PART I
1
July 11
Beth Lathrop lay on her side, one arm flung across her eyes as if to block the bright morning sunlight that streamed through the east-facing window. She was covered by a pale-blue percale sheet that draped over her pregnant belly and clung to her left hip. It was mid-July; the baby, a boy, was due October 4. The distinct peace of white noise made the room a separate world from the rest of the house: the hum of the air conditioner, the low buzz of a single fly circling the odd, shocking, dark-red jewel behind her ear, the muffled sound of a dog just outside the door.
Outside, a salt breeze blew off the protected cove down the hill. July in Black Hall could be humid, waves of damp heat rising from the marsh and tidal flats, but although it was already eighty-five degrees, the air was clear, and this was one of those sparkling summer days Beth loved so much, looked forward to all winter.
If the windows had been open, the white curtains would have lifted and rippled, and the cross breeze blowing across the marshes, off Long Island Sound, would have cooled the whole house. But the house was closed up, the bedroom door shut tight, the window air conditioner running on the highest setting—so high that despite the hot day, a thin film of frost had formed on the vents and the sill. Beth’s golden-red hair, loose and wavy, cascaded over her bare shoulders.
Her iPhone on the bedside table lit up with an incoming call from her sister, Kate. The phone was set to “Do Not Disturb,” so it neither rang nor vibrated. When Kate disconnected, a message banner showed on Beth’s screen. It was the most recent of twenty-one missed calls. Nearly as soon as the message appeared on the iPhone, the landline began to ring. It was downstairs, in the kitchen, and the tone was muffled by the rooms and stairs and closed door in between it and Beth.
Popcorn had been scratching at the bedroom door, but he had given up and now lay on the top step, whimpering in the hall. The family’s yellow Lab loved his morning beach runs. It was 7:35 a.m., and he was used to being fed and walked around 6:00. With Pete gone on his sailing trip, Beth under her sister’s orders to grab a little extra sleep because it had been a complicated pregnancy, and their sixteen-year-old daughter, Samantha, away at camp, Popcorn had to wait. He kept glancing at the bedroom door—lifting his head, whining, resting his chin on his paws.
Through the closed bedroom door and over the air conditioner’s loud hum, the doorbell could barely be heard. It rang three times. Popcorn let out a whooping yelp, bounded down the stairs, and ran back and forth in the entry hall. Then came the sound of rapid closed-fist pounding on the front door. Then the sharp clank-clank-clank of the brass door knocker. Popcorn barked wildly.
The noise at the front door stopped. Footsteps sounded on the brick walk along the side of the house, voices carrying as the white picket gate squeaked open. Popcorn tore into the kitchen, wailing at the two women and a man who had entered the backyard and were standing just outside the back door. They peered in, hands cupped around their eyes to block the sunlight.
Popcorn pranced with excitement, his tail thumping. One of the women knew him well—Kate Woodward, Beth’s sister. He reared up, front claws clicking on the glass. Kate went to the gas grill, opened the lid. The Lathrops usually hid a spare key inside, and although she had looked earlier, before she had called the police, before they had pulled up in their cruiser, she had to double-check to make sure it really wasn’t there.
The other two visitors were uniformed Black Hall police officers, Peggy McCabe and Jim Hawley. McCabe knocked hard, the rap of her knuckles sharp and staccato.
“Black Hall Police,” she called. “Beth, are you home? Anyone in there?”
“Is the dog friendly?” Hawley asked warily.
“Yes, very—Popcorn’s very friendly; don’t worry,” Kate said. “Just break the door, will you? Please?”
Hawley crouched down, looked the dog in the eye through the slider. “Hey, Popcorn; hey, Popcorn,” he said. “You’re not going to bite, are you?” Popcorn slimed the glass with his nose, his tail wagging.
“There’s nowhere else they could have hidden a key?” McCabe asked.
“I don’t think so. I don’t know. The spare is always in the grill. Beth would never go this long without calling me. Will you please get us in there? I should have broken in myself. Something’s wrong.”
“Did you have a fight?” McCabe asked.
“No!” Kate said.
McCabe knew they should get a search warrant, but Kate’s panic was compelling. Beth Lathrop was six months pregnant and hadn’t been heard from in three days. Her silver Mercedes was parked in the driveway, and at least two days’ worth of dog waste was visible through the window. These facts, plus Kate’s demeanor, told McCabe that she and Hawley could claim exigent circumstances if they faced a problem in court later.
“Is there an alarm?” she asked. “Is it silent?”
“Yes, there is one. No, it’s not silent. It’s a siren,” Kate said. “But I know the code. I can disarm it.”
“Get back,” McCabe said. She pulled on latex gloves, took her baton from her black leather belt, and smashed the door. The glazed glass shattered into a thousand tiny squares, but they held in place. She gave it one extra-forceful tap with the butt of her baton, and the pieces rained down onto the blue tile floor. She reached in to unlock the door from the inside.
The alarm didn’t go off. It hadn’t been set.
The officers stepped into the kitchen, but Kate pushed past them.
“Beth!” she shouted.
“Wait,” McCabe said, grabbing Kate’s arm. “Please step outside until I tell you to come in.”
“There’s no way,” Kate said and disappeared through the kitchen.
McCabe kept her hand on her hip holster, following Kate. Hawley petted the dog, let him outside into the fenced yard, and then followed the other two up the stairs.
“Beth!” Kate called. She was on the stairs, mounting them two at a time, McCabe just behind her. McCabe heard the air conditioner humming behind a closed door at the top of the staircase. Kate started to grab the knob, but McCabe clamped her wrist to stop her. Kate’s hand was shaking.
“Wait out here, Kate,” McCabe said.
Kate took a step back, letting Hawley pass, seeming to comply.
McCabe turned the brass knob—even through her glove, the metal felt like ice.
Inside, the bedroom was freezing cold, the air conditioner running hard. The room smelled sickly sweet and rotten. Beth lay on her right side facing the window, her back to the door. Flies, sluggish in the chilled air, buzzed around her head. Kate ran past both officers to her sister.
“Beth,” Kate said, crouching down to look into her face. She let out a sharp, instant shriek of wild, immediate grief. “No, Beth, don’t let it be this—don’t let it.”
“Don’t touch her,” McCabe said.
“Oh, Beth,” Kate said.
Hawley and McCabe approached the bed.
Beth’s eyes were half-open, her lips parted and protruding tongue blue and swollen. There was a purple line around her neck, a lace pattern imprinted into her skin. The left side of her face was bruised, her head split open behind her ear, her hair caked with dried blood. The blue sheets were disheveled and stained with fluids, the top one pulled up just enough to cover Beth’s pregnant belly. Black bikini panties, the filigreed elastic stretched and torn, lay bunched on the floor. A lacy black bra, sides and straps ripped, hung off the side of the bed.