“So you’re aware,” Paul starts, “I’m acting—for the time being at least—as ‘pool counsel.’ This means I’m representing and guiding all of you. There might come a time when people need or want separate representation, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
His words send a chill through me. I’m not a lawyer—and, ha, I’ve never even played one on TV—but it seems the only reason one of us would need to splinter from the pack isn’t a good one.
“Understood,” is all I say.
“Let’s work our way backward, shall we?” he says in a polite but efficient way. “I’d like to hear all the questions you were asked last night.”
I go through the interview in as much detail as I can recall, and when I finish up by telling him how the red-haired detective insinuated that family members must have been getting on each other’s nerves, he says, “Good, that’s exactly the kind of information I need to be aware of. Now tell me what you can about the crime scene.”
I do my best to describe what I saw, including the wound.
“Could it have been a bullet wound?” he asks.
“Uh, I’ve been wondering about that. If she’d been shot with a hunter’s rifle—and as you’ve probably heard, there’ve been hunters around—I think the wound would have been bigger and messier. To me, it looked like a puncture wound, made with something very sharp.”
“Can you make a guess about the weapon?”
“Maybe a pointy rock. Or . . . a tool even. You know, like the claw part on a hammer—though why would anyone be carrying one around the woods with him?”
“That’s helpful, thank you, Summer.”
“Does that mean the police haven’t found the weapon yet?”
“I don’t know. That’s not something they’d tell me or anyone else at this stage, because they don’t want people being interviewed to tailor their stories to the evidence or lack thereof.”
I nod even though he can’t see me. “Makes sense.”
“My guess, though, is that they haven’t found it. They asked how much of that wooded area belongs to the Keatons, which means they’re planning a wider search today. And they’re eager to get into the house as soon as they can.”
“Are you going to let them?”
“They don’t have a warrant at this point, so for now, no. Listen, Summer, I hate to wrap this up, but I have a few more people to touch base with this morning.”
“Sure,” I say, and sign off.
I wasn’t expecting his call to be all warm and fuzzy, but I’d been hoping for something reassuring, like the fact that the police already suspected a local hunter and were conducting a house-to-house search or had put out an APB or whatever they’re called. But our conversation has only unsettled me more.
About sixty seconds after I hang up, I hear Gabe’s phone ring, followed by the sound of the French doors to the patio opening. He must be talking to Mizel now.
I hadn’t planned to leave the cottage, but as Gabe’s voice drones from the patio, I find myself drifting out the front door and along the flagstone path. The yard is empty, and I assume the troopers I saw earlier are off in the woods.
I keep moving, something tugging at me that I can’t quite identify. After reaching the patio, I wander to the eastern end of the house, and eventually find myself in front of the potting shed.
I stop abruptly and stare at the raw wooden door. I don’t dare voice the thought in my head, but I know exactly why I’m here.
Approaching the structure, I look both ways, then tentatively push open the door. The same scent of clay pots and potting soil greets me as it did when I stopped in the other day, and the space looks unchanged from then. The vases I didn’t use are still sitting on the counter, empty. I exhale. There’s nothing here to see.
Before I turn to leave, I scan the room for a moment, particularly the wall where garden tools hang from black, rustic-looking nails: several small hoes, two spades in leather cases, and a shiny handsaw. Longer tools, including a shovel and rake, are nestled in one of the corners. Since I’m not a gardener, it’s impossible to notice if a standard tool is missing. But as I zoom in, I spot an empty nail. And the tool next to it—which I think Claire called a digger—hangs awkwardly, as if it was positioned to partly fill the gap from a missing tool. A missing tool that was used as a murder weapon.
Panic swells from my core outward, but I tell myself that there’s no way to be sure. And besides, I need to erase this stupid idea that someone in the family murdered Jillian. It just can’t be so.
By the time I return to the cottage, Gabe is off the phone. When I ask him how the call went, all he says is, “Okay. I mean, who knows?”
We could almost be strangers. I’m tempted to tell him we need to sort out what’s going on between us, but I’m afraid that if I press, it will only make things worse.
Through a long series of replies to our family text chain, it’s decided that everyone will fend for themselves for lunch and that Keira and I will oversee dinner with help from Gabe if necessary. He and I eat our lunch in the kitchen, leftover slices of tart from yesterday, and afterward, while Gabe reads, I make an attempt to work on my play. But my brain is too consumed with worry to do anything creative.
Five o’clock finally rolls around, and Gabe and I text Keira to say we’re heading over to the house to help with dinner. It’s a relief to step outside of the cottage and have a change of scenery. Halfway along the path, I’m surprised to see Ash striding toward us, looking very much like a man on a mission.
“What’s going on?” Gabe asks.
“Nothing to be alarmed about,” his father says. He’s in a fresh, perfectly pressed cotton shirt and seems less agitated than yesterday. “One of the partners in Mizel’s firm is being called out of town unexpectedly and Paul wants us to talk to him before he leaves so that he can add additional insight. We’ll meet at their Princeton offices. You, Blake, Marcus, Nick, and me.”
“When?” Gabe asks.
“As soon as we can get there.”
“Tonight? But—but that means all the women will be in the house alone.”
“Yes, I know. But Princeton’s an hour away, and Paul says the meeting shouldn’t go longer than ninety minutes. That puts us back here right as it’s getting dark. Are you comfortable with that, Summer?”
“Sure,” I say, knowing I can hardly object.
There’s a sudden whirlwind as the men prepare to leave: Gabe racing back to the cottage to change into long pants and Nick and Marcus dashing upstairs to grab their phones. Minutes later they’re climbing into two cars, Gabe and Blake in one, Ash, Nick, and Marcus in another. I watch from the wide stoop as they depart.
When I come into the kitchen a minute later, Keira’s there, tapping her fingers on the butcher block of the island. She looks a bit agitated, like she’s not any more pleased than I am about the way the evening’s unfolded.
“I was thinking we could do a vegetable lasagna if you’re all right with that,” she says. “I checked and we have all the ingredients.”
“Great idea.”