Chapter 28

Bug, you didn't answer my call. Everything okay?

Did you see what happened to Agnes? She shouldn't have forgotten the Golden Rule.

Maybe it's small of me, but I sent her Congratulations! balloons.

God, I really love you.

This is going to take longer than I'd hoped.

I can't stop thinking about you, Claire.

Same.

Let's make some more madeleines this weekend. We can make a picnic for our next hike.

Doesn't sound very bad boy of you.

I told you I had a thing for Sandra Dee.

I wasn't lying to Declan—I can't stop thinking about him. He doesn't need to know that some of my thoughts have blood spatter on them now.

After what Nicole told me, my mind keeps spinning hundreds of what-ifs, each worse than the last. I know she's been looking into him, trying to figure out if he's a…

Well, a murderer.

I call Lainey on Monday night to give her an update. Part of me wants to hold back the worst of it—to avoid giving her a bad impression of Declan—but she has a right to know everything if she's going to be moving into this fucked-up situation. So I let it all spill out, and it's a relief to tell her. To share this bizarro version of my life with someone who's known me since I was a toddler.

"Holy shit," she says at the end. "Your life is like a Lifetime movie. We should write a screenplay about it and sell it."

"Let's not make that our career plan just yet," I tell her. "But it's starting to look like I'm not going to get the insurance money. We'll still have the house."

"I have an idea for a business that won't have any start-up costs at all," she says, practically buzzing with enthusiasm. "I've circled back on the Love Erasers idea."

"You don't think it's too soon after Todd?" I ask, because I do. Lainey's told herself she's over the whole thing, but I know she's not. She's barely scratched the surface.

"No. It would be therapeutic. And there are other services we can offer. Like…what if someone wants to get even with a shitty ex? We can help them!"

"So instead of paying for therapy, you want to take your repressed rage out on other people's exes?"

"Exactly!"

"We'll figure it out once you're here," I say, which feels kinder than saying no. I have enough of my own shit to deal with without getting weighed down by strangers' baggage. I'd prefer to start some kind of catering business on the off-chance that we can get Dick's kitchen certified without spending thousands upon thousands of dollars.

There's a pause over the line, then she says, "Are you okay, Claire?"

And, just like that, I feel like crying. "No, not really," I say through a tight throat. "What if I'm falling in love with a murderer?"

"You wouldn't be the only one," she says. "I watched this documentary on—"

"Not helping."

"I know," she says. "I'm sorry. But I doubt Declan killed Dick. It sounds like they were friends. I mean sure, most people are killed by someone they know, but my guess is that he didn't do it. You have a good people sense."

"Are you sure about that? I worked for Agnes for seven years, and I willingly had sex with Doug."

"Yes, but I don't think you were under the delusion either of them were good people."

"And I stuck with Agnes for years and Doug for months. What does that say about me?" I ask, feeling a pulse of panic in my chest.

"That you want to be wrong about people. That's a good thing. It means you care about people and want to give them a chance."

"And in both of those cases it fucked me over."

"But you gave Nicole a chance, and she pulled off a pretty badass move. You gave me a chance, and I'm a great best friend."

I still feel unsettled by the time we hang up, but at least she tells me she's coming this weekend, with an ETA of Sunday afternoon.

Less than a week, and Lainey will be here.

Less than a week, and I'll officially be making Marshall my home for who-knows-how-long.

What'll life look like in a week?

He didn't do it, I tell myself. He didn't kill anyone. The worst he's ever done is grow pot, and that's barely a crime anymore.

And, like the ostrich I am, I pretend to believe it.

His car is gone all day Monday. All day Tuesday, too.

He texts but doesn't call.

I worry.

I pine for him.

I fear for my sanity.

On Wednesday morning,Mrs. Rosings has me fold her collection of linen napkins into perfect triangles while she tells me stories about people I don't know. We're sitting at a table in the drawing room. It's unclear to me how we're supposed to successfully transport the folded napkins wherever they need to go, or why she needs them, since I don't get the impression she holds a lot of dinner parties. This isn't the first time it's occurred to me that she doesn't need a full-time assistant, for the wedding or otherwise. She's either lonely, or she feels bad for me because I'm poor. No, from what I know about her, I'm guessing it's actually option C, and she's lonely and bored. The busy work is fine by me, though. It's about all I'm capable of at the moment.

Someone buzzes at the front gate, prompting me to flinch, and she lifts her eyebrows and says, "Are you going to answer that?"

"Am I? I doubt they're here to see me."

"In my day…"

"Yeah, yeah," I say, and this is one of the rare occasions that she smiles when I interrupt her.

I answer the buzzer, and an unfriendly male voice says, "Who are you?"

"I'm Mrs. Rosings's assistant, Claire."

The man makes a rude noise. "So she suckered someone else into working for her?"

I glance at Mrs. Rosings with interest, because I still haven't learned what happened with my predecessor.

Sighing, she waves a hand regally. "Let him in."

"Come in, sir," I say, which prompts a swear under his breath. "We're in the drawing room."

"Who is he?" I ask, turning to look at her.

She seems excited, as if something interesting is finally happening, and she doesn't quite know what to do with herself.

"My boy," she says, glancing at the door to the dining room. "Anthony."

I perk up, too, mostly because I've been very curious about this missing-in-action son and his hated bride-to-be.

"Were you expecting him?"

She lifts her eyebrows again, appearing very pleased with herself. "Yes, I felt sure I'd finally warrant a visit."

Moments later, I hear the front door open, so presumably Anthony has a key, and then he stomps into the room moments later. I recognize him from the photo hanging above the fireplace in the drawing room, only he's had a business man glow-up in the years since it was taken. He's wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a casual suit, if a suit could be said to be casual. His hard jaw is shaved to precision, and if not for his eyes—large, brown, and long-lashed—he'd look too severe. He's holding a sheet of paper that he proceeds to shake in the air.

It take me half a moment to process what I'm looking at—it's a mock-up photo of the goat farm we visited the other day, with two figures with the faces of Anthony and his as-yet-nameless bride badly Photoshopped onto them.

"You went to see this place without Nina and me?" he says to his mother, barely giving me a glance. He's not shouting, but he's not not-shouting. "You gave them a deposit?"

"A lovely surprise, don't you think?" she asks, her eyes bright with glee. If he figured a visit would get her to behave, he clearly can't read a room. This is what she wanted.

"When you told Nina you wanted to help with the wedding, she thought you were being nice, Mom. She was excited. She told you she wanted to have it here at Smith House, and you smiled and nodded." He shook his head, swallowing. "But you were up to your usual shit. Unbelievable."

She feigns a look of innocence that slides into an expression that's almost earnest. "I thought you would enjoy it, Anthony. It's the kind of thing that would have made you laugh, back in the day. Your sister was in hysterics when I sent the photo to her."

He shakes his head, his jaw tightening. "Unbelievable," he repeats with venom.

"Yes, you already said that. Now, there is a catering package, but I'm afraid that they only offer roasted goat for the main course. I know Nina's diet is restrictive."

"We're obviously not getting married there." He glances around, his accusatory gaze falling on me for a second before returning to her. "Did your asshole boyfriend put you up to this?"

"Honestly," Mrs. Rosings says, crossing her legs. "I'm seventy years old, Anthony, don't you think it's a little gauche to call someone my boyfriend?"

"You didn't answer my question."

She sighs. "Richard wasn't my boyfriend, my dear, just a friend, and he's dead."

My mouth falls open, because for some reason I'd failed to connect the dots. This guy knew my biological father. He disapproved of him. Maybe Dick was even the reason for the obvious friction between Mrs. Rosings and her son.

Anthony flinches. For half a second, I think he's going to stay something really crappy like "Good," but he swallows, looks down at the polished floorboards, and says, "I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't know."

She sniffs. "Maybe you would if you'd answer any of my calls."

"I've been—"

"Busy. Yes. So have I." Something like victory flashes in her eyes. "I have a feeling I'll continue to be very busy, unless there's someone around to help me make decisions. I may have been married three times, dear, but so much has changed… If I made an error in judgment about the venue, I'm sorry. We can fix it. Together."

He glances at me and then the folded tower of napkins. "It looks like you have help."

"Hi," I say brightly, holding out a hand. "I'm Claire, the asshole's daughter."

He flinches as if I'd slapped him. "Sorry. I've been unspeakably rude. I'm Anthony."

"That's okay," I say, "the common consensus is that you were right about my father."

His phone beeps, and he draws it out, muttering something under his breath when he sees the screen. "I have to go," he tells his mother.

"Yes, of course."

"Mom, you need to stop this. I'm marrying Nina, and you'll have to get used to the idea."

"You think I went to the goat farm for my health?" she asks, tipping her head. "Why, my cousin Jennifer caught West Nile Virus at a goat farm."

I'm beginning to think Jennifer is either very unlucky or very made up.

Sighing, he shakes his head and nods. "Nice to meet you, Claire. Good luck. You're going to need it." Then, to his mother, "We'll talk."

He leaves the room, and when the front door closes behind him, Mrs. Rosings nods once, still seated at the table. "That went well."

"Did it?" I ask in disbelief.

"He's flustered," she says, sticking her bottom lip out slightly. "I'm getting through to him."

"How do you figure?"

Her lips tip upward. "Nina saw the photo, and you can be assured she wasn't the slightest bit amused. It's given him doubt. Only a dullard wouldn't be amused by such a thing, and my boy is no dullard."

"I don't know, Mrs. Rosings," I say. "He didn't seem very amused either."

"Oh, he was. He has an excellent sense of humor. Eventually he'll realize he doesn't want to spend the rest of his life with someone divested of one."

"He knew Dick?" I ask, still caught on that detail.

"Yes," she says, taking one of the perfectly triangle napkins and fussing with the seams. Apparently, she agrees with me that something perfect could always be more perfect. "I met Dick because he was working on one of Anthony's properties."

I swallow, trying to process that. Anthony and Dick, working together. That has to mean something, doesn't it? But Anthony seemed genuinely surprised to hear Dick was dead…

Of course, people can pretend to be surprised…and it's strange that he hasn't been in touch with his mother if his bride-to-be has her heart set on getting married at Smith House. It's almost like he's been keeping his distance on purpose. Because of guilt?

"What kind of property?" I ask through my dry mouth.

She waves a hand. "Oh, it was a mess. Anthony blamed Dick, and I'll be honest with you, he was right. Dick cut corners. He didn't build the staircase to code, and it destroyed the budget."

My pulse is racing, my mouth dry.

Mrs. Rosings sighs, not seeming to notice my discomfort. "I'm afraid my boy will never forgive me for what I did."

"For what?" I ask. "My bio-dad? The goats?"

"Oh, this goes far beyond the goats," she says mysteriously.

"Was your previous suggestion a horse farm?"

She smiles, shaking her head, and glances above the fireplace at those framed photos. A young Anthony and his sister, equally shrouded in mystery, although I have confirmation that she, at least, finds terrible Photoshop as funny as the rest of humanity. "I'm going to take a nice long soak. You can leave after you finish with the napkins."

I hold back from giving her a salute, barely.

When she closes the door behind her, I take out my phone to text Nicole an update, but it occurs to me that this is my chance to look in the box we delivered to her.

I know where it's being kept—I saw Mrs. Rosings place it above the fireplace, next to three small urns that presumably contain some of the ashes of each of the husbands she's lost. It feels appropriate, if macabre.

Heart pounding, I set down the last napkin and make my way to the fireplace. Feeling like a thief—a very bad one—I quickly take down the box and crack the lid open.