—
He was a gray tabby. Big and sleek, his markings dark, with a white expanse on his throat and chest. His face wasn’t pretty, and one of his ears was slightly bent near the top. When I opened his carrier in my condo, he walked out slowly, looking at me disdainfully from his muddy green eyes.
The shopping bags contained food, a litter box, a container of litter, and three packets of the promised tuna treats. I’d never owned a cat before, never had a pet of any kind. I’d never asked for this. What the hell was I supposed to do?
For the first time, I called Michael about something that wasn’t murder-related. I’d already had a lecture from Esther, and I didn’t know who else to call. “What do you know about cats?” I asked when he answered.
“I like them, even though most of them are assholes,” he replied. “Why? Does this have to do with something you’re working on?”
“No. It has to do with a cat.” I explained what had happened. As I talked, Winston Purrchill sauntered around the perimeter of my condo like he was inspecting it, his gait unconcerned. Then he hopped up to my kitchen table and sat, placing himself directly on top of the file I’d made of the Lady Killer case, where it rested in its permanent place on the table. From there, he regarded me silently, his tail wrapped just so around his feet.
“Hold on. I’m getting a beer from the fridge,” Michael said. I heard the sound of a fridge door opening, and the hiss of a beer cap being removed. The sound made me think he was wearing flannel. Plaid flannel. And the thought came into my head, as clear as if someone had spoken it: I really need to meet this guy in person, because I think I like him.
Michael came back on the line while I was still thinking that over. “Are you going to take this cat to a shelter?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” I looked into Winston’s unblinking eyes, lined precisely with black. He seemed to be waiting for an answer, like Michael was. “No,” I said. “It’s too cruel. I’ll keep him for a while.”
“Maybe it’ll be good for you,” Michael said. “I’d like a pet, but I’m away from the house too much.”
“It’s just for a while,” I told Winston, so we were both clear. “If I had a pet, I’d rather have a dog. A dog can ward off intruders.”
Winston blinked at me in disbelief.
“It’s easy, Shea,” Michael said. “Just feed him and give him somewhere to sleep. A window to look out of. Cats don’t ask for much.”
“Okay.” I reached a hand out. Winston sniffed it, running his nose along my skin. I relaxed my fingers and tried stroking his cheek, then the top of his head. He didn’t object, so I kept going, curling my fingers into a scratching position. Winston tilted his head so my fingers were behind his ear, so I obediently moved them. He closed his eyes. “You’re sitting on my file,” I told him.
“Me, or the cat?” Michael said.
“The cat. He’s parked himself on my Greer file, and now I don’t want to shoo him off.”
“Welcome to pet ownership. And I don’t think you need to go through it again anyway. You know it by heart.”
I did. Since my interview with Detective Black, I’d gone over my Greer papers again and again. The last time through, I’d read over the newspaper clippings that were the only public record of Beth Greer’s young life: her parents’ wedding announcement, her own birth announcement, and the brief and respectful notices of her parents’ deaths. Based on the wedding photo, Julian Greer had been tall and handsome, while Mariana was petite and blond, her face much like Beth’s except for a devastating sweetness in her features.
They both looked so formal in their wedding photo, and neither of them looked happy. It was unsettling to look at their faces and think of the fact that their marriage would be unhappy and then their lives would end, the groom killed in a home invasion, the bride dead in a car accident two years later.
“Have you talked to Beth again?” Michael asked me.
“No.” The interview with Detective Black had left my head spinning, and I wasn’t in a hurry to go back to the Greer mansion after what I’d seen—or what I thought I’d seen there. Aside from that, I wasn’t ready to be in Beth’s orbit again. When I saw her next, I wanted to be ready. “I think I want to find Sylvia Bledsoe first.”
“You mean Sylvia O’Hare, or Sylvia Simpson.”
“Right.” Sylvia Bledsoe, the weeping secretary Detective Black had interviewed about Beth’s father, had been married three times. Mr. Bledsoe, her husband when Julian died, was only husband number one. It had taken Michael and me a bit of digging to track her last names through husbands number two and number three. We’d found several Sylvia Simpsons, and I’d either phoned them—when I could find a number—or messaged them through Facebook, hoping to get an interview with the right one.
“I don’t even know why I’m spending so much time on this,” I said, scratching Winston behind his other ear as his eyes drifted closed in bliss. “It’s probably a dead end. What do I think I’m going to learn from her?”
“You won’t know until you talk to her,” Michael said. “I’m here to help, Shea. Just say the word and I’ll come to the meeting with you.”
Meet Michael in person, face-to-face? Panic twisted through my stomach. The stupid reaction I always had. Now, on top of my usual day-to-day paranoia, I had the fear that Michael in person wouldn’t live up to my imagination of him—and that I would disappoint him, too. Yet part of me wanted to see him at last, and part of me really did want his help. “I’ll think about it.” I looked Winston in the eyes as I said it, getting confidence from the calm way he watched me. Of course you can do it, his expression said to me. What’s the big deal?
“You think about it, Shea,” Michael said. “In the meantime, I’ll get back to work.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
September 2017
BETH
Sometimes, even now, Beth got the idea that she could leave. Why not? She had money, a car. There was nothing stopping her. She could simply go.
So she would get in her car and drive. She’d put her foot on the gas and form a plan in her mind, and yet somehow, no matter where she thought she was going, she always ended up at the lake. She’d find herself standing next to her parked car, looking out over the still water.
Not many people went to the lake. There were only a few spots where cars could park and people could come to enjoy the water. A sparse group of residents lived at the west end of the lake, but the east end, farther inland, was still thick and wild, the land cut only by small back roads. Beth would find herself in a stand of brush, her skin scratched and mosquitoes attacking her as she stared at the water, with no clear memory of exactly how she’d gotten here. She only knew that she’d simply showed up.
The fact that she couldn’t remember always made her queasy, so she’d get back in her car and go home.
And it was comforting, in a way. She had been honest when she’d told Shea about some places holding you like a fist. What she hadn’t said was that sometimes, when that fist was the only thing you knew, you didn’t really want it to let you go.
This time, it was raining. She hadn’t slept again, and she wanted a drink badly, and she was tired, so tired. She’d taken a garbage bag and thrown her parents’ belongings into it—her mother’s cold cream, the ashtray she hated so much, her father’s ties, the stack of magazines on the living room credenza. She’d put the trash at the curb and driven off in the rain.
She’d ended up at the lake, as always.
But something was changing. The last time she’d come here, she’d felt it, and now she felt it again. It wasn’t something she could grasp, but it was like a scent in the air or a breeze on the back of her neck. She wasn’t imagining it. Not this time. Change was coming, and she couldn’t stop it.
You’re not leaving.
You’re not talking.