Chapter Thirty-Seven

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The more I get to know Rose, the less I understand her.

I've felt threads of connection to her—strong yet ephemeral as a spider's silk—but each time, the filaments snap so swiftly I question whether they ever existed at all.

Perhaps the connection is a closed circuit, starting and ending with me alone.

After the incident with Olivia, Rose folds into herself, origami-like, until Ian rejoins us. I excuse myself to use the restroom, and when I return, Ian tells me Rose has signaled she has a stomachache and wants to go home.

"Sorry to cut this short. We'll figure out another time soon," he promises.

I watch as they depart, the top of Rose's head barely coming up to Ian's waist, her hand swallowed up in his much bigger one.

I can't stop seeing her on the ramp in Shark Alley. Maybe she did it because she didn't have the words to tell Olivia no. The lip gloss could have special meaning to Rose; it could be her last tangible link to Tina.

But I also can't stop thinking about how Rose's reflex was to push.

I exit the aquarium and wander around the Inner Harbor, looking out at the warships on display in the Patapsco River and watching people under heat lamps dig into piles of Old Bay–steamed crabs. When my stomach growls, I buy a to-go cup of roasted tomato soup from a little deli. It's a gray, chilly day, so I keep walking and sip the hot, savory soup straight out of the container.

I'm about to head back to my car when my phone buzzes. Caller ID reads Harriet Barclay .

Hoping she took the bait I cast at Mrs. Li's apartment, I answer quickly.

"Stella, it's Harriet. I hope I'm not disturbing you in the middle of anything important?"

I toss my empty soup container into a recycling bin. "Not at all. I'm just finishing up lunch."

There's a brief hesitation, as if my answer surprised her.

Ian agreed to keep quiet about our encounter. But Harriet has proven herself canny in gathering information. If she expected me to be spending the day with Rose and is disappointed at failing to interrupt our time, she doesn't let on.

"I've been thinking about how our conversation was cut short, and I'm eager to complete it." Harriet is only in her mid-sixties, and despite her physical challenges, she seems robust and energetic. This is the first time I've heard her sound tired. "Things are getting increasingly difficult here. It would be a relief to have some sort of resolution."

"I can meet you in an hour," I tell her.

"Oh—ah, actually, I was thinking a little later. Say 5:30?"

I frown. The time strikes me as oddly specific. "Sure."

"Do you mind coming to the house? My knee acts up when it feels like rain, so it's harder for me to drive."

The October days are short, which means it'll grow dark while I'm inside the house. I've never been at the Barclays' at night before.

"Of course. See you then."

The last time we met, I came armed with a plan: to sneak into Rose's room. Harriet will be prepared for that now.

That doesn't concern me. I already found Rose's hiding place.

What bothers me is my suspicion that this time, Harriet is the one armed with a plan.

The sky is heavily layered with clouds when I arrive at the Barclays', and the air feels damp and swollen. The private road leading to the estate is illuminated by old-fashioned lanterns, with gas flames flickering within the hurricane globes.

I briefly wonder if the Barclays went to the trouble of replacing the glass with plastic out here, too. But I doubt it, if their goal is to keep Rose from amassing more potential weapons.

The tall bases don't have any natural hand- or footholds. They're impossible for a child to climb without assistance.

When I pull in by the garage to park, I find myself spinning my steering wheel and turning around my car so it faces the road. My body is taking steps to enact what my mind is trying to avoid thinking about: I want to be able to get out fast if I need to.

I step out of my car and sling my bag over my shoulder. It's much lighter than usual. The only work tools I'm bringing today are a clean legal pad, my favorite pen, and my iPhone.

As I step onto the bottom stair of the porch, a voice floats out of the far corner.

"Hello, Stella."

Harriet is gently swaying on a wicker swing. A blanket is draped over her lap, and her polished wooden cane is leaning against the rail.

"Would you mind if we sat out here for a few minutes?" she asks.

"Sure." It's chilly, but I donned a warm coat before I left home. I pull my fleece gloves out of my pockets and slide my hands into them.

I lower myself into the chair across from hers.

She doesn't immediately speak, so I prompt her. "You mentioned things were getting increasingly difficult."

"Ian and Beth had a horrible fight last night. I worried it might become violent."

"Did it?" I interject.

Harriet shakes her head immediately. "They weren't screaming—well, Beth was a bit, but only at the very end—so I don't think Rose woke and heard any of it. But they were loud enough for me to overhear. The subflooring is very thin in this old house, and it was never fixed because that would require tearing up the original wood floors and destroying the historic details. So sounds seep through."

I lean back in my seat. "Why were they fighting?"

"Ian went out, and when he came home, Beth accused him of being with another woman. Apparently they agreed not to date until their divorce is final, to avoid attracting any more media attention."

"How did Ian respond?" I know where Ian went last night, and he was with two other women—me and Ashley—but not in the way Beth suspected.

"He denied it, but wouldn't say where he'd been. I tend to believe Beth. Women have a sixth sense about this sort of thing; they know when a man is stepping out. Beth missed it the first time around, with Tina, but I'm sure she's attuned to it now. Once you've been burned, you always know how to look for the clues."

"Clues?" I echo.

"Lust makes men careless. They think we women are foolish; that we're so busy tending to the home and children we don't notice they're suddenly all jittery and possessive about their phones." She gives a smile that looks more like a grimace. "Trust me, I've been there. We women don't get fooled twice."

Harriet gently pushes off with her good leg and the swing begins to move again. "In any case, their argument quickly devolved into who deserved custody of Rose. They accused each other of awful things."

It isn't just her voice that sounds tired. Harriet looks drawn and weary, with the dim light deepening the creases on her face.

"They're so locked in this ugliness they're forgetting about Rose. Ian and Beth were never what you'd call a cuddly couple, but they rarely fought. And I'm worried that the longer this drags on, the worse it'll get. Our family is being destroyed."

"In my experience, things get worse as divorces wear on. No one operates at their highest level when they're wounded and angry." I glance toward the house. "It seems quiet in there now."

Before Harriet can reply, sound pours out of the house, swift and bright as bubbles flowing out of a bottle of uncorked champagne.

Rose is playing the piano. The music sweeps me up in its vibrant, electric current. It's impossible to think a young girl is creating this rapture.

Harriet's face alights with pleasure.

"She's a miracle," Harriet whispers.

She leans her head back against the swing. "This used to be my favorite time of day. I'd sit here and listen to Rose practice and look out at the view. I made sure to give Beth and Ian privacy most nights, but a few times a week I'd join them for dinner and hear about Beth's new fundraiser or the book Rose was reading or Ian's demanding client. Oh, how I miss those times."

After a few moments, Harriet gets to her feet, wobbling a bit until her cane is firmly in her hand. "Come, it's getting too cold. Let's go inside."

I follow her in. I assume we're going to continue talking in a private nook of the house, perhaps in Harriet's basement quarters, which I've never seen.

Harriet leads me toward the kitchen. We pass the living room, but Rose's back—as straight as an ironing board while her fingers perform a frantic dance over the keys—is to me.

Ian and Beth stand side by side next to the kitchen island, like characters in a play waiting to say their lines. They're both staring at me with expectant expressions.

It hits me like a punch: They've been waiting for me.

I've walked into a setup. I'm the only player here who has no idea what's going on.