“Judging by hair color, some are different,” Conor said. “Unless he made them wear wigs.”
“Wigs?” Tom asked.
“He dresses them up,” Conor said. “The gowns look Victorian—as if they belong in a museum. And he wants them to look like princesses. Ruffles and lace, prim and proper. Even the jewelry.” He pointed at one photo. “Three strands of pearls here ...” He flipped to another shot, another girl. “And here.”
“What’s that?” Tom asked, pointing at a shiny object on a bureau in the background. “Is that a crown?”
“Looks like a tiara,” Conor said.
“Same thing,” Tom said.
“He likes shiny things,” Conor said. “Look at the hands. Each woman is wearing a diamond ring.”
“As if they’re engaged. Does he kidnap women who are about to be married?”
“I think he fantasizes that the women belong to him—possession, a promise to love him,” Conor said. “Each one is engaged to him, and no one else can have her. But maybe you’re right. Maybe destroying other people’s love is what he wants.”
Tom figured that was projection. He stared at his brother, knowing that he had just experienced someone trying to destroy the love between him and Kate: Belinda.
Conor continued searching the cabin. Tom left him there and went out into the galley to seal the photos in an evidence bag. Once that was done, he began searching through cupboards, the ice chest, and the oven. Nothing stood out. The sun had risen over the dockside buildings, throwing shards of light onto the harbor. He glanced out a porthole on the starboard side, but his attention was drawn to the glass itself. It sparkled, and there appeared to be a flaw. He put his face very near the surface to examine it.
Marine glass was thicker than regular window glass, tempered to withstand the impact of rough weather and collision as well as extreme temperature variations. These side ports were fixed and did not open. When he looked at the porthole straight on, he saw nothing but a view of the harbor. But when he tilted his head and looked at it askance, he saw tracing—lines as fine as spiderwebs.
“Hey, Conor,” he called.
“What?” Conor asked, coming out of the forward cabin.
“See this?” Tom asked.
Conor leaned close to look. “It’s there, and then it’s not,” he said.
“Right,” Tom said. “It’s very faint. Focusing depends on how the light hits it. But what does it look like to you?”
“Not sure,” Conor said. “Someone drew on the glass?”
“Or wrote on it. Are those words?” Tom asked. “Or numbers?”
The brothers stared at the shimmering, disappearing traces. Tom snapped a photo with his iPhone. Conor moved along the bulkhead to look at the other portholes—two on each side.
“There’s some here too,” Conor said, pointing at one on the port side.
Tom examined the faint tracing. He moved his head close to the glass and, without touching the surface, tried to look at the marks sideways, to see if there was any sign that they had been drawn or scratchedon the inside of the glass. He went up on deck, walking from one side of the cabin to the other, and looked at the portholes from those perspectives. Nothing was visible, but he took more photos and returned to the cabin.
“Who drew these things?” Tom asked. “And with what?”
“I don’t think they’re drawn,” Conor said. “Those marks are etched right into the glass itself.”
“You can’t scratch this stuff,” Tom said. “It’s hard as a rock. Marine glass is sand-casted—heated and cooled and reheated. Tempered glass.”
“I’ve seen marks like this before,” Conor said. “I was working a murder at a girl’s boarding school—an old-money place, one of the First Ladies went there—and some of the windows had initials and dates scratched in.”
“With what, glass cutters?” Tom asked.
“Diamond rings,” Conor said.
“Seriously?”
“Yes,” Conor said. “The girls used diamond rings to leave their marks—so they would be remembered. It was the kind of school where generations from the same family attended, and daughters would find their mothers’ or grandmothers’ old rooms by looking for their names in the windowpanes.”
