they were inside.
Daylight slanted in through dirty windows. The cellar was damp and musty, and the air glittered with dust motes. Steep, rough wooden stairs led to the main floor; Conor followed Joe up them and stepped out into a corridor.
“What’s that smell?” Joe asked.
Conor noticed it too. It was sweet, like flowers, but more concentrated, almost oppressive.
“Perfume?” Conor asked.
“Yeah,” Joe said. “Or candles?”
They moved quickly through the first floor, clearing each room before entering the next. Kitchen, dining room, living room, library, bathroom. So far, they had observed nothing suspicious, but the sweet smell grew stronger.
A wide staircase in the center hall swept up to the second floor. Conor and Joe split up, checking rooms on each side of the upstairs hallway. And this was another world. It didn’t seem to belong to the same house. Everything was pristine; it felt exclusive. Conor felt as if he had walked into a private club. It couldn’t be more different from the dilapidated exterior and the shabby downstairs.
This reminded Conor of other aristocratic homes he’d been in. Connecticut, where he was a detective, was full of them. Sordid crimes didn’t care about class. The furniture was solid, antique, with a burnished glow. An office had a carved wooden desk, red leather armchairs, and green-shaded library lamps. There was a Windsor chair with the Yale University “Lux et Veritas” gold insignia on the back. Bookcases were full of rows of matching red leather-bound books—they appeared to be more for show, he thought, than for reading.
The carved keyhole desk held a brass tray full of coins, pens, a tarnished silver money clip, a few loose keys—things that looked as if they’d come out of someone’s pocket. He glanced at the desktop but kept moving down the hall.
There were four bedrooms, each with queen-size beds covered with white comforters. The last door on the hallway was locked. Not only that, but the door appeared to be reinforced with steel. He bent down, to see if there was a space under the door, but there was none: The reinforcement material extended all the way down to the gleaming parquet floor. He pounded hard on the door. The sound of his hand banging on steel was barely a dull thud.
“Soundproofing,” Conor said. “Like on the boat. Someone’s in there.”
“Could be,” Joe said.
“Let’s get her out.”
