Last Day

by Luanne Rice

  PRAISE FOR LUANNE RICE

  “Lovely, lyrical—and lethal. Luanne Rice turns her talents in a new direction and succeeds completely.”

  —Lee Child, #1 New York Times bestselling author

  “Luanne Rice is the master of small towns with big secrets. With a deft touch, she draws us into a picture-postcard New England village, behind the closed doors of a well-loved home with its beautiful gardens and perfect family, only to expose the truths within. Surprising, powerful, a total page-turner.”

  —Lisa Scottoline, New York Times bestselling author of Someone Knows

  “In Last Day, Luanne Rice shows once again her unique gift for portraying the emotional landscape of a family. By adding a riveting thread of suspense, she proves beyond the shadow of a doubt that love and murder make brilliant bedfellows.”

  —Tess Gerritsen, New York Times bestselling author of The Shape of Night

  “Last Day, by Luanne Rice, shines with its brilliant plot about four women friends, their families and loves, and, shockingly, a murder. Rice’s writing is flawless and fast, her characters are like the women I have coffee with, and the desire, violence, and betrayals shock me and remind me of Liane Moriarty’s Big Little Lies.”

  —Nancy Thayer, New York Times bestselling author of Surfside Sisters

  “A dark family history. A deeply flawed marriage. The complicated tangle of the ties that bind. Luanne Rice writes with authenticity and empathy, unflinchingly exploring her characters and diving into the shadowy spaces where they hide their secrets. Like all great stories, Last Day is a compulsive, twisting mystery dwelling inside a searing portrait of what drives us, as riveting as it is human and true.”

  —Lisa Unger, New York Times bestselling author of The Stranger Inside

  “A brutal murder, a failed marriage, secret lovers, and enough suspects to fill a room. The truth lies somewhere between betrayal and love. A compelling mystery you won’t put down or solve until the final pages.”

  —Robert Dugoni, New York Times and Amazon Charts bestselling author of the Tracy Crosswhite series

  “I’ve long loved Luanne Rice for her trademark elegant style and her deep understanding of familial relationships, and she brings these superpowers with her as she delves into suspense. Last Day is a true page-turner, peopled by characters I care deeply about, with an ending I never saw coming.”

  —Joshilyn Jackson, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of Never Have I Ever

  OTHER TITLES BY LUANNE RICE

  Pretend She’s Here

  The Beautiful Lost

  The Secret Language of Sisters

  The Night Before

  How We Started

  The Lemon Orchard

  Little Night

  The Geometry of Sisters

  The Letters (with Joseph Monninger)

  The Silver Boat

  Secrets of Paris

  What Matters Most

  Sandcastles

  Summer’s Child

  The Deep Blue Sea for Beginners

  Blue Moon

  Home Fires

  Dance With Me

  Stone Heart

  The Edge of Winter

  Light of the Moon

  Last Kiss

  Follow the Stars Home

  Firefly Beach

  Summer Light

  True Blue

  Safe Harbor

  The Perfect Summer

  The Secret Hour

  Silver Bells

  Summer of Roses

  Beach Girls

  Dream Country

  Cloud Nine

  Crazy in Love

  Angels All Over Town

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Luanne Rice

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542018203 (hardcover)

  ISBN-10: 154201820X (hardcover)

  ISBN-13: 9781542016353 (paperback)

  ISBN-10: 1542016355 (paperback)

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  First edition

  For Audrey Loggia

  and Joe Guccione

  CONTENTS

  PART I

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  PART II

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  PART III

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PART I

  1

  July 11

  Beth Lathrop lay on her side, one arm flung across her eyes as if to block the bright morning sunlight that streamed through the east-facing window. She was covered by a pale-blue percale sheet that draped over her pregnant belly and clung to her left hip. It was mid-July; the baby, a boy, was due October 4. The distinct peace of white noise made the room a separate world from the rest of the house: the hum of the air conditioner, the low buzz of a single fly circling the odd, shocking, dark-red jewel behind her ear, the muffled sound of a dog just outside the door.

  Outside, a salt breeze blew off the protected cove down the hill. July in Black Hall could be humid, waves of damp heat rising from the marsh and tidal flats, but although it was already eighty-five degrees, the air was clear, and this was one of those sparkling summer days Beth loved so much, looked forward to all winter.

  If the windows had been open, the white curtains would have lifted and rippled, and the cross breeze blowing across the marshes, off Long Island Sound, would have cooled the whole house. But the house was closed up, the bedroom door shut tight, the window air conditioner running on the highest setting—so high that despite the hot day, a thin film of frost had formed on the vents and the sill. Beth’s golden-red hair, loose and wavy, cascaded over her bare shoulders.

  Her iPhone on the bedside table lit up with an incoming call from her sister, Kate. The phone was set to “Do Not Disturb,” so it neither rang nor vibrated. When Kate disconnected, a message banner showed on Beth’s screen. It was the most recent of twenty-one missed calls. Nearly as soon as the message appeared on the iPhone, the landline began to ring. It was downstairs, in the kitchen, and the tone was muffled by the
rooms and stairs and closed door in between it and Beth.

  Popcorn had been scratching at the bedroom door, but he had given up and now lay on the top step, whimpering in the hall. The family’s yellow Lab loved his morning beach runs. It was 7:35 a.m., and he was used to being fed and walked around 6:00. With Pete gone on his sailing trip, Beth under her sister’s orders to grab a little extra sleep because it had been a complicated pregnancy, and their sixteen-year-old daughter, Samantha, away at camp, Popcorn had to wait. He kept glancing at the bedroom door—lifting his head, whining, resting his chin on his paws.

  Through the closed bedroom door and over the air conditioner’s loud hum, the doorbell could barely be heard. It rang three times. Popcorn let out a whooping yelp, bounded down the stairs, and ran back and forth in the entry hall. Then came the sound of rapid closed-fist pounding on the front door. Then the sharp clank-clank-clank of the brass door knocker. Popcorn barked wildly.

  The noise at the front door stopped. Footsteps sounded on the brick walk along the side of the house, voices carrying as the white picket gate squeaked open. Popcorn tore into the kitchen, wailing at the two women and a man who had entered the backyard and were standing just outside the back door. They peered in, hands cupped around their eyes to block the sunlight.

  Popcorn pranced with excitement, his tail thumping. One of the women knew him well—Kate Woodward, Beth’s sister. He reared up, front claws clicking on the glass. Kate went to the gas grill, opened the lid. The Lathrops usually hid a spare key inside, and although she had looked earlier, before she had called the police, before they had pulled up in their cruiser, she had to double-check to make sure it really wasn’t there.

  The other two visitors were uniformed Black Hall police officers, Peggy McCabe and Jim Hawley. McCabe knocked hard, the rap of her knuckles sharp and staccato.

  “Black Hall Police,” she called. “Beth, are you home? Anyone in there?”

  “Is the dog friendly?” Hawley asked warily.

  “Yes, very—Popcorn’s very friendly; don’t worry,” Kate said. “Just break the door, will you? Please?”

  Hawley crouched down, looked the dog in the eye through the slider. “Hey, Popcorn; hey, Popcorn,” he said. “You’re not going to bite, are you?” Popcorn slimed the glass with his nose, his tail wagging.

  “There’s nowhere else they could have hidden a key?” McCabe asked.

  “I don’t think so. I don’t know. The spare is always in the grill. Beth would never go this long without calling me. Will you please get us in there? I should have broken in myself. Something’s wrong.”

  “Did you have a fight?” McCabe asked.

  “No!” Kate said.

  McCabe knew they should get a search warrant, but Kate’s panic was compelling. Beth Lathrop was six months pregnant and hadn’t been heard from in three days. Her silver Mercedes was parked in the driveway, and at least two days’ worth of dog waste was visible through the window. These facts, plus Kate’s demeanor, told McCabe that she and Hawley could claim exigent circumstances if they faced a problem in court later.

  “Is there an alarm?” she asked. “Is it silent?”

  “Yes, there is one. No, it’s not silent. It’s a siren,” Kate said. “But I know the code. I can disarm it.”

  “Get back,” McCabe said. She pulled on latex gloves, took her baton from her black leather belt, and smashed the door. The glazed glass shattered into a thousand tiny squares, but they held in place. She gave it one extra-forceful tap with the butt of her baton, and the pieces rained down onto the blue tile floor. She reached in to unlock the door from the inside.

  The alarm didn’t go off. It hadn’t been set.

  The officers stepped into the kitchen, but Kate pushed past them.

  “Beth!” she shouted.

  “Wait,” McCabe said, grabbing Kate’s arm. “Please step outside until I tell you to come in.”

  “There’s no way,” Kate said and disappeared through the kitchen.

  McCabe kept her hand on her hip holster, following Kate. Hawley petted the dog, let him outside into the fenced yard, and then followed the other two up the stairs.

  “Beth!” Kate called. She was on the stairs, mounting them two at a time, McCabe just behind her. McCabe heard the air conditioner humming behind a closed door at the top of the staircase. Kate started to grab the knob, but McCabe clamped her wrist to stop her. Kate’s hand was shaking.

  “Wait out here, Kate,” McCabe said.

  Kate took a step back, letting Hawley pass, seeming to comply.

  McCabe turned the brass knob—even through her glove, the metal felt like ice.

  Inside, the bedroom was freezing cold, the air conditioner running hard. The room smelled sickly sweet and rotten. Beth lay on her right side facing the window, her back to the door. Flies, sluggish in the chilled air, buzzed around her head. Kate ran past both officers to her sister.

  “Beth,” Kate said, crouching down to look into her face. She let out a sharp, instant shriek of wild, immediate grief. “No, Beth, don’t let it be this—don’t let it.”

  “Don’t touch her,” McCabe said.

  “Oh, Beth,” Kate said.

  Hawley and McCabe approached the bed.

  Beth’s eyes were half-open, her lips parted and protruding tongue blue and swollen. There was a purple line around her neck, a lace pattern imprinted into her skin. The left side of her face was bruised, her head split open behind her ear, her hair caked with dried blood. The blue sheets were disheveled and stained with fluids, the top one pulled up just enough to cover Beth’s pregnant belly. Black bikini panties, the filigreed elastic stretched and torn, lay bunched on the floor. A lacy black bra, sides and straps ripped, hung off the side of the bed.

  Kate stood still, fists pressed to her chest, weeping. McCabe put her arm around her shoulders, led her to the bedroom door. Kate didn’t put up a fight. Her body felt rigid, her chest heaving with sobs.

  “Who should I call?” McCabe said. “To come and get you?”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Kate said.

  “You can’t be in the room, though,” McCabe said.

  She looked into Kate’s tear-flooded green eyes to make sure she understood, really got it. Kate shook her head, paced back and forth a few times, went into the hall, and sat heavily on the top step.

  McCabe started to tell her she couldn’t, that the stairs were part of the crime scene, but instead she just tapped Kate’s arm.

  “Don’t touch anything, Kate,” she said. “Not the wall, not the banister, not anything.”

  Kate didn’t reply, just sat there crying.

  McCabe returned to the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

  “Jesus,” Hawley said.

  McCabe glanced at him and nodded. She knew it was his first murder scene—hers too. Black Hall was one of the quietest, most affluent towns on the Connecticut Shoreline, and nothing like this ever happened here.

  “You want to call it in, or should I?” he asked.

  McCabe unclipped the radio from her belt and called Marnie, the dispatcher.

  “We have a homicide at 45 Church Street,” McCabe said.

  “The Lathrops’ house?” Marnie asked, taking in a sharp breath. This was a small town. “Good Lord. Is it Beth? Or Pete? Not the girl; gosh, what’s her name—she’s two years behind Carrie. I can’t remember . . .”

  “Call Major Crime for us, Marnie,” McCabe said, referring to the Connecticut State Police’s squad of detectives assigned to murders and kidnappings and bank robberies and deliberately not answering the question.

  “Roger. I’ll do that now,” Marnie said.

  McCabe disconnected.

  She glanced down at the iPhone beside the bed, touched the home button with her gloved thumb, and saw the screen light up. It didn’t ask for a password, which told McCabe that Beth had trusted the people around her. “Look at all these calls and texts. Two days’, three days’ worth?” There was a slew of messages and miss
ed calls from Kate, but the three most recent came up as “Pete.”

  “And the dog hadn’t been out in a while, from the looks of all that shit by the door.”

  “Yeah,” McCabe said.

  “Rape too?” he asked, gesturing at the torn panties and bra.

  “Maybe,” McCabe said. She crouched by the bed. A marble sculpture of an owl lay half-under the fabric skirt. The bird’s head was smeared with red-brown dried blood.

  “Murder weapon?” Hawley asked, pointing at the gash behind Beth’s ear.

  She stood up, staring. Blood had coagulated around the wound, bizarrely bright red in the sunlight. Her gaze moved to the bruised indentation around Beth’s neck. “That or strangulation,” she said.

  “Nice house for something like this,” Hawley said. “Expensive everything. Mercedes in the driveway.”

  “I know,” McCabe said, looking around the room. The Lathrops obviously liked order. Except for the lingerie, there were no clothes strewn around. Books on the nightstand were perfectly stacked. The furniture looked to be antique—fine wood, burnished with age. Landscapes of local scenes, framed in museum-type gilded frames, hung around the room. McCabe looked at one, saw the signature Childe Hassam in the lower-right corner. She had grown up in town and recognized the name of one of the most famous Black Hall artists—a fortune right here on the wall. There was also an empty frame, with ragged shreds of canvas fiber clinging to the wood.

  “Look,” she said. “What was there? Think someone cut the painting out?”

  “Could be,” Hawley said. “The husband owns the Lathrop Gallery, right?”

  “Isn’t that a little sexist?” McCabe asked. “Assuming he owns all this?”

  “He doesn’t?”

  “It used to be called the Harkness-Woodward Gallery,” McCabe said. “It’s always been in the victim’s family.” A high-end art gallery in the center of Black Hall, it specialized in the same kind of paintings that hung on the walls. McCabe’s mother had taken the kids there on Saturdays, after their father had died—anything to distract them.

  As soon as she’d heard Kate’s last name, it had all come back to her. The gallery had belonged to Kate and Beth’s grandmother. There had been a scandal associated with it, back when McCabe was just a kid. A robbery and a death, she remembered. Paintings stolen, a mother and her daughters tied up. People in town had talked about it nonstop. Even on the beach, on the most perfect days of summer, the whispers had been about cheating, greed, and murder. Sometimes she wondered whether that crime, burned into her consciousness at such a young age, had been the impetus for her to become a cop. And now, staring at Beth: Had she and Kate been those girls in the basement?