by Kit Frick
“He’s back at Yale,” she says finally. “I haven’t seen him.”
“Right,” Anna says quickly. “Of course.”
“I’ll schedule the call,” Martina confirms, and the girls say their goodbyes.
Alone again in her kitchen, Martina punches the phone’s red end call button. Anna should be in college herself by now. Martina wonders if she’ll still get to go, sometime. Or if she’ll end up getting her degree in prison. She eyes the remaining tostones and decides she’s not really hungry anymore.
She’d rather think about college than the question of if Anna really did it. But of course that’s exactly what she needs to figure out. For Aster, and Zoe. For the whole Spanos family. For herself. Because once again, the police have latched onto the available explanation. They have their suspect, their confession. Their easy answer. Even though Martina can spot at least three gaping holes in what she’s heard of Anna’s story. Holes she’s sure the police have decided to conveniently ignore in the interest of closing the case.
Martina has seen every true crime documentary available on Netflix and Investigation Discovery. Has listened to enough episodes of The Vanished and Criminal and True Crime Garage to develop a healthy distrust of law enforcement. She’s watched footage of detectives cajoling confessions out of minors without their parents in the room. She’s listened to heartbreaking testimonies from the wrongfully convicted and stories of police departments and sheriff’s departments bungling investigations due to lack of resources or lack of communication or lack of expertise or the plain willful conviction that they’ve got their man.
At the same time, Martina’s gut says that Anna is lying. Maybe she’s innocent. Or maybe whatever happened that night was much worse than the story she told police. She wants to trust Anna, but Anna never told Martina about the messages from Zoe on her phone. What else has Anna been hiding? Maybe her confession doesn’t add up because Anna is manipulating the details. In the grand scheme of things, a charge of second-degree manslaughter looks a lot better than murder.
Martina makes the same silent promise she made back when she recorded the first episode of Missing Zoe last February. She’s going to do her best to find out what happened to her best friend’s sister. She’s going to put her interests in journalism and true crime reporting to work, to get answers to the questions the detectives should be asking. If Anna is innocent, she’s going to use what small platform she has to try to ensure justice isn’t falsely served. But if she’s guilty, she’s going to root out the truth for the Spanos family, uncover the real story beneath Anna’s murky confession.
8 THEN
June
Herron Mills, NY
IT’S RAINING. A hard, drenching cascade that seems to barrel from the clouds in fully formed sheets. It pummels the Clovelly Cottage roof, the grounds, goads the pool’s infinity edge into a gushing waterfall. It’s only ten thirty, and Paisley is bored with Quiddler and Ticket to Ride. I suggest Moana, then Happy Feet, then Matilda. Paisley is not in the mood. Paisley wants to do something.
It’s clearly not a beach day, and unlikely to clear up into a town day any time soon. I can hear Emilia in her office, on what sounds like an intense phone call about deliverables and reliable vendors for high-end printed something or other. I’m on my own to figure out a fun indoor activity.
I promise Paisley that if she puts the board games away, I’ll have a surprise planned for the morning by the time she’s done. She gives me a look like she sees right through me, but agrees with a dainty handshake. I slink out of the family room, totally unsure how I’m going to deliver on my promise. I try to remember what my mom did with me when I was Paisley’s age. Mostly, she sent me out to run around with the neighborhood kids or parked me in front of the TV. She worked a lot. We definitely couldn’t afford a nanny.
But sometimes we baked together. On weekend mornings, we’d mix up batter for pancakes or banana bread or mini blueberry muffins. Over the holidays, she’d break out the Pizzelle iron, and we’d bake batch after batch of the thin Italian waffle cookies that both my parents were raised on. I put my money on Paisley’s sweet tooth and wander into the Bellamys’ immaculate, navy-ceilinged kitchen, hoping their cook, Mary, won’t mind too much if we make a mess before she gets in to start the dinner prep at three.
It doesn’t take long to find the basics: flour, sugar, butter, eggs, milk. There’s a revolving tray of every spice imaginable nestled in one tall cabinet along with cocoa powder, semisweet chips, baking powder, vanilla, and a host of other ingredients. We’re in business.
I’m resting my arms on the counter, scrolling through recipe options on my phone, when Paisley comes in.
“Found you.” She surveys the ingredients surrounding my elbows. “Cookies?” she asks, face lighting up. I breathe an inward sigh of relief.
“Or brownies, maybe. I’m looking at recipes now.”
“Let’s make peanut butter and jelly cookies,” Paisley says.
I’m typing her request into the search box when Paisley points to a beautiful cream stone box resting at the back of the counter, beside a built-in butcher block. “It’s in the recipe box.”
“Ah.” I set my phone down and lift the lid, which is heavy and cool to the touch. I didn’t realize people kept real recipe boxes anymore, but based on the cramped scrawl and yellowed edges surrounding most of the index cards, I’d be willing to guess these have been passed down from a previous generation. Inside, everything is organized neatly by category—fish, poultry, appetizers, etc. I flip through to dessert.
The recipe for peanut butter and jelly cookies is right up front. Unlike its fellows, this card is pink, and the recipe itself has been typed out and pasted on. There’s an oily smudge in the top left corner, probably dried peanut butter.
Paisley expertly locates the stand mixer and remaining ingredients, I preheat the oven, and we get to work. The batter is easy—just eggs, sugar, peanut butter, and vanilla. Paisley presses her thumb into the center of each cookie to make a small impression, which we fill with apricot or strawberry or raspberry jam from an assortment of little pots in the fridge. By lunchtime, we have three batches cooling, a fourth in the oven, and two more ready to go. We may have gone a bit overboard, but I’m sure Paisley has friends who’d be willing to take some fresh-baked cookies off our hands.
I task Paisley with returning cold ingredients to the fridge, then begin loading dishes in the dishwasher. The rain has abated to a dull gray drizzle, and if the sun ever comes out, we can spend the afternoon making deliveries around the neighborhood.
* * *
Installed on the patio beneath the overhang, munching cookies and the shrimp and watercress sandwiches Mary has left us for lunch, Paisley and I make our game plan for the afternoon. She knows exactly which families are likely to be home, within walking distance, and free from peanut allergies. I guess that’s common knowledge among elementary schoolers. As we stand to take our plates inside, the first few tentative rays of sunlight filter down to the glistening surfaces of the lawn and pool. The air is heavy with moisture, but the clouds above are white and rapidly clearing. The rain is done.
The only paper plates I can find in the kitchen are the fancy kind decorated with a floral pattern and thin gold band around the rim. I’m a little hesitant to open the package, but Emilia’s office door is still firmly shut, and worst-case scenario, I’ll replace them. I leave a note for Emilia on the kitchen table along with a couple dozen cookies. As I’m plating the rest and covering them with plastic wrap, Paisley wanders away from the table and reaches across the stove top to fiddle with the buttons. I whip around.
“Whatcha doing, Paisley?”
She turns, looking guilty. “It got left on,” she says. “I didn’t want you to get in trouble.”
“Oh.” My shoulders slump. I leave the cookies and walk over to Paisley, squatting down in front of her. “Hey, I’m sorry. That was my bad, not yours. Next time just tell me if I screw something up, okay?”
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She nods. “Deal.”
I give her shoulder a squeeze, then press the oven’s off button firmly with my thumb. I tell myself it’s not a big deal. It’s not like the house was going to burn down while we went out for a couple hours. But if Emilia had noticed, or Mary, they might not agree. My stomach churns, and I have to force my eyes away from the well-stocked liquor cabinet above my head.
Five minutes later, the plates of cookies are stacked in a tote bag along with a couple water bottles and sunscreen, and Paisley and I are off. The air along the driveway is even stickier than it was on the patio, and by the time we reach the road, my skin is coated in a thin sheen of sweat. The clouds have mostly cleared, and the sun is out in full blazing force, turning the petals of the rain-soaked azaleas into shiny pink mirrors as we pass. Damp tendrils of hair cling to the back of my neck, and I run my fingers along my bare wrist, searching for an elastic that isn’t there. I take the sunscreen out of my bag and make Paisley stop so I can coat both our faces and arms before we continue on.
Paisley has four stops planned on our route, the first of which is two houses down on Linden Lane, in the same direction we walked yesterday into town. Claudia, Paisley explains to me as we buzz at their gate and wait to be let in, is less than a year older but a grade ahead due to how their birthdays fall. She used to be Paisley’s best friend until last spring, when Claudia confided in her that she was getting teased for hanging out with a second grader. There’s a crackling at the intercom and we introduce ourselves. As the gates swing open, Paisley wrinkles her nose. “She’s been extra nice to me since school let out. Like when no one from her grade is around, she thinks things can just go back to normal.”
“Well, it’s nice of you to bring her cookies. Eventually she’s going to realize that good friendships are much more important than the opinions of some girls who don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“And if she doesn’t, it’s her mistake. You deserve people in your life who are going to have your back.”
Paisley is still beaming up at me when the door opens to reveal a plump woman with frosted, spiky blond hair. She’s dressed in all black save for a giant red statement necklace, and her eyes are heavily made up with black liner and mascara. She looks like she belongs in the West Village, not the Hamptons.
“Paisley!” she exclaims while I twist my hair behind me and tuck it down the back of my tank top in an effort to minimize what I’m starting to think of as the Zoe-factor. I keep my sunglasses on.
“Hi, Mrs. Cooper.” Paisley turns her smile toward the woman, who is presumably Claudia’s mom.
“I’m Anna,” I say, extending my hand. “Paisley’s nanny.”
Mercifully, there’s no shock of recognition on the older woman’s face, no hand reaching to scrub across her eyes, no awkward double take. She takes my hand in hers, and I notice her nails are painted the same deep red as her necklace.
Mrs. Cooper graciously accepts Paisley’s offering of cookies, explaining that Claudia will be at a riding lesson until four. “We’re still on for tomorrow afternoon?” she asks.
I stare blankly.
“The girls have a pool date,” she says after a minute. “Just drop Paisley off at two. I thought Emilia might have mentioned it.”
Paisley nods and gives my hand a tug. “We talked about it at breakfast,” she reminds me.
“Oh, of course,” I murmur. We did? “We’re on,” I say with a smile. I need to get my head together.
The rest of our route takes us off Linden Lane and away from Main Street, deeper into residential Herron Mills. Two of the three families are home, and we spend an hour or so at the Paulson-Gosses, Paisley and Raychel running around upstairs in a house that I’m relieved to see more closely resembles a regular suburban dwelling while Elizabeth and I chat about my college plans—yes, I’ll be living in the dorms; no, I haven’t yet picked out a major—over sweating glasses of iced green tea in the kitchen.
When I catch Elizabeth glancing at the microwave clock, I call for Paisley upstairs and explain we still have another stop or two to make, even though this was the end of the line. Outside, Paisley and I make our way quickly back to Clovelly Cottage. We’re both hot and sweaty, and the oven’s temperature display flashes across my eyelids every time I blink. So careless. We’ll take a dip in the infinity pool, wash the afternoon off our skin.
* * *
By four thirty, we’re both showered and changed for dinner, towels and swimsuits drying on the pool deck. I duck into the kitchen for some baby carrots and hummus and find Mary, a tall, plump woman in a tailored white chef’s jacket with black buttons, hard at work on something that smells like garlic and white wine. My mouth waters.
“Dinner’s at six thirty,” she reminds me, and I promise we won’t fill up on snacks.
She glances at the heaping plate of cookies still sitting on the kitchen table. “I see Paisley introduced you to her favorites.”
“We may have gone a bit overboard,” I admit. “Please help yourself.” I remember the fourth paper plate still sitting in my tote in the entryway, and suddenly I get an idea.
“Hey, Paisley.” I slip out of the kitchen and into the family room, where Paisley is dressed in a matching white cotton short and top set on the couch, watching some kid’s show I don’t recognize. I place the hummus and carrots on the coffee table in front of her. “Want to take that last plate of cookies next door?”
She wrinkles her nose at me. “The Andersons are in Lucerne until August,” she says.
“The other next door. The Talbots.”
Beneath her summer tan, the color drains out of Paisley’s face. “To Windermere?” she asks, voice suddenly soft and filled with breath. She shakes her head back and forth, almost violently, fine blond hair whipping in still-wet ropes against the back of the couch.
I frown. I’m not sure what’s going on with Paisley, but I’ve never seen her act like this. “Right, to Windermere,” I say. “I’m sure the Talbots like cookies.”
“No way.” Paisley draws her knees into her chin, and I can see the feathery blond hairs prickle along her arms and legs. She lowers her voice to a whisper and looks straight into my eyes. “It’s haunted.”
I sit down on the couch next to her, smoothing my sundress over my knees and trying not to laugh. Windermere has clearly seen better days, and I can see why a kid might be creeped out by the overgrown vegetation hiding the house from the road. It does look a bit like something out of a gothic fairy tale. “It’s not haunted,” I assure her. “It just needs a little TLC. And Caden seems really nice.”
Paisley nods, her chin bobbing against her knees, still clutched against her chest. “Yeah, Caden’s nice,” she agrees. “But I’m not going over there.” She turns back to face the TV screen, and I can see I’ve lost her.
I glance at Emilia’s office door. Still closed. She might not approve, but running out for a few minutes seems like it would be okay. Mary’s here, after all. I poke my head into the kitchen to ask if she can keep an eye on Paisley for a little while.
Cookies retrieved from my tote, I set off again down the drive toward the road, then hang a left, back toward Windermere.
* * *
At the gate, it takes me a minute to locate a buzzer through the crawling vines. When I do find a small cream button nestled into a flat panel on one of the stone pillars, it looks more like a regular doorbell than the sophisticated intercom boxes installed at the entrances to Clovelly Cottage and the other houses on our route today. I press my finger against it and a dull light glows beneath the plastic, instilling in me a dubious confidence that somewhere inside the house, a chime is ringing.
I wait for a minute that becomes three. Up the drive, I can see two cars parked near the house, an older sports car and something long, expensive-looking, and black. Someone is home. I wonder if there used to be an intercom, if the speaker is broken. If pressing the bell did anything at all. I slip m
y foot out of my sandal and run my big toe up and down against the back of my calf, scratching at one of several mosquito bites that have swelled into itchy red welts, despite my best efforts with bug spray.
Kaylee would laugh if she saw me now. Every summer, no matter what I do, mosquitos flock to me and leave her completely unscathed. I picture her at the beach with Ian, the guy she’s been low-key on-again, off-again with all senior year, packing up their stuff as the sun begins its slow dip toward the ocean. With a swell of guilt, I realize I still haven’t called her. I resolve to pick up the phone soon, no matter what.
Just as I’m debating pressing the bell again or giving up and heading back, the front door swings open, and Caden steps onto the porch. As he walks toward me, I’m surprised to see he’s dressed up. Gone are the jeans and plaid shirt, replaced with pressed khaki slacks, an olive button-down tucked in at the waist, and brown dress shoes. I guess they dress for dinner at Windermere too. As he approaches the gate, I can see him squinting at me through the rails and scrolls. There’s a falter in his step; he must not recognize me from the other night.
“It’s Anna,” I call out. “Paisley’s nanny.”
He keeps walking, then pauses on the other side of the gate, not saying anything in return. His face finally comes into focus, and something unlatches inside my chest. Caden, in daylight. His features are delicate but not sharp. Gentle. Except for his eyebrows, which form two bold brush strokes across his forehead. Beneath them, his eyes are surprisingly hard. They narrow, taking me in, and whatever had come loose inside me before tightens again. Anna in daylight is clearly not what he’d hoped for.
