by Eva Robinson
“Stop it for a second,” said Michael. “Roll it back a little.”
She pulled the timeline back until the woman was in the middle of the frame again.
Michael pointed at the laptop bag. “Look.”
Ciara leaned in, squinting at the screen. Now, the laptop bag bulged, as if something else had been stuffed in it, and the top wasn’t closing.
“There we go,” said Michael. “That looks like it could be a second laptop to me, don’t you think?”
“That’s it.” She was sure of it now. Her pulse was racing, and not just from the chili. “Unfortunately, if someone wanted to hide something that was on Arabella’s computer, that computer will be completely destroyed by now.”
“Does the elevator have video?”
She closed the video, then searched the folder for the footage from the elevator. With the time stamps, it made it easy to find the right spot—just where Red Sox chick got into the elevator. And there it was—the same awkward angle of her head, shielding her face completely.
“Okay. I’m with you now,” said Michael. “She’s definitely doing that on purpose. She knows exactly where the cameras are.”
“You said Arabella would have been poisoned the next day, though, right? Let’s see if this chick comes back.” With the elevator footage, she scrolled ahead, using the time stamps to shift to the next day. “Any idea about the timing? Morning, maybe?”
“Early morning, I think. She was in hospital by late afternoon.”
She stopped scrolling when she saw Arabella herself getting into the elevator, rifling through a large and fashionable handbag as the elevator rose. She pulled out her phone, but it was impossible to see from here what was on it.
“If Adam were involved,” said Michael, “he wouldn’t come to the office to poison her, would he? And he wouldn’t need to send anyone in. He’d just do it at home. If no one’s coming in the next day hiding her face, maybe he dropped it into her coffee that morning.”
Ciara kept scrolling, looking for the woman with the hat. “But why send someone into the lab to steal her computer?”
“Maybe if he destroyed it at home, it would be too obvious.”
“True, but all you have to do is dump coffee on a laptop to kill it. I’ve done it before. He could have made it look like an accident.”
Michael frowned. “Maybe he didn’t think of it. Or—Arabella clearly didn’t trust him, so maybe she would have suspected something. Or maybe Adam really doesn’t have anything to do with it.”
“We know he’s the most likely statistically, and he has access to the chemicals. And I absolutely hated him. Like a visceral reaction. But no, it doesn’t feel right. Poison from his own lab, with a substance that’s tracked and catalogued? He’s not an idiot. He could easily do something less suspicious at home. An accidental fall down the stairs. A faked overdose on sleeping pills.”
Michael scrubbed a hand over his mouth, then he went still. “Okay. Well, whoever took the laptop might have turned it on after, right? We can check the Mac tracking software.”
Ciara’s mood brightened, and she kept scrolling forward in the video. “Yes. Good. The Find My Mac thing, right? What do we need to access that, a subpoena?”
“Or we can try to find her password.”
“We can ask Adam—” She froze. There on the screen was the woman again, on the elevator camera—black cap this time, neck bent down at an odd angle. She wore all black. “Michael. There she is again, trying to go unnoticed.”
Who was she? Someone else with strong feelings about Arabella, who wasn’t at all on their radar yet.
Someone still roaming around, undisturbed.
Twenty
Hannah stood on the balcony deck of Stella’s three-story Georgian home, sipping a glass of wine by herself. This was how she did parties—spending time by herself before she worked up the nerve to talk to anyone.
After a quick introduction to the hostess, she’d come upstairs to pour herself some wine. She should get back down, but it was beautiful and peaceful up here. The old wooden deck jutted out from the second story, overlooking a sprawling, labyrinthine garden that spilled out toward the marsh and pond. Far beneath her, the garden sloped downward, and twisting stone sculptures dotted the landscape.
In leafy alcoves, lanterns cast warm light, and candles twinkled on little round tables. A gravel path wended between the flowers, sweeping around to the front of the house. Someone sat in one of the alcoves playing a guitar; the sound floated in the spring breeze. Beyond the garden and a row of oaks, Fresh Pond glistened with little flecks of silver.
She turned away from the garden, surveying the home. It looked early nineteenth century, painted white with black shutters. On top of the flat roof, a widow’s walk stood stark and pale against the starry sky. Through the sliding glass doors, she had a view of the eclectic living room: shelves of Victorian antiques, a gilt-framed mirror, a wall of nude paintings of various sizes. A grand piano stood in one corner.
Stella, the hostess, wore flowers braided into her blond hair, and her skin glowed. She smelled like honey and musk. Right now, she was arranging fruit tarts in the garden below.
Hannah felt like she didn’t quite belong here. When she looked down at the gravel path beneath her, she felt a wave of dizziness. It had to be fifty feet at least, and the railing was low, below her hips. She took a step back. Clearly, in the Georgian era, safety codes had not existed.
“Hannah?”
The sound made her jump.
Rowan stood behind her, a glass of punch in her hand. “You okay?”
Hannah smiled. “Oh, I just came up to get a glass of wine, but then I started taking in the view. It’s so pretty here. I didn’t know there were houses like this on the pond.”
Rowan leaned in closer. “So, you didn’t hear this from me, but Stella has a side gig writing erotica. Like really filthy BDSM stuff that she self-publishes. She makes a killing. That’s how she paid for this place.”
“I want to be her.”
Rowan grinned. “One thing at a time, Hannah.”
“That’s exactly what I always say to my students.”
“Words to live by. For now, why don’t you come down and meet Daniel?” She pronounced the name with a slight French accent.
“Daniel?” Hannah repeated.
Rowan pointed down at the garden. “You see that beautiful man down there, sitting at a table by himself?”
From here, Hannah couldn’t see much—just a silhouette of a man, and the red cherry of a cigarette. Did people still smoke?
“The smoker,” said Hannah.
“He’s French.” Rowan waved a dismissive hand. “Trust me, you’ll get beyond the cigarette when you see his face. And do you see those sculptures in the garden?” She pointed at the stone figures, their bodies growing with moss and lichen. They looked like they’d been there for centuries, hewn from the earth itself.
“Yeah?”
“Daniel made those. He and Stella used to be a couple. He lived here for a year, and she got all this art out of the deal. He’s the whole reason I know these people in the first place. I met him in France years ago and we became close. He makes a ton of money off those sculptures. So he’s going to sell one to raise money for the teen center.”
“Oh, okay.”
“The important part is that he’s hot and single. And he’s not Luke, who we both agree is an idiot.” She grabbed Hannah’s glass and refilled it with wine. “Drink this, then go meet Daniel. You look absolutely stunning, by the way.” Rowan pulled out her phone and swiped up the screen to turn on her camera. “I’ll show you. Come closer for a photo. I haven’t had someone else in my photos in ages.”
A thrill rippled through Hannah, and she stepped closer to Rowan. She slid her arm around Rowan’s waist, the dress silky against her bare arm, and breathed in the faintest hint of lilac.
Rowan really hadn’t posted photos of anyone else—only Arabella. It was as if, out of everyone she
knew, only Arabella had been chosen as worthy enough.
Was Hannah going to get the same treatment?
Rowan held up the camera. In the glowing screen, Hannah could see that the light from inside the house cast a warm glow over them. In the distance, the lanterns from the garden looked like tiny orbs of light.
Rowan snapped the shot, and when Hannah looked at herself in the picture, it was like staring at a beautiful stranger—someone with perfect swoops of dark eyeliner and full red lips. And that was good. Because no one wanted normal Hannah Moreno at the party—single mom, unemployed, smelling of old yogurt. They wanted Rowan’s glamorous friend.
And together, they looked like they could be stars from a bygone era. Or sisters—both in the same crimson, both wearing little gold fleur-de-lis bracelets.
“See?” said Rowan. She was looking down at her phone, typing something. “You’re stunning. I’m going to post this. I just need to write something about my beautiful psychologist friend, and you’ve got to go down and speak to Daniel so you can forget about Luke.”
“You don’t think Stella would mind? I mean, they’re obviously still close if he’s here.”
Rowan rolled her eyes. “No, she’s long since moved on. She has some new guy she’s obsessed with. Come with me. This is your destiny. I will take you if I have to.”
Rowan grabbed Hannah by the hand, dragging her toward the long, sweeping stairs.
Hannah let out an actual giggle—a sound she hadn’t made in a decade, probably. The stairs were steep, and she stepped carefully downward, giddy with the champagne and wine.
At the bottom of the stairs, Stella waved at them. She was opening a bottle of wine by a picnic table laden with food. “Hannah! There you are. You know what? I’m going to put the wine and food out here, instead. Save you running up and down the stairs.”
“Oh, I can help you bring it down,” said Hannah.
Stella waved a hand. “Nonsense. I want you to talk to people about the marketing on our project. I’m so happy you can help us.” She crossed to Hannah, filling her glass with even more red wine. “You hardly poured yourself any wine. Here. I can never tell if my wine is mixed with other random wine, can you?”
“Not really, but I probably shouldn’t have too much.”
Stella started filling her own glass. “Me too. My kids will wake me at eight.”
“Oh? I didn’t know you had kids.”
“She has, like, five kids,” said Rowan.
“No, still only three.” Stella nodded at her house. “I have twins, who are seven, and a five-year-old. Their dad lives in Lexington, but they prefer it here, because even at their age they can sense he’s insufferable and condescending. And that he only wants custody because it would upset me. It’s not like he actually wants to get up to get them water at three a.m. Sorry, we’ve just met and I’m already ranting about my ex.”
“He’s a dick,” added Rowan.
“My daughter is with her dad tonight,” said Hannah. “We’re not together either. On weekdays, she’s usually kicking me in the head around three a.m., so I feel your pain.”
There was something fragile about Stella—a quiet sadness, maybe. And when she held Hannah’s gaze for too long, her eyes seemed to sparkle with tears for a moment. “Well, we’re all just trying to do what’s best for our kids, right? I just want to look out for them. I mean, sometimes I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. I often feel guilty for stuff, you know?”
Hannah nodded. “Mom guilt. It’s a powerful drug.”
“But then I think—we just do our best. We look out for our family, and we do our best, right?” Stella raised a wine glass, smiling. “To single moms who are keeping it all together.”
Hannah grinned. “To us.”
Rowan lifted her glass. “I’m not part of this, so I’ll just toast to the both of you and your nightmarish offspring who won’t let you sleep.”
Stella sipped her drink, then sidled up to Hannah. “So we’ve only just met, and now I’m wondering how much you’d judge me for gossiping.”
Warmth bloomed in Hannah’s chest. She was starting to feel like she belonged here, like she was already included in their circle. “Not even a little bit.”
Stella leaned in even closer, her eyes shifting from one side to the other. “We have a friend named Melody. Plays the French horn in the Boston Symphony Orchestra. Father is a famous conductor; husband’s a scientist. She’s super uptight, or so I used to think. But then she was pregnant. And you know… no one’s going to judge a little bit of wine here and there, but once when she was here, and she was pregnant, it was more than a sip or two. I’m talking a bottle of wine.”
This was definitely scandalous. Hannah found herself leaning in closer.
“So she had the kid, then another. And she’d be breastfeeding and just—one bottle of wine after another. Does alcohol go through breastmilk? I have no idea. But I do know it’s frowned upon to be completely trashed when you’re looking after babies. I think she used the breastfeeding to keep the weight off from all the wine calories. Anyway, I wasn’t sure if I should report it, or just keep my mouth shut, because what do I know? I was agonizing over it. Well, in the end, I didn’t have to make the decision.”
Rowan’s mouth opened. “So what happened?”
“Her husband left her, and the neighbors called the police on her. She got totally hammered at home, went out to scream at the moon or something, then passed out on the front lawn. They found the two-year-old wandering down the sidewalk in the middle of the night. She had escaped, walking out the front door of her house, and she showed up at the neighbors crying and looking for her mom.”
With a jolt of panic, Hannah pictured Nora toddling down the sidewalk at night. She felt a sharp instinct to call Luke to make sure he hadn’t endured a sudden personality change that left him passed out on the front lawn. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to pick Nora up and hold her close. She reached into her purse for her phone, then realized she’d left the purse upstairs. But she needed to trust Luke, didn’t she? He’d be fine.
“That is shocking,” said Rowan. “So what did the police do?”
“She was arrested, and she lost custody of the kids completely. She can’t even see them now unless it’s under supervision.”
Hannah shuddered. What a nightmare.
“God, that’s terrible.” Then Rowan whispered, “Okay, and I have something to tell you. But maybe don’t mention it to anyone. Do you remember that friend I brought to one of your parties? The grad student who poured a martini on her husband?”
Stella’s pale skin looked silver in the moonlight. “Arabella. I saw it in the papers. I didn’t want to bring it up. But you weren’t close, were you?”
“Not really. And I don’t know what happened. But the police are involved.”
Stella’s jaw was hanging open. “Why? What do you think it was?” Then she mouthed, “Suicide? Or murder?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think anyone knows. But she wasn’t sick as far as I knew. Maybe a bit of an eating disorder, but not that bad. It’s really shocking, and she was only twenty-six. She was so talented. Why do the wrong people always die? I mean, there’s a man who stands near Mass Avenue drinking straight vodka—he’s always got one hand in his sweatpants, and whenever I pass him, he asks me if he can either lick my armpits or shave my legs. Those are my two options. Why is he still alive and Arabella’s dead? It’s all backwards.”
Stella stared at her. “You should never give a eulogy. I mean, I get the sentiment, but I’m not sure if you have the right sort of poetry for the occasion.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Rowan smiled at Hannah. “You’d be happy for me to give your eulogy, wouldn’t you?”
Hannah forced a smile. She knew it was a joke, and yet a sliver of dread danced up her spine anyway. “Well, let’s hope I don’t die anytime soon.”
Twenty-One
For reasons she didn’t understand, Hannah’s
legs were shaking. Maybe her nerves were getting the better of her.
Every now and then, it was like she had a voice was screaming in the hollows of her brain: Someone is out to get you.
But she had no idea what it was about. It was irrational.
Rowan rested her head on her shoulder. “Sorry, I just totally brought the mood down again, didn’t I? Let’s forget death for now. We have champagne punch, and pastries, and this… extremely mournful guitar music, courtesy of Peter. Thank you for the dirge, Peter.”
She turned to the man strumming his guitar, and it was only then that Hannah realized it was a slow Radiohead song.
“Peter!” Rowan called out. “Please play something more upbeat. There’s enough misery in the world as it is.”
Peter smiled, the light shining off his glasses. He slid the guitar out of his lap and stood. “I only know three songs, and that’s one of them.”
“I’m learning the harmonica,” said Rowan. “You and I can form a terrible blues band together. But cheerful blues, of course. So we don’t harsh everyone’s mellow.”
Peter crossed to the trio, a crooked smile on his face. He wore thick-rimmed glasses that stood out starkly against his pale skin and a white T-shirt. “I’m not sure we want to subject our friends to our music together.”
Rowan wrapped her arm around his shoulder. “But the love in our harmonies would shine through. Peter is one of my very best friends.”
For some inexplicable reason, Hannah felt a sharp twinge of jealousy. She ignored it and held out her hand to him. “Hi, I’m Hannah. High school friend of Rowan’s.”
He shook her hand, firmly but quickly. “Peter. Assistant professor, department of education.”
Rowan leaned into him. “I first met Peter at a costume party where he was dressed up as Princess Leia. Gorgeous.”
Peter shrugged. “I look good in a gold bikini.”
“And Hannah here,” Rowan went on, “was our class valedictorian, and now she’s a brilliant psychologist. And she has all kind of wonderful ideas for our marketing.”
