Hannah asked quietly. “You don’t think there’s any chance at al that he kil ed Sarah?” She thought she knew what Sean was going to say, but he surprised her.
He frowned. “I don’t know. I can’t say that I absolutely one hundred percent believe that Dandridge is innocent. What I believe is that there is no evidence that he did it. So either he didn’t do it and was set up by a police force that needed a scapegoat—and Lord knows we’ve seen that before—or he did do it and somehow the police found out but by some magical method they can’t share it with any of the rest of us. Right now I personal y think it’s much more likely that he didn’t do it and that’s he’s entirely innocent.”
“Okay.”
There was a silence for a moment before Sean broke it.
“So what did you find out?”
“Sorry?”
“About Jerome Pierce. Your research,” Sean said.
“Oh,” Hannah let out a shaky laugh. “Nothing. Social media stuff.
Jerome Pierce, former high school footbal player. Married to Mindy Rawlings, former high school cheerleader. They had three children, al of whom are grown up now. Jerome is a member of a bowling league. Mindy has a popular hair salon. They go to church on Sunday. Just lovely, upstanding people. At least . . . at first glance.”
Sean gave her a half-smile of sympathy. “Wel , I guess we’l just have to try to unpick that a bit, won’t we?”
“Right.”
Sean kept talking, but Hannah couldn’t find the words to maintain her side of the conversation and eventual y they lapsed into silence.
She stared out of the window and watched the countryside fly by, bringing her closer and closer to the Greensvil e prison and her meeting with the man who had everyone fooled.
LAURA
DIARY ENTRY #10
Wednesday, November 16, 1994, 10:30 p.m.
It’s getting dark when the taxi pul s up outside Tom’s family home. I can’t see the house from the road. There’s a six-foot-high wal made from cut limestone, and a gated entrance. Through the gate I can see a driveway winding its way around ornamental trees. The gate is closed. I think about walking away then and there, but I’ve come too far, I’m too desperate and angry and determined to let my fear stop me now. Stil , when I step out of the car my legs feel weak. The taxi pul s away as I press the intercom button and I wish I could cal it back. The intercom has a camera built in—you can see the lens. The sun has dipped below the horizon and it’s almost dark, but a security light comes on as I wait, and I’m sure that whoever is in the house can see me clearly.
“Can I help you?” It’s a woman’s voice. Clipped. No southern drawl here. I take a breath.
“My name is Laura Rokeby. I’d like to speak to Mr. and Mrs.
Spencer, please.” I don’t know who I’m talking to. If it’s a housekeeper she might ask me if I have an appointment or what my business is, and if she does I’m planning on saying that I’m a friend of Tom’s and I have something important to discuss. It might be Tom’s mother. For al I know she might already be cal ing the police.
There’s silence for a long, long time. Too long. Then there’s a buzz and the gate swings open.
Just walking the driveway takes ten minutes. The house is enormous. I don’t take much of it in. I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, on getting where I’m going. There are steps up to the front door and I count them as I climb. She opens the door before I have a chance to ring the bel or knock or anything. She’s very beautiful, blond, patrician looking, elegantly dressed in loose tailored pants with a high waist and a silk blouse. She’s clearly not the housekeeper. She looks me up and down and I feel like she has the kind of laser focus that can see right through me. She doesn’t hesitate.
“Laura, won’t you fol ow me, please?”
She waits until I’ve stepped inside before closing the front door, and then she leads the way across an enormous marble-floored hal .
The click of her high heels echo across the room. I’m wearing hiking boots, jeans, a jacket over a heavy sweater. I feel like a peasant. I fol ow her into the most beautiful library I’ve ever seen. It’s a ful two stories, with a first-floor mezzanine so that you can reach the books.
The bookcases are made out of a dark, polished wood. I think about the library in the island house. I’d loved it so much but compared to this place it would be a shack. There’s a fire burning in the grate and two armchairs are set up for conversation, facing the fire. There’s a glass of wine sitting on a table beside one chair. She takes that chair, points me to the other. She sips her wine and doesn’t offer me anything to drink.
“I am Antonia Spencer,” she says. “How may I help you, Laura?”
Her face is expressionless, her voice very cool. But I know the story that Michael has told her and I don’t blame her for hating me.
I’m surprised that I haven’t had to beg to be al owed into her home.
“I knew Tom. We met this summer. We were together for five weeks. I know that sounds like very little time, but we fel in love. We were very happy. Michael Dandridge told you a bunch of lies about me. None of what he told you was true. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry to tel you this, but the truth is that Michael murdered Tom. He admitted that to me. You have no reason to trust me, but if you give me ten minutes of your time, I’l tel you everything.”
She looks at me. Her lips are tight. She was pale to begin with— she has the kind of skin that never sees the sun—but she’s paler now. It’s easier for me, probably, that Tom’s dad isn’t here, but I wish for her sake that he was. I can’t imagine what it must be like to hear from a stranger that your only son has been murdered by someone you know and trust. She gets up and refil s her wineglass from a bottle that is tucked away behind the bar. She returns to her chair, sips, and places her glass on the table. She folds her hands on her lap.
“Tel me,” she says.
And I do. I tel her everything. I tel her about the little things and the big things. About how and why I fel in love, why I think Tom fel for me. The things we had in common—our love of books, our loneliness. I am too honest, maybe, but I am sure that only absolute truth wil help me here. I cry. I haven’t cried for so long but now it’s hard to stop. I tel her about Tom and Michael fighting, and about the terrible night when he catches me on the boat. I tel her about his confession and his threats. I don’t say anything about the baby. I’m not ready.
By the time I have finished she has fil ed and emptied her glass three times. Stil she has offered me nothing. No water, no wine, no words of comfort. The expression on her face has barely changed while I have been speaking. There is silence. I fish a tissue from my pocket and wipe my face, try to pul myself together. Stil there is silence. Eventual y, in desperation, I say—“Is Tom’s father here?”
“Stand up,” she says to me.
The words feel like a slap and I flinch.
“Sorry?”