Chapter Forty-Four

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Beth's skin is drawn and so white it almost looks translucent. Her hair has escaped the neat chignon she wore this morning, with scraggly strands framing her face. She's dressed uncharacteristically sloppily, in a sweatshirt with Hamilton College printed in faded letters on the front and a pair of soft-looking black leggings.

"Stella… I'm… oh, no…" She slaps her hand over her mouth and runs down the hall.

I hear water running and then Beth comes into the foyer again.

"Oysters," she croaks. "We had them for lunch, the first time this season… they're Rose's favorite. Ian shucked them. A few must have been bad."

Beth leans against the wall, her hands clutching her stomach. There's no way she's faking. Even an Academy Award–winning actress couldn't cause all the color to drain from her face and make herself appear to age a decade in the space of a few hours.

There's another odd detail I register: I'm certain Harriet said Beth studied at Yale. So why is Beth wearing a sweatshirt from another college?

"Is anyone else sick?"

"Ian and Harriet are, too. But Rose seems okay."

An electric charge runs through me. Everyone but Rose got ill from a batch of fresh-shucked oysters in an R month, when the mollusks are considered generally safe to eat? It seems statistically improbable.

"I'll spend some time alone with Rose, then," I tell her.

Beth opens her mouth, and I can tell she's about to protest. I don't give her a chance.

"I'm sorry you're all sick. But I've driven out here twice today, and I keep hearing how eager everyone is to wrap up this case. If I don't get some time with Rose, it's going to take me that much longer to write up my report."

Beth squeezes her eyes shut and fights back what appears to be a wave of nausea.

"Fine," she tells me, her voice scratchy. "Harriet's downstairs and Ian is napping on the couch in his office… I'll be resting in the family room. If you need anything, call out. One of us will hear you."

The adults are spread out on all three levels of the house. It feels deliberate. Most people, when suffering from an upset stomach, wouldn't choose to rest on an office couch or in a family room with no adjacent bathrooms. The Barclays may be working together, ensuring Rose and I are never too far out of reach.

"Rose is in her bedroom." Beth takes a step forward, as if intending to climb the stairs. She falters, reaching for the wall again to steady herself.

"I know the way. Go get some rest."

I climb the steps, the old wood creaking under my weight. I pass the photographs, still bare in their frames, Rose's steady gaze staring out from each one.

All the doors on the second floor are closed again. I walk to Rose's and gently knock, mindful that Ian is resting only a dozen yards away.

No answer.

I twist the old brass knob and push the door open.

The bed is neatly made, the desk contains its usual tidy objects, and the curtains are pulled back, allowing sunlight to flow through the room.

Rose isn't here. Neither is the doll that looks so much like her. I wonder if Ian got rid of it after Rose pushed it through the attic window.

On top of her bed is a book of poetry by Mary Oliver. It's reading material more suited to an adult, but I have no doubt that Rose under stands every nuance—if it actually is Mary Oliver she's reading. I check beneath the jacket, but it isn't concealing a different book.

The next logical place to search for Rose is in the attic. But I don't want to go there immediately. Rose's absence has given me an opportunity.

Beth subtly chastised me for snooping in Rose's room. But now I have an excuse: I'm looking for her.

My intention is that it will take a while to find her.

I close the door, hoping the barrier will provide me a few seconds of warning in case someone approaches. Then I hurry to Rose's jewelry box and slide out the bottom drawer.

All the potential weapons I saw here just days ago—the ice pick and knives and shard of glass—are missing. One of the adult Barclays could have taken them, or Rose could have moved them to a different hiding place after she realized I'd explored her room.

Rose could even be keeping the weapons in her pockets right now.

I walk to the door again and pull it open abruptly. The hall is still empty.

I've already discovered some of Rose's secrets, but this may be my only opportunity to search for Beth's.

I move quietly toward a door and pull it open. It leads to a hall bathroom. I try another door, mentally repeating my cover story in case I'm questioned: I'm just looking for Rose.

The lights are off and the heavy raw silk curtains drawn. The decor is done in shades of dove gray and cream, with splashes of sapphire blue in the bed's throw pillows and rug pattern. This room is just like Beth: elegant and restrained, with shadowy parts.

There's a chaise in one corner, an old-fashioned writing desk with a spindly wooden chair, and a long antique bureau topped with framed pictures.

I allot myself sixty seconds to look around; this area is directly above the family room where Beth is now resting. If she hears the floors creaking, she may come investigate.

I hurry into the bathroom and open the medicine cabinet. There's nothing but over-the-counter drugs—Advil, Neosporin, DayQuil—and fancy toiletries. The air smells of jasmine and sandalwood, a scent I recognize from Beth's skin. I trace the source to a tube of Givenchy lotion in the top drawer of the vanity. For a moment, I wonder where Beth keeps her perfume.

Then I realize she must have gotten rid of the glass bottles to keep her daughter from turning them into weapons.

There's a small bottle nestled in the drawer next to the body lotion. I pick it up and read the label: Syrup of Ipecac.

I know exactly what this is; one of the teenage clients I worked for years ago had a bottle, too. She was suffering from bulimia, and she bought a bottle at the pharmacy to induce vomiting.

Beth could be keeping it around for the same purpose.

Goose bumps rise on my skin as I consider another possibility. I found the medicine quickly. If Rose is prone to looking through her mother's things, she would have, too.

Could Rose have sprinkled a few drops onto the oysters her family was eating?

I check the bottle. It's open, with about half of its contents used.

I take a quick picture of it and hurry back into the bedroom. I'm drawn to the photographs on the dresser.

It strikes me immediately: The glass is missing from each frame in here, too.

I skim the photos: The first one is Rose as an infant, wearing a long, silky white christening dress that looks like a family heirloom, her eyes huge in her pale face. Next is Rose on a horse, jumping over a fence, wearing jodhpurs and a trim black riding jacket, her expression supremely focused. In the middle of the cluster is Rose sitting upright at the piano, wearing a plaid dress with a lacy collar that looks even more old-fashioned than her typical garb. She is exhibiting the rigid, unforgiving posture I glimpsed the other day when I passed by her as she practiced.

I start to look at the next photograph, of Rose at what looks like an elementary school graduation ceremony, but something draws my eye back to the picture of her playing the piano. That photograph is seemingly faded with time.

The piano looks different, too.

I lean in closer.

That's when I realize it isn't Rose at all.

It's Beth.

Beth is a mirror image of her daughter at the same age—not just her features and coloring, but her posture and the angle of her hands above the keyboard. If I hadn't noticed the shape of the piano was different, I might not have spotted the distinction.

I didn't know Beth played the piano. No one has ever mentioned it.

I snap a few photos, then call Rose's name again as insurance in case Beth is creeping up the stairs or Ian is lurking in the hallway.

I've stayed in here longer than a minute. It's time to move on.

I open the door and step out.

My breath catches. Rose's bedroom is wide open. I crane my head and spot her sitting at her desk.

She's staring straight at me.

She knows I've been snooping in her mother's room.