Chapter Nine

CHAPTER NINE

At 10 a.m. sharp, I pull my car into the now-familiar spot in front of the Barclays' garage. Several other vehicles are here, including a van with the logo Perfectly Seasoned on the side.

Loud, mechanical noises vibrate through the air, signaling construction at the back of the house. But I can't see it from my vantage point.

I'm tempted to walk around and take a look, but it's too early in the process for me to veer from my established protocol. First I need to meet with Ian and ask him some provocative questions. He won't like them, but his reaction will give me some measure of how well he manages his emotions.

I climb the porch steps and ring the front bell, but this time it takes a minute for the door to open.

When it does, I catch my first glimpse of Ian Barclay.

My initial impression: He's even better-looking than in photos, with his tall, rangy frame, blunt features, and strong jawline. His thick, sandy hair is a little rumpled, like he recently ran a hand through it, and he's wearing a simple black Henley shirt and worn Levi's.

One of the tabloid headlines flits through my mind: Blue-Blood Heiress vs. Blue-Collar Gardener!

"Hey there. Stella, right?" His easy smile crinkles the corners of his eyes and elevates him to another level of attractiveness.

"Yes. Nice to meet you, Ian."

"Come on in." He opens the door wide, and as I step into the entryway, I notice he's wearing socks but no shoes. He's less formal than his wife, that's for sure.

"Thanks for coming out," he says. In this way, he is like Beth. It seems he's claiming ownership of our encounter—as if I'm here at his invitation.

"It's my job." My tone is light, but my meaning is anything but. I work for Rose, and no one else.

"So." He opens his arms wide in a gesture that feels like a question. "Do you want to talk in my office?"

That's exactly what I want. I need to get a handle on his supposed location when Tina died.

"Perfect."

He turns and leads me up the staircase. I can't help but stare at the progression of photos of Rose again as I pass them. Who removed all the glass from the frames, and why?

Again, I'm enveloped by a sense of heaviness, the suffocating descent of claustrophobia. I try to swallow, but my mouth has dried up.

Ian reaches the upstairs landing and turns right, toward the window overlooking the backyard. If the pane has been replaced with plexiglass, I can't tell. But I read up on plexiglass windows last night—they're far more common than I thought—and now I realize there's a clue in the fact that I can barely hear the mechanical noises from outside. Old, thin glass wouldn't be able to buffer those loud sounds as effectively.

I'm tempted to ask Ian about the new windows, but instinct cautions me to wait.

All the doors are closed again in the dim, narrow hallway. It's another peculiar detail about the house.

Ian pauses before one, but instead of opening it, he reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a leather key chain.

He wiggles a silver key into a new-looking lock above the antique knob and the tumblers click.

When did Ian install the lock? I wonder.

In a divorce as contentious as the Barclays', it's possible Ian wanted to safeguard his computer and business files from Beth's prying eyes. But my mind flits to another, darker explanation: He needed a secure place for trysts with his daughter's nanny.

Ian opens the door, and I walk in slowly, taking in the rectangular room. There's a desk in the middle that looks like it's been fashioned from an old barn door, and in one corner are two fabric-covered swivel chairs separated by a small round table. Across from the desk is a dark blue couch.

I don't see any framed photographs or pictures. No paperweight on his desk. No clock on the wall.

Nothing made of glass.

My pulse accelerates.

I force myself to tamp down on my unease. I need to register every nuance of this encounter.

"I, ah…" Ian gestures to the chairs. "Do you want to sit down?"

"Sure." I walk over and take one, but Ian doesn't follow. He remains by the doorway, like he's preparing to bolt. I assess his long legs and athletic physique. Sprinting down a flight of stairs to his office would only take him seconds.

"Would you like some water?" he offers.

"Love some." My mouth is still dry; plus, I want to see what he serves it in.

He moves to a mini-fridge at the bottom of a shelving unit and opens it, taking out two cans of flavored seltzer.

"Grapefruit or lime?"

"Grapefruit, please."

It feels like he's stalling. Anyone might, in his position.

In the court of public opinion, Ian has been covered in mud: the handsome landscaper from a humble background who married an heiress and had an affair with their twenty-six-year-old nanny—oh, and potentially killed the nanny, who was carrying his baby.

But one thing I've learned during the years I've navigated the intricacies of divorces is that the breakdown of a marriage is rarely sourced entirely in one individual. Both parties usually contribute to it, to one degree or another. I'm in no way excusing affairs, but I also believe they can be symptoms of a deeper marital problem.

Plus, for all I know, Beth might have had a dozen affairs before Ian slept with Tina.

I crack open my seltzer and take a long sip, then begin. "I know this isn't a fun process. But I need to do the best possible job I can for Rose, and that means getting to know you."

The muscles in Ian's jaw twitch, like he's clenching his teeth. But it works. He finally takes a seat.

I start off gently.

"How would you describe your daughter's personality?"

Ian blinks. Maybe he thought I'd be like the paparazzi who camped outside the gate to his house in the days after Tina's death, shouting questions like Did you push the nanny?

"I always say Rose fits her name. Delicate and sweet."

I nod encouragingly, noting his body language relaxes a fraction when he describes his child.

"She's incredibly smart. Much smarter than I was at her age. She started to read when she was three. At first I thought she'd memorized all the Dr. Seuss books—but no, she could actually read them. She loves music, too, but get this—she's into classical. Mozart and Beethoven. She even likes Wagner, and he's not for everyone. She's always been an old soul, you know?"

I think of her solemn expression in the photographs, and the velvet headband matching her high-necked dress. She does seem like an old-fashioned child, as if she could have been plucked out of a previous century and set down in this one.

I lob a few more softball questions to Ian, asking what he and Rose do together for fun, her favorite foods, and her routines on school nights. He answers without hesitation, telling me she adores breakfast for dinner, especially waffles and strawberries, and likes to read herself to sleep. It sounds as though he knows his daughter well and enjoys spending time with her. It could be the truth, or it could be what he wants me to believe.

I hit him with the question I know he's dreading. "Tell me what happened between you and Tina."

The truth is, I'd rather not hear the sordid details. Like most affairs, this one spewed shrapnel, injuring everyone in the vicinity. I think of Beth's brittle smile, Pete's rage, and how Rose has folded into herself.

Ian closes his eyes. Pain washes across his face. It looks genuine.

"I still can't believe Tina is gone."

I wait for him to gather himself and continue.

"I told Detective Garcia everything a couple times, but if you need me to repeat it, I will."

"I'd rather hear it directly from you," I prompt.

The homicide detective in charge of this case—Natalia Garcia, who I also intend to meet—would've made Ian repeat his story in an effort to pinpoint any contradictions or discrepancies. I'm taking a different tack. My gut is pretty reliable. I want to weigh what it tells me against Ian's words.

"Tina and I clicked from the start." Ian's eyes grow faraway. "She was fun and happy, and she lightened up Rose a bit, too. Beth isn't a fan of silly. She never liked it when I made funny faces around Rose, or pretended to be a monster chasing her on the playground."

I'm curious to know how attached Rose was to Tina, but I don't want to interrupt Ian's flow. He hasn't even begun to answer my question.

"Beth never allows Rose to have fast food, or any kind of sugar except on special occasions. I feel like a Hershey's bar or a few fries isn't a big deal, so Tina and I got her treats sometimes, and neither of us mentioned it to Beth. Sometimes it felt like Tina and I were conspiring a little against Beth. That sounds awful, but it wasn't in a destructive way. I guess it was nice to feel like I wasn't being a horrible parent if I bought my daughter a milkshake when she got a good report card."

So the affair wasn't the first secret Ian and Tina kept from Beth. Infidelities often begin with a slow blurring of boundaries, until crossing the final one doesn't seem as momentous.

Ian slumps, as if resigned to the fact that he can't delay this any longer.

"One night Beth was out at one of her charity things, and when I got home from work, Tina was making Rose dinner. I told Tina I could take over, but she ended up hanging out. It was nice. Easy. There was music going—Tina was trying to turn Rose into a Beyonc é fan—and the water boiled over in the pot of pasta because no one was watching it, and guess what? It wasn't a crisis. We all laughed and got some sponges and cleaned it up. It would've been a big deal with Beth. I would've gotten blamed for it. Anyway, it had been a long day, so I opened a bottle of wine. I offered Tina a glass, too."

I can picture the scene now, but I'm seeing it from Beth's perspective. She must have felt violated. Marginalized. Replaced. I've talked to plenty of people who have been victims of affairs in my line of work, and what pains and outrages most isn't just the physical act. It's the emotional betrayal. The fact that Rose was twisted up in it would make it far worse for Beth. I recall again the sinewy strength in Beth's hand when she shook mine. I've read that Tina was five foot two. Beth had seven inches on her. Plus the element of surprise if Tina had her back turned and didn't see Beth racing toward her, hands outstretched, preparing for a shove hard enough to propel Tina through the delicate old window.

Ian rubs his eyes, like he's trying to erase the image his words are drawing. "I went upstairs and tucked Rose into bed, and when I came back, Tina had done the dishes. It wasn't her job—she'd been working all day since Rose had a school holiday. It made me feel… good. Like she was taking care of me, too. I topped off our glasses. There was still music playing. A John Mayer song now."

Ian's hands grow still. He lifts his head and looks directly at me, his expression earnest.

"I didn't plan it. Tina was a beautiful young woman, but I'd never looked at her that way. I'm not that guy."

I nod: Of course. I have no idea what kind of guy Ian is, but I need him to continue.

"Beth and I have been in separate bedrooms for more than a year." Ian tilts back his head to take a sip of seltzer. "Not a lot of people know that. You don't exactly advertise it when you send out holiday cards. We'd stopped doing things as a couple. She has all her boards and charities, I have my company. Rose is the only thing that connected us, and even how to raise our daughter turned into a battleground.

"So when Tina kissed me… At first I tried to pull back. To stop it. But she leaned in again and smiled. Told me she'd been thinking about this moment for a long time. Then, ah, we went up to her room…" Ian cringes. "It was stupid. Self-destructive. And it never should have happened."

"Did you sleep together again after that night?" I ask, making sure there is no judgment in my tone.

He clears his throat. His face flushes.

He doesn't want to answer me. And technically, he doesn't have to, even though his divorce lawyer, like Beth's, urged him to meet with me because it wouldn't look good if he refused. But this is the peculiar power of my position: Ian knows he needs to answer my questions, even the invasive ones. Losing face is nothing compared to what else he could lose.

Ian nods. "One more time a few weeks later … I was in my office and she was up in her room. She asked me to come look at the sink in her bathroom because it was leaking, and when I got there … Well, that was the only other time. But I guess Tina imagined it was more."

"More?" I prompt.

"After the second time, she told me she thought she could fall in love with me. She knew Beth and I didn't have a real marriage. Tina asked if I could see myself loving her."

Few things surprise me at this point. The families that look the strongest are often the ones hiding the darkest secrets.

"I told her we could never do it again, but she kept texting me. It would freak me out—I'd be at dinner with Rose and Beth and my mom, and Tina was two floors above, blowing up my phone with heart emojis. Once she sent a selfie in lingerie and I had to snatch up my phone off the table… I mean, I was trying to ask my daughter if she wanted more green beans, and Tina's posing in her bed and asking me to come join her!"

"That does sound stressful," I comment.

He swallows hard. "I didn't know she was…" He doesn't want to say the word. So I do.

"Pregnant."

"Yeah. She never said anything to me about it. I only found out after they did an autopsy. As soon as Tina died, I told Beth and the cops everything. I figured the police would find the texts and I knew how it might look. And I don't have anything to hide."

I don't respond to that assertion. Ian is obviously accomplished at hiding things since he had an affair under the roof he shares with his wife and child and mother. "Were you considering a future with Tina?"

"What?" Ian shakes his head firmly. "No. It was… physical. Nothing more."

It was more for Tina , I think, but I hide my disdain.

His shoulders slump. "What I liked the most about Tina was that she liked me."

I've heard this before from people who have been unfaithful. They don't cheat because they're wildly attracted to someone else. They do it because someone else made them feel attractive.

Ian drops his head into his hands. "I've lost just about everything. My marriage, my reputation, business is down… I can't lose my daughter, too. And Beth seems to want that to happen, one way or another. I know Beth told the police I could have done it. Her office is right across from mine, but she keeps her door closed when she's in there. Detective Garcia told me Beth gave a statement saying it was possible I could have slipped upstairs, pushed Tina, and gotten back into my office before my mother started screaming."

I think about the heavy carpeting lining the stairs and hallway—thick enough to swallow the sound of footsteps. Especially if the person running wore socks and no shoes.

I look down at Ian's feet in his dark athletic socks.

"What did you say when Detective Garcia told you about your wife's statement?"

Ian lifts his head and looks me directly in the eye. That's when I see what I've been looking for. Gone is the easygoing, occasionally self-flagellating guy Ian initially presented to be. Now his narrowed eyes are flinty with anger.

"I told the police I work with my door shut, too. Beth could have slipped upstairs just as easily as me."