Page 49

After the police leave, Natalie and I search the house and find nothing. Lickie follows us from room to room, wagging her tail.

“Why didn’t you take a bite out of him?” I ask my dog, ruffling the fur between her ears.

“Maybe she did,” Natalie says. “That’s why she looks so pleased with herself.”

I wish.

“Let’s eat something. I’m starved,” my daughter says.

We troop down to the kitchen, where she opens the fridge. I eye the contents with suspicion. Nothing feels safe anymore.

“I have to be at work at four,” Natalie says. “I’m training to be an expediter.”

“At Docksiders,” I repeat, because it still doesn’t sit right with me.

“Yup.”

My head gives a throb. “Why did it have to be there?”

“Family tradition.” She snickers. “No—it was just easy. Cal Baxter didn’t even make me fill out an application. And I’ll get to work with Dad.” She pulls the leftover tomato soup out of the fridge.

“Was it his idea?”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t ask him first, because Cal has done him so many favors lately. But he also said how bad they need help, so... ?” She pulls two bowls out of the cabinet. “You want soup, right? It’s so good.”

I’m too tired to argue, and too emotionally drained to think about the ways Harrison is worming into our lives. “And you’re sure he wasn’t here when you left today, right?”

She frowns over her shoulder. “Of course I’m sure. He was in the Docksiders kitchen washing lettuce and cutting fries.”

“Okay. Sorry. I had to ask.”

***

After our late lunch, I don’t go back to work.

Natalie heads to Docksiders in a black denim skirt and Docksiders T-shirt. It’s eerie. Like I’m looking at my younger self.

I warn her several times to be careful. “We have to lock the doors, no matter what.”

She pulls a hurt face and mumbles that she knows . Then she leaves, disgruntled, and I’m alone in the quiet house, lying on the sofa and feeling vulnerable.

Zoe the cat has perched in the center of Lickie’s dog bed, possibly to assert her dominance. So Lickie chooses to plop herself near the couch, where we both listen to the gentle creak of the clapboards expanding in the afternoon sun.

Beatrice texts, asking where I am and what happened.

I don’t answer. I don’t want to explain the break-in. And I don’t want her talking to Hank about this.

He knows where I live, and he also knew I’d be at work today.

I take another lap around the house, scrutinizing everything in it. It doesn’t help, because my imagination works overtime. Was my closet door ajar like that? Probably. Or maybe the cops opened it making sure nobody was in there. Were those curtains open this morning? Or did an intruder do that? Is that where I set down my toothbrush?

And so on.

I make myself sit down on the sofa again, even though I’m restless. I open the FriendFinder app and see Natalie’s dot at Docksiders. At least I don’t have to worry about her for a few hours.

My phone chimes with a new text, and I expect Beatrice again. But it’s Harrison.

Harrison: I’m about to unlock the door and come in.

Barely a second after I read this, I hear his footfalls on the front porch. The door swings open, and the animals go wild with excitement.

“Ro?” he calls over Lickie’s barking. Then he spots me on the couch. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Why? Is something else wrong?”

“No, baby.” He locks the door behind him, gives Lickie a pat on the head, and sits down beside me. “It’s my break, and I just wanted to make sure you’re not freaking out.”

“Shouldn’t I be?” I make an exaggerated shrug. “Someone left Tim’s wallet right here.” I point at the table. “The way a cat leaves a dead mouse on your bed. And the police wonder if I did it. Or maybe you. Did they visit you?”

He shakes his head. “All they had to do was check the data for this.” He lifts one leg and pulls up his pant leg to reveal the black device strapped around his ankle.

“ Oh .” I’d forgotten all about that thing.

“Yeah.” He drops his cuff. “That’ll be the only time I’m grateful to be tagged like cattle. But I’m pissed off I wasn’t here when someone walked into your house with a dead guy’s wallet.”

“Seriously,” I grumble. “Could really have made yourself useful.”

He flashes me a sudden smile. “Aw, Rowan. You must be losing your mind.”

Part of me wants to bristle, because I am losing my mind. “Do you really want Natty working at Docksiders?”

Harrison passes a hand over his beard and lets out an awkward chuckle. “I don’t know. Kind of like the idea of keeping an eye on her. Especially now. But she’s so young. Seems like I was never that young.”

I have to grudgingly admit that I don’t hate the idea of him looking out for her. “She’s going to forget the tartar sauce and the garnish. Be gentle.”

He smiles, but then he puts his head in his hands. “Can’t believe she found that wallet. Did you see it? Was it really his?”

“Yeah. It was.”

“Shit.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Obviously, someone is trying to scare you. Or point a finger at me.”

“Or me,” I point out.

“You need cameras to monitor the house.”

“Yeah, I realize that.”

“I’ll order them tonight,” he says, straightening up. “With express shipping.”

“No.” It comes out a little sharp. “I’ll do it.”

“Okay. And you’ll keep the doors locked?”

“Of course I will.”

His smile is quick, but fleeting. “I’ll walk the kid home tonight. Told her not to leave before me.”

“Thank you.” My shoulders drop a tiny fraction. The truth is that I want the help, even if it’s from him. The idea of her biking home alone at midnight gives me the cold sweats. “If her shifts don’t match up with yours, I could pick her up some nights.”

“Or I’ll bike home with her,” he says. “I would just have to remember to let my probation officer know when I do that.”

I take a moment to process what he’s said. A snort of laughter bursts from my mouth. But then it happens again, and I cover my face to try to stop laughing.

“Rowan?” he demands, possibly because I seem deranged.

“Aren’t we just the c—” I hiccup. “The cutest little family? You have to tip off your probation officer before picking up the kid”—I try to take a deep breath, but I shudder instead—“so that a murderer can’t follow her home.”

“What, like that’s weird?”

I howl. My throat tightens from laughing, and the sensation feels almost like the sting of tears.

Because it is.

“Oh, Ro. Ro. Hey.”

My eyes are suddenly fountains. I guess there’s only so much stress you can take before the dam bursts.

“Hey, hey. Shh.” Harrison scoots closer and pulls me in.

My forehead clunks against his shoulder, and I can’t help it. I just sort of slide onto his chest and push my face into his Docksiders T-shirt. He smells like fry oil and sunshine and my carefree youth.

He wraps his arms around me and rests his chin on top of my head. “It’s okay. It will all be okay.”

“You don’t know that,” I mumble wetly.

“No, it will.” He kisses the top of my head. “They’ll find a print on that wallet. Or something. And this will all be over.”

I lift my face and almost beg. Promise me . But I stop myself just in time. I’m too old to ask for promises.

Although now I’m gazing up at him at point-blank range. Close enough to see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. Close enough to discern darker flecks in his gray irises.

And it’s odd how familiar this feels. It used to be normal for us to be so close that I could feel his breath on my face. This was us. And some part of my consciousness still remembers.

Which is probably why I kiss him. It’s just too easy—he’s right there. All I have to do is tilt forward and lift my chin to find the firm warmth of his mouth.

For a split second, he goes completely still. Before I even have time to panic, his broad hands gather me in, and his mouth invites mine closer.

His kiss is like sliding underwater. All the noise in my head is suddenly muffled. The peace is just what I need. So when the kiss ends, another begins, and then another. I lose myself, and I want to be lost. I want to grip his biceps with both hands and feel his heartbeat against my chest.

He’s strong and solid when I slide my hands down his chest and then up under his T-shirt. I need more of his warmth.

He catches my hands in one of his rough ones. “Rowan,” he breathes. “Hey.”

I blink up at him, my mind full of static fuzz.

“Honey.” His eyes get sad. “You’re upset and not thinking clearly. And I have to go back to work. I was only on my break, and Natalie is there.”

“Oh. Shit. Of c-course,” I stammer, my sluggish mind playing catch-up. “God, I’m sorry.”

“Probably not as sorry as I am,” he says, sliding me off his lap and onto the couch. He stands up with a sigh, then leans over to place another kiss on the top of my head. “You’ll text me if you hear anything, right?”

“Yes,” I say, dropping my face into my hands. I can’t believe I just pawed him like a cat in heat. Hell, his actual cat is much more polite.

One broad hand lands on the back of my neck and squeezes. “Hang in there, baby. Just a little longer. I’m locking the door behind me.”

“Thank you.” It comes out muffled.

I don’t even watch him leave. I listen for the sound of the deadbolt sliding back into place before I lift my head. I need to get a grip. I need to get my life back on track. Yet my heart is still racing, and my lips still chafing from beard burn.

People say you never forget your first love, but those people are liars. I’d forgotten all about how I turn into a drooling hormone whenever Harrison gets close to me.

And I’d lunged at him. Who does that? Someone whose house has just been broken into by a killer.

This has to stop. I need to figure out who’s so angry at me. Hank? Hank’s family?

Jules Kovak?

I grab my phone off the coffee table and scroll to my message thread with Jules. Where was she when all this went down? I tap on her avatar and initiate a call. No—that’s not good enough. I stop and initiate a video call instead.

She actually answers, her face winking onto my screen a moment later. “Rowan? Hi. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Where are you?” I demand. All I can see behind her is a dim room. A home office, maybe.

“I’m in New York? Why?”

“Prove it. Show me the view out the window.” I don’t care if I sound crazy. I need to know who I can trust.

Jules doesn’t argue. She carries her phone through a small apartment. The screen momentarily flashes white as she points it toward a window. Then the image stabilizes, and the bricks of a building across the street come into view. “I’m on the seventh floor. And—here—can you see the traffic on Ninth Avenue?”

She angles the phone down, and I see an oblique slice of a busy urban street. There’s traffic, including an iconic yellow taxi.

“All right. Thank you.” I sag against the sofa, because Jules really is in New York. And she probably didn’t murder her ex-husband.

“Rowan, what’s this about?”

“Someone broke into my house today and left Tim’s wallet on the coffee table. With his license inside.”

Her startled face comes back into view. “You’re shitting me.”

“I wish. Someone wants to scare me. Or make the police believe I have access to Tim’s stolen things. Or prove Harrison does. I actually don’t know what they wanted, but if they wanted to rattle me, it worked great.”

“Wow. You must have really stepped in a steaming pile of shit. Who’d you piss off?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Her expression turns thoughtful. “By any chance have you been poking around in Tim’s adoption?”

“Yes,” I admit. “I have the birth mother’s name, and I met her.”

“Whoa.” Her apartment becomes a dizzying blur as she trots back to her desk. “Who is she?”

“Not so fast. You told me that if I gave you the name, you’d give me everything you had.”

Her gaze sharpens. “Fine. It’s a deal. What’s her name?”

“In a second. This is what I need from you—every name Tim asked you to search for. And anything you found about Harrison’s mother. No holding back.”

“Okay. But you met her? What was that like?”

I try to think what I can say without violating Laura’s privacy. “She’s in a lot of pain. If you try to talk to her, be gentle. She’s fragile. And it’s possible that the police are already talking to her.”

“Interesting,” Jules says almost gleefully. “If you’ve got the detectives’ attention, maybe that’s how you managed to piss someone off.”

“Maybe.” I rub my gritty eyes. “But how would the killer know?”

“The department has a lot of manpower on this murder. They do their best to keep everything quiet, but all you need is one guy who’s willing to talk.”

To Hank? I wonder.

“What’s the birth mother like?” Jules asks. “What did she tell you?”

“Well...” Poor Laura . “She’s had a rough time with Tim’s death. They were only recently acquainted. They first met in February.”

Rowan lets out a low whistle. “How’d that happen? Genetic test?”

“Yes. There was some trauma surrounding the adoption, and it sounds like the maternity home was a horrible place. Lots of shaming and mistreatment. You’ll have to ask her yourself. She won’t want to be interrogated, but she’d probably like to meet Tim’s ex-wife.”

“Sure. I can be gentle,” Jules says with a shrug.

I’m not sure I believe her. She wears her relentless curiosity like perfume. “It sounded bad . And even if you can get her to talk to you, it will be hard work corroborating her story. Unless you got a whole bunch of those women in a room together.”

“Well. That’s what I do for a living. Track people down and get them to talk.”

“She said they didn’t use each other’s last names. That’s why I need everything Tim gave you. Right now, please.”

She gives me an appraising glance before putting down her phone. All I can see is her ceiling, but I hear her clacking away on a keyboard. “What’s your email, Rowan?”

I give her the address, and then there’s more typing.

“Okay, sent.”

Not willing to take her word for it, I find my laptop and open it on the coffee table. Sure enough, I have a new email from Jules Kovak with a lengthy list of names, some with more information than others. “How are these sorted?”

“That’s part of the puzzle,” she says. “Tim held his cards close. He told me almost nothing more than what you see here. But I’ve been searching the shit out of this list since he died, and I have some theories.”

“Let’s hear them.”

“Okay—the first six names? They all come up in old news articles if you google the Magdalene Home for Wayward Girls. The date that’s listed after their names? That’s the date of the article.”

I squint at these names. Each woman’s name—and they’re all women—is followed by a date. Like Mary Donagen, March 17, 1978 .

“I’m pretty sure he found those first six names just by googling the maternity home.”

“Only six names, huh?”

“From news articles, yes. And I’ve located only two of these women so far. They’re bolded on the list. The first one is in jail, and the other one won’t talk to me.”

“Hell.” It’s not a lot to go on. “What about all these other names?”

“That’s where you come in. I think the next part of the list is from that ledger you found.”

“The pictures he stole from my phone?”

“He didn’t say where he got them, but you gave me that clue yourself.”

“How nice of me,” I mutter. And when I scan the list, I can see that she’s right. The first name is from 1951, and it’s the same pattern: first initial, last name, and a complete date. Then there are names from the late eighties—which reflects the jump I’d made when photographing the ledger. “Yeah, okay. I think you’re right.”

“There’s something curious about the last four names. A first initial, followed by a last name. No dates at all.”

I scroll down to read the names. “These were from my phone, too. There was a separate page at the end of the ledger.” One of the names stands out. Vespertini . It’s unusual enough that I remember it without consulting that photo on my phone.

“Well, Tim wanted me to focus on those. The weekend before he died, I came up to Portland to see him. And he said something like—‘I know it’s not much to go on, but those last four matter the most.’ ”

“But he didn’t say why?”

She shakes her head. “I wish. But I have a copy of his hard drive. His mom shared it with me. I’ve been looking at any files he downloaded this spring, but there are a lot of them. He was really good at tracing financial stuff.”

“You mentioned that.”

“He’s got a trove of quarterly reports from the Wincott Foundation. Those are public documents. There’s always a section at the back where they disclose payments over twenty grand. But there are hundreds of them over the years. The foundation gives out a lot of grants.”

“And...”

“Tim also saved a flyer from a 2011 choir concert at the University of Maine. The name Vespertini was underlined on it. I cross-checked, and in 2011, the Wincott Foundation paid the University of Maine $22,700, which was exactly the in-state cost of tuition, plus room and board.”

“I’m not following,” I say slowly. “2011 wasn’t very long ago.”

“Exactly,” she says, propping her face into her hand. “I think the foundation was still paying off some of the people who lived or worked at the maternity home. And that’s what Tim was chasing.”

“And you think they were paying off—specifically—the four names at the end of the list?”

“That’s my theory,” she says. “I’ll bet you a stiff drink that he had a special obligation to these four. Riddle me this—whose college tuition do you trouble yourself to pay even after your death?”

“Your child’s,” I say slowly.

“Ding-ding! I’m wondering if Marcus Wincott had four children. Or some other deep, personal commitment to those people—a connection strong enough to involve payments for things like tuition. And remember—he died in 1997, and someone is still paying tuition in 2011. The Wincott family had to know about Marcus’s indiscretions.”

That shouldn’t surprise me, but it does anyway. “And who took over the foundation after Marcus died?”

“Well, another Wincott took over for several years, but he died on the job.”

“Died on the job ?” I picture a man collapsing in the mansion.

“No, I mean he dropped dead of a heart attack at sixty. Then the foundation was leaderless for a couple of years before Hank took over in his twenties.”

“Oh.”

“You can see it all in the annual reports. I’ve been plowing through them, looking for any other connections. I’ll send you the PDFs. Tim must have found something in here, or he wouldn’t have gotten himself killed. I wish I had his notebooks.”

“Yeah.” I sigh.

“Now it’s your turn to share, Rowan. What’s the name of Tim’s birth mom?”

I close my eyes and say a tiny prayer. Laura, please forgive me . “It’s Laura Peebles.” I spell it for her. “She lives in Westbrook. I don’t have a phone number.”

And, come to think of it, Laura never emailed me for those photos of Tim.

“Peebles.” On the screen, Jules scribbles it down. “I’ll run a background check.”

“Is the name familiar to you?”

“Nope. But I bet it’s in his notebooks. He was such a throwback.” Her brown eyes get sad. “And someone used it against him.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. It’s clear to me that while Tim Kovak didn’t actually break my heart, he broke Jules’s for real.

After we hang up, I realize that I forgot to ask one more crucial question. I text her immediately.

Rowan: Hey wait! You said you’d give me everything you have on Harrison’s mom. Betsy Jones.

Jules: I did. But all I had was her name. There’s a Jones on the list. Maybe it’s the right person.

“You sneaky bitch,” I mutter. But there is, in fact, a B. Jones on the list. She’s one of the four names at the bottom—the special ones.

And when I look at the damn list again, I notice that it’s right next to C. Vespertini.