Chapter Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Eight

Sky was in a meeting when I arrived at her hospital room. That was the only way to describe the scene I walked into. Her IVs appeared to have been removed, and she was sitting up in bed, her arm in a sling, her shoulder bandaged, and the jacket from the Gucci suit Lydia had given her wrapped around her shoulders. Clustered around the bed were Kaitlyn from Marketing and three young women with sleek buns and center parts, all of them wearing pant suits in primary colors. If it wasn't for the bed, the bandages, and the hospital gown Sky wore under the fitted jacket, they could have easily been in a boardroom, strategizing a campaign. Which, as it turned out, was exactly what they were doing.

"Sunny! Thank God!" Sky said. She told me to set the duffel bag next to her bed. "I can't wait to get those clothes on, once we're through. I mean, even if I have to stick around here, at least I don't have to be freezing my tush off."

I was going to ask her what it was they were going to be through with, but Lydia went ahead and answered. She was sitting in a chair against the wall. I hadn't even noticed she was there until she spoke. "They're crafting a statement for the press about the shooting," she said.

My eyebrows went up. "Do the police know about that?"

"I'm not sure," Lydia said.

"Normally, they don't like people talking to reporters about an active investigation," I said.

"It's just a statement," Sky said. "To get the media off our backs. It's about me, my recovery. Not Dylan. He won't even be mentioned."

"But you haven't been mentioned," I said. "The only thing the police have revealed to the press is that the shooting victim was female."

"Oh, I checked with Detective Farrell," she said. "He told me if I wanted to out myself as the victim, that's fine. I just can't give any details about Dylan or the investigation."

Sky didn't wait for my response. Instead, she turned to Kaitlyn and her backup dancers. "I think the release reads great as is. But down the line—and I know this is going to sound weird—this shooting might wind up being good PR for us."

"Oh my God," Kaitlyn said. "I was thinking the same thing."

"Like…Gonzo. The gangster brand," Sky said.

Kaitlyn grinned. " Very that," she said.

"Or even. Wait…You ready?" one of the pantsuits, the red one, said.

The rest of them nodded enthusiastically.

"Gonzo can help you survive anything—even getting shot. We can do outreach on TikTok."

"Oh, that's good ," Kaitlyn said.

"Just as long as we don't encourage anyone to test that theory out," Sky said. "It would be worse than the cinnamon challenge. Remember that?"

Kaitlyn and the pantsuits all laughed in unison.

I looked at Lydia. She was alone now, still sitting in that chair, staring at her shoes. "Where's Bill?" I asked her.

"He had to get back to work," she said softly. "He asked if I needed him to stay, but I told him I don't mind. The truth is, at this point, I prefer being alone."

Kaitlyn was saying something to Sky about a photo shoot for Boston magazine. "I'm thinking you in some skimpy, sexy Versace number, showing off your bullet wound."

"I don't know, Kaitlyn," Sky said. "Versace? Really?"

Lydia stood up. "I need a breath of fresh air," she said.

Sky was suggesting Balenciaga instead, "or some other brand that's not associated with a shooting death," when I decided I needed fresh air, too.

I started to follow Lydia, but then Sky asked me if it would be too much trouble to put her duffel in the small standing closet against the wall, and then Blue Pantsuit recognized me from the Globe article and asked, "What's it like to be a PI?"

"Every day it's different," I answered. "Sometimes it's boring as hell; other times, it's chaotic." The others joined in: "What's the most dangerous case you've ever taken?" "Do you carry a gun?" "Have you ever met Spenser?" Blah, blah, blah.

I tried to answer them as succinctly as I could without being rude or calling attention to my newfound distrust of Sky. By the time I finally managed to pull myself out of the room and into the hallway, Lydia was slumped against the wall in her Hermès suit, her knees against her chest, her arms clasped around them, and her head bowed. I couldn't imagine seeing Lydia Welch in this position, ever. And yet here she was, curled into a ball on a hospital floor.

"Lydia?" I said. "Are you all right?"

She looked up at me. Her face was red, her eyes bloodshot. "What's wrong?" I asked.

"My son," she said quietly. "My son is what's wrong."

I just looked at her.

"He murdered a young man. He tried to kill his best friend," she said. "I knew he'd done some bad things in the past, but nothing like this. And I can't help but think…if Bill and I had seen the warning signs. If we'd forced him to get real help instead of these ridiculous rehab stays…"

I moved closer to her. "You don't necessarily know that he shot either of them."

"Sunny, his Rolex was found in the factory, not far from where that poor young scientist was killed."

"It was?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Last night."

"Who told you?"

"Detective Farrell."

Apparently, Lee kept information from me, too…

"He questioned Bill and me after Sky," Lydia was saying. "He brought the watch in an evidence bag and asked if it looked familiar. Of course it did. We gave it to him. It was Dylan's high school graduation present. It's a very rare pearlescent gold, and it's engraved. We're so proud! Love, Mommy and Dad, it says."

I thought of Sky. I was now 95 percent sure that she'd been the source of the audio messages and phone calls that had been sent to Elspeth—the only "proof" that Dylan had committed either shooting, other than Sky's masterly acted eyewitness account. So now there was also the Rolex. Conveniently placed near the dead body of the man who knew of a highly addictive substance that I now believed Sky had sneaked into Gonzo's new formula.

I heard myself say, "Doesn't the Rolex seem a little obvious to you?"

Lydia blinked at me. "What do you mean?"

"Why would Dylan leave the watch behind, on a night when he was clearly so careful about everything else? Why is he leaving no fingerprints or footprints or shell casings or DNA—only to conveniently lose a big, clunky, unusual-looking timepiece, with an engraving that makes it extremely identifiable?"

She said nothing.

"Lydia," I said. "Do you understand the meaning behind these questions?"

"I don't know, Sunny," she said. "I feel like a more important question is: Why is my son shooting people?"

I exhaled. "What I'm saying is, I think it might have been someone else who left Dylan's watch at the crime scene."

"And I think you're grasping at straws," Lydia said. "Believe me, I appreciate the effort. But Dylan has not taken off that watch since we gave it to him."

I remembered the picture Lydia had posted on Facebook and tagged her son in—that long-ago weekend in Nantucket, Dylan posing with his parents, his cousins, Teresa at his side, Dylan the dictionary definition of privilege , that pearly Rolex glinting in the sun as proof. I'd seen it in the family pictures on Dylan's computer, in that happy Gonzo staff shot in the Common, announcing its owner's wealth from behind Sky's glass frame.

But I'd also seen it somewhere else…My brain could have been playing tricks on me, recalling things I hadn't seen, just to fit into this freshly forming narrative. But still, it was worth checking, because, if it was true, Dylan most assuredly did take off the watch from time to time. I pulled my phone out of my purse and opened my photographs.

"What are you doing?" Lydia said.

I found it before I needed to answer: the close-up of Bella ( Some influencer, according to Sky). I gazed at that perfectly manicured hand against the side of her face. Those coral fingernails. That unusual pearlescent watch. I showed it to Lydia. Tapped Bella's wrist. "Isn't this Dylan's Rolex?"

Lydia's eyes widened. "Yes," she said, very quietly. "That's it."

"See?" I said. "He doesn't always keep track of the watch. He might have given it to someone. It might have been stolen from him and planted at the crime scene." I thought about Sky again, but I didn't want to say her name. Not now, with Lydia's emotions at this pitch, knowing how deeply she cared for Sky. Like a second child. I couldn't do that to her now. "More and more, Lydia," I said, "I feel like someone might be trying to frame your son."

I reached for my phone, but she held on to it. She was staring at the image. "Where did you get this picture?" she asked.

"It was on Dylan's work computer," I said. He had four photos of this girl, including his screensaver. So I figured it was worth saving."

I looked at Lydia. She was still staring at my phone. "I didn't know they were still in touch," she said.

"Who?"

"The girl in this picture is Anna Horton," she said. "Dylan's prom date from Exeter. She's changed a lot. But I'd know her anywhere. She and Dylan were quite close back then."

"She was on your list," I said. "The one that you gave me."

"I put down everyone I could think of, but I certainly didn't think Anna's contact info would help you. The last I heard, she was in a very bad way—like Dylan. Maybe worse."

"Really?"

She nodded. "After graduation, her father left her mother for a twenty-two-year-old actress. He moved out to Hollywood. Her mother was hospitalized for mental health issues. Anna dropped out of college and just…disappeared for a while."

"And resurfaced in Boston, apparently," I said.

"Apparently." She touched the picture on my screen. "You know, I always hoped that Anna and Dylan would find each other again," she said. "Two lost souls. I thought maybe they could heal together."

My gaze shifted from Lydia's face to the photograph on my phone. "I thought her name was Bella," I said. "That's what Dylan named the photo files."

Lydia looked up at me, her eyes wistful and sad. "Her full name is Annabella," she said. "She must have changed what she calls herself. Who could blame her, really?"