Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

I'm heading down the road toward the security gate when an old Nissan Sentra tears around a curve, its muffler popping like a gunshot.

I jerk my steering wheel to the right to avoid a collision, braking hard. The other driver does the same, but since he's going double my speed and he overcorrects, he skids at a forty-five-degree angle onto the grass before coming to a stop.

I'm tempted to flip him off. But the driver may have information I need. So I turn off my engine and step out with a smile.

"You okay?" I call, noticing his tires have dug deep channels into the grass.

He doesn't answer. His head is resting on the steering wheel and his eyes are shut. For a second, I fear he's injured. Then his head rises.

I quickly assess him: He's a young guy, maybe twenty-five. Handsome in an edgy way. Dyed-blond hair with black roots and a couple of tattoos on his arms. His car and clothes tempt me to peg him as working class, but in my line of work I've learned to avoid drawing conclusions.

He meets my eyes, then revs his engine. He's preparing to leave.

The urge to stop him seizes me, and without thinking, I leap in front of his car.

He meets my gaze through the windshield, and I almost flinch when I see the fury burning in his red-rimmed eyes.

But if anger scared me away, I'd never be able to do my job.

I hold up my palms and force another smile. "Got a second?"

His right hand lifts up and then slams down. Instead of blaring the horn, though, he hits the steering wheel so hard his fingers must sting.

Then he rolls down the window. "What?"

He isn't Rose's piano teacher—not with that treatment of his fingers. I can't imagine the Barclays employing a guy with this kind of attitude as a contractor. So who is he?

I walk over to his side of the car. "Hi, I'm Stella Hudson. I'm here because of Rose. The judge overseeing the divorce hired me to help her."

He tilts his head back, listening.

"Do you mind if I ask you a couple questions?"

He doesn't say yes, but he doesn't decline, either.

"What's your connection to the Barclays?"

"To them ? None."

Scorn sharpens his tone. I ask the next obvious question.

"So why are you here?"

"Look, I didn't exactly get invited for dinner. I showed up because they've still got Tina's stuff and her family wants it."

I've never seen a picture of him, but I'm now certain it's the nanny's boyfriend. I scour my memory for his name: Pete.

"You were dating her? The nanny?"

He pounds his steering wheel again, this time with both fists. "She has a name! Why doesn't anyone ever say her name?"

He's right.

"Tina de la Cruz." Hearing me acknowledge her seems to blunt the razor-sharp edge of Pete's anger. But it must still be festering beneath the surface.

Anger is a natural part of the grieving process, but for Pete, it's obviously more layered: Tina was his girlfriend, but she was also sleeping with Ian Barclay—and carrying Ian's baby.

I catalog Pete's heavy breathing and tense, muscular body. His affect is at odds with our bucolic surroundings. In the distance, two horses—one a lush sable brown, the other a dappled gray—are grazing in a field surrounded by a wooden fence. The smell of freshly cut grass wafts through the gentle early-fall air.

The juxtaposition hits me: Every detail of the Barclays' seven-bedroom home and manicured gardens is flawlessly curated. And every person I've encountered here is deeply damaged.

"You're here to get her things?" I echo, stalling because I'm working something out.

He nods curtly.

"Will it all fit in your car?" His Nissan doesn't have much of a trunk.

"It's just a couple bags and boxes," he said. "That's what they told Tina's mom."

Probably her clothes and toiletries, maybe a few books and personal tokens. A family like the Barclays would furnish the nanny's room. They wouldn't want her bringing in an old mattress and mismatched dresser and nightstand.

I need to keep him talking. He knew Tina well. Even though she kept secrets from him, maybe she occasionally confided in him.

"It must be difficult for you to be here," I say. "Would you like my help?"

He considers it for a second, then shakes his head.

"I'm going to get in and out of that house as fast as I can," he tells me. I see a muscle twitch in his jaw. "And Ian better not get in my way."

I throw out another question, hoping to strike a nerve. "Do you blame Ian for the affair?"

"Are you for real? Tina wasn't like that—she didn't sleep around. He's twice her age and her boss . He probably came on to her and she was scared he'd fire her if she said no."

I edge closer and take in the brown rosary beads hanging from his rearview mirror, and the McDonald's drink in his cupholder. The interior is neat but worn; the vehicle must be ten years old. The only thing in the car that looks new is the T-shirt Pete is wearing with a logo that looks like a guy jumping over a park bench.

I dig in another direction. "Do you think Tina wanted to quit?"

His eyes darken. "Yeah. She hated it here. The house creeped her out. She was going to get a Taser."

"Why?"

"Stuff started happening to her here."

The hair rises on the back of my neck. "What happened to Tina here?"

He looks at me, incredulous. "What happened? They killed her."

"Who, Pete? Who do you think killed Tina?"

He shrugs. "If I knew that, I would've already done something about it."

He puts his hands on the wheel. I notice a few curious items in the front seat: a pair of thin gloves and sneakers with Velcro straps instead of laces. I take a closer look at Pete. He's wearing long, baggy shorts that have ridden up to reveal bruises on his knees, and there are scrapes on the knuckles of his right hand, as if he had been punching someone. There's also an Ace bandage around his left wrist. Either he's terribly accident-prone, or something else is giving him injuries.

"One last thing—you said the Barclays didn't invite you here," I blurt.

"Yeah. They don't know I'm coming. They'd probably just put her stuff out on the porch, and I want to see her room one last time."

I reach into my pocket for one of the business cards I carry on me at all times. "Please call me if you think of anything else. Anytime."

I give it to him and step back, staring after him as he drives off. He has no idea how much information he provided.

The Barclays aren't aware he's coming. But Pete made it through the gate. That means he knows the security code. Tina must have given it to him at some point.

Most security gates have an alert that sounds inside the house when the gate is opened. Perhaps because the Barclays are having work done at the house, they aren't concerned about vehicles arriving today.

What I'm more curious about is Pete's past visits to the estate. I can't see Beth allowing Tina to entertain Pete in the house, but perhaps Tina snuck him in when the Barclays were out. Clearly Pete has been in her room before, or he wouldn't have said he wants to see it one last time.

Anger was pulsing off Pete when we spoke.

Was he angry enough by Tina's betrayal to push her to her death?

Marco's words echo in my mind: It's always the husband.

Unless it's the boyfriend, I think.