Chapter Fifty

CHAPTER FIFTY

Fury is more menacing when it glides beneath a seemingly placid surface. People who can control their rage, spiraling it out and yanking it back like a whip, are far more unsettling to me than someone who erupts in the heat of the moment.

When a fit of rage sweeps over most of us, our minds don't seem to be guiding us. Only after the fiery heat of the emotion passes do we even seem to register that it gripped us. Depending on the circumstances, we may feel remorse, embarrassment, or satisfaction.

But when wrath is a choice, and the mind works in sync with the body's physiology, calculating and planning when and where to unleash it?

It's utterly terrifying.

I wonder which kind of rage my fake report will provoke.

It's 2 p.m., a little over twenty-four hours since I last came to the Barclay estate. Beth called this morning shortly after I walked Lucille home to let me know everyone had recovered from their food poisoning.

"It's going to be a while before any of us will want to eat seafood again," she'd said.

I couldn't resist coming back with, "Except Rose, of course. Her oysters were fine. It's so strange how everyone got sick except her."

Beth hesitated, as if she was parsing my underlying meaning. I didn't rush to fill the gap with an explanation or soften my comment. I want Beth to be unnerved. It isn't just my fake report that will signal a huge shift in tone. I'm going to arrive in a new persona when I visit today, too.

Finally Beth broke the silence, her voice a few degrees chillier. "Yes, well, we'd like to invite you over. I have a board meeting tonight, but everyone will be home today."

When I arrive, I see the For Sale sign still by the gate, the smiling face of the Realtor pictured beneath her company logo. As always, the grounds are a gorgeous swath of green rimmed by graceful trees. Fall has begun to tint the leaves in hues of yellow and orange.

The moment Beth opens the door and lets me in, I feel it again. The dark undercurrent beneath the smooth unrippled surface; the thing I can't yet identify.

"You look like you're feeling better." I smile at Beth and don't wait for an invitation to take off my long, light wool coat. "Mind if I hang this in the closet?"

My affect today needs to be strong. The impression I want to convey is that I'm certain of my path, that closure is near.

"Of course. Please, let me." Beth reaches for my coat. While she hangs it up, I take a few steps forward and peer into the living room.

Harriet is sitting on the stiff-looking couch, a needle and thread in hand, mending the pocket of a purple sweater that must belong to Rose, given how small it is.

"Nice to see you, Harriet!" I give her a cheerful wave.

"Stella, I'm so sorry about yesterday." Harriet sets down the sweater and her sewing items and reaches for her cane.

I raise my palm to her. "Don't get up. I'm going to talk to Beth for a few minutes, then I need to see Rose alone."

Harriet seems to instantly pick up on the impression I'm trying to convey—that I'm no longer here as an observer because I've stepped into an authority role.

I don't imagine it; a tangible arc of energy sparks between Harriet and Beth as they glance at each other. Their polite smiles slide away, revealing something underneath I can't quite put my finger on. But I know this for sure: They don't want me alone with Rose.

They've never wanted me alone with Rose.

My gaze drifts to the little sweater. Rose is a calm, contained child. I can't see her being careless with her clothes, or leaping around on a jungle gym and accidentally ripping her pocket.

But a sharp item, like a knife, could easily cause a tear if it were tucked into the soft fabric.

Harriet is no longer looking at me. She's staring at my big shoulder bag. The Barclay name is peeking out over the top.

I allow her a long, tantalizing moment to stare at my fake report; then I reach out and touch Beth's forearm. I don't imagine it; she flinches slightly. Does she not like being touched, or is she so on edge that a tiny surprise jolts her?

"Why don't we chat privately in the kitchen, Beth? Then I'd like Rose to show me the horses. I know how important they are to her. After that, Harriet, I'm hoping you and I can talk in your living area. It's important for me to get a sense of Rose's current environment, and I've never seen the lower level of this house."

"Certainly," Harriet replies. "I'll wait here until you're ready."

I don't really want to talk to Beth alone in the kitchen. But everyone in the household has an excuse to go there: a drink of water, a snack, a need to wash one's hands. Just as important, the big plexiglass doors leading from the kitchen to the patio afford a good view of the backyard, so when Rose and I go to look at the horses and I leave my bag on the island, anyone who is interested in monitoring my whereabouts will be able to watch me coming and going.

Whoever is itching to look through my belongings will have an excellent opportunity to do so.

Instead of waiting for Beth to walk to the kitchen, I lead the way there. I set down my bag on the island and give my shoulder a little rub with my opposite hand, as if I'm relieved to be free of the weight of the straps.

Beth is wearing an A-line black skirt and sweater that are so simple and elegant they must have cost a fortune. She has on low heels and a few pieces of understated gold jewelry. I bet she owns only one pair of jeans, and they're tucked away in the back of her closet. She's a lovely woman, but she is so repressed and controlled that she lacks even an ounce of charisma.

"May I offer you anything, Stella?" Beth asks.

Her words are so formal. She's so formal, just like her daughter.

Just like her daughter. The words reverberate in my mind, tugging at the corners of my consciousness. The simple phrase has set my synapses firing, alerting me to pay attention to them.

I mentally list the ways Beth and Rose are similar. They look very much alike—so much so that when Beth was a child, she and Rose could've passed for identical twins.

Both play the piano.

They seem old-fashioned. They both come across as aloof at times. Despite growing up in the DC metro area and living here most of her life, Beth doesn't have any close friends.

Neither does Rose.

Beth doesn't even seem to have any good friends from college, which is when many people form lifelong bonds—

My train of thought screeches to a halt.

There's another similarity, one I didn't catalog as significant at first.

Rose left her prestigious school recently.

Is it possible Beth did the same?

I'd assumed Beth transferred from Hamilton College to Yale. But what if it was the opposite?

Most people don't transfer out of Yale, the cr è me de la cr è me of the Ivy League. So why would Beth leave to go to a non–Ivy League college, if that's what happened?

"Stella, are you all right?" Beth is staring at me.

"Perfectly fine." I smile at her. "And no, I don't need anything to drink. I know how eager you are for me to wrap up my work, and I'm glad to tell you that I've formed my conclusions. I need to submit my report to the court on Friday, so I can't share my recommendations with you, but I did want you to be aware that you'll learn of them soon."

I give that a moment to sink in. I step slightly away from my bag, leaving it on the counter, gaping slightly open.

Beth loses some of the color in her face. She must be terrified of what my report might say.

I move toward my bag again and casually lay my hand on it. And then it happens—Beth's eyes track my movement. I see it in her face, the exact moment she spots the folder with her family's name on top.

I don't give her long to take it in. "I'd like to talk to Ian for a minute before I see Rose. Would you like to go get him, or should I do it?"

Beth swallows. For a moment, I almost feel bad for her. She was pummeled by a violent physical illness yesterday, and now I can see she's mentally overwrought.

Then I remind myself of the sinewy strength in her arms. Beth didn't go to Tina's funeral. Out of anger and embarrassment over Ian and Tina's affair? Or something more sinister?

"I'll… Excuse me, I'll go get him. He's in his office."

Beth hurries away, and a few moments later, Ian walks in.

It takes Ian a little longer to notice the file; I have to reach into my purse for a tissue and pretend to sneeze to get him to notice the folder.

But when he sees it, Ian's reaction is the most unsettling of all.

He doesn't blanch, or flinch, or exhibit keen interest. Whatever he feels, it's gliding far below the surface.