Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN

A sharp ringing sound cuts through the air.

Ian reaches for his cell phone, which is facedown on the table between us. "Sorry, it's one of my workers."

I hear a man's voice come through the line, but his words are unintelligible. I know Ian, who started working as a landscaper straight out of high school, now runs his own company. It isn't the business you call to get your leaves raked or side garden weeded. The Great Outdoors handles big-budget hardscaping projects—from swimming pools to outdoor kitchens.

"Hang on, I'll come take a look."

Ian disconnects. "We're doing some work in the back and I need to run down there. Should only take a minute."

The call broke our flow, but I've gotten enough from Ian today. I'm far more curious about the noises coming from the backyard. I stand up and reach for my purse. "Mind if I tag along?"

Ian blinks. He doesn't immediately reply, so I up the stakes.

"It's for my report." This isn't untrue. "I need to get a sense of Rose's environment. It'll help me when it comes time to make my recommendation to the court."

I'm strong-arming Ian by reminding him I've got the main say in how custody of Rose will be awarded. Unlike Beth, Ian seems eager to remain in my good graces.

"Oh, of course." But he can't completely quash the edge in his tone that tells me he doesn't like it.

We head down the long hallway. Ian steps aside for me to travel down the staircase first, and instead of waiting for him at the bottom, I turn and walk directly through the arched doorway into the kitchen. There's a woman in a white chef's coat rinsing a head of lettuce at the sink, but she doesn't acknowledge us.

"I see you already know your way around," Ian comments.

I can use this to my advantage.

"Beth showed me yesterday," I say, hoping to ignite a competitive spark in Ian. If he thinks Beth is giving me free access to the house, he may wonder what else she is being open about—and try to one-up her.

I look around the kitchen, visualizing the scene that set everything in motion—the first domino to tip. Tina and Rose making dinner, the pot of water for the pasta beginning to boil, Beyonc é singing in the background. Ian coming in, his shoulders relaxing as he took in the happy scene. The cork easing out of the wine bottle. The lingering look between Tina and Ian; the spark igniting.

I pull myself back into the present. Ian slides opens one of the doors and bends down to put on a pair of work boots that are waiting just over the threshold, revealing the source of the mechanical noises: The excavator is digging up the patio, collecting stone and dirt in its giant claw before swiveling and tossing the contents into a dumpster.

It's demolishing the area where Tina landed after crashing through the window.

Erasing the scene.

I follow Ian outside. The excavator stops mid-swivel as a guy wearing a long-sleeved shirt with the logo of Ian's company hurries over, holding an open laptop. I take advantage of Ian's momentary distraction to wander away, to the far edge of the now-broken patio. The yards are breathtaking, with the season's last roses spreading their orange and cream petals and pansies adding bright splashes of purples and yellows to the flower beds. An inviting stone pathway leads to a tiered fountain in the middle of a small pond.

In the distance, I can see the wooden barn by the fenced pastures where the horses are grazing in the gently rolling fields again. There's a two-story shed that complements the style of the barn, with hydrangea bushes flanking its doorway. It isn't hard to imagine the gushing copy the real estate agent selling this house will write: Picturesque. Timeless. A tranquil oasis.

My skin prickles as the eerie sense of being watched sweeps through me. I swivel and catch Ian staring at me, his arms folded across his chest, while his employee points at something on the laptop screen. Ian quickly breaks into a smile, but not fast enough to hide the fact that his expression was grim. Because he doesn't like the news his worker is delivering, or because he doesn't like me being here?

I turn back around and find what I've been looking for: the vegetable garden where Rose and her grandmother were picking tomatoes when Tina crashed through the window. The vegetable beds are raised higher than others I've seen—they'd come to my waist. They're set back forty yards or so from the patio, near an old-fashioned rope swing tied to a low branch of a golden oak tree.

Ian steps away from his worker and approaches me.

"What are you building out here?" I ask.

"We're putting in an outdoor fireplace with a pizza oven. It'll increase the resale value of the house."

Does he actually think he's fooling me?

"Nice. Is Rose a fan of pizza?"

Ian smile. "She loves it. Even with anchovies. I told you, my little girl is one of a kind."

"Why did you replace all the glass windows in the house with plexiglass?"

I hit him with the question hard and fast so he doesn't have time to prepare.

Ian flinches. "Beth—she, ah, developed a phobia right after Tina died … It's called nelophobia… the fear of glass."

I've never heard of it. But I know people suffer from all kinds of unusual phobias—intense fears not just of spiders or germs, but also of sunlight or laughter. The human mind tries to protect us in all kinds of mysterious ways, but some of its strategies do more harm than good.

"It's been… difficult," Ian continues. "She's scared of anything that can shatter. We had to replace all our dishes. Mirrors. That sort of thing."

Is he telling the truth? He's avoiding my eyes. He could be embarrassed by his wife's extreme fear. Or he could be covering up for something else entirely.

"You don't have a single mirror in the house?" I ask, wondering how Beth does herself up. When I saw her the other day, her makeup was flawless.

"We put polycarbonate ones in the bathrooms, like they use on boats. They're unbreakable. She's okay with that."

I wrap my arms around myself, feeling chilled even though it's a balmy day for early October.

Tina was right when she told Pete something about this house is deeply off. Whatever she felt is still happening.

I feel it, too.

I pull my mind back to the questions I need answered in order to do my job correctly.

"Did Rose see Tina? After she fell?"

Ian closes his eyes. The excavator jerks into motion again, its claw tunneling several feet into the earth. I suppress a shudder. I can't help thinking it's almost as if it's digging a grave.

"We all saw her." His voice is hoarse, his eyes faraway. It's as if he is looking at the broken body of the young woman who claimed she loved him splayed out on the stones all over again. "My mother was in the vegetable garden with Rose. At first she thought the noise was a tree branch falling. Then she came closer to the patio and saw Tina. I'd just gotten off a call when I heard my mom scream. I came racing down the stairs. Beth was a few seconds ahead of me. I thought something had happened to Rose … There was glass everywhere. Beth didn't have on shoes, and she stepped on a shard from the window. Her blood … Tina's blood…"

Ian's voice is a monotone. He's so pale I'm worried he might pass out.

I reach out and hold his arm. "Do you want to go back inside?"

He swallows hard. "Yeah, okay."

When he sits down to remove his boots, I see his hands are trembling. It takes him two tries to undo the bow on his right.

As we step back into the kitchen, I see the chef is still working at the sink.

Ian doesn't seem to notice her, but perhaps that's because I'm between them and I'm blocking his view. His gaze is drawn toward the living room, the source of the deep, rich piano notes filling the air.

"Rose is having her lesson. Sometimes I like to watch. She doesn't mind."

I could be listening to a classical station on the radio. It's almost unbelievable that she plays so well. Rose isn't merely talented.

She's a prodigy.

Ian walks ahead, through the arched opening to the hallway, and I follow. From our vantage point in the entryway, Rose's back is to us. She sits up ramrod straight, her long hair hanging down her back, her arms bent at perfect ninety-degree angles. I watch her fingers sail up and down the octaves, touching the notes with a speed and dexterity that awes me. The song soars through the air, rich and vibrant.

Sitting next to Rose on the piano bench is a very thin, balding man in a black shirt and black slacks. I initially peg him as being in his sixties, but when he turns his head to follow the path of Rose's dancing fingers, I glimpse his unlined face and realize he's quite young—in his mid-to-late twenties. It's his thinning hair and frail affect that age him.

Rose plays for another minute, and I watch Ian watching her. Whatever else his failings, it's clear he prizes his daughter—or at least her accomplishments. When she lifts her hands off the keys, Ian claps softly, and Rose turns around.

"Hi, Rose," I say softly. "You're really good."

The piano teacher turns around and frowns, then raises a finger to his lips.

I look at Ian, who shrugs.

The teacher speaks softly to Rose; then her fingers rise to the keyboard. Her body still marionette-like, she begins to play.

A high-pitched shout erupts from the kitchen.

The music halts.

Ian spins on his heel and runs. I'm right behind him.

Beth Barclay is standing in the middle of the room, staring at the woman in the chef's coat. The woman's mouth is rounded in shock as she stares back at Beth. In her hand, hovering over a stainless steel pot, is a large glass measuring cup filled with broth.

Gone is the cultured, restrained heiress who met me at the front door only yesterday. Beth is trembling, her body rigid. Despite her expensive-looking outfit and sleek hairdo, she looks completely undone. There's a wildness in her eyes.

"How could you be so careless?" Beth snaps. "I told you we don't allow glass in this house!"