“Summer did,” Gabe tells him, “and the police are on their way. Does anyone know what Jillian was doing by the woods?”
“According to Dad, she was checking out the area for the burial. Apparently, she needed to provide some information to the people digging the damn hole.”
I guess that makes sense, sort of. “But how would she even know her way down there?” I ask.
Marcus shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Do you think Nick’s aware if anything was going on between Dad and Jillian?” Gabe asks. “He was around them a lot more than we were.”
“Nick’s so goo-goo eyed about his own love life, I doubt he’d notice if Godzilla made landfall and came up the Delaware. But it’s worth asking him. And we’re all on the same page about the hug, right?”
“Of course,” Gabe says. “I won’t breathe a word.”
When I don’t respond immediately, they turn to me.
“Agree, absolutely,” I say, but my stomach twists. What if this means I have to deceive the police? I can lie and make anyone believe me, but I don’t want to have to do that.
“And everything else?” Gabe asks, back to looking at Marcus. “The less said the better, right?”
Marcus nods, but before I can ask what they’re referring to, Gabe wonders aloud where Blake and Wendy are.
“Doylestown—they left around one,” Marcus says. “Wendy’s doctor arranged for her to have a sonogram there for some reason. They shouldn’t be much—”
He stops short as the distant wail of a police siren penetrates the quiet of the room.
“Okay, here we go,” Marcus says. “Brace for impact.”
How in the world are we supposed to brace for this? It feels like someone’s taken my life in their hands and is shaking it hard like a snow globe, making pieces come undone.
We hurry into the living room, where Keira’s sitting with the just-returned Blake and Wendy, all three looking stunned as Nick debriefs them. Ash must still be trying to connect with an attorney because we can hear him through the open door of the study talking on the phone, his voice low and his tone urgent.
“And you’re sure it’s Jillian,” Blake says, glancing at the three of us who’ve just entered.
“It must be,” Marcus says. “Dad tried her cell and there was no answer. And anyone else is accounted for.”
The siren cuts off abruptly and we hear a vehicle heading up the gravel driveway and lurching to a stop.
“Okay,” Blake says. “Since Dad is tied up, I’ll speak to the police first. Summer, you should come with me, to describe what you found. Everyone else should remain in the house for now, I think.”
“I want Gabe to be there, too,” I say.
“Fine.”
When Blake, Gabe, and I exit the house, we discover an ambulance, not the police. But as the ambulance doors spring open, an official-looking SUV charges up the driveway, and moments later, two male state troopers climb out, dressed in gray pants, gray shirts, and black ties, their faces wooden.
Blake does as promised, introducing us in somber tones and explaining that it was me, along with the housekeeper, who found the body near a wooded area on the property. “We believe,” he adds, “that it’s Jillian Herrera, my father’s assistant.”
“You’re not certain, though?” the older trooper asks, the one with a mustache too thin for his face, locking eyes with me.
“No, because she’s lying facedown,” I explain. There’s no reason to waste time describing my initial confusion and the farcical scene with Hannah in the living room.
“And when was the last time Ms. Herrera was seen alive?”
“This morning.” It’s Ash talking, out of the house now and coming up behind us to introduce himself to the police. “She assisted me with some paperwork in the study and left about ten o’clock. Her intention was to return to the city, but first she’d offered to check out an area by the woods. I didn’t notice until a few minutes ago that her car was still here in the driveway.” He chokes up on the last few words.
“Why did she need to go down there?” It’s still the older trooper speaking.
“She was looking at the place we plan to bury my wife, who passed on Sunday,” Ash tells them. “Ms. Herrera was helping with the arrangements.”
His voice cracks once again, but I have no way of knowing if it’s mainly from grief or distress or fear. Could my father-in-law actually be a murderer? I try to push away the thought.
“You weren’t surprised when she didn’t stop in before she left.”
“There was no need to. We’d finished our work and we planned to speak again tomorrow morning.”
The troopers nod, their faces still stony. They inquire who else is here on the property, and after Ash goes through the list, they ask me to direct them to the crime scene, along with the housekeeper, and the two paramedics.
“I should accompany you, too,” Ash announces. “This is my property, and I can answer your questions.”
“No, the rest of you need to remain in the house,” the trooper tells him. “Detectives from the state police are on their way.”
“I’ll get the housekeeper,” Gabe interjects, and I realize that he doesn’t want the troopers going into the kitchen and collecting her in front of Henry. He darts off and returns with Bonnie less than a minute later. As she and I depart with the police, I glance behind me, trying to make eye contact with Gabe so that he can give me a reassuring look. But instead he’s staring off into the distance.
As if reading each other’s thoughts, Bonnie and I lead the troopers and paramedics around the building, avoiding the house, then along the side of the boxwood grove and gardens and down the wide expanse of lawn.
Though the air is damp, the rain continues to hold off. Bonnie’s put on a zippered cardigan since I saw her earlier, but I’m still in only a long-sleeved T-shirt. I shiver, but it’s less from the weather and more from my nerves.
Pretend you’re in a play, I tell myself. Own the stage, own the room, stay in control.
On the way, the troopers ask us a few more questions: Did you notice anyone else in the vicinity when you were down here or hear anything suspicious? No, Bonnie and I say in unison. Did either of you have any contact with Jillian Herrera earlier today? Again, no. Is there any other way to gain access to where we’re going? Bonnie mentions an old logging road that cuts through the woods and ends not far from the stream. I’ve never heard of it before, but I’m relieved to learn another detail supporting the idea of an outside perpetrator.
We’ve reached the first meadow by now and one of the troopers asks if we have much farther to go. I give an estimate of under ten minutes and describe the rest of the route ahead. As we hurry through the wildflowers, their colors dulled from the lack of sunshine, I try to picture Jillian coming through here earlier. Was it right after she left Ash in the study? She must have looked at the sky and grabbed a slicker. I wonder again if she and Ash hiked here together. And then . . .
Finally, when we reach the end of the second meadow, Bonnie freezes in her tracks, as if she can’t bear the idea of witnessing the scene again.