Page 39

Rowan

I walk up my street after work and see a delivery man unloading grocery bags onto my front porch.

I didn’t order any groceries, so I hurry toward him. Before I get there, the front door opens and Natalie steps outside. “I’m supposed to give you this.” She hands him a tip.

“Hey, thanks,” the guy says. “Here’s your receipt.”

Natalie carries a grocery bag into the house, leaving the door open.

I grab another bag before I step through the door. “Natalie! For the love of all that’s holy, could you please keep the doors shut and locked?”

“Sorry,” she says, trotting out of the kitchen. “Dad shopped.”

“I see that.” I set down my work stuff, haul the rest of the bags inside, and make sure the door is shut and locked. Then I double-check the lock. “He went to work?”

“Yup. At four.”

I practically sag with relief. I’m too tired to sit across from him at the dinner table and pretend not to feel awkward.

“But Mom—I found something.” She’s bouncing on her toes.

“Is it a job?”

She rolls her eyes. “No. Tessa and I are job hunting tomorrow after I take my bio exam. But seriously. I have things to show you right after I put the groceries away. I told Dad I would take care of it.”

“Sure. But give me five minutes.”

I run upstairs to change, trying not to feel shaky about the way Natalie’s bubbling over with enthusiasm after a few hours with her dad.

After putting on jean shorts and an old T-shirt, I find a sticky note on the bathroom mirror, with a drawing of a roasted chicken and a steaming bowl of... mashed potatoes?

I forget to breathe for a second, because I’m back in our Ithaca apartment, finding another note just like this, telling me what’s for dinner.

He’s signed it “H,” as if I wouldn’t know who it was from.

Feeling slightly off-kilter in my own house, I pad downstairs to the kitchen. I open the refrigerator to find it full of food.

“There’s also a salad he made earlier.” Natalie points at a covered bowl containing a chopped Greek salad.

Hmm . Am I too petty to eat the groceries that Harrison sourced?

Natalie takes the lid off a paper carton of mashed potatoes and the smell of warm butter wafts through the kitchen.

Not too petty, then. I get out two plates. I pour myself a glass of wine and carry my dinner to the table.

Just as we’re sitting down, the sound of a motorcycle hums down the street, grows louder, and cuts out completely in our driveway.

“Oh, that’s Dad’s bike,” Natalie says. “That guy Rick said he was going to drive it over here. I’ll get the keys from him.”

I take a gulp of wine and say nothing. But of course Harrison still rides a damn motorcycle. I hope it’s not the same one, because then at least I won’t have to eye it in my driveway and remember the time he bent me over the damn thing and lifted my skirt.

Natalie returns a moment later and slides a key ring onto one of the hooks by the door.

“Okay, check out what I found.” She plunks herself into her chair in front of me. “This is going to blow your mind.” She unlocks her phone and shows me a photo of a woman.

Her face is familiar, but it takes me a minute to remember why. “Oh God. The funeral!” It’s that woman who sat beside me—the sobbing one. The same woman who ran out the back door when it was over.

“Yeah. She cried so hard.”

“Who is she?”

Natalie’s smile is smug. “Her name is Laura Peebles. P-e-e-b-l-e-s. I found her on Facebook.”

“ Peebles ,” I repeat, as my stomach bottoms out. “So it was misspelled. Holy shit.”

“Holy shit,” Natalie repeats, and then laughs.

It’s taking me a second to get my head around it. “So she knew Tim. Or at least knew of him.”

“Yeah, but remember—she ran out without talking to anyone? Maybe nobody else in his family was in on the secret.”

My head spins. “What am I supposed to do with this information?”

“We have to talk to her,” Natalie says immediately. “If Tim got himself unalived by digging up dirt about the Home for Wayward Girls, then this woman probably knows something about that. She was there , Mom. She’s at the center of it all.”

“She is,” I agree slowly. “But we should stay out of it. I should probably just tell the police. Or Tim’s wife.”

“Tim’s... what? ”

“His ex, I think. He lied to me about ever having a wife.”

“Ick, Mom,” Natalie says, her expression appalled. “Why would she want to talk to you?”

“Because she wants information. She wants to know why he died.”

“So do we,” Natalie argues. “You could visit Laura Peebles and give her that watch you’re carrying around in your purse.”

“Okay, what were you doing in my purse?”

“Getting your wallet, like you asked me to the other day.” She rolls her eyes.

Hell.

“I could go with you,” Natalie says. “I found her address in Westbrook.”

“Nobody is going anywhere.”

Natalie gives me a frown. “There’s one more thing. I was telling Dad about Tim and the Home for Wayward Girls. And Dad knew about it already. He said his mother worked there when he was little.”

My fork stops halfway to my mouth. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Doing what?”

She shakes her head. “He has no idea.”

***

Harrison’s restaurant shift will probably last until midnight, even on a weeknight, but I make sure to take myself up to my room earlier than that. Just in case.

I settle in with a book, but within moments my phone buzzes with a text.

It’s from Jules Kovak.

Jules: Any luck with the name?

I exhale sharply and then craft a reply.

Rowan: You want a name from me but you won’t even tell me yours? Out of business cards, my ass.

She doesn’t respond for a minute, and I have the small satisfaction of having stunned her.

She finally sends a response:

Jules: We’ve been divorced for over a decade. Didn’t seem relevant.

I roll my eyes like my daughter would.

Rowan: Why should I trust you? That’s not the only thing you held back, is it?

Jules: Like what?

Rowan: You showed me the names of people who are connected to the mansion. But you left some off, didn’t you?

Jules: I left a lot of them off. Tim gave me a long list.

Rowan: Were any of them Betsy Jones?

Jules: There is, in fact, a Jones on the list. But I couldn’t identify her. And then when they arrested Harrison, I realized that he’s also a Jones, so I looked again. But Harrison’s mother is dead. Nowhere to go with that lead.

Rowan: Still sneaky AF.

I’m so tired of being the last one to know anything.

My phone rings in my hand. It’s her, and I don’t pick up. She texts a moment later.

Jules: Rowan, please. I’m not trying to manipulate you. I just want to nail Tim’s killer. You never get over your first love, right? I heard yours moved into your house today.

Anger flashes through me. She knows too much and says too little. I want to pass along the information Natalie found today. But I don’t trust her to use it in a way that gets the cops off Harrison’s back. And mine.

Still, I have questions.

Rowan: Did you search Harrison’s room while he was in prison?

Jules: No. Why would I? And that sounds illegal. Did someone search his room?

I try another question.

Rowan: What did Harrison’s mother do for the Wincotts? When did she work for them?

Jules: Tell you what. You find Tim’s birth in that ledger, and I’ll give you everything I have on Betsy Jones.

I put my phone down in disgust and shut off my lamp. But my head is too full of conspiracy theories to sleep.

Maybe Jules has some other angle.

Maybe Tim had a fat life insurance policy.

Natalie had better not bike out to Westbrook and knock on that lady’s door.

Hell, she might actually do that.

Reluctantly, I pick up my phone again. There’s someone else who’d be interested in Mrs. Peebles.

I text Detective Riley.

Rowan: I found something of interest regarding Tim and the Wincott Mansion. Call me if you want to hear it.

My phone rings a second later. “That was fast.”

“You’re a very important witness, Rowan. The whole investigation keeps circling back to you.”

“It doesn’t,” I insist. “But I’m tired of hearing that, so I did a little digging. Did you know that Tim was born at the mansion?”

“I can’t share information we may have uncovered during an ongoing investigation.”

I roll my eyes again. “So you do know. His mother probably told you. This was news to me until recently. But now I think I found the name of his birth mother, and I’m pretty sure she was at his funeral.”

There’s a deep silence on the line. That’s how I know I’ve shocked her. “Are you going to share the name?”

It almost pains me to be helpful to someone so aggravating. But I definitely need her help. “It’s Laura Peebles. With a b . She has a Facebook profile, and I think she lives out in Westbrook.”

Riley is quiet for another moment before she asks, “And how did you come by this information?”

“I found it in the handwritten birth ledger—the same one Tim had photos of from my phone. I went back to the original document and found the relevant page. The names don’t match up exactly, but I think it’s her.”

She curses under her breath.

“Everything okay over there?”

“She won’t open the door for me,” she says. “We found her name in Tim’s phone data, so we knocked on her door. But she’s afraid of cops and won’t talk to me. What do you know about her?”

“Just that she’s grieving. She was a mess at the funeral. I handed her all the tissues I had. But she left the service the moment it was over, instead of greeting the family.”

“Maybe she’d talk to you,” Riley says slowly. “If you think this will change the direction of the investigation, maybe you can help me out.”

“How?”

“We’ll take a ride out there. You’ll knock on the door by yourself. If she recognizes you from the funeral, you can talk to her a little and ask her to invite me in.”

I don’t see how that would ever work. But I’m mulling it over, because I think Jules is right about why Tim died, and I need the police to see that—and leave me and Harrison alone. “What if she won’t let me in?” I ask.

“Then we tried,” she says. “How’s tomorrow afternoon? Two o’clock?”

“I can’t get away until four. And you don’t even know if she’ll be home.”

“I’ll drive by first to see if there’s a car in front of the house.”

She’s left me almost no room to argue. “Fine. I have one of Tim’s watches. I’ll bring it for her. That might get me in the door.”

“I’ll be in front of the mansion at four.” She hangs up.

I roll over and try to get comfortable. But I haven’t been truly comfortable since Tim died. Too many regrets.

If only I hadn’t sat down with him in the coffee shop.

If only I hadn’t followed his avatar around Portland. Or leashed up Lickie to find his car...

My phone buzzes again, and I pick it up. A text from Harrison, to both me and Natalie.

Harrison: You’ll hear the door open in a minute. Don’t panic. And I’ll be sure to lock up.

About a second later, my daughter puts a heart on the text.

From upstairs, I barely hear the front door open and close, but I do hear the jingle of Lickie’s collar as she goes to investigate.

There’s no barking—just the low sound of Harrison’s voice as he greets the dog and probably the cat, too. They’re both smitten.

I put my phone facedown on the bedside table and curl under the quilt. For a few minutes, I listen to Harrison moving around downstairs. Then all is quiet.

Closing my eyes, I relax against the sheet. My eyelids feel heavy.

It shouldn’t be relaxing to have a man in the house. Especially an ex-con who once abandoned me.

It shouldn’t be. But somehow it is.