Chapter Thirty-Nine

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

I barely make it through dinner without succumbing to the urge to bolt. The menace twines greedily around me, as if seeking a new host. It wraps me in a vise so tight I feel nailed to my chair.

No one seems to notice. The adult Barclays are too fixated on Rose.

Once Rose's foot stops tapping, she becomes like a marionette performing prescribed movements: She takes neat, small bites, occasionally dabbing her mouth with her linen napkin. Her elbows never graze the table.

At first her parents and Harriet seem to be trying to excuse Rose's affect with overly cheery exclamations.

Ian: "Rose, you must be so tired!"

Beth: "You had such a busy day, sweetie!"

Harriet: "Maybe you need to go to bed a little early, Rose."

When she doesn't nod or lift her head to meet their eyes, they pivot strategies and appear to try to compensate for her lack of engagement. Harriet and Ian talk energetically, discussing everything from the weather to the origins of the new piece of music Rose is learning to the Halloween decorations Harriet spotted on her recent drive to a doctor's office. Beth joins in the conversation, but she picks at her food and drinks three glasses of wine. With every sip, her hostility seems to tick up, her sentences becoming more clipped and her smiles hardening.

When Ian mentions the new pizza oven in the backyard, praising the taste of the Margherita pie he cooked in it as a test, raw hatred flits across Beth's face. The pizza oven must be a reminder; it exists only because of Tina's death.

Everything in this house must be a reminder.

What will happen when I leave tonight? I shift in my seat, seeking a position that will make my lungs feel less compressed. Perhaps Beth has a stash of wine—boxed, not bottled of course—in her bedroom. I can visualize her sequestering herself, her pale lips stained dark purple by the Cabernet as she leans into the numbing embrace of alcohol. Perhaps she needs it to muffle visions of the excruciating act of betrayal that took place just one floor above her.

Rose points to her empty plate and looks at Beth.

"Yes, you may be excused, honey. Why don't you run upstairs and take your bath now?"

Rose carries her plate into the kitchen. I watch her disappear into the hallway, her steps small and even.

I decline the dessert Beth offers—grapes, figs, and cheese—and almost gasp with relief when Ian stands a moment later and begins to clear the table. Harriet insists on taking my plate, even though I don't feel right watching her limping into the kitchen.

"I should head home," I blurt. "I'm sure you all have things to do tonight."

Ian is filling the sink with soapy water, so Beth walks me to the door. I'm desperate to break free from the house. But Beth pauses, her hand on the doorknob, so tantalizingly close to pulling it open. For the first time, I clearly see the pattern on the ivory wallpaper in the hallway. It isn't clusters of flowers, as I'd thought. It's weeping willows.

Weeping willows are a symbol of mourning. They're trees of loss, sorrow, and death.

"Will you be back tomorrow morning, Stella? We're all clearing our schedules to the extent possible to make sure to give you the time you need."

"Yes, how about 10 a.m.?" I pull my eyes back to her.

"I'll need to check with Ian, but that should work."

"Great." Does she not hear it, how strangled my voice has become? Is she taunting me, like a cat that has trapped a mouse, because she senses how desperate I am to get out?

No. It's me; I'm the one with a distorted perception right now.

Finally Beth pulls open the door and bids me goodbye. I want to run, but force myself to walk.

As I head down the porch steps, I suck in lungfuls of the crisp night air. Is it the house itself or the dark energy of one or more of its occupants that instills this deep foreboding in me? Because even though with every passing day it looks more and more as if Rose may not just be at the epicenter of whatever is happening—but is the epicenter—I will not let myself mentally cement that conclusion.

I need to keep my mind open a little longer. The stakes are too high for a mistake.

And if I become convinced the best way to serve my client is by breaking not only Ian's confidences but also the protocol I've followed in all my previous cases, I'll do it.

But I won't stop fighting for Rose. If this case ends in the way I fear, I'll work to get Rose the best possible help. The Barclays have means. They can afford for Rose to stay inpatient at a place where the caregivers are knowledgeable and kind, where ample time is taken to find the best combinations of medicines, intensive therapy, and cognitive behavioral therapy. There are such places for children who seem beyond hope.

And every once in a while, with massive early intervention, a child manages to emerge and live a productive, healthy life. They are the outliers, but who's to say Rose won't be among them?

It takes an eternity to reach my car, with the wind as my enemy, pushing me back toward the house. When my hand finally grips the cold metal handle, I jump in and engage the locks. The moon is behind a thick cloud cover, as if someone has tucked it in for the night beneath a fluffy comforter, and the tall gas lamps cast golden pools in the inky night that look like floating stepping-stones. I flick on my high beams and force myself to keep the speedometer at a steady twenty miles per hour.

I steal a look in my rearview mirror. Behind me, the Barclay estate is shrouded in shadows, the porch light as insignificant as the flame of a match in the vast blackness surrounding it.

I pull my eyes to the road ahead of me and gasp, slamming on my brakes.

A deer is standing in my path, blinded by the sharp light.

I skid across the road in what seems like slow motion, my mind screaming. I can see everything in that frozen moment: The doe's soft eyes and shiny black nose. Her brown coat and white tail pointing up into the air.

My tires dig for traction on the smooth path. I come to a stop only a few feet from the little doe.

We lock eyes for a second. Then the spell breaks, and she bounds away.

Breathing hard, I reach up and massage my shoulder where the seat belt cut into it.

Tears spill out of my eyes, without sound or warning.

This is what happened to my father. He couldn't stop in time, so he swerved and hit a tree.

I grab a tissue and wipe my face roughly, then push away the images and force myself to keep driving. I do what I can to distract myself, turning up the music and rolling my windows down a few inches, the brace of cold air like a slap.

I'm shaken and wrung out. I should go home, take a hot bath, get some sleep. There's no reason why I can't. I have nothing on my calendar for tonight. Some women would look forward to an open evening stretching out before them, with no demands or obligations.

But the mere thought makes me dizzy with anxiety.

I've tried dating apps before, but I'm not in the right headspace to go on one now. Nor do I feel up to calling a friend or colleague and suggesting a drink. Light conversation is beyond my reach.

The Barclay case demands my absolute focus. I can't do anything but work it through to its conclusion.

I know I should go home.

Yet I find myself steering toward a bar just over the DC line.

I barely touched my wine. I'll have one proper drink, I tell myself. Write up my notes from this evening. Steady my nerves.

I pull into the half-full parking lot ten minutes later. The lights, blare of music, and swell of conversation just inside the bar's door feel like lifelines.

The high-top tables are all full, but the barstools are mostly empty. I claim one by the end closest to the door.

It's chilly out, so I order a whisky and pull my blank legal pad out of my tote bag.

I root around for my Montblanc pen, the one Marco gave me for my birthday a few years ago.

It isn't in the slim, rectangular inner pocket of my bag where I always keep it. It must have fallen out.

I dig around, my fingers grasping. I search every object in my bag: my sunglass case, my wallet, my small makeup bag.

My pen is missing.

There's only one other possible place it could be. And I would never have consciously put it there. Still, I check the second, square inner pocket where I've been storing Tina's hoop earring.

My vision blurs. My breaths come fast and shallow.

I reach into the square pocket again, even though I know my fingers will come up empty. I'm beginning to doubt myself, to wonder if my version of reality is correct. Because this can't be happening.

A few months ago, Tina called the police because she thought an intruder was storming into her home.

After I took Rose as a client, I made the same phone call.

Tina felt as if someone was messing with her things.

So did I, when I came home to discover my music was turned off.

Then Tina said someone took her belongings.

And now my Montblanc pen, the one I've treasured for years and have never misplaced, is gone.

Any of the Barclays could have done it: I left my purse in the kitchen. Ian and Beth were both in there alone at separate times, after they ushered me into the dining room and followed with the platters of food. Harriet also went into the kitchen midway through her meal to get another seltzer. And Rose brought her dish to the sink while we adults remained at the table.

Someone went into my purse tonight. I'm certain of this; I'm not going crazy.

Because my pen isn't the only thing missing from my bag.

Tina's hoop earring is gone, too.