“We’ve got to get his computers,” Miano said. “House and gallery.”
“And Nicola’s,” Reid said. “But I still think we won’t find anything on any of those. We’ve got to look at libraries, public places he could have gone to look it up.”
“Books too,” Miano said. “Check his credit cards for book orders.”
Reid was beaming when he said goodbye and he and Miano went to their separate work stations to start working on the warrants. Two hours later, Miano told him he could leave early, that she’d finish the applications. She had a leave of absence coming up—she needed knee surgery for an old college soccer injury—and she knew he’d be carrying the caseload while she was gone. He thanked her and took off.
On the way home, he took a detour through the center of Black Hall.
He parked in the driveway of the Lathrop Gallery, stared at the historic building. The blinds on the tall windows were closed. The flowers in the stone planters on the front porch hadn’t been watered, and the geraniums had turned brown. Without Beth to take care of the gallery, it looked abandoned. He wondered if Kate would take over.
He circled around back, tracing the steps he had taken twenty-three years ago. The rhododendrons were as thick around the hatchway door as they had been back then. He remembered what it had been like to hear Kate thumping her feet, the sound that had made him break down the door. He leaned his shoulder against the door now, remembering the force it had taken to break the lock.
If he counted the days and minutes since that day, he knew there would be very few when the Woodward sisters had not been on his mind. He stared at the windows, wondering what secrets the computers inside held. He doubted very much that Pete had left any trail on a hard drive that could be traced to him, but he had hope that they were on the right track.
A message from Kate popped up on his phone.
Can we meet? I have something to show you.
He texted back:
Where?
Kate replied:
My place.
When he got to Bank Street, he saw her sitting on the top step in front of her building. Her tan legs were streaked with salt or silt, silvery in the light, as if she’d been wading in the river. Popcorn lay on the sidewalk behind her and jumped up when Reid got out of his car.
“Let’s talk out here,” she said. “Sam’s upstairs.”
“Okay,” he said, sitting beside her.
“Conor,” she said. “I hate to say this, but you might be wrong about Pete.”
“Why?”
“Have you talked to Jed Hilliard yet?”
“Yes,” Reid said.
“Well, so have I,” Kate said. “I think you’d better look at him more closely.”
“We did, of course,” Reid said. “But he has an alibi.”
“So does Pete. He was on a sailboat, two hundred miles away.”
“Jed was giving private art lessons to some kids on Fishers Island,” Reid said.
“The Stewarts?” Kate asked. “I know them. I fly the family. David’s the one who first mentioned Jed to me. But they’re so sweet—he could fool them; he could have snuck off . . .”
“He spent the nights before Beth’s death in their guest room, and he didn’t return to the mainland until the day after. We have statements from David and Lainie, the ferry operators, and the driver who took Jed to the boat and back to Black Hall.”
Kate paused, looked out at the harbor. She watched the Cape Henlopen—one of the big ferries that went out to Orient Point—back out of the dock, turn, and head south down the Thames.
“Well, I have something to show you,” she said. She reached into her pocket and handed him a small, square sonogram in black and white.
“Okay . . . ,” he said, waiting for her to explain.
“I took it from Jed Hilliard’s tent,” she said.
Reid stared at the picture.
“Look on the back,” Kate said.
Reid turned it over, saw that someone had scrawled Love, B.
“B for Beth,” Kate said.
“So you think . . . ,” Reid began.
“Yes. Jed was the father of her baby,” Kate said.
39
Sam sat on the glider, salt-rusted chains creaking as she pushed back and forth with one toe on the weathered wood floor. Isabel was braiding her hair, and Sam was savoring the closeness when a scratching sound came from under the table beside them. She nearly jumped. Julie crawled out, glanced at them, then disappeared under the faded tablecloth again.
“I see you,” Sam said.
Julie giggled.
“We get it,” Isabel said to her sister. “You’re so adorable. You’re the most precious. But guess what? Watching people and eavesdropping isn’t nice.”
“I do it, though,” Julie said.
“No fucking kidding.”
“It’s okay, Julie,” Sam said. “Come out and hang with us.”
“I don’t think so,” Isabel said. Sam watched her glare at the rustling tablecloth.
“What’s wrong?” Sam asked. “You okay?”
“I’ll be honest,” Isabel said. “Having you coddle Julie, when I just want to be supportive and understanding of you, makes my stomach hurt.”
“I love you both; is that okay?” Sam asked.
“Thinking about the time,” Julie said, her voice muffled by the tablecloth.
“What time?” Sam asked.
“Before the dying, before your mother went to heaven.”
“Julie!” Isabel said.
“Yeah. I think about it too,” Sam said.
Julie poked her head out. She actually met Sam’s gaze and nodded.
Eye contact was really rare. Julie’s face, always pale, was scrunched up with worry and looked translucent, almost bluish. She was obviously really upset, giving Sam a serious needle in her heart. Julie’s so-called friends bullied her. They weren’t patient, and they teased her.
Once when Sam and Isabel were at the beach with Julie, they overheard Cammie Alquist bullying her.
You don’t look different, but you ARE different, hahaha, Cammie had said, and Isabel had grabbed Cammie by the back of her neck and said, Different is better than shitty like you. Seeing Isabel defend Julie had made Sam wish she had a sister—someone who had her back, while Sam had hers, just like her mother and Aunt Kate.
“Bad dream,” Julie said.
“You had one?” Sam asked.
“She has nightmares,” Isabel said. “Let’s get out of here.”
Sam wanted to stay and hear more of what Julie was talking about, but she could tell that Isabel had lost her patience and seemed ready to explode.
“Foley’s?” Sam asked.
“Yeah.”
They took the long way around, the road that looped along the marsh. They were beach girls and walked barefoot, the tar warm and soft beneath their feet.
“What’s bothering Julie?” Sam asked.
“I can’t tell, exactly. She’s very upset about your mother, obviously,” Isabel said, glancing at Sam. “But I think it has more to do with your father.”
“What did he do?”
“Well, he came over to pick up my dad the day they left, and we all talked to him. Julie hears everything, and she knows he’s a suspect.” Again Isabel looked at Sam. “Sorry.”