Page 12 of The Locked Ward
I’ve never been to a house like this before. I doubt I’ve ever crossed paths with the people who live in it, either. It’s a safe bet the Cartwrights don’t shop at chain supermarkets or scour discount stores for designer knockoffs. They don’t schedule flu shots at CVS or fly coach.
They exist in an alternate universe, one in which every path is gilded and every preference fulfilled.
At the base of the long magnolia tree–lined private drive leading to the Cartwright estate, several men in dark suits briefly stop each car that passes, peering inside.
It takes me a moment to figure out why. Then I realize they’re probably checking for paparazzi, given the intense media interest surrounding Annabelle’s murder.
Being thirty-two and having girl-next-door looks gives me a perfect disguise. I could be one of Georgia’s childhood friends, college classmates, or work colleagues. I sweep through the security checkpoint easily.
Uniformed parking attendants use hand signals to direct me to a back field, where I park my Honda in between a Cadillac and a Mercedes.
I wait in my car, pretending to check my makeup in my rearview mirror, until a powder blue Bronco pulls up and four women around my age step out. I trail them toward the house, drawing close enough that I appear to be part of their group.
Two unsmiling men with military-short haircuts stand at the front door, their eyes cutting through everyone who walks by. One of the women taps on her phone, revealing what looks like an invitation. The guard gestures for us to enter. I smile at him as I pass by.
I step across the threshold, then suck in a breath as I take in the scene: The marble-floored receiving hall is easily as big as the entire house where I grew up, and the enormous chandelier two stories up looks like it would crush someone to death if it broke free and landed on them.
A massive impressionistic painting hangs on one wall, surrounded by pale yellow, textured wallpaper.
A server in black slacks and a crisp white shirt approaches, offering white wine or sparkling water from the tray balanced on his palm. I accept a glass of water and thank him.
Dozens of people are congregating in the entrance hall, while others are flowing into the adjoining room, which holds several groupings of cream-colored couches and chairs.
“Never buy a light couch or carpet,” my mother told me once as we shopped at a Macy’s sale for a new sofa. “The stains show much faster.”
Apparently that’s not a concern of the Cartwrights. The grand room is done in shades of cream and white, with occasional splashes of pastels. Flowers are everywhere—white calla lilies, roses, and tulips—filling the air with a cloyingly sweet smell.
And in the middle of the cream-and-white room is Honey Cartwright in her black dress, like a splotch of spilled ink on a sheet of paper.
She’s surrounded by a group of women, and another server stands at attention a few feet behind her.
Mrs. Cartwright looks like a queen holding court with her handmaidens.
Even though her face is tear-streaked and her eyes are swollen, it’s easy to see why she won the title of Miss North Carolina when she was twenty-two.
This is where my sister once lived—at least when she wasn’t at boarding school. Did she tiptoe in through the front door as a teenager when she was late for curfew? Did she have a crush on the Jonas Brothers and sneak Marlboro Lights out her bedroom window like I did?
“It was a beautiful service,” someone murmurs next to me.
I turn and see a slender, balding man with bland features and owlish, watchful eyes.
“It really was,” I agree.
“How do you know the Cartwrights?” he asks.
“I was friends with Annabelle in college.” I give a sad half smile, then cast my eyes down, hoping he takes my brevity for grief.
“I’m Reece DuPont. And you are…?”
Before I can reply, a ripple runs through the room. Heads swivel toward the front door. The energy in the room surges.
I see its source: the silver-haired man who caught Honey Cartwright when she collapsed at the funeral.
He stands in the open doorway, backlit by the sun. I can’t see his face clearly at first. Then he steps into the room. He’s handsome for an older guy—tall and fit, with perfect teeth and a few lines on his lightly tanned skin. But that isn’t why I find myself staring.
I’ve read interviews with celebrities who exude a special kind of wattage, and more than one has spoken about their ability to turn it off and on. I’m guessing this man has that same ability, and he’s running it full throttle now.
“Senator!” A man steps forward and extends his hand, pushing through others to get to the new arrival.
I’ve seen him before, in political ads and on the front page of the newspaper my parents used to get. He’s Michael Dawson, the senior US senator from North Carolina, who is widely rumored to be a front-runner in the next presidential election.
The crowd parts for him as he makes his way to Mrs. Cartwright. One of her handmaidens vacates a chair so he can sit by the grieving mother. He murmurs something to her I can’t hear, and they talk for another few moments before he takes her hand and briefly presses it before standing up again.
Where is Mr. Cartwright? I wonder. I’ve researched what he looks like, but I haven’t seen him today.
No sooner has that question flitted through my mind than the senator turns and walks directly toward me.
My mouth dries up. Everyone is watching the senator’s movements, so it feels as if everyone is staring at me.
Do they know I don’t belong?
At the last second the senator veers to my left, approaching a man I hadn’t noticed before who is standing only a few feet from me.
That ginger-mixed-with-gray hair, the heavy eyebrows and ruddy, roundish face—it can only be Georgia’s father, Stephen Cartwright.
The senator reaches out and hugs Mr. Cartwright.
This time, I’m close enough to listen.
“My deepest condolences,” the senator begins. Even his voice seems presidential—deep and confident. “Your family is always in my prayers.”
“Thank you, Michael,” Mr. Cartwright says.
Mr. Cartwright doesn’t use the elected title like everyone else. It’s a clue that these men are not only close, but see themselves as equals.
“Words don’t help much at a time like this,” the senator continues. “That’s why I’m giving you a promise instead.”
If I’d been farther away, I would have missed it.
But for just a second, I see emotion twist Senator Dawson’s face, breaking apart his polished veneer. It looks like genuine pain.
There’s a person behind the facade—a man who cared deeply about Annabelle, I realize.
The senator’s voice rises slightly, steel running through his words. “Justice will prevail. And Annabelle’s memory will live on in all of us.”