“Yes.”
I looked back and forth from Esther to Will, trying to read their expressions. “Okay,” I said slowly. “Why IVF? Is there some kind of complication?”
“We don’t know,” Will said. He looked tense, too, though he didn’t look as tense as my sister, who was practically vibrating like a piano wire. “We just know we haven’t been able to get pregnant. We’ve been trying for two years.”
I put my wineglass down on the counter. “Two years?” I looked at Esther. She was leaning against the counter, staring down at her hands. I noticed for the first time that she hadn’t poured herself any wine. “You’ve been trying to have a baby for two years, and you didn’t tell me?” I said.
“She wanted to tell you,” Will explained. “I’ve been begging her to do it. It’s just been difficult for us. We actually conceived twice but lost the baby very early.”
I rubbed my cheek, feeling my numb skin. Pregnant? Esther had been pregnant twice, and she hadn’t told me anything? “Esther?” I said.
My sister stared at her palms. “You’ve been going through a tough time,” she said. “Your marriage wasn’t working, and then you were going through the divorce. I didn’t feel like I could burden you with it. And I didn’t think I could talk to you about it. All of this murder stuff . . .” She shook her head. “You’re so far away.”
If she had shoved a knife in my gut, I couldn’t have been more hurt. Or more surprised. I’d always thought I was close to Esther. No, I was close to Esther. We lived in the same town, and we talked every other day. We saw each other at Christmas. We did Sunday breakfast every other month. I’d had dinner here at least a dozen times in the last two years.
We had shoved garbage bags into that U-Haul together, stayed awake until it felt like our eyes were filled with sand. When Esther had called me and asked me to pack that truck, I’d dropped everything. And before that . . . before that, she’d been my big sister when I’d been through the worst thing that had ever happened to me.
You’re so far away.
Will stepped into our pained silence, as he was so good at doing. “We’ve told you now,” he said gently to me. “It’s gone on long enough. Now you know. Let’s have dinner, okay?”
“Sure,” I said stupidly. “Sure.” I looked at Esther. “I hope it works for you.”
“Thanks,” she said, and we took our bowls and went into the dining room.
* * *
—
“I think that went pretty well,” Will said. The awkward night was over, and he was walking me to the bus stop in the dark. He would have gladly driven me home, but he knew better than to offer, because there was no way I would say yes.
I knew the stats—bus stops weren’t any safer than cars. But I rarely took the bus at night, and I kept to populated, well-lit areas. Walking through a dark parking lot or parking garage wouldn’t have been any safer. And besides, I’d never claimed that my hang-ups made any sense.
I huddled deeper into my hoodie in the cool, damp air. Esther’s neighborhood was quiet, all of the families curled into sleep. There was no one on the street but us. “Sure,” I said.
Will sighed as he walked beside me. “I’m sorry she didn’t tell you, but you know how Esther is. She has to be handling everything, and she has to be the best at it. If she isn’t pulling something off, she’s so damn hard on herself. And part of her feels like she should be taking care of you, too.”
“She doesn’t have to take care of me.” The protest was automatic.
“Well, she kind of does,” he said bluntly. “And that isn’t an insult, Shea. It isn’t shameful to need someone to take care of you. You take care of her, too.”
“She has you for that,” I said. “At least, now she does.”
“And you’d like to hate me for it, but you don’t,” he replied. “Besides, she still needs you. You know she does. And if we have a baby, she’ll need you even more.”
It would have been nice to hate Will—it really would have. But the truth was, he honestly was the best of men. Esther had won the marriage lottery, and she deserved it.
But tonight I felt the gulf between us as a large black hole. I’d been meeting for weeks with an acquitted murderer, and I hadn’t told my sister about it. She thought I was already too far into the darkness, and she had no idea how much further I’d gone. How far I was willing to go. Just as I’d had no idea when she’d lost a baby, twice.
She had hurt, really hurt, when that happened. I knew my sister. She put on a competent show, but underneath she could hurt, and deeply. This had hurt most of all, which was why she hadn’t told me about it.
You’re so far away.
“I’ll take care of my own life,” I said to Will. “I promise.”
“Shea, that isn’t what this is about.”
But it was. It was about the fact that my brother-in-law had to walk me to the bus stop because I couldn’t accept a ride. It was about the fact that when I got home, I would yet again check my locks and my security before turning on my laptop and delving into the Book of Cold Cases. Same as ever. The only difference was that tonight I would have the company of Winston Purrchill.
Will waited with me as I got on the bus. Just in case. And I knew he was standing there for a long moment as it pulled away, disappearing down the street and into the darkness.
When I had turned the corner and could no longer see him, I pulled out my phone and called Michael.
“Where are you right now?” I asked when he answered.
“At home, going through property records until my eyes cross,” he said. “Why?”
I looked out the window at the city going by. “Are you really divorced?”
“Considering how bad my marriage was, I sure as hell hope so. What is this about, Shea?”
I read the street signs as they passed. I could see the ocean from here, inky black in the darkness beyond the lights of Claire Lake.
“I’m on the bus,” I said. “I just passed Sixth Avenue and Harbor Street. If I get off at the next stop, will you come and have a drink with me?”
There was a brief pause of surprise.
“Give me fifteen minutes,” Michael said. “Yes, I’ll have a drink with you. I’m on my way.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
October 1977
BETH
The bar was called Watertown’s, a big, high-ceilinged room with dim lighting and loud music coming from a jukebox. It was twenty-five miles outside the Claire Lake city limits, which was why Beth went there to drink.
They hadn’t arrested her yet. It was going to happen; she could feel it the way you can feel electricity in the air when a thunderstorm is coming, when you see the lowering clouds on the horizon and feel the wind kick up. She didn’t sleep much. Her life as she knew it would be over soon.
The Claire Lake papers had already convicted her: local heiress suspected of murders and did she kill them? No one came forward to say they didn’t believe it, that Beth would never do something like that. Except for Ransom—who was paid to defend her. Other than maybe her father, who was dead, Beth couldn’t think of anyone else who would say that.