I hadn’t turned those taps on, and neither had she.
Steeling myself, I walked briskly into the bathroom, turned the taps off, and went back to the kitchen. I opened the fridge, poured Beth’s grapefruit juice. Added soda, then opened the freezer and added ice. There was almost no food in the fridge except for a few take-out containers and premade meals. No wine or other alcohol, either. The fridge must have been on some ultrahigh setting, because I was struck with an icy blast that I imagined I could even feel on my back. My fingers were so cold they were clumsy, though I moved as fast as I could, my stomach turning uneasily as I put everything in Beth’s glass.
I finished with the drink, closed the freezer, picked up the glass, and turned around. Then I stood still, my breath in my throat.
All of the cupboards behind my back were open. Four doors above the kitchen counter that hadn’t been open when I walked in. Four more doors on the lower level beneath the counter. They had all swung open to the same precise degree, the doors aligned like soldiers. The entire room was silent, and nothing moved.
It wasn’t Beth. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t anyone.
A cold draft hit me again, this time a breeze. As if a window had been left open somewhere. But why would the air be so cold? It wasn’t that cold outside. And yet the wind was so distinct I felt it lift the tendrils of hair that weren’t tied back in my ponytail.
In the bathroom, the taps turned on again. I stood frozen, holding the drink forgotten in my hand, listening to that sound as my heart hammered in my chest. For a second, I felt like I had gone back in time to the seventies, to the house’s heyday. I would walk out of this kitchen and find a different world, one filled with Jell-O salads and The Waltons on TV.
Except the Greer mansion wasn’t a house of rosy brown and orange nostalgia. A man had been murdered here. Right where I was standing.
I put the drink on the counter and walked to the bathroom again, my feet moving mechanically. I almost expected to see Beth in there—except a teenage Beth, slim and youthful, wearing a T-shirt and jeans with embroidery on the pockets, her hair long down her back. But just like before, there was no one there.
I put my hand on the tap, and blood splashed into the bowl of the sink. It mixed with the water, red and rancid, swirling down the drain. I jerked my hand away. I wasn’t bleeding. Yet the blood still ran, as if someone were dumping it into the water, or rinsing bloody hands. The cold air hit the back of my neck, along with a rotten metallic smell, and I nearly gagged.
In one quick motion, I twisted the taps off. Then I went back to the kitchen, grabbed the drink with a numb hand, and walked back to the living room. Beth was still on the sofa, waiting. She looked at me curiously. “Are you all right?”
“Sure,” I said, trying not to think about what I’d just seen. The living room was stuffy, with no sign of a breeze. I handed Beth her drink. “This house . . .”
“It’s horrible, I know.” Beth took the glass and put it next to her. “Let’s continue. What else did you want to ask me?”
My phone was still sitting on the table. I hadn’t stopped the recording when I left the room. I picked it up and saw that it was paused. “Did you stop this?” I asked her.
“No,” Beth said. Her expression was calm as she looked at me. “You look pale, Shea. What’s the matter?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
October 1977
BETH
The Greer mansion, Beth thought, must be worth a lot of money. Her father had spared no expense when he’d renovated the place. Her mother had bought expensive furniture and decor. It was supposed to be the nicest, most beautiful house in the city.
Beth figured she should probably burn it down.
All of Arlen Heights was oppressive and gloomy this morning, the rain coming down on the carefully untended streets. The interview with the police detectives had been the day before. Since then, Beth had been driving, spending endless hours behind the wheel of her car. Searching, searching. She’d barely slept, and even though she was sober, she still had a headache behind her eyes that felt a lot like a hangover. She didn’t want to go home.
Just keep control, Beth. You can handle this. Just keep control.
She’d finally decided to come home and try to sleep. She felt jumpy and wild, unable to sit still, but when the Greer mansion came in sight, a chill descended. There was a car in her driveway, a big sixties Chevy, floating like a freighter. She’d know that car anywhere. And parked on the street in front of the house was a van she didn’t recognize. As she pulled into the driveway behind the Chevy, a man got out of the van, carrying a microphone. He was followed by another man with a camera on his shoulder.
Now she wasn’t jumpy anymore. Now she was just angry.
It was cold, her anger. Her parents’ anger had always burned hot, especially when they shouted at each other. Then they’d both storm out of the house, leaving Beth alone, and everything would go cold and silent. Beth had learned early which one she preferred. Which one kept her calm and served her purposes when she needed it instead of making her surrender control.
“Miss Greer!” The reporter was coming up the drive as she opened her car door and got out. The cameraman hurried behind him, only able to go so far before he ran out of cable. “Miss Greer!” the reporter shouted. “Do you have anything to say about the murder accusations against you? Are you the Lady Killer?”
Beth closed the car door behind her. She shoved her hands in her pockets, because she couldn’t think of anything else to do with them. Part of her thought that if she left her hands free, she’d slap the man across the face, right there on camera. It was the same anger she’d felt during the police interview, but this time she kept her foot on its neck by sheer force of will as it struggled to get free.
The camera was pointed at her, a large bulky thing that was snarled with cables and a huge lens. The reporter had his microphone pointed at her face. Beth savored the feeling of her anger, the cold in her bones. She leaned toward the microphone and said, “I’m just a girl who minds her own business.”
Then she turned away and walked up the drive where the camera couldn’t follow her. She circled the house to the backyard, where she knew Ransom would be.
* * *
—
He wouldn’t be in the house. He had never said as much, but Ransom Wells hated this house as much as Beth did. Beth walked past the dripping trees to the open lawn that led to the cliff over the sea. It was a view of flat green grass and churning, dark blue ocean far away off the shore, birds wheeling in the sky overhead. She shivered. The rain was letting up, but it was always cold back here, no matter what time of year it was.
Standing on the lawn was a man well over six feet tall, with big shoulders and a big body to match his height. His hair and beard were salt-and-pepper, though he was only in his thirties. He was wearing a suit and an overcoat. He seemed oblivious to the rain, like most of the lifetime residents of Claire Lake. He looked exactly the same as the last time she saw him, after her mother died two years ago.
At that time, he’d told her she was hiring him whether she wanted to or not.
I don’t need a lawyer, she’d replied.
And he’d said: You’re young, you’re beautiful, and as of now you’re alone and very rich. My dear, you need a lawyer more than anything.
“Ransom,” she said now, approaching him across the grass. “What are you doing here?”
He didn’t reply until she was standing next to him. “This is a beautiful view,” he said. “Your father always loved it.”