“I have to ask that,” Jessie told her. “And if you really want to help me get to the bottom of this, I need you to be honest. In situations like this, the spouse is always a suspect. I’m trying to help clear Bridget of that cloud of suspicion, but I need real answers, not Pollyanna ones.”
“They were happy,” Malcolm said evenly. “The worst thing I could say about them is that they may have gotten into a bit of a rut.”
“What do you mean?” Jessie asked.
“Listen,” he explained, “I met Scott because he invested in my company four years ago. By the time we became friends, he was already married and a father to three kids. Abby and I are a decade younger than him so we’re in a different place. We don’t have those kinds of responsibilities yet. But it just seemed that with the harried nature of family life and how driven he was with his work, sometimes they didn’t always make time for each other. I know that was part of why they came to Peninsula in the first place—to make that time. They decided to leave the kids with the nanny and commit to a long weekend where they could really focus on reconnecting. But is that really suspicious? Haven’t I just described fifty percent of marriages?”
Jessie didn’t know. Her first marriage ended in attempted murder so she never had the chance to get into a rut. And the way things were going, her second one might take another few years to finally happen. She kept those thoughts to herself.
“So there’s nothing unusual that you recall between them in the last few days or weeks?”
Both shook their heads.
“Okay,” she concluded. “Thanks, that’s all for now. But please don’t leave the resort. My partner and I will likely have additional questions for you as the day progresses.”
“Ms. Hunt,” Malcolm said as he pulled a tissue out of his pocket and handed it to Abby, who had started to tear up again, “we’re not going anywhere, other than to find our friend and see what we can do to help her.”
With that, they turned and headed off in the direction of Bridget Newhouse’s casita. As Jessie watched them leave, she swallowed her frustration. She didn’t want them to look back and see how dejected she felt.
While the Andrews were helpful on the surface, they didn’t leave her with much tangible material to work with. Other than reinforcing the possibility of suicide, they offered bland platitudes about the Newhouses. Just as bad, they’d provided alibis that would be hard to verify. Maybe Malcolm had some calls or sent some e-mails that could confirm he was at their casita but that was no guarantee. And solo whale watching and beach walking was the least provable alibi she’d heard in a long time.
She hoped that Ryan was having better luck.
CHAPTER NINE
Hannah had been expecting Nurse Ratched.
When she had “voluntarily” checked herself into the Seasons Wellness Center in Malibu two weeks ago, she’d half expected it to be a One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest situation. But to her relief (and if she was totally honest, to her slight disappointment) it was nothing like that.
Nestled into a hillside overlooking the Pacific, the place felt more like an artist colony than a psychiatric facility. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought she’d been transported to an ocean-adjacent Santa Fe. The buildings were modern but made to look like they were from over a century ago. There were cobblestone paths and flower gardens everywhere.
The staff, medical and otherwise, was friendly and accommodating. She didn’t think she’d heard a single raised voice, at least not from an employee, in her entire time here so far. Even in the “Assistance Wing,” where she’s stayed until today, it was mostly smiles most of the time.
Of course, she knew that things could change quickly if they had to. The Assistance Wing was described as a unit for patients who needed “a little extra observation.” But that was a euphemism. It was essentially the secure wing. The security staffers there had nightsticks and tasers, though she’d never seen one used. And while not every room in the wing locked from the outside, some of the bedrooms did. The Assistance Wing was where people stayed until they were no longer deemed a potential threat to themselves or others.
Apparently, after two weeks of close observation, Hannah had passed the test. Because, in the wing that she’d just been transferred to, called Serenity Hall, there were no locks. The patients here didn’t have to wear center-issued, hospital-style gowns. Instead they could wear their own clothes. There were still security officers but, other than zip ties, they didn’t carry anything out of the ordinary.
The staffer leading her through the hall, a middle aged-woman with gray hair tied in a bun, stopped suddenly and opened the door to her new bedroom. It was much less antiseptic than her previous one. There were no bars on the windows and it didn’t look like her bed or other furniture was bolted to the floor. There were even a few framed paintings on the walls.
“Welcome to Serenity Hall,” the woman said in a pleasant but unenthusiastic tone. “The daily schedule is posted on the back of your door. You have a group therapy session at 2 p.m. Lunch starts in five minutes down the hallway to the left. If you have any questions, the help center is in the same direction. Is there anything else you need?”
“No thanks,” she said and the woman left without another word.
Hannah did have questions but none that she wanted to ask the staff. She walked into the room and glanced at her image in the mirror on the dresser. Without the necessity to dress properly for high school, she’d gotten very casual in the last two weeks.
Her blonde hair wasn’t styled but instead hung down limply at her shoulders. She had on sweatpants and a thin hoodie, and wore no makeup. Because of her more relaxed schedule these days, she’d gotten lots of sleep. As a result, her green eyes—the same shade as Jessie’s—were clear and bright.
Though she was almost as tall as her sister, she doubted they’d be mistaken for twins right now. Without any of the usual stylistic adornments, she no longer looked like a twenty-something but her actual age: seventeen. Her birthday was in less than a month. She wondered if she’d be celebrating it here.
She dropped her duffel bag by the bed and sat down in the wooden chair at the small desk against the wall. The center had made a credible attempt to make the place feel homey, but in the end it was still a hospital.
She recalled when Jessie had first brought her here. They hadn’t talked much on the drive up, mostly because she wouldn’t answer any of her half-sister’s questions. Even though she’d agreed to come to this place in order get a handle on her semi-homicidal tendencies, she couldn’t help but resent Jessie for supporting the idea.
That residue of bitterness lingered, both when Jessie had said goodbye that first time, and on every subsequent visit. Even before her primary therapist told her so, she knew none of this was Jessie’s fault. Jessie didn’t kill her birth mother or her adoptive parents. Nor did Jessie kidnap and try to brainwash her. In fact, Jessie had taken her in when she was about to be tossed in the foster care system.
But that didn’t stop Hannah from holding on to the anger. She’d made all kinds of progress in one-on-one and group therapy, but remained sullen and monosyllabic every time her sister came for “pairs” therapy sessions. There was something about watching her sister leave each visit looking wounded and guilty that gave Hannah great satisfaction, even if she felt bad about it afterward.