by Eva Robinson
Rowan cocked her head. “You were there when Tom fell off the bridge, weren’t you?”
“Not that close,” Hannah said quickly, her heart racing. She lifted the champagne bottle and filled the glasses the rest of the way. “I just saw it from a distance. I really shouldn’t have brought it up.” Hannah lifted her wine glass, and Rowan did the same. “Let’s toast to not being in high school anymore.”
Rowan smiled. “Absolutely.” She took a long sip, closing her eyes. “This is freaking amazing. You are a genius, Hannah.” She slid a plate across the marble countertop—two crispy fried balls covered in a glaze, and dollops of what looked like creamy mozzarella with pistachios.
Hannah’s stomach rumbled, and she picked up one of the little spheres with her fingers and bit into it. Crispy on the outside, with melted cheese and rice on the inside, a hint of mushrooms, and a subtle honey glaze… Heaven.
“This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” said Hannah. She took another sip of the sweet, fruity cocktail. Rowan really did know how to enjoy life.
“I’m obsessed with this restaurant. And now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve eaten all day until now.”
“Why not?”
Rowan blew out a long breath. “I was thinking about Arabella, and I have no idea what happened to her. It’s just so sad, and I don’t understand it. The police want to talk to me tomorrow, but I have no idea why. I mean, I wonder if they think she was murdered. No one knows why she died. Or, at least, nobody I know seems to have any idea.”
A chill rippled up Hannah’s neck. “Did you talk to her before she died?”
“No, not for weeks. We didn’t really talk that much in general. I’d only hung out with her a few times, mostly because… well, she fit in well with my photos, and she had some ideas for captions. When she died, I sort of assumed suicide, maybe, because it’s usually depression or drugs when the obituaries don’t specify. But it’s just horrible, isn’t it? I can’t even imagine what would go through someone’s mind…” Rowan trailed off. “You know what? You have one night off from your kid, so I’m not going to talk about this.”
“It’s fine, really.”
“I need to take a break from it. My mind keeps racing. I need to stop thinking about death. We are still alive, and we should be seizing the moment or whatever.”
Hannah lifted her champagne flute. “Okay. To life, then.”
“To life.”
At last, Hannah was starting to feel a little more relaxed.
“Do you know what I really want to do?” said Rowan. “I really want to go to a music festival in Denmark. Have you ever been to Denmark?”
“No. I’ve hardly left the U.S. I’ve only been to Canada.”
“Well, you should come with me. You can leave your daughter with her dad, right? We can get some costumes; you can mix some drinks. Just for a week. I can’t deal with tents, but we can get a nice camper van.”
Hannah couldn’t picture herself at a music festival at this point. After two years of sleep interruptions, the idea of willingly signing up to stay awake sounded painful. And yet… she’d become boring, hadn’t she? And that was like an early death. She’d come here wanting to get out of her rut; maybe this was her chance. “I mean, it sounds fun… tiring, but fun.”
“Okay, well, we could do something more sedate. A French museum and restaurant tour? Something mature, since we’re nearly thirty.”
Hannah grinned. “If I can sleep late in the mornings, with no child waking me up, and just read a newspaper over pastries and coffee, my life would be complete for a week.” Now that sounded amazing. “I mean, I’d have to save up for a while.”
Rowan waved a dismissive hand. “I can pay for it. I mean, it’s just plane tickets, and we could share a hotel room. I’m so bored of Boston right now that it would be worth it. I feel like in Boston everyone’s idea of a good time is getting up at five a.m. to jog. Or tailgating parties.”
“It’s either that or trading fun facts about the Red Sox.”
“Accurate.” Rowan drained her glass, then leaned down over her computer. “One more song. This one’s called ‘Salzburg,’ and it’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Hannah finished up the last of her delicious food, swiping the burrata through a dollop of honey while melodic music floated through the air. With the twinkling fairy lights in Rowan’s apartment, Hannah already felt like she had been transported somewhere else. She didn’t need to leave Boston. She could just come here.
Rowan smiled, her dark eyes lighting up. “Okay, before we go, we’ll try the bellinis with gin. And didn’t you say you wanted to update your look?”
“Did I?”
“Oh, maybe I misunderstood. I thought you said something about not wanting to look like a mom.” She cocked her head, smiling. “It’s just that you’re so beautiful, and you deserve clothes that are just as beautiful as you are.”
Second time tonight Hannah had been told—in the nicest way—that she looked like crap. “Well, I wouldn’t object to a makeover.” Already, the bellini had started going to her head. “You know what? I definitely want a makeover. I’m not feeling great about myself. I haven’t been on a date in… Well, not since before I had Nora.”
“Do you have a particular guy in mind?”
She felt lightheaded from the champagne and ready to divulge everything. “Well, Luke asked me on a date a year ago, and I said no, like an idiot. Because I thought he was just doing it to be nice, and I looked and felt like crap. And now I think he’s dating someone else, and I’m imagining she’s perfect.”
“Are you in love with the father of your child? This is scandalous.”
“We were always just friends except for that one-night stand. But my feelings changed since he asked me if I could look after Nora tomorrow. And the jealousy is making me nuts. I keep imagining whoever he’s dating is basically a goddess, and I keep trying to find her on social media. Does that seem stupid and neurotic?”
Rowan leaned over the counter, her stare intense. “Oh, believe me, I know what that’s like. I know exactly what that’s like. I’ve created an entire imaginary vegan Stepford girlfriend for my ex.” She downed the rest of her cocktail. “If he doesn’t see how amazing you are already then he’s an idiot. Here’s what I’ve learned by the age of twenty-eight—and I need to remember this, too: we’re always imagining that these men are so fascinating and deep, that when they’re not responding to our calls, they’re contemplating the mysteries of the universe and falling in love with the perfect woman and composing poetry to her. I think we might give them more depth than they often have. Do you know what most men are actually doing in their free time?”
“What?”
“Playing video games and watching porn. Even my ex who everyone thinks is a genius—he’s mostly playing video games and watching porn, probably. When he’s not looking at sheep. The only difference is that he plays video games in the countryside with expensive beer and watches tasteful porn. The real perfect lovers are only in our minds. And you could do better than this guy of yours, I’m sure. Whoever he is. What does he do anyway?”
“Psychology professor. Kind of a genius. He’s writing a book with Theo Leigh called An Evil Mind, about the psychology of evil.”
“Theo Leigh. Was he the guy on Oprah?”
“Yep. He is extremely proud of that. And I think Luke is secretly hoping they’ll be on Oprah again with An Evil Mind, though he pretends like he doesn’t care.”
Rowan narrowed her eyes and took a sip of her cocktail. She seemed to be considering this bit of information, weighing up what to say next. “Hmm. Luke, you said?”
“Yes, why?”
She shook her head. “Nothing.” She drained her cocktail, then lifted the empty glass. “And what is their philosophy of evil, anyway?”
“Their book is about how anyone—even normal people—can become complete monsters given the right conditions. If they’re given too much power, for exa
mple, they can end up torturing people in prison. Or if they’re obeying authority figures, they can slip from moral into immoral easily, and they don’t feel the weight of responsibility. Any one of us could turn evil in the right circumstances.”
Rowan stared at her, seeming to go very still. “Oh, I have no doubt about that. Any of us could be monsters.”
Nineteen
Ciara turned down the music—a Franz Ferdinand song, “Take Me Out.” This had been her sister Jess’s favorite when they were in high school, and she’d played it on repeat. The old, dull ache spread through Ciara’s chest.
Because Jess never got to hear the music that came after 2004.
Once, this song meant bouncing around their shared bedroom, screaming the lyrics, thrusting their hips to the music. But now this song made her think of Jess, lying in the grass of Ye Olde Burial Ground, a gun in her hand and blood pooling around the old stones. It made Ciara think of all the people buried in that same cemetery, the lives cut short. The generations of people, one after another, who wept over the dead. The row of gravestones for six children from one family, all dead of smallpox in the same month. How much sadness could one patch of land take?
When she thought of the burying ground, the weight of the sadness pressed against her chest like a hag stealing her breath. It was hard to think straight.
When she stopped at a light, she changed the music on her phone. Meute again—a thumping drum, marimba, saxophone… “You can do this. You’re Ciara Munroe.”
She turned it up louder, and the music transported her back to the present.
Only then could she get her mind out of the past to think about the case again.
She really wanted to know what had happened to Arabella’s laptop.
They’d interviewed Adam repeatedly, bringing him into the station for the past two days. But either he was telling the truth, or his story was remarkably consistent. Ciara was growing frustrated with their progress. And when she couldn’t work something out, her mind got stuck on things, turning them over and over again.
The light turned green and she started driving on Mass Avenue. Warm lights beamed from inside the restaurants and bars that lined the wide road.
When she got back to the office, she’d watch the security footage again. And then again, and again, until she found something. Because someone stole Arabella’s laptop from her office, and that person had walked right past the camera in the lobby of the psychology building.
She rounded the corner onto Holyoke. At one point, this would have been Crooked Lane leading to Cow Yard Lane. “Crooked Lane” had to be one of the best names, because it came from a time before the world had straight lines and rational thought, before anyone understood planning, when meandering cows dictated a city’s layout. It came from a time when the men who made gravestones thought it was a good idea to engrave ministers’ heads with strange, drooping breasts for reasons no longer remembered.
But things had changed since then. In those old, irrational days, hallucinations and witch’s marks could close a criminal case. Now they had DNA, toxicology reports, and digitized security videos.
Whoever killed Arabella had left a clue behind somewhere, and Ciara would find it.
At last, she pulled up outside the police department and parked her car. It had been her turn to get dinner for Michael, and the scent of the curry was making her stomach rumble. She hurried inside, imagining how gloriously the chickpeas would burn her tongue.
By the time she got to her desk, her mouth was watering and she could hardly think straight.
Michael rolled out his chair; he was one of the few people left in the office. “Guess what I found?”
“The murderer,” said Ciara. “The case is closed, and I can stop staring at the surveillance videos for hours at a time.”
“Not exactly.”
Ciara sat at her desk and pulled out the takeout containers. “Okay, but hang on a second. I skipped lunch, and I think I’m digesting my own brain for sustenance.”
“I’m not sure that’s medically possible.”
“Well, you obviously didn’t get that far in med school, because it’s happening.”
“Why did you skip lunch? You seem like you could get scary if you missed meals.”
As she pulled off the lid of the container, the scent of garlic, chilis, cumin, and turmeric hit her nose hard. “While you were out, I got access to the surveillance video, and then I spent a while searching it for anything that looked unusual. Whoever took her laptop is on that video. Unfortunately, no one was wearing a T-shirt that read poisoner to help me out.”
“Did you find anything?”
“I did see Arabella several times. I found her coming into work the day her laptop was stolen. I saw her in the lobby, frantically pacing back and forth on the phone. She was clearly upset.”
“Reporting the laptop stolen?”
Ciara nodded. “Exactly.”
“The person who stole her laptop might not have poisoned her. We don’t know for certain that her murder and the theft are connected.”
“True, but she thought they were, that she was in danger because of whatever she’d found. It’s worth looking into.” She spooned the vindaloo into her mouth, closing her eyes and falling silent as the jolt of fire on her tongue sent her endorphins rushing. She could already feel the sweat beading on her forehead. She swallowed, vaguely aware that she’d moaned quietly. “Sorry, you had something to tell me?”
“I found the source of the missing thallium. The lab where Adam works keeps records of the toxic substances. Every time it’s used, it’s measured. Like I thought, there’s a discrepancy in the amount there with the amount recorded.”
“So there was some missing?”
“Five grams, in fact. More than enough to kill someone fast.”
Very interesting. “How fast?”
“Typically thallium poisoning happens over days or weeks. A person’s hair falls out; their limbs go numb. But those signs make the type of poison more obvious. With an enormous dose like this, the symptoms would show up within a few hours. The poisoning progresses too fast for those unique hallmarks.”
“Okay, so she was probably poisoned the same day she went to the hospital. Her laptop was stolen the day before.” Ciara ate another spoonful, her nose tingling with the rush of chilis. “So when was the thallium taken out of the lab?”
“Well, that’s the problem. It’s not used very often. So all I know is that sometime between two months ago and now, someone took five grams of thallium and didn’t record it.”
Not very helpful. “And who has access to the lab?”
“Basically anyone. Despite the dangerous substances, it’s just like the psychology building. Anyone can get in the building, and the lab is only locked at night. Anyone could slip in if the lab was empty for a minute or two.”
A thread of disappointment curled through Ciara. “So we still have nothing definitive tying it to Adam, or to anyone. And literally anyone within a two-month span could have gotten it.”
“Anyone who knew it was there.”
Ciara scrolled through the footage again, freezing at the point where Arabella was reporting the laptop stolen. She watched Arabella thread her fingers into her hair. The woman was tiny, and dressed in a long T-shirt and tightfitting jeans. She looked younger than her age, like a teenager almost. From the footage, Ciara could see that Arabella was crying.
Ciara scrolled back again, to before Arabella’s computer had been stolen. She’d told the campus police she was only out of her office for twenty minutes.
Ciara rolled back the footage twenty minutes and started playing the video again, her mind going numb as she stared at the screen, the students’ faces blending together in her mind.
Except this time, something else had caught her eye. It was a woman so nondescript that Ciara hadn’t picked up on her before—particularly since she couldn’t see the face. The woman had walked in behind a taller man, a Red Sox cap pulled d
own over her face.
But that was no accident, was it?
“Hang on.” Ciara put down her spoon and scrolled back the video until the woman was out the door again. When Ciara hit play, in walked the woman in the Red Sox cap, her chin tucked down as she walked. The cameras had been set up to record people’s faces, of course, but looking down at the floor like that, she’d managed to stay hidden from view. “Look.”
Michael cocked his head. “You think that’s something?”
“Who walks around looking at the ground like that?” And there was something else about her gait—the purposefulness, the speed. Her shoulders looked tense up around her ears. “If you were going to be lost in a dream world, watching your feet, you’d move more slowly. More relaxed. She’s not relaxed. Her stance doesn’t look normal.”
“That’s obviously not Adam.”
Ciara narrowed her eyes at the image on her screen, watching it one more time.
She paused the footage to get a better look at the woman. She carried a laptop bag over her shoulder—like nearly everyone else. Most of her body was obscured, but for a moment, when the man in front of her shifted away, Ciara caught a glimpse of small white logos on her shirt. Everything else about her was indistinct.
Ciara squinted at the logos. They looked like faces with large eyes. “Are those skulls?”
“I can’t tell,” said Michael. “They’re too small.”
“It looks like a cartoon skull. Like the hollow-eyed skulls on a Puritan grave.”
“That’s oddly specific.”
“I’ll check the elevator footage in a second, but first I’m going to look for when she comes out again.”
Ciara had entirely forgotten her dinner.
She pushed the fast-forward button, scanning ahead as a few dozen people came in and out. But it wasn’t long till she found the woman coming out again. “There,” she said. “She was only inside for thirteen minutes. And five minutes after this, Arabella called the police.”
