“Maybe there’s something in the instructions,” Fernando said.
“What instructions?”
“She left an envelope—said there was a letter from you inside—but I haven’t had the chance to read it yet,” Fernando said.
He went to a mahogany desk, lifted the envelope from the green Florentine leather blotter, and handed it to Kate. Kate noticed the return address engraved on the back—Maynard-King on Lovecraft Lane in Narragansett. She slit it open and pulled out the stationery inside.
The note had been calligraphed with black ink in ornate script.
A ring for a ring.
Miranda stole my mother’s promise ring from Conor to give to you.
I am returning the favor, a ring around the moon, a circle in the sky.
Don’t look up at the sky, Kate. Just turn around.
Kate’s heart began to skitter in her chest. She hesitated, but then she swiveled her head. Fernando’s head was bowed.
“I’m sorry, Kate,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “They made me mention Maeve in the email. They would have destroyed me.”
Crispin stood there, smiling at Kate. The room was so dark, at first she didn’t see the third person stepping forward, holding out a hand as if to take Kate’s.
“Kate,” came the familiar voice. “We knew that email would call you here. We knew you would come.”
32
Tuesday, July 6; 10:15 a.m.
Conor stood with his brother on the dock in Galilee, waiting for the Coast Guard vessel carrying the woman’s body. The Block Island ferry steamed away with a loud blast of its horn, and trawlers returned to port, seagulls wheeling and screeching over their white wakes in hopes of fish scraps.
Meeting death as a detective had trained him to remain detached, to not get emotionally involved. But training was just that: behaviors to be studied, lessons to be learned. Deeper down, Conor never failed to be affected: Someone with hopes and dreams and family and secrets had died. Someone who had yearned for love and happiness.
As soon as the Coast Guard boat docked, Conor and Tom climbed aboard. They went belowdecks, to where the body had been placed. Conor approached, afraid not so much of what, but of whom he would see.
The woman wasn’t Maeve. Her face was unfamiliar to Conor, and he let out a long exhalation. Relief, he supposed, that Kate would be saved from heartbreak. He quickly put emotion aside and clicked into detachment.
From appearances, the woman hadn’t been in the water long. Her face was bluish white, and there were strands of eelgrass tangled in her long brown hair. She wore a high-collared, long-sleeved cream-coloredlace garment that could have been a dress or a nightgown. Bits of seaweed clung to the fabric.
Conor watched Tom pull on black nitrile gloves. This wasn’t Conor’s crime scene, so he kept his hands in his pockets to avoid any temptation to touch the body. And he was tempted, because he saw three things that needed closer examination: a deep ear-to-ear gash just beneath the lace collar, an indentation on the swollen fourth finger of her left hand, and a single pearl earring on her right ear.
“Sir, Rhode Island State Police are arriving,” someone called down from the deck, and Conor went to greet Joe. Joe had obviously gotten his message, and he and Garrett arrived in their black Dodge Durango Slicktop, with a crime scene van directly behind them.
“You got them here fast,” Conor said, gesturing at the crime techs.
“Perfect timing,” Joe said. “We were just finishing up withPsyche. Who’s the victim?”
“Don’t know yet,” Conor said.
“Not accidental drowning, I’m guessing? Since they called us?” Joe asked.
“Correct, it’s not accidental,” Conor said.
Conor led him and Garrett down below and pointed at the cut where the woman’s throat had been slit.
“That’s familiar,” Joe said.
“Yeah,” Conor said, picturing Belinda.
