Page 40

Tuesday

In the morning, I hit the snooze button too many times and end up rushing to get ready for work. By the time I make it downstairs, it’s after eight.

In the kitchen, I notice coffee’s already been made. Harrison is quietly nursing a cup at the kitchen table, while watching Natalie buzz around the kitchen.

She’s on a call, her earbuds jammed into her ears, buttering toast as she argues with a friend. Tessa, from the sounds of it. “We don’t want to work at a gym. That place smells like feet.” She jams a corner of the toast in her mouth. “Yeah, okay, the smoothie bar seems better. It’s small, though? Do you think they need two people?”

I nudge her out of the way and put a piece of bread into the toaster for myself. Then I point at the crumbs on the counter.

She ignores me. “Yes! The gelato place. Good call. When do you think they open?”

With a sigh, I brush the crumbs into my palm and dust them into the sink.

“Okay. Sure. I’ll be done with my bio exam at... eleven? Yeah, I can get the car.”

I make a noise of disbelief.

Natty turns to me, as if suddenly realizing I’m alive. “Mom, can I use the car?”

“You may use the car, and thanks for asking. But you can’t get a job that requires the car. For obvious reasons.”

She frowns. “Okay, yeah, I can use the car.”

Harrison gives a low chuckle from the corner.

“See you in a while?” She shoves another bite of toast in her mouth. “I’ve got my test. And today’s the last day to take my textbooks back to school before they fine me.”

“Again?” I grab a mug and pour myself a cup of coffee.

She finally hangs up her call. “It’s under control, Mom. I’ll make it.” She runs out of the kitchen.

My toast pops, and I butter it tidily. I’m self-conscious with Harrison sitting there at the table watching me. Maybe he senses it, because I hear his chair push back against the wood floor. “Rowan.”

Without even thinking, I turn at the sound of his voice. The way I used to.

He’s in the doorway, mug in hand. “I’m calling every room for rent in Portland today. I promise.” He gives me a faint smile. “This was selfish of me. I could probably have conned Cal Baxter into letting me crash on his couch for a few nights. I know I don’t deserve your generosity. But this right here...” He waves in the direction of the messy countertop. “Just a half hour watching her run in circles in your kitchen is the best gift anyone has given me in a long time. And I won’t forget it.”

Then he slips out of the room.

***

It’s a busy day of meetings with the general contractor. But most of the time we’re outside in the sunshine, walking the site and discussing the plans for the Orangerie.

As a bonus, I’ve successfully avoided Beatrice all day. I don’t have the bandwidth to navigate her judgment of my new living situation.

Eventually I have to go inside, though. And when I enter the library, I can hear her voice in the inner office. “You say that, but I’m still the best man for the job.”

I stop midstride, because she sounds upset.

“Hank, that’s crap! I’d bring more energy to the job than anyone else. I care more, and that counts for a lot. You know it does.”

Uh-oh.

“Fine. Yes. You can’t talk me out of applying! You know what? We’ll discuss this later. I have to go.” A half second later I hear the smack of her phone on the desk blotter.

Shit.

“I’m off my call, Rowan. You don’t have to lurk there.”

I walk into the office. “I’m sorry. That sounded like a bad moment, and I wasn’t sure I should stay.”

She looks utterly shaken, and for once it’s not me who’s having a small breakdown at her desk. Beatrice rests her head in her hands and lets out a growl of rage.

I can pretty much guess what happened here. “Is this about the director’s job?”

“He posted it today. A national search .” She lifts her face, and it’s red. “He told me I should apply to be the assistant to the director and work my way up. Which we all know is a load of crap .”

“An actual load of crap,” I agree. “If the director they hire ever leaves, they’d just...”

“Do another national search.” Beatrice rolls her eyes to the ceiling, as if looking for guidance from the trompe l’oeil ceiling. “He says that the director’s job is really a development job. That it has to go to someone with influence . He just means a white man with money and Ivy League connections.”

“I’m so sorry.” I sink down in my chair. “That’s lazy thinking on his part. Nobody cares more about this job than you do.”

“Nobody,” she says firmly. “At least he’s your problem tonight. Not mine.”

“My problem?” I repeat.

An eyebrow lifts. “The Historical Commission dinner. Before he ruined my week, Hank told me to tell you he’d pick you up at six.”

“Oh God. That’s tonight ?”

Her eyes widen and all of a sudden her mood shifts. “You forgot? Need me to find you a blowout? I’ll call in a favor.”

“No, no. It’s fine,” I backtrack. “I’m good. But what the hell am I going to wear? I can’t even remember the last time I put on a dress.”

She gives me a grin that’s slightly feral. “I want pictures from this date.”

“There will be no pictures,” I say, checking my calendar just to make sure it’s true. And, yup, it’s right there. I’ve just been too overwhelmed to keep track of my life. “This is not a date. Hank just expects to be bombarded with questions about the renovation, and he wants my help answering them.”

“I’m sure that’s part of it.” Her smile is bitter. “But you’re also the kind of woman he wants at his side. The right degree. Old Maine family. Age appropriate, yet still good arm candy.”

“He’s definitely not my type. Honestly, I always thought he was more your type.”

“Oh hell no.” She laughs dryly. “Hank’s like a brother to me. Even if he weren’t on my shit list, I would never go there.”

It’s a pretty convincing reaction, but I still don’t buy it. She seems downright obsessed with the whole Wincott family, and Hank especially.

“Besides, I’d never date anyone that high maintenance,” she says. “His manicure is better than mine.”

I laugh in spite of myself. “Good point.”

“Should we get coffee? My turn to treat.”

“I can’t even do coffee. I’ve got an off-site meeting.”

“Oh?” She sits back in her chair. “It’s not on your calendar.”

“What calendar? I’m a walking wreck. We covered this already.” But of course, I left my meeting with Detective Riley off the schedule. I don’t want to have to explain to Beatrice why I’ve volunteered to spend time with the cops.

Since I don’t even know myself.

***

By four, I’m alone in the office, which makes it easy to pick up my bag and head outside. Riley is waiting at the curb, alone in an unmarked Subaru.

I slide into the front seat. Riley turns the car around and then navigates toward the north, away from the water.

“Do you need me to look up the address?”

She shakes her head.

“She probably won’t even be home,” I point out.

“I did a drive-by. And she works nights as a cocktail waitress. Thank you for doing this, by the way.”

“I’m not doing it for you,” I point out. “It’s for Tim. And for my daughter, who will lose her mind if her father is arrested again.”

“I heard about your new roommate.”

“It’s not illegal to house my daughter’s father for a few days.”

She’s wise enough not to comment on that. “Let’s discuss your conversation with Peebles. What are you going to ask her?”

“If she doesn’t slam the door in my face? I’ll tell her how sorry I am for her loss. And I’ll ask her how long she’d been in touch with Tim. And then I’m just going to listen to whatever she’s willing to share. And give her his watch.”

“Not a bad strategy. I’d like the dates of when she and Tim made contact.” She pulls up to a stop sign and plucks a device out of her purse. “Take this. It’s a recording device...”

“ What? That’s not the plan. I’m not recording that woman without her permission.”

“New plan,” she says. Then she pulls over to the curb and turns to face me. “Take the mic, Rowan. You say you want Tim’s killer caught. But you keep lying to me. You lied about knowing where Tim was on the night of his death—”

“Why do you think so?” I gulp.

But I already know what she’s about to say, and her unyielding gaze misses nothing as she watches me panic. “A judge gave us your phone data, Rowan. We know you checked the FriendFinder app before you left your house. And you unfollowed him en route.”

My whole body flashes hot and then cold. Oh God . “If I were Tim’s killer, that would be a pretty stupid thing to do.”

She gives half a shrug. Her poker face is better than mine. “You keep insisting there’s a deep, complicated reason for Tim’s death. But all I see are simple jealousies. You told me yourself you were angry that he dumped you. And then there’s Harrison, who kept a photo of you in his bedroom. Now you’re housing him for a nice little family reunion and probably paying for that new lawyer he has.”

My brain is static, and it takes me a long beat to reply. “You can’t make a murder case out of my family drama. Of course we need lawyers, so long as you’re focused on the wrong things.”

“That’s why you’re going to help me focus on the right things,” she says crisply. “Record the conversation you have with Ms. Peebles. If something fishy happened to her and Tim when he was born, I need to know it sooner rather than later.”

“I am cooperating.”

“Then take this.” She puts the recording device in my lap. “Put it in your bag, and leave your bag unzipped. There’s a switch on the side.”

The car starts again, but I barely register the neighborhoods we’re passing over the pounding of my heart.

Now they know I lied. If I don’t help her, it could be my face on the nightly news.

When we arrive at Peebles’s address, Riley passes the house and parks down the street. “Don’t forget to turn the device on,” she says. “Good luck, Rowan. We need this.”

Feeling shaky, I get out of the car and walk back toward the little one-story house where Laura Peebles lives. The homes on this street are in various states of repair. Little old houses on small lots. Most were built in the sixties. Many have been shined up, but some have cracked front walks and faded siding. And shingle roofs that have seen better days.

Ms. Peebles house is avocado-green, with a slightly overgrown lawn. The doors and windows are shut tightly, but there’s an aging Ford truck in the driveway. I climb onto the peeling porch and knock.

Then, feeling like the worst kind of traitor, I reach into my bag and switch on the recording device. Unless I’m totally wrong about who she is, talking about Tim will be painful for her. Recording our conversation will be a betrayal.

And yet I knock again.

The door opens suddenly, and there she is, squinting at me, her expression wary. “Do I know you?”

“Not exactly,” I say, faking a smile. “But we sat beside each other at the funeral last Monday.”

Her eyes widen. “What funeral.” It isn’t a question. “You got the wrong lady.”

It hadn’t occurred to me that she’d deny it. When she turns away, I start talking faster. “I was dating him,” I stammer. “Recently. And I brought you something of his that he left at my house.”

She goes still, and her eyes drop to her slippers. “You were the girlfriend? The architect?”

Holding my breath, I nod.

“You’d better come inside.”

***

Five minutes later I’m sitting at her kitchen table while she fills two mugs for tea.

“I’m truly sorry for just showing up on your doorstep,” I say carefully. “But I’m confused about some things I’ve learned since Tim died, and I brought you something of his that you might want to keep.”

She braces her hands on the counter and drops her head. “I don’t know if I should thank you for coming or throw you right out that door. Tim and me... it’s really fucking complicated.”

“I can imagine.”

She looks up, and I clock the dark circles beneath her eyes. “No, you can’t. I’m sure you mean well, but you have no idea what I’ve gone through with him. Did he even tell you about me?”

For one ugly second, I consider lying. Then I shake my head.

She looks uneasy. “So how did you find me?”

“It was some guesswork, plus I found a list of birth dates and women’s names from the Wincott home. I found Tim’s birth date and matched it to your name with a little internet sleuthing.”

“Jesus.” She turns to put the mugs into the microwave. “Whatever I tell you doesn’t leave this room.”

God forgive me for what I am about to do. “Okay.”

“Even my sister doesn’t know the whole of it.”

“You aren’t in touch with Tim’s fam—” I catch myself in time. “His adoptive family?”

She shakes her head. “They don’t know about me. Tim showed up on my doorstep this February. I’d never met him before that.”

February . I take a sharp breath. “That must have been a terrible shock.”

She opens a box of Lipton tea and removes two tea bags. “You don’t know the half of it. Last year my sister did one of those tests. For DNA?”

I nod.

“She gets a call almost right away. It’s Tim, and he tells her he was adopted in 1979 from the Magdalene Home. And that a genetic test said she was his biological aunt.” Laura retrieves the mugs from the microwave, putting a tea bag in each one.

I notice how bony her hands are. She gives the impression of someone who doesn’t have a lot to spare. Not money, not energy, not flesh.

“I knew she was taking the test,” she nearly whispers. “But I didn’t expect her to find my child.”

“I’ll bet.”

She looks up at me. “You don’t understand. I didn’t expect it, because they told me he died at birth.”

Oh God . “Who told you that?” I whisper.

She takes a tiny sip of burning hot tea. Then she looks me dead in the eye. “Marcus Wincott said it to my face. May he burn in hell.”