Page 52 of The Locked Ward

“What time did you speak to Mr. Wagner on the phone?”

Officer Neilson’s pen is poised over his small spiral notebook. With his blond buzz cut and round cheeks, he looks too young for his profession. His partner appears to be two decades older. He has hooded eyes and a downturned line for a mouth, like a falcon. He hasn’t spoken a word.

“That’s helpful. Can you take a screenshot and text it to this number?” He extends a business card.

“Of course.” I comply, then tuck his card in my bag.

I’ve already told the officers I came to meet Tony Wagner for the first time as a new client.

I recounted my movements, from my knock on the hallway door to my realization Tony wasn’t sleeping to my frantic scramble to the yoga studio.

I’m thankful I didn’t touch Tony or his desk: My DNA won’t be anywhere near his body.

My heart is still pounding. Even though police are around me, I’m so jittery I flinch at every unexpected noise.

Am I being unreasonable, or is my fear justified? Tony looked to be in his late sixties or early seventies. It isn’t that unusual for men of that age to suffer heart attacks or strokes.

But Georgia told me they might have bugged my car—and I was getting in my car when I talked to Tony. If Georgia, Tony, Colby, and I are the only people who know of the affair between Annabelle and the senator, the first two of us have been effectively eliminated as witnesses.

Dizziness engulfs me. I blink hard, trying to bring the room back into focus.

“You okay?” The young officer is peering at me.

“Yeah. It was just a shock. Is he—definitely dead?” I ask.

The younger cop glances at the older one, who nods.

“I’m afraid so, ma’am,” Officer Neilson says.

A high-pitched siren announces another approaching vehicle. There must be four or five here already, including an ambulance and several police cars. Through the thin walls, I hear someone next door snapping that he isn’t done dusting for prints.

The yoga teacher brings me steaming tea in a chunky cup with no handle. I accept it gratefully, cupping it in my palms as I sip and taste ginger and cinnamon. Even though the room isn’t cold, I can’t seem to get warm.

“We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions,” the young officer tells me. He tucks his notebook in his pocket and turns to go.

Then the silent partner speaks.

“Why did you want to hire Mr. Wagner?”

My stomach plummets.

I can’t lie. But if there’s even a chance everything Georgia claims is true, I have to walk a tightrope.

“I’m having some issues with my sister,” I say. “She makes up these crazy stories, and she’s disrupting my life, and I wanted to check out some of the stuff she’s told me so I can know whether or not to cut her off.”

The young officer seems to tune out before I finish speaking. Girl drama , I can practically hear him think.

“Take care, miss,” he says as he heads out the doorway, turning toward the crime scene.

The older cop stares at me for a long second, then follows him.

I feel as if I’m poised on the edge of a cliff, about to free-fall. All I have to do is lift my hand and knock on the door of the Cartwright house. But I’m terrified I’ll make a mistake, and they’ll discover my true identity.

I can’t delay any longer. Eyes are already on me.

I’ve spotted no fewer than three cameras since I stepped onto the grounds, not to mention signs reading Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted and No Solicitors . There’s also a Ring device on the front door, its unblinking round eye capturing and storing my image.

I have no doubt that if I hadn’t gone to Georgia’s apartment to cultivate a certain look—her Lilly Pulitzer flowered dress and kitten heels, my lips glossed pink, Tiffany jewelry gleaming on my earlobes and wrists, my hair sleek and shiny—someone would’ve intercepted me already.

I present as a wealthy Southern girl, one who would have been friends with Annabelle. It has become blazingly apparent to me that people make snap judgments based on appearance, forming an image of who you are before you utter a word. I’m counting on that to hold true.

I press the bell and melodic chimes sound inside the grand house. Unlike the story I told to the police, the tale I’ve prepared for the Cartwrights is 100 percent false. Until I understand what’s going on, I feel safer hiding my identity.

The door opens, revealing a man in black slacks and a white shirt. His loafers are shiny, and his expression is neutral.

“Good morning, miss,” he says, a question in his tone. He must be a butler. I didn’t think those jobs still existed.

“Hello, I’m Katie Johnson.” I smile sweetly.

I’m holding a massive bouquet of white flowers, which cost $200 from Georgia’s sock stash.

“How may I help you?” the butler asks.

“I was a sorority sister of Annabelle’s. I was here for the funeral reception, but I wanted to come again to pay my respects to the Cartwrights. I also wanted to let them know about a charity event we Tri Delts are planning in Annabelle’s honor.”

“Will you pardon me for a moment?”

It isn’t really a question. He closes the door. I wait, my skin prickling. Time seems to expand, every second dragging by. Finally he returns and opens the door. I hold my breath and wait for the verdict.

“Mr. Cartwright isn’t home, but Mrs. Cartwright is in the garden. She isn’t up for a long visit, however.”

And just like that, I’m in.

I step across the threshold into the grand foyer. It seems even bigger now that it isn’t filled with people. With stunning artwork popping on the walls and gleaming marble floors, it’s like being in a museum. Did Georgia ever get used to living in a place like this? I wonder.

He leads me down a wide hallway, and I catch glimpses of the rooms we pass: A library in walnut wood with maroon walls, a sitting room done in robin’s-egg blue, a second living room that holds a Steinway.

Several doors are closed, and I wonder if one of them leads to the main dining room, where Annabelle’s body was found.

When we finally reach the back of the house, the butler opens a massive glass door and I step outside.

If I thought the interior of the house was breathtaking, the gardens elevate it to another level.

Explosions of red and yellow dahlias, purple marigolds, and blue zinnias fill wide flower beds, while flowering bushes and mature trees line the borders.

He leads me to the right, around a thick azalea bursting with orange flowers.

“Mrs. Cartwright, I’ve brought you Katie Johnson.”

She’s kneeling by a bed filled with roses, a wide-brimmed hat shielding her face from the sun, gardening gloves on her hands.

Even though she’s digging in dirt, she’s dressed in yellow capri pants and a white blouse.

She looks beautiful; her hair and makeup are done, and her hat frames her soft oval face.

“Mrs. Cartwright, I’m so sorry for your loss,” I begin.

“Thank you, dear.” She stands up slowly and I see the cracks in her genteel facade.

Mud is smeared on the left knee of her pants, and there’s another streak of it on her forehead, like she wiped away perspiration with the back of her dirty glove.

The whites of her eyes are threaded with red spiderweb lines.

“These are for you.” I extend the bouquet.

She tilts down her head and inhales. “Lilies. Annabelle’s favorite.”

It’s a stroke of luck. I replicated the blooms I remembered from Annabelle’s funeral. Hopefully it’ll add authenticity to my story.

“David, will you put these in water?” she asks.

The butler takes them. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

As soon as he turns, I begin: “I wanted to let you know that a few of us sisters from Tri Delt—me and Clara and Sidney—are planning a 5K charity run in Annabelle’s honor.

” The names are ones I photographed from the guest book, and a little social media sleuthing gave me their connection to Annabelle.

Mrs. Cartwright’s brows rise slightly. “Oh? Isn’t that nice.”

“I know Annabelle wasn’t a runner, but we will have some special touches in her memory. One of the sisters suggested everyone gather for mimosas and chocolates at the end of the race. But I told them Annabelle would prefer macaroons and Bellinis.”

As I’m speaking, I reach into my purse and pull out a slim folder. Mrs. Cartwright is nodding, a sad smile twisting her lips.

“And the proceeds will go to the church, to fund children’s programs.”

I open my folder and let the photograph of my parents that was inside flutter to the ground.

I don’t make a move to reach for the object. After a beat, Mrs. Cartwright bends down to pick it up, as I hoped she would. But she barely glances at it as she hands it to me.

“Here you are, dear.”

I need her to see the faces of my parents. It’s the whole reason I’m here.

“Thank you,” I say. “I’m gathering sponsors for the race. This couple said they were going to donate the prosecco for the peach Bellinis we’re serving after the run.”

I know it sounds strange—why would I be carrying around a picture of sponsors?—but it works. When I don’t take back the photo, she looks down at it long enough that I’m certain my parents’ faces register.

My gut clenches. This is it: the moment when the decades-thick shell of secrecy could crack open. When Honey looks up with shock flooding her face, I’ll demand to know how our families are connected.

Honey looks up. And there’s nothing in her expression but a bland geniality.

“The 5K sounds like a wonderful idea. Please let me know how I can help.”

My whole body deflates. I can’t believe it. She doesn’t know them. If she has never met my parents, then who engineered the separate adoptions of me and Georgia? There has to be a connection; the matching statues proved it.

I see David round the corner of the house, coming to take me away.

I tuck the photograph back in my folder. Honey is staring at me, and I realize I never gave her a response.

“We don’t need anything from you but your blessing,” I tell her. “Thank you again for seeing me.”

David looks down at my feet. I realize I’m standing in dirt and Georgia’s Chloé heels are filthy.

“We can walk around this way,” he says. “The grounds are lovely at this time of year.”

It’s a polite way of saying he doesn’t want me tracking dirt through the house.

“Of course,” I reply. It doesn’t matter. I went to all this effort to come here, and I ran into a dead end. I have no idea what to do next.

My shoulders slump as I follow David around the corner of the house, into the side yard.

The breath whooshes out of my lungs. My feet stop moving as I gape.

There’s a long row of apple trees spread out against a massive wooden fence.

It’s like something out of an enchanted forest. The trees are meticulously pruned, and the branches create an intricate pattern as they grow flat against the fence.

The wall must be fifty feet long and half as high, and the trees stretch from end to end, red apples adorning the branches like ornaments.

“They’re called espaliers,” Brooks tells me. “The trees have to be trained to grow that way. Beautiful, aren’t they? They’ve been here for decades.”

My mouth is too dry to answer.

I know exactly what the trees are called. My mother told me about them when she planted the apple tree she trained to grow flat against a fence in our backyard, saying she was inspired because she once saw the gardens of a grand house with a row of such distinctive espaliers.

My mother was here long ago. The trees are like fingerprints tracing directly back to her.