If she actually was the intended victim, someone in the family obviously wanted her dead. I try to imagine how things might have unfolded. The killer could have seen Hannah from a window like Bonnie did, assumed she was on a walk, and decided to act. It would have taken a couple of minutes for the person to hatch a plan and possibly snatch something to use as a weapon. But even though the murderer would have lost sight of the woman believed to be Hannah, he—or she—would know to follow the trellis-covered path to the meadows. It’s the walk everyone takes, and it would require only a few minutes to catch up. And then there she was, standing by the stream and facing the other way. Had the killer realized his or her mistake as soon as Jillian collapsed from the blow? Or not until later?
With a jolt it occurs to me that the police might want to examine the slickers, and the corridor, too, so I shouldn’t be hanging out here. I snap off the light and head back to the kitchen, where I brew a cup of caffeinated tea in an attempt to stay alert. With the dogs eyeing me curiously, I let out a moan and sink bone-tired into a chair at the table.
As I nurse my tea, two names power their way into my brain again, the same ones I considered while rushing back from the woods, thinking I’d just found Hannah’s body.
Nick. Bonnie heard him and Hannah sparring last night. Somehow Nick might have obtained incriminating information about her, perhaps the same secret Claire had learned. Had it sent him into a murderous rage? It’s hard to imagine my charming, affable brother-in-law capable of such brutality. And yet . . . I’ve occasionally sensed that beneath his jovial facade, there’s something darker—perhaps a fear of failure, a concern that despite his designation as the family’s golden boy, he’s no match for his brothers in smarts or savvy.
And then there’s Marcus. I’ve watched how he studied Hannah, stone-faced, over dinner. I saw the fury in his expression as they talked in the glade. There are two possible explanations for his anger. He knows something incriminating about Hannah and wants her out of his brother’s life. Or, despite what he’s sworn repeatedly to his wife, he’s never got over Hannah, is infuriated by the idea of her sleeping with his brother, and even worse, planning to marry him.
And either one of them could have tried to make it appear as if a stranger attempted a sexual assault and then resorted to murder.
But there’s another name to consider, isn’t there? Keira. She’s clearly felt bothered by Hannah’s presence. Could jealousy have propelled her to try to murder a possible rival?
Stop, I command myself. I can’t let these ideas occupy any more space in my brain tonight than they already have. Nick, Marcus, and Keira are members of my family, people I love. Besides, there’s still the possibility that Jillian was murdered by a total stranger, that this has nothing to do with Hannah.
But even if I’m not entertaining thoughts of suspects in my family, the police are. They’re gathering information and trying to determine if any of us had reason to want Jillian dead. And after interviewing me and Bonnie, and learning about our confusion—as well as the fact that two women were wearing identical coats—they’re probably also wondering which of us might have wanted Hannah out of the way.
Once again, I wonder if I should have shared my suspicions about Claire’s death with the detectives. There’s still time to tell them, of course. And it would be better to do it before Claire’s buried. Maybe there’s a way for them to look into the situation without identifying me as the one who raised questions.
But no, too dangerous, I think. What if it intensified the scrutiny on the Keatons, making the detectives surmise that if there’s one thing rotten in Denmark, there’s bound to be more? And am I still sure that Claire was poisoned, anyway? What if I’m looking at everything upside down, and some other dark drama has been unfolding here in this place I’ve loved so much? And Hannah is totally innocent?
I reach for my mug but don’t even have the energy to bring it to my lips. Instead, I lean forward, resting my forehead flat on the table. Within seconds, sleep ambushes me.
When I wake, it’s with a start and a rush of dread. The bright light confuses me, and it takes me a moment to realize that I’m not in bed, I’m in the kitchen, and there’s muffled noise coming from the front of the house—voices, feet shuffling, doors shutting. Ginger and Bella have already jumped from their beds and are scratching on the door to the dining room. I glance at the kitchen clock. It’s 10:14.
“Just a second,” I tell them. Still half asleep, I rise from my seat and swing open the dining room door.
Everyone’s back now. Not only Gabe, Ash, Nick, and Hannah, but also Marcus and Keira, coming in right behind them and crowding the hall. There’s a stranger there, too, a tall and dark-haired man who looks to be in his forties. My heart freezes. A detective. But when I see him speak to Ash, and they look friendly, I realize it must be the attorney from Princeton.
Wendy and Blake emerge into the hall from the direction of the den, their attention clearly roused by all the noise, too.
“Okay, everyone,” Ash calls out. “Grab something to drink if you want, and then let’s regroup in five minutes or less in the living room. Paul only has a few minutes to spare.”
Gabe seems to be looking at everyone but me. When he finally swivels his head in my direction, he briefly meets my gaze and then his eyes dart away. I feel sick with worry, not only about how his interview with the detectives went but also our ugly exchange in the foyer.
While he follows his father and the lawyer into the living room, everyone else swarms into the dining room, migrating toward the sideboard and somberly pouring themselves drinks and/or fixing a small plate of food. Blake indulges in another brandy.
I pour two glasses of sparkling water, noting that Nick’s not far from me, as is Hannah. I don’t favor her with so much as a glance, but I see the outline of her body out of the corner of my eye. Her confident, picture-perfect posture is missing in action tonight. She’s probably thinking that this is sooo not what she signed up for. Or perhaps she’s concerned that with police nosing into everyone’s backgrounds, they might unearth unsavory details about hers.
As we all congregate as instructed in the living room, I hand one of the water glasses to Gabe, who accepts it with a dull “thank you,” and take a seat next to him on the couch.
“The handoff went fine with Amanda, by the way,” I tell him.
“Yeah,” he says coldly. “I spoke to her.”
Ash, who’s been huddled at the card table with the attorney, rises to address us. His face is haggard, and he’s uncharacteristically disheveled, the sleeves of his wrinkled shirt rolled up to his elbows, but there’s a determination about him now, like someone who’s gotten past the shock of a shipwreck and has resolved to build a raft from the pieces left behind.
“I know everyone’s exhausted and eager to be in bed,” he says, “but I feel it’s essential for us to hear from Paul Mizel, the attorney who will be guiding us through this hell.”
“Good evening, everyone,” Paul says. “Thank you for your time.”
He’s debonair looking and even at this hour well turned out in a crisp white shirt, tailored blazer, and tan slacks. But there’s a hint of the street fighter in his flinty brown eyes, I’m relieved to see.