Chapter Forty

CHAPTER FORTY

When feeling threatened, most people seek out small places. It's a biological response, a genetic inheritance from our Stone Age ancestors. A tiny target has a better chance of being overlooked, or dismissed as not being worth the effort to conquer.

My reaction is the opposite. I can't stand to face the risk of being trapped. As soon as I get home from the bar, I tear through my house, opening every interior door. I flick on lights and turn up my music a few notches, letting Sheryl Crow's voice soar through the air. I take up as much space as possible.

Still, I can't fall asleep for hours. It's as if I'm on watch. Keeping vigil to see if the menace has tracked me here.

Finally, just as the horizon begins to lighten, I drift off.

I awaken a couple of hours later. My eyes feel gritty and my body heavy, but I know there will be no more sleep for me.

I hurry into the shower, blasting my body with alternating cold and hot sprays, trying to chase away my sluggishness.

I towel-dry my hair and slip on old jeans and a black V-neck sweater and my favorite boots—the fashion equivalent of comfort food. I smooth tinted moisturizer over my face, then apply a few swipes of mascara and a bit of lip gloss. I reach for my phone and see that, along with the usual junk, two important messages came in while I was getting ready.

The first is a text from Marco: Heard you stopped by Mom's house. Let's grab a drink soon so I can introduce you to Annie.

Every word is a nail driving into my chest. It's no longer Marco and me. From now on, our encounters will probably always include Annie, the sunny, bandana-wearing blonde who has taken my place in his heart and in his family. I don't want to meet her. It's easier to pretend she doesn't exist. But if I reveal this, I will lose Marco completely.

I don't dwell on that possibility. If I do, I may crawl back into bed.

I decide to answer Marco later and move on to the second message.

It's an email from Detective Garcia, asking if I can swing by her office before 5 p.m. today.

I read the subtext between her terse words. I asked her to provide information about my mother's death. She wouldn't be summoning me unless she had some.

I write back quickly, telling her I'll be there this afternoon.

Then I text Beth, letting her know I'll arrive at 10 a.m. unless the timing no longer works for her.

I slide a piece of whole-grain bread into my toaster, and even though I'm not hungry, I force myself to eat every bite, washing it down with two cups of strong black coffee.

As I rinse my cup and plate, I find myself staring at the knives in the butcher block on my kitchen counter. The sharp, five-inch utility knife would easily fit in my tote bag. I could carry it with me.

I reach toward it, then force my hand to stop.

I can't bring a weapon to the Barclays'. I'm going to be there in the daytime, in a family home. My fear is illogical.

Tina went through this thought process, too. She was going to buy a Taser to protect herself.

I stop my body from preparing for a possibility my mind doesn't want to admit. I force it to pivot away from the knife block.

I pull on my black puffer jacket as I step out into the crisp morning air. It's a crystalline day, and the leaves are beginning to drape themselves in shades of gold and crimson.

The beautiful weather feels incongruous to the emotions swirling inside me. It's too lovely, too pure a day for the world I currently inhabit.

I drive the familiar route to the Barclays' home, stopping at a gas station to fill my tank, and arrive at 10 a.m. sharp. There's a small, tidy For Sale sign with the Sotheby's real estate logo driven into the grass by the gate.

I stare at the sign. My understanding was the Barclays were going to wait until their custody dispute was settled to put the house on the market.

It feels as if they're putting another layer of pressure on me.

When I press the button on the security gate, there's no answer. I press it again. Finally a woman's voice flows through the speaker.

After a confused moment in which we talk over each other, I give my name and convey the message that Beth is expecting me.

There's a long hesitation; then the security gate rises. I drive through.

The mares are in the field again, endlessly grazing. A few workers wearing Great Outdoors shirts are working on the grounds, blowing leaves and pruning trees.

The housekeeper I've seen before opens the door when I knock. But instead of welcoming me in, she asks, "Can I help you?"

"Hi, I'm Stella. I'm here to see Beth."

"She's not here."

I frown. I'd assumed we were on for 10, especially given that Beth mentioned everyone was clearing their schedule.

"Are Ian and Rose here? Or Harriet?"

The housekeeper shakes her head.

"Do you know when they'll be back?"

"I'm sorry, I can't say."

I don't know if she means she doesn't know, or whether she has been told she can't reveal that information.

It's a nearly thirty-minute drive home with traffic. I don't want to leave and have to turn around again and head back out here.

I pull my phone out of my tote bag. None of the Barclays have texted or called.

I could ask the housekeeper if I can wait inside, but I don't want to put her in an uncomfortable position. Or maybe it's that I want to spend as little time inside as possible.

I could wait on the front porch, but it's very chilly in the shade. The only other option is my Jeep.

Frustration surges through me. It only takes seconds to send a text. Why didn't Beth reply?

The housekeeper is staring at me expectantly. I can see the conflict playing out on her face. She doesn't want to be rude and shut the door in my face, but cold air is seeping into the house.

"I'll wait out here," I say, my tone softer than my state of mind, because it certainly isn't her fault.

I head to my car and turn on the ignition.

After a few minutes of staring at the bend in the private drive, waiting for one of the Barclays' vehicles to come around it, I grow restless and reach for my phone. I can't do a lot of work on it, but there are some pieces I can tackle.

The earring may no longer be in my purse, but my practice is to document everything. I photographed it the day I discovered it.

I text the picture to Ashley, making sure to crop the background so that it could be any photo I pulled off the Internet. I already know the answer, but I need to be certain: Did Tina's missing earring look like this one?

Her reply pings in a minute later: omg that's it exactly how did u know?

Even though I'm not surprised, my stomach plummets. I type: Can you talk now?

At work but break at 1.

I don't want to wait that long. Maybe Ashley isn't supposed to use her phone at work, but like every other twenty-something on the planet, she probably always keeps it on her and is incapable of ignoring the faint vibration of an incoming text.

I have one more question for Ashley.

I want to look at my notes, but I didn't bring them or my laptop here. I can't recall Ashley's exact words, so I paraphrase.

You mentioned Beth got mad at Tina for messing up. Something about getting a time wrong?

I wait, staring at my phone. But the screen remains blank.

I hear the roar of an engine before the vehicle comes into view.

It's a black Cadillac, strong and imposing. Perfectly polished. It's timeless yet classic—this car could have driven straight out of another era.

I'm not surprised to see Beth behind the wheel. It's exactly the kind of car I'd expect her to own. A moment later, Ian pulls up after her in his red pickup truck with mud-splattered tires.

I step out and raise my hand in greeting.

Beth echoes my gesture. But even from this far away, I see a frown creasing the thin, pale skin of her forehead. She doesn't walk toward me.

Rose and Ian emerge from the truck a second later.

"Hey, Stella!" Ian calls easily.

He takes Rose's hand and leads her to the front door. Beth looks after them, and for a moment, I'm seized with the feeling that she is about to do the same, leaving me out here.

Then she begins to walk toward me.

I meet her halfway.

"Hello, Stella."

Beth doesn't give any indication we had a planned meeting. She offers no apology for being late.

"Good morning. Did you get my text letting you know I'd be here at 10?"

Beth frowns. "How long ago did you send it?"

"Maybe an hour."

Annoyance flickers over her face. "We were with the pediatrician then. I wasn't checking my messages."

Maybe I shouldn't have come here without her confirmation, but still, this inconvenienced me and not her. So why is she acting as if I've done something wrong?

"Is Rose ill?"

Beth folds her arms across her stomach. Instead of answering my question, she offers up an unrelated piece of information.

"When we took Rose to the pediatrician, I got to drive her there and Ian got to drive her home. That's what we're reduced to now—dividing our daughter in half."

Beth somehow appears thinner yet stronger than when I initially met her. As if something is burning within her, both fueling her and consuming her.

"Is Rose ill?" I ask again.

"Rose had a difficult night. She's been having a lot of them lately." The strain in Beth's eyes is apparent, and dark circles stain her pale skin. Nights must be difficult for her, too.

"How does a difficult night manifest for Rose?" I ask.

"She can't seem to stay in bed. We tuck her in and she appears to drift off. But then she sneaks out from under the covers. She sits at her desk and reads. Sometimes she comes and sits outside my bedroom door, or Ian's."

"Was the pediatrician helpful?"

Beth shakes her head. "I'm not going to put my nine-year-old daughter on sleeping pills. We'll try natural remedies."

This concerns me. Rose may very well need much stronger medication than sleeping pills.

"Would you mind if we met later today?" Beth asks. "None of us got much rest last night. Ian stayed with Rose the first part of the evening, and I took over in the middle of the night. She must have slept some, but I confess I'm not quite sure. I know I dozed off, but every time I woke up, her eyes were open."

I shudder, hoping Beth mistakes it for a reaction to the cold.

"I can come back later." I hope Beth doesn't catch the tiny note of relief in my voice. I welcome any reprieve from going in that oppres sive house. "But I would like to chat with you for just a few minutes now."

Beth is about as unfiltered as someone like her can be. It may be my best chance to get the truth out of her.

"Fine."

I don't pull any punches. "What was the state of your marriage when Ian had the affair with Tina?"

"Excuse me?" She's clearly furious now.

I repeat my question, keeping my tone neutral.

"I fail to see how this is relevant, Stella."

I need her honesty. So I give her mine.

"I need to know how your version of the story compares with Ian's," I explain. "It may give me insight into his character."

She's clearly wrestling with her thoughts. Maybe she knows that if she tells me they were happily married, it will cast Ian in a worse light. If she lies, she may gain ground in the custody battle.

"You want to know what our marriage was like?" Beth asks. "Ian and I were in separate bedrooms. We hadn't discussed divorce, but our marriage was essentially over by the time he slept with our daughter's nanny in our family home."

Beth's version lines with up Ian's. But she isn't missing a chance to get in a few digs at his character.

"Did you know about the affair before Ian confessed?"

She shakes her head. "The wife is the last to know, right? At times Tina seemed a little giggly around Ian, but I figured she might have a harmless little crush. I never imagined Ian would be irresponsible enough to let it go any farther."

"Is Ian a good father?"

Beth blinks. I can tell she hates this question, too. She appears to choose her words very carefully.

"Ian doesn't always provide the structure a highly sensitive child like Rose needs, but he loves her."

Beth turns to look at the house. "I should go check on her."

"Thank you," I say. "What time should I come back?"

"I'll text you to confirm a time," Beth tells me. There's a note in her voice that feels like a reprimand. She seems to be drilling in a reminder that I didn't wait for her to text me to confirm the timing today.

Is this why I'm being sent away? A subtle form of punishment?

I don't let on that Beth has rattled me. I simply smile and tell her I look forward to hearing from her.

When I reach my car, I see Ashley has texted back.

yeahhh beth got annoyed once when tina went to pick up rose at school… beth said she wanted to pick up rose… but beth never confirmed it so tina didn't want to take a chance that rose would just be waiting there… of course it was all tina's fault.

The ground feels uneven beneath my feet.

I force myself to apply logic and reasoning. Beth's cavalier expectation that others anticipate her wishes without her explicitly stating them is nothing more than a product of the entitlement of her great wealth. She's used to people serving her and tending to her needs.

This latest parallel between my and Tina's experiences isn't an ominous sign.