Last night’s dinner with Missy and Dar had been a pleasant surprise, but when Dar asked if she’d given any thought to what her future plans might be, she had frozen. The truth was she hadn’t the foggiest idea. She had her editing business—ten or twelve clients she had cultivated over the years—but that could hardly be described as a life. Come to think of it, she wasn’t sure what she had shared with Stephen even qualified as a life.
She’d been living with her head in the sand and not just since his death. But she couldn’t just keep hiding. Downstairs, Missy was closing up her kitchen and seeing to her guests, while Dar was somewhere downtown, selling crystals and new age books. Life was going on all around her—without her. The time had come to take her head out of the sand and face what needed facing.
The insurance would have to be sorted out, the bank accounts and other financial assets seen to, the house in Clear Harbor closed up and sold. The thought startled her, but she suddenly knew she wouldn’t be going back. There was nothing there for her. No family to comfort her. No friends to miss. Nothing but empty memories. It was time to wrap things up and move on. But before she could do any of that, she was going to need Stephen’s death certificate.
It took a moment to power up her laptop and connect to the inn’s Wi-Fi. The connection was agonizingly sluggish, but eventually she was able to type Maine death certificate into her browser’s search bar. The page blinked briefly, and a list of options appeared. She clicked on a site for the Maine Division of Public Health and followed the prompts. It all seemed remarkably simple until the RECORD NOT FOUND message popped up in bold red letters. She stared at it a moment, then tried again, only to receive the same message.
Frustrated, she reached for her cell and dialed the Clear Harbor Police Station. She was put on hold while they connected her to the medical examiner’s office, but eventually a man picked up, his voice brusque as he droned through a list of questions. And then she was back on hold again. After a few moments, he came back on the line.
“I’m sorry, but that certificate hasn’t been filed yet.”
“I don’t understand. It’s been almost two weeks.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Things have been a little bit backed up.”
“Do you have any idea when it might be filed?”
“Not exactly, no. We’ve got the flu going through the department, and one of the docs is out on maternity leave. All I can recommend is to keep checking back.”
Christy-Lynn was about to hang up when she changed her mind and asked to be connected to Detective Connelly in Homicide. He’d blown her off the last time they spoke, but it couldn’t hurt to try. Maybe she’d catch him in a better mood.
“Connelly,” came a gruff voice, more bark than greeting.
“It’s Christine Ludlow, Detective. I just called—”
“Christine? Jesus! Where the hell are you? The media’s gone crazy. Half of them have you dead. The other half say you’re in a rubber room somewhere after swallowing a bottle of pills. The entire country’s looking for you!”
Christy-Lynn bit back her initial response, reminding herself that she was about to ask for his help. “The reason I’m calling is that I just spoke to the medical examiner’s office about Stephen’s death certificate, and I thought I’d check in and see if you had any new information about his case.”
She was almost certain she heard a sigh, the kind that usually accompanied exasperation. “Christine, we’ve been over this. There is no case. It was a car accident, a vehicular fatality.”
“It was two fatalities.”
“Fine. Yes. Two fatalities. But there’s no case. There’s nothing to investigate. The car skidded on the ice and ended up in the bay.”
It was Christy-Lynn’s turn to be exasperated. “You know what I’m talking about.”
“The woman.”
“Yes, the woman. Was that so hard? I think I have a right to know who was in the car with my husband when he died, Detective, even if you don’t.”
Another sigh. Heavier this time. “We’re not doing this, Christine. We’re not rehashing why I can’t give you her name even if I did know it—which I don’t. It’s like a goddamn witch hunt around here since those photos were leaked, and the last thing I need is for Internal Affairs to get wind that I’ve been talking to anyone about it.”
“You’re saying they still don’t know who the leak was?”
“That’s what I’m saying, yes. And I sure as hell don’t need anyone looking in my direction. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ve got work to do. But if I should want to call you, where can I find you?”
Hope flickered briefly. Perhaps he would change his mind and pick up the phone when there was less chance of being overheard. But something made her hesitate. Perhaps it was his attitude, or the fear that he might accidentally let her whereabouts slip, but a tiny voice in the back of her head told her it was wiser to err on the side of caution.
“You have my cell if you need me,” she said coolly. “Leave a message.” She didn’t wait for a response before ending the call. She’d had enough of being treated like a nuisance.
Still fuming, she turned her attention to the stacks of paperwork on the bed. She was looking for the name of Stephen’s broker when she spotted the letter-size envelope tucked between her birth certificate and marriage license. It was dog-eared and yellow with age, but there was no mistaking it. She hadn’t thought about it in years, and now, like a bad penny, it had turned up again. She picked it up, turning it over slowly. It felt almost weightless and yet substantial somehow; a twenty-year-old promise—broken. She wasn’t sure why she’d kept it all these years, a reminder perhaps, about the dangers of placing your faith in another person. She wasn’t prepared for the sting behind her lids as she peeled back the flap and spilled the contents into her lap.
It wasn’t much, a few souvenirs from a day at the fair: a plastic wristband, a handful of faded paper tickets, an old black-and-white photo. She reached for the photo first. It was one of those cheesy sepia shots where you dressed up in period costumes and posed in front of a makeshift backdrop. She traced a thumb over Charlene Parker’s image.
She was sporting a feather boa and a tatty hat plumed with ostrich feathers, her head tipped at a saucy angle. Beside her, a young Christy-Lynn grinned gleefully, her front teeth too big for her twelve-year-old face. She had chosen a sequined headband from the musty box of props because it made her look like a flapper from the roaring twenties, and because it matched her mother’s costume. But it was the necklace glinting at the base of her mother’s throat that held her attention—a mirror image of the one she herself had been wearing when the photo was taken.
There was a fresh ache in Christy-Lynn’s throat as she shook the necklace from the envelope and into her palm, recalling the night she had thrown it into the trash and then later retrieved it. Years of being shut up had caused it to tarnish—appropriate, she supposed, given the way things had turned out. She brushed impatiently at the tears suddenly smearing her vision, reminding herself that they were a little girl’s tears, and that she wasn’t that girl anymore. That girl was gone and had been for a long time.
TEN
Ladson, South Carolina
October 27, 1995
The fair is in town—or over in Ladson, which is as good as the same thing. The kids at school can’t stop talking about it. How much of their allowance they’ve saved up. Which rides they’ll go on. Which gloriously greasy foods they’ll scarf down—and likely throw up later.
It all sounds wonderful.
But Christy-Lynn knows better than to entertain any hope of going herself. It costs money to get in, money to ride the rides, money to buy corn dogs and funnel cakes. And there simply isn’t any money to spare. Which is why she’s surprised when her mother comes into her room on Saturday morning wearing jeans and a sweatshirt instead of her Piggly Wiggly uniform.
“Get dressed. We’re going for a ride.”
Something about her mother’s smile makes Christy-Lynn nervous. “A ride where?”