Chapter 8

Natalie sat in a chair in front of the floor to ceiling windows of the Portland condo, staring across the city skyline. She'd watched Portland wake up while she'd sipped the Chai Tea Latte she'd gotten from the Starbucks outside the condo building's front doors. The sun had skimmed the horizon, chasing away the clouds and rain of the day before and filtering across the downtown buildings, turning them the faintest of pink, and she'd stood for a good hour or more, taking a few pictures with her phone, soaking it all in. Then she'd sat down in one of the two club chairs by the windows, yawning, as she pulled out her cell phone and caught up on the emails and texts that had come in over the last couple of days. Every once in a while she would close her eyes and lean back in the chair, then she would open them again to look at the skyline. It was an unusually beautiful November day, yesterday's rain a memory. She whiled away the morning this way, hoping the anxious knot in her stomach would subside a little, but it never did.

And then it was afternoon and time to get some real food, but she didn't feel hungry. She felt . . . she searched around inside herself, trying to focus. Angry, maybe. And impatient. And—

Scared.

Her cell rang, startling her. She drew a breath, then realized it was just Phillip. She had to get over these nerves, be the hard ass she'd projected to Erin, Kristl, and Leigh. She was that hard ass . . . mostly.

"Hello, Phillip, darling," she answered sardonically.

"Oh, you're already in a bad mood."

"I was just thinking how pretty it is here. This condo is nice. Fifth floor is a little high for stairs and the elevator's kind of small, but the view makes up for a lot of it."

"You know we're not going to Portland, Nat. And that's what I want to talk about. They're asking for too big a commitment. I don't have the time and it's not good for me."

"The deal with Cottage Industries? It's not good for you? We've signed to make a pilot, actually three shows," she snapped at him. "They're ready to go with us and Portland would be a great place. I'll talk to Beatrix, send her some photos, but you can pitch it to them when you meet with them tomorrow."

"I can't do it right now."

Natalie counted to five before reminding him again, "It's a signed contract."

He sighed. Phillip was good at sighing. "You're just going to have to tell them the deal's off. I need some time right now. It's not good for my soul."

She wanted to laugh. She had so many things to worry about and her husband—the one who looked so good on camera that every production company always made sure he would be the one in front of the lens, not her—was worried about his beige soul. And it wasn't the first time! Hell, no. He and his fucking beige soul—not black, not white, just beige, nothing particularly bad about it, but nothing good, either—were top of mind for him, at least when he wasn't thinking about his other favorite part, his dick. They both occupied way too much of his time and while his beige soul apparently needed some time off, the dick part had been rumored to be following around every production assistant in a short skirt.

"Phillip, are you going to make me fly back and drag you to that meeting?"

"Why do you always have to make everything so hard?" He sighed.

"I'm the one making it hard?"

"Sorry. I'm going to Sedona for a retreat and I'm not sure when I'm going to be back."

"You're going to Arizona ? And you can't meet with them before you go?"

"That's what I said." She heard the creeping belligerence in his tone she'd grown to hate so much.

"Who's this ‘we'?" she asked.

"My group."

Phillip always had a group. Discontents, malcontents, broken people, gurus, lost souls, beige or otherwise . . . God, she was sick of it.

"If you don't make the meeting with Cottage Industries, we don't have a television deal," she said evenly.

"You're threatening me. I can hear it in your tone. If you want this deal so bad, you meet with them tomorrow."

"It pains me to admit, my love, but they want you, not me. They want the ‘face,' and unfortunately that ‘face' is your face."

"Well, I'm sorry, Nat. I'm really sorry."

No, he wasn't. He never was. She thought of the gnawing worry she'd felt over the pledge she and The Sorority made to kill Ethan by making it look like a car accident; how bad, if that ever got out, it would look for her, and all of them, especially since that's exactly how Ethan . . . and Ingrid . . . died. She thought coming back to River Glen would put that to bed somehow, but everything was just worse. The producers of Cottage Industries would run away from her, if they knew. She, and all of The Sorority, would more likely end up on Dateline , like Erin said, or worse: K ILLER H IGH S CHOOL C LIQUE P LOTS D EATH OF P OPULAR C LASSMATE .

Except now, even if she somehow managed to keep that under wraps, there was no deal anyway because the producers wanted Ethan, not her.

She emitted a soft gasp at her own mental faux pas. She meant the producers wanted Phillip , not her.

"Fine," she clipped out.

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know. You figure it out. I'll handle this like I handle everything. You go ahead and take psilocybin and mescaline and weed and whatever else you need to enhance your mind, and visit all the natural wonders of Arizona and Utah, and commune with the earth and the groupies that hang on your every word and believe in the same beautiful bullshit you do while they suck your dick and tell you how great you are and help you find deep inner peace. And while you're at it, go look for some tent or yurt or bed of fucking leaves to sleep in, because if and when you come back to San Diego, I will have sold our house."

She clicked off and fought the urge to throw her phone across the room. Instead she laid it on the small glass table between the two club chairs, avoiding the rings left by the Chai Tea Latte, then pressed her fingers to her temple. It was unfortunate, but she had a bit of a wine headache from yesterday. And now she was going to have to book a return flight home and do her best to talk Beatrix and Cottage Industries into forging ahead without Phillip Wernstad, who just happened to look a hell of a lot like Ethan Stanhope.

* * *

The Beckwiths' home was a sprawling one-story house set back from the road, the lot defined by two lines of trimmed maples, a brushed-concrete walkway curving toward the front door, which was at the same level. The roof was clean, bright blue tiles in neat rows ending at eaves that sloped upward at the ends, adding an Asian feel to what might otherwise look like your basic ranch. The house was set back from the road in an older River Glen neighborhood where many lots were overtaken by landscaping run amok. It was at the bottom of Stillwell Hill rather than the crest.

Taft pulled his Rubicon over on the street in front of the house and looked at the winding pathway. Before he could say anything, Mac said, "I got this," and let herself out of the car before he could try and help her. "I'll call the hospital," he said just before the door slammed shut behind her.

Mac trundled up the walkway in her clogs. She'd phoned the Beckwiths for this interview on their listed land line and had let it ring a number of times, preparing for the voice mail when the call was suddenly picked up by a male voice, answering, "Hello?" in a careful tone.

The voice sounded younger than what she expected from the Beckwiths and Mac said, "I'm trying to reach Charles and Lynda Beckwith? Is this the correct number?"

"Who's calling?"

"I'm Mackenzie Laughlin, a classmate of Mia's."

"Hmm. Who are you looking for—Mia, or my parents?"

"Mason?" she'd asked.

"Got it in one. Who is this again?"

So she'd introduced herself and explained that she and Mia had known each other since elementary school and into high school, but hadn't kept in touch once they'd graduated, and that she was in the process of looking up old friends.

"Mackenzie Laughlin," he'd said, repeating her name as if testing it out. "You just want to connect out of the blue?"

"That's how it works sometimes."

He hadn't bought it, for reasons Mac couldn't quite decipher. Mason had been a senior when they were incoming freshmen and the little she recalled of him was that he was brilliant but a complete slacker in school. She remembered Mia saying once that he drove their mother "abso-friggin'-lutely insane."

"Well, Ms. Laughlin, you're not going to get anything out of my mother. My father's hard of hearing. Maybe he'd talk to you, if my mother would ever let him talk."

"Would it possible to see them?" she'd pushed, and he'd finally agreed to tell them she was stopping by, as long as it was within the next hour or so because he would have to be there or they wouldn't answer the door.

So, here she was on their front porch. She rang the bell and it was Mason who answered. His hair was shoulder length and black with a few silver hairs catching the overhead light. He sized her up and then showed her down the hall to a sitting room off the kitchen where Charles Beckwith sat in a chair with an iPad on his lap. She caught a glimpse of what looked like a financial report of some kind and realized he was looking at a stock portfolio.

He turned to look at her and said loudly, "Took early retirement last year," as if they were in a middle of a conversation. "Charles." He half stood and offered a hand, looking down at her wrapped foot. "Looks like you had some trouble there."

"I sure did," said Mackenzie, slipping into her "friendly person" persona that she thought might work with him. "Slipped on my way to a funeral, if you can believe that."

"Eh?"

"SLIPPED ON MY WAY TO A FUNERAL," she repeated.

"Mother, this is Mackenzie Laughlin," Mason said smoothly, directing Mac's attention to Lynda Beckwith, who didn't so much as move one facial muscle as she observed Mac's jeans and sweater. She was petite and in a straight peach-colored dress that looked as if had been freshly ironed. She wore black flats and her hair and makeup were immaculate. She said something that Mac thought might be Mandarin, but Mason rolled his eyes and said loudly, "She's only here for a little while. Try to act like a human." Then he stomped off down another hall and a door slammed hard, a punctuation mark to his annoyance.

"You have to talk to me," Charles half yelled. "She doesn't talk about Mia!"

Mac shifted her attention back to him. He was gray-haired but still had a thick mane that swept across the back of his neck. He wore a Polo shirt and slacks and brown mule slippers.

Mac moved closer to him in order not to shout and he gestured her to sit down.

"Mia doesn't live here anymore," Charles said loudly. "She went off to school and then dropped out. She stopped coming home. We haven't heard from her in years." His smile was sad. "As far as we know, she's still in California."

"She could be anywhere."

Mac turned to look at Lynda, whose tone of voice could cut through glass. Mia's mother harbored a deep and dangerous anger. "Do you mind me asking how long it's been?" asked Mac.

"Were you a classmate of hers?" Lynda's dark eyes glittered.

"Yes."

"She was valedictorian of your class. She was an accomplished pianist. She attended Stanford." Lynda's voice chopped off the words as if she were cutting them in half.

"Lynda . . ." Charles admonished. Mac wasn't sure he could actually hear her, but he seemed to know exactly what she was saying.

"She is worse than Mason," said Lynda, ignoring him.

To say Mac was beginning to feel uncomfortable was an understatement. In the course of her work, she'd learned to soldier through some tough interviews, but it was never easy. She was already questioning why she was helping Leigh find Mia. She had no good reason for looking for her.

"She accused us of terrible things," Lynda burst out after a moment of silence. "Said we didn't love her. Said we abused her. I told her friend, Leigh, this already. But now she's sent you here."

For someone who didn't want her husband to know what she was doing, Leigh was blabbing all over the place. "Leigh is worried about Mia," said Mac.

"Eh?" Charles cupped his ear.

"Get your hearing aids, foolish man." Lynda sniffed. "Tell Leigh, we still don't know where Mia is. We have disowned her."

Mason came out of his room and leaned a shoulder against the wall, listening to the end of their conversation. He lifted his eyebrows at Mac as his father said, "Speak up, Lynda."

"I SAID WE DISOWNED MIA." Lynda closed her eyes and turned her head away. For all her bitter fury, she was hurting over the terrible split in their family.

Charles looked at her and then at Mac. "Wish we could help more," he half shouted.

Mac nodded and thanked him. Apparently that's all they had to say, so when Mason moved toward the door and gestured for her to follow, that's what she did.

He revealed, "Mia dropped out of Stanford about her junior year and got into some kind of psycho-pseudo therapy that made her believe she'd been abused by our parents. She was not abused by our parents," he added firmly, as if she'd questioned it. "Our parents were tough, especially our mother, but you just had to shine it on and not get so wound up. Mia could never do that. She was always so tight. So, she comes back and spreads all this bullshit blame around. In high school she was driven and straight-laced and a fucking bitch when she wanted to be, but this was low, even for her. I told my parents to disown her. They didn't need a big push. They just were done with her."

"I didn't intend to stir it all up," said Mac.

"You didn't. And my father's deafness? Might be partially an act. He's just sick of listening to my mother. Ask me why I'm still here. Go ahead."

"Why are you still here?" Mac complied.

"Because unless someone keeps them on opposite sides of the room, it'll be a murder/suicide, or maybe a murder/murder. I can see them stabbing each other to death and cracking each other's skull open. They've always had trouble getting along but Mia's declaration made them go to their corners, plan their attacks. My father pretty much ignores her, but sometimes she flies at him. Someone's going to end up dead, I just hope it's not me."

"Wow."

"I know. It's a lot. I was just thinking somebody needed to know and here you are." He paused, then asked, "You have a number? Just in case . . ."

"In case you hear from her?"

"Just in case," he repeated and Mac verbally recounted her number, which Mason didn't mark down.

Mac moved carefully back to Taft's vehicle. He saw her coming and came around and opened her door. When he was back in the driver's seat, he queried, "How'd it go?" as he turned the ignition.

"Wonderful. Really, really good."

"That bad, huh?" he asked, catching her tone.

"No leads."

He hitched his chin in understanding. "I say we go to Laurelton General and see if we can get in to see Gavin. He woke up this morning—so not really much of a ‘coma,' I guess—but hasn't been allowed visitors, as yet, although one of his nurses called me back and whispered maybe we could see him if we headed over there."

Mac nodded and after they were on the road, he asked, "You all right?"

"They knew I was asking about Mia for Leigh. Leigh said she'd talked to them, but they wouldn't tell her anything. What she didn't tell me about were the . . . dynamics of that marriage."

"Meaning?"

"I was just thinking about Prudence and Mitch Mangella. You think she might have killed him."

"I have trouble believing he was fixing something on his roof. That just wasn't him."

"The Beckwiths' son, Mason, said he allowed me to see his parents because he wanted someone to know what they're like, in case they kill each other. And he blames Mia for bringing them to this point."

"Be careful," he said.

"Me?" Mac pointed to herself.

"In case he's planning to kill them himself."

" What? "

"Maybe he's telling you this because he's the one who wants them dead. Maybe he's already been planning it and you presented yourself as a perfect character witness. He's already let you know they would kill each other given half a chance, so that's what you'll believe."

"That's a hard turn. You're really that suspicious of people?" Mac gave him a long look.

"Well . . . yeah . . ."

He clearly had Prudence Mangella and Anna DeMarco top of mind, and she took a moment to look at Mason from another angle. It didn't hurt to be extra careful, even if Taft did seem a little paranoid.

As if following her reasoning, he shrugged and backtracked, "Maybe it's just what he said: a long-term marriage that's devolved into hate. Those're dangerous in their own way. You never know what's really going on in other people's lives."

"No, you don't," she agreed.

* * *

"Kristl? Krissy? . . . Krissy?"

Kristl braced herself at the bathroom sink, staring at her eyes in the mirror, eyes that looked bruised from lack of sleep. She glanced over at the black shirt and short skirt she'd tossed on her bed. She knew if she went and picked them up they would smell like sex. She'd kicked her silver heels across the room and winced now, worried that she might have scraped the heel when a shoe hit the wall, and those weren't cheap.

"Krissy?"

"Just a minute, Mom!" she called back.

Just a minute, Mom . . . how many times did she say that a day? Just a minute, Mom . . . Just a minute, Mom . . . Just a minute, Mom! How had her life devolved to this?

The health care worker had cautioned that her mother couldn't be left alone because she could wander and hurt herself. Kristl had pointed out that her mother was in a wheelchair and couldn't even seem to push it on her own any longer, so she wasn't worried about wandering. Once Mom was in bed, she stayed there. That's what the adult diapers were for in case she couldn't make it through the night. The health care worker, whose name was Sammy, simply reiterated that Mom couldn't stay alone.

Kristl sighed. Even if she sold the house, there still wouldn't be enough money to cover the cost of the kind of facility her mother needed, not once the mortgage was paid off. Kristl had been forced to stop teaching and had taken a job as a student career counselor that was totally online. It was hellish trying to coax students into thinking about what their next step in life might be, especially if they were the ones who thought they might go to college, or maybe not, just live at home and figure things out . . . It was lucky she was on Zoom because she wanted to grab them and shake them hard enough that their heads wobbled and then scream in their entitled faces, "Make a plan! Do something! Make your own way! And whatever you do, don't fall in love with someone who is fucking unattainable!"

She took a shower, letting the hot water run over her skin, so hot that it almost burned. She thought of Tim Knowles and the way he'd pulled away from her.

"Hey, no offense," he'd said, "but I'm not the guy you want."

"I think I know the guy I want," she'd returned, smiling. She knew how good she looked these days.

He'd just shaken his head and moved away. She'd learned later, from one of the other cops drinking at Lacey's, that Tim had mentioned that his brother, Gavin, had said something about Kristl. "Whad'ya do to Tim's brother?" Karl Bradley had panted as he'd been fucking her at his piece-of-shit apartment. She'd only gone with him to get information and to pretend he was someone else.

"Nothing!" she'd assured. It hurt her that Gavin was still telling everyone she was responsible for Ethan Stanhope's death.

Last night, she'd been with Karl again. Another trip to the piece-of-shit apartment, another night of sex in his king-size bed that barely squeezed into the bedroom, another grand fantasy in her head where she dreamed of someone else pushing into her and making her moan and scream. Karl thought he was this amazing lover and he wasn't half bad, but he wasn't anyone she really wanted. He was a placeholder until she found someone better. That someone was supposed to be Tim Knowles . . .

She swallowed. If she could have just gotten him in bed. If he would've just looked at her! And now it was too late . . . and all because of Gavin! It totally sucked.

And now Tim was dead, too.

She clenched her teeth, then went out to see what her mother wanted. Mom was stuck in the hallway, unable to move her wheelchair either forward or backward. She was in the process of trying to get out of the chair.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Mom. What are you doing? Sit down! I'll get you free."

"I called you," she mewled. "But you didn't come."

"I'm here now."

Kristl helped her mother to settle back in the chair and wheeled her back to the bedroom where she banged her hands on the arms in frustration. "I want something to eat! I want to go to the kitchen!"

"All right, I'm sorry. I've got it." She turned the wheelchair around with a little more force than necessary and banged into the door.

"Ow!" her mother cried.

"It didn't touch you! It was the side of the foot rest!"

"You're mean to me. You're always so mean to me."

Kristl swallowed back her frustration. Her mother and father had been inseparable; she knew because they always told her how in love they were and how much their lives changed when they had her, this colicky baby who upended their lives. Oh, but they loved her, too, they both assured her. It had taken a long time to realize they actually didn't, not in any meaningful way. When Kristl bonded with her friends they were relieved. That's how it looked anyway. Her mother had been slipping into dementia before her father died and Kristl had tried to tell him what was happening, but he wouldn't hear of it. Or maybe he did, because he died of a heart attack soon after Kristl began appealing to him for help. And then she'd been faced with her parents' financial affairs, how little they'd planned for the future. They had the house nearly free and clear but there were other expenses and no income. Her mother was years away from social security and the small nest egg they'd accumulated was gone. Kristl had applied to the state for help, but there were a lot of hoops to jump through and she could tell she was being looked at as an ungrateful child who was trying to put her mother in a facility and still keep the house, as per the state regulations, and . . . well, yeah, that's exactly what she was trying to do. If only things would happen faster. She couldn't be her mother's keeper. She wasn't made that way.

And neither were the rest of them, she thought resentfully, thinking of The Sorority. Natalie with her big TV job, Leigh with all her money and a loving husband, even Erin with her new job and her mangy cat. None of them had the responsibilities that she did. It wasn't fair.

She pictured Mia with some brilliant Stanford guy who was making a fortune in the marijuana business. Mia was brilliant, too, undoubtedly, but Kristl had always thought she wanted to be a slacker, like her brother, a kind of "fuck you" to her overachieving parents. Kristl could understand that completely. How many times had she wanted to give her own folks both middle fingers?

And Roxie . . .

No question she's slept her way to whatever she's doing.

"Krissy?"

She'd left her mother at the kitchen table and was currently staring blankly at the inside of the refrigerator. She pulled herself back to the moment and grabbed a package of thin, packaged ham slices that still looked edible, though they wouldn't be for long, and the mustard and mayo. "I'm getting you a sandwich."

"I want oatmeal."

"It's lunchtime." Really past lunchtime, but Kristl wasn't going to raise that issue because she might hear about it the rest of the day.

"I want oatmeal for lunchtime."

You get what you get and you don't have a fit. How many times had she heard that growing up?

Kristl slapped together the sandwich and went back to the refrigerator for some weak-looking iceberg lettuce and served her mother. She then checked the cabinet where she'd kept the wine. Natalie had opened three bottles. There was only one left. She'd recklessly spent money on all four of them, then had squirreled them away with the vague thought of sharing them with someone over candlelight. Mom would be asleep, or maybe even gone, and Kristl would be on the back patio on a summer night with a guy she wanted to take to bed and they would share the wine and move to the bedroom. She would wrap her legs around his waist and he would carry her in, both of them laughing about not spilling the wine, managing to get their glasses on the nightstand before falling on the bed together and making love like there was no tomorrow.

Her throat tightened. It wasn't so much a wish as a memory. Her one night with Ethan before Roxie stepped in and whisked Kristl straight out of his head. Mia had been over him, no matter what she said after his death. She'd been focused on college and Kristl had been focused on Ethan, but so had Roxie, apparently, though she'd blithely told them all, "Nothing happened," which was such bullshit. Ethan had practically had his tongue hanging out, following after Roxie those last few weeks of school.

When Natalie had urged them all to pledge to kill him, Kristl had agreed. She was mad at him. And Roxie ! She could've killed her with her bare hands! That last overnight at her house, prom night, Kristl had ducked inside her sleeping bag and tried not to grab Roxie by the shoulders and bang her head against the wall until she was bloody and senseless. She'd pulled off hiding her antipathy enough to make them all think she didn't mind Roxie crashing their party, acting like she was one of their group when she'd cheated. Kristl's skin had crawled when Roxie's palm covered hers as they all spoke the words to seal Ethan's fate. Of course, Kristl had been envisioning Roxie broken and bloodied in a pile of wreckage, not Ethan. Well, not exactly Ethan. She'd concentrated on Roxie, but she was mad enough at Ethan for being such a stupid jerk that she wanted him dead, too.

But he'd been gone for a lot of years now . . . still, she could feel the burn of tears whenever she thought of him, like now, and those tears starred her lashes and made her nose run so she had to sniffle.

Her mother tsk-tsked. "You cry too much," she said.

Did she? Kristl blinked a few times, getting herself under control. She thought of her last conversation with Tim.

"You slept with Ethan before Roxie did," he'd accused her.

"Who told you that?" she demanded. "Your brother? Gavin's always, always blaming me, and Ethan's death isn't my fault!" And she'd broken into tears.

But Tim, though not an absolute ass, said softly, "Gavin says you always cry because you secretly loved him."

That had sent her into gulping sobs. It was true! It was true! And Tim knew it. He could read it in her eyes. She'd wanted him to hold her and kiss her and tell her it was all going to be okay, that she was safe from now on, that he understood and from here on out he was going to stand up to Gavin and protect her because she was his and he was hers.

And she was so much better now. She'd lost the weight and pulled herself together. Ethan hadn't been able to see her inner beauty but now Tim could. He would. She was beautiful on the outside and the inside.

But instead he'd pulled away. He'd believed Gavin.

And then things had gotten out of control a bit. She'd been so hurt and she'd wanted to hurt back.

If you were really a good person, you would tell what you know to . . . not to the police . . . to Mackenzie . . .

"Oatmeal," Mom stated firmly, pushing the sandwich aside.