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Chapter 20

T here were no curtains on the windows, but the room was still doused in inky blackness. The moon must be obscured by clouds. I peered into the darkness, trying to manifest the runaway cat.

“Ramsey, get your butt out here.” I was trying to sound strong, but even the cat could probably tell I was freaked out. “What have you hidden in here? A mouse? A mole? Mayor Dixie Minette?”

I pushed the door open and stepped into the room. The dark surrounded me, thick and suffocating. I stopped, inhaling deeply, orienting myself. There were no lamps in this room and no overhead light. I should bring a lamp in here tomorrow.

Yeowww. . .

The sound was soft but unmistakable, and I spun to the corner, between the bed and the window.

“Where are you, Rams?” I called out.

I closed my eyes and felt myself sway. The room seemed to expand, to grow beyond its walls, allowing the stars from the sky to flow in through the window. And now I felt I was standing, suspended in a vast expanse of space. A universal amphitheater that was about to put on some show. A great show. The show of my life, starring a bloodthirsty cat and a group of ghostly children singing a ghostly song. Or maybe I was just drunk.

I should’ve brought some chicken or tuna, I thought. Something to lure him. I moved deeper into the room. I couldn’t see a damn thing, but I could hear a light scratching around the cast iron grate in the small fireplace. I heard another yowl and the sound of tiny paws scrabbling for purchase. He was on the mantel.

I headed toward the fireplace, arms sweeping, hands outstretched. I heard a growl. I was getting closer. “What is it, Rams?” I said sweetly. “What’ve you got back here?”

Suddenly my hands felt fur, bristling fur, and then a hail of sharp claws. I yelped and tried to hang on as he struggled in my arms, yowling and slashing at me. He took one particularly vicious swipe at my face, and I flinched, stumbling back. It was just the opportunity he needed, and he jumped out of my arms, clawed up the bricks onto the mantel, and then, in a flying leap, jumped onto the rolltop desk.

Something fell off the wall, hitting my knee and landing on my toe. “Ow!” I yelled, grabbing my foot and hopping in a circle. “You absolute dick.” Ramsay leaped down and streaked out of the room. The pain was subsiding now, and either the moon had come out or my eyes had adjusted to the dark, because I could see the fireplace now. The three bricks had fallen out of place as a result of Ramsey’s berserk mountain climbing adventure.

The hole they’d left was small, about as big as a tennis ball. I moved closer, close enough to put my hand inside until my fingers touched something. Some sort of fabric. Velvet. I grasped it and pulled, drawing out a small, purple drawstring pouch. A Crown Royal bag. Maybe hidden by George Davenport? I opened the bag and shook out the contents into my hand. Rocks. I hurried out of the room and back to Peter’s office. I dumped them onto the desk and peered closer, sifting through them with a finger. They glinted in the light, giving off a soft sheen, like the rock Mere had found. It looked suspiciously like...

Gold.

I straightened. With everything going on, I hadn’t had a chance to follow up with Lilah about that rock—if it was pyrite or not—but honestly it hadn’t seemed that\ important. If George Davenport had found actual gold on his property, there’s no way he wouldn’t have told someone or pursued setting up his own mine. He wouldn’t have squirreled away the evidence in a Crown Royal bag behind a couple of loose bricks in his house.

Unless he was afraid of the truth getting out.

My phone buzzed, and I jumped. Mom, FaceTiming me. I hit the screen. “Mom? Is everything okay?”

The screen was dark, the fuzzy shadow of her right cheek pressed close. “I got somebody here who can help you,” she said in an urgent whisper.

My mind was blank. “Help me? With what?”

“With the cloud thing. You know, on Peter’s computer.”

“iPad. He took his computer with him.”

“Whatever.” There was a rustling, and another wedge of a face came into view. “This is Edge.”

“Like from U2?” I asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mom said. “He works with me in the vegetable patch and sometimes in the laundry, but he used to work IT for Amazon.”

“Oh, okay, cool. Hi, Edge. I guess we’re cousins.”

Edge tilted his head, and I could make out a beard and a pair of wire-framed glasses accented by long frizzy hair. “What’s up?”

I smiled nervously. “Oh, just trying to hack into my husband’s iPad.”

“He’s cheating on her,” Mom said helpfully.

“Possibly,” I interjected.

“What happened to your face?” Mom asked. “Did he hit you, Billie?”

I touched the oozing scratch. “No, Mom. It was me. I was chasing the cat . . .”

Because he wanted to show me a hidden stash of gold nuggets. . .

“. . . because he killed a mole.”

“Ramsey did not kill a mole. That cat is one hundred percent chickenshit.”

“Yeah, well, not anymore.” He’s a goddamn Catawampus.

“We better get this show on the road, ladies,” Edge said. “It’s almost vespers.”

“I’m ready,” I said.

Edge held the phone close to his bearded face. “Can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Okay, here’s what you’re gonna do. . . .”

* * *

An obnoxious beam of sunlight, lasering in through the window and directly through my left eyelid, roused me. I was facedown, drooling, on the lumpy silk Duncan Fyfe sofa in the yellow parlor. The girl’s parlor.

I eased myself up and did a quick inventory. My mouth tasted like cat litter, my head throbbed, and my neck felt stiff. The topknot wobbled on my head and there was a mysterious stain on my pink tank top. On the cocktail table, Peter’s iPad was propped open in its case, but the screen was dark. I groaned and lay back down, this time on my back.

Water. I needed water.

I felt around for my phone, finding it in the crack between the sofa cushions where it had apparently slipped before I’d passed out. Six-forty-one A.M. Of course, no matter that I’d polished off almost half a flask of moonshine as well as a bottle of wine last night. I still couldn’t sleep past the crack of dawn. If all seven circles of hell were a person, it would be me.

Had I even cracked the code on Peter’s files? I searched my memory, dredging up the image, sharper than it should be, of my mother’s face. I should’ve regretted drunk-dialing her, but I didn’t. It had been so nice to hear her voice. So nice telling her everything I’d done.

And that guy with her. Her friend. Now I remembered him, too, fuzzily. A bearded, bespectacled man, patient, if a tad bit condescending, walking me through the steps to sync it with the house cloud account. I reached over and touched the screen of the iPad, and it glowed to life.

Or, I should say, Alice Tilton glowed to life.

Apparently, I had accessed the files, but only had gotten as far as the first one, where after opening it, and widening it to full screen, I had hit pause. Alice smiled shyly out at me—or rather, at Peter—from the iPad. She was dressed in a white, silky button-down shirt, and her hair was down, long and pushed back over her shoulders. Her face was free of makeup, her skin luminescent, and the nose ring glinted adorably. I’d always thought when I saw her at the restaurant with Jamie that she was pretty, but now I realized with a terrible sinking feeling down low, in the deepest recesses of my gut, that she was, in fact, beautiful.

My husband had surely noticed it, too. There he was, in a little box in the lower right corner of the screen. He was dressed in a crisp blue shirt, but there were dark circles under his eyes and his mouth was set in a grim line. Of course he’d seen how beautiful Alice was, and I’m sure she’d discovered how kind and gentle and giving he was.

Clearly, last night when I’d pulled up the file, when I’d realized I was about to violate the privacy of one of my husband’s patients and risk more of his fury, I’d lost my nerve and hadn’t pushed play on the video. Instead, I suddenly remembered I’d tried once again to get Peter to answer my texts. Dreading what surprise awaited me, I clicked on my messages and scanned the one-way conversation.

Peter, please. I love you. Can’t we talk?

The silent treatment, really?

We’ve been through so much together. Please don’t let it end this way.

Peter, I’m begging you.

Where is your heart, Peter? Nobody deserves this, no matter what they might have done.

Might have done.

Even when I was drunk-texting, I was still spinning things my way. I had done something, all right. I’d made out with Jamie Cleburne. There was no getting around it. Whatever Peter felt like he had to do to deal with his feelings, it was his choice. Not mine. My job was to wait until he was ready to talk. Until he had made up his mind about what he wanted to do. And last night, what he wanted to do was not speak to me.

I glanced at the iPad once more. I still wasn’t ready to watch their sessions. Instead, I dialed Lilah, and when she picked up, asked if she’d be willing to keep Mere for a few more hours. She said it was fine, that the girls were happy, but she was obviously curious about my plans. I didn’t expound; just thanked her and hung up.

Exhausted by that short interaction, I lay back, staring at the ceiling, letting the phone slip out of my hand. I began to cry, sobbing until, finally spent, I fell asleep again. I woke hours later to the sound of someone pounding at my front door. I started, then bolted upright, wildly looking around.

More pounding and a voice, muffled, calling my name. I held my throbbing head in my hands. “Hold on, I’m coming.” I hauled myself off the sofa, checked myself in the mirror, as I hurried through the front hall. I opened the door to find Jamie Cleburne standing on my front porch. He held Ramsey, who’d somehow gotten out. The cat was purring docilely and looked like a limp noodle in Jamie’s arms.

I stared in wonder. “You found my cat?”

Jamie set him down and Ramsey stalked past me into the house. “He was on the porch. I came up the steps and he just sort of jumped right into my arms.”

“What are you—”

“I heard Peter left,” Jamie said unceremoniously. “I’m sorry.”

I blinked, then nodded. Might as well let it all out. I would have to eventually.

“How—”

“People are talking.”

I rolled my eyes, but even that was excruciating. “You’re kidding me. This town . . .”

“I know. People pay attention.”

“Too much attention. Are they saying why?” I gave him a meaningful look.

“Well, Tilda Brennan, who I saw at their bakery, seemed to think he couldn’t”—he rubbed at his jaw—“deal with small-town life. That he was too New York.”

“Tilda Brennan.” I rolled my eyes. “She’s still mad about me getting this house.”

He was giving me a thorough once-over. I was suddenly acutely aware of my state: crazy hair, raccoon eyes, no bra. He glanced past me farther into the hall, to the lamp on the floor, a dirty glass, plate, and some random wadded-up paper towels. “You have a party last night?”

“I wish. Then feeling this way might actually be worth it.”

He dropped his hands into his pockets. “I have the cure, if you’re interested.” He raised his hands. “Just as friends, I promise. I even brought a chaperone this time.” I glanced past him, at the truck. Ever, the chocolate Lab, watched me from the open passenger window.

I nodded. “Okay.” At this point, I could use a friend. “Let me get the cat carrier. I want to drop Ramsey at the vet on the way.”