Dedication

To Pamela Record, a kind and generous member of my online book group on Facebook. Pam has worked tirelessly for years—without even being asked—to make well over one thousand bookmarks for other book group members, which we’ve distributed in the Brenda Novak Book Boxes (a subscription box service that contains an autographed copy of the book we are reading that month along with other fun, reader-related goodies). Pam also buys at least one copy of each new book I publish to contribute to the small lending library in her community—again, she’s always thinking of others. She’s one of the many wonderful people who make Brenda Novak’s Book Group so special, and I’m not only grateful to her, I feel blessed to call her a friend.

1

Red Onion State Prison, near Pound, VA

April 16

It’d been fifteen years since Lucy Sinclair last saw her father. She’d sat at his trial, as shocked and horrified by all that’d been revealed as anyone else. There were those in the gallery who’d lost a loved one and felt profound grief and anger. Her heart broke for them. But she received no sympathy as they showed graphic pictures of her father’s victims. That three-month stretch, from the time the police had knocked on the door to the moment her father had been sentenced to life in prison, had felt like she’d been catapulted into The Twilight Zone. Except it was real. At seventeen, she was going through something that most of humanity would never experience.

As she’d sat there alone, hoping and praying that, like he’d told her, none of what she was hearing was true, the other residents of North Hampton Beach, Virginia, where she and her father had been living for four years—the longest they’d stayed in any one place—had watched her suspiciously, simply because she was related to him. Some believed she had helped him cover up his heinous crimes. She knew that from the attacks she’d received on social media—before she’d pulled down her accounts. After he was arrested, the trailer they’d been renting had been vandalized.

But she’d had absolutely no idea he’d done anything wrong. She’d admired her father. Unlike her mother, he’d stayed, he’d continued to take care of her, and she’d believed he would stand by her forever. Their relationship had seemed perfectly normal.

The memory of his trial always brought a lump to her throat. In spite of everything, she’d missed him terribly. That wasn’t something she could admit to anyone else, though. She hated to admit it even to herself. Maybe she wouldn’t have felt his loss quite so acutely if she’d had any siblings or other family—people to love and support her in his absence. But she didn’t. And once he’d gone to prison, she’d cut off all contact—changed her last name to something she saw on a gas station sign to break that connection—and soldiered on alone, rambling around the United States in a beat-up old van she’d purchased with what little money she could scrape together by selling his tools and their furniture. While other girls went to college, she’d anesthetized herself with drugs and made what gas and grocery money she could playing poker—something she was surprisingly good at, so good that she’d eventually landed in Vegas and it was how she made her living to this day. She’d never gotten a degree, and other than a few restaurant jobs, she’d never had a boss, a 401K or a regular paycheck.

She clasped her hands to keep them from shaking while she sat on the small, cracked vinyl stool and waited for prison staff to bring Mick from his cell to the other side of the thick Plexiglas. She’d never been inside a prison before, had never felt so ill at ease, except at his trial.

She almost got up and left—several times. It was a beautiful spring day outside, perfect weather. The life she’d painstakingly built was out there, as well, two thousand miles away. But she’d come because she hadn’t been able to forget something he’d said. She’d purposely disregarded it once she realized he had to be a shameless liar, and yet . . . his words troubled her late at night when she couldn’t keep the more painful memories locked in the deeper recesses of her mind.

She was finally clean, stable and strong. If she was ever going to do this, now was the time. Or so she’d thought. She didn’t feel very strong at the moment. She felt like the little girl who’d craved her daddy’s love and acceptance and had believed he’d hung the moon.

Down the row, people used telephones to talk with their loved ones. Their voices bounced off the ceilings and walls of the cavernous space, creating a resounding hum. One woman, who had a young child on her lap, wept as she clutched the dirty receiver to her ear. Lucy couldn’t see the face of the inmate she was speaking to, but she assumed it was the woman’s husband and the child’s father. She wondered what he’d done. Cooked and sold meth? Robbed a bank? Embezzled money from his employer?

Chances were it wasn’t as bad as what Mick McBride had done.

A steel-gray door opened at the far side of the room where the prisoners were brought in, and she braced for how it might feel to see her father for the first time after so long. Once again, she had the impulse to run and never look back. Proving what’d happened to Aurora Clark shouldn’t be her fight. She was probably being foolish, thinking she had to establish the truth, once and for all.

But . . . if she didn’t, who would?

Besides, after traveling all the way from Las Vegas to Virginia, she meant to get what she’d come for. She was probably worried about nothing, but if she could determine that, the peace of mind would be worth it.

Digging her fingernails into her palms, she watched as her father shuffled toward her, his once handsome face lined and weathered, his thick black hair, which he’d always styled like his idol—Elvis Presley—now gray and buzzed close to the scalp.

He fixed his dark eyes on her as he sat. He seemed stoic, unemotional. And yet his hands trembled as he adjusted his manacles to lift the phone.

It took a moment for her to follow. She’d been instantly transported back to the night she’d been watching TV in her room while he was, as manager and handyman of the park, supposed to be taking care of the people who rented spaces—or having a beer at the local bar—but must’ve been breaking into the Matteos’ trailer.

What he’d done to the old couple turned her stomach. That was fifteen years ago, but she still had trouble believing he could kill two such kind and defenseless people.

Swallowing the bile rising in her throat, she lifted the handset.

He didn’t bother with hello. “You look good.”

He didn’t. He looked old and tired, a mere shell of the man he used to be.

She tucked her thick dark hair—so much like his once was—behind her ears. “Thank you,” she said woodenly.

He had to be wondering what’d prompted this visit. But he didn’t ask. “You married?”

“No.”

“Seeing anyone?”

“No.”

“That surprises me.”

“Why would it surprise you?”

“Beautiful girl like you . . .”

“I have trouble trusting men.” Unable to resist, she added sarcastically, “I wonder why that would be the case.”

He didn’t have the grace to even look ashamed. If he could do what he’d done—he probably wasn’t. That was the thing that set him apart, what put him in an entirely different class of people. “So . . . you’re planning to go through life alone?”

She’d had relationships here and there and one broken engagement back in her drug days. She was certainly glad she hadn’t married Dean. Last she’d heard, he was still using. “Not exactly. I’m just hoping to fix what’s wrong with me first.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I’ve had some counseling. Maybe I’ll continue.”

He chuckled without mirth. “Waste of time.”

“Maybe for you. I feel like it’s helped me—to a point.”

“Then I’m glad to hear it. Whatever works, right? Do you have any kids?”

“No.”

“That’s unfortunate. You always wanted a family.”

“It’s not too late.”

He didn’t say it, but it was probably getting close. “Where are you living these days?”

“Vegas.”

He rocked back. “Why Vegas?”

“I’m a professional poker player.”

He blinked several times. “You work for one of the casinos?”

“No, I play in one,” she clarified. “That’s how I make my living.” She could’ve lied and invented something else. She often did, simply because people assumed she must be a reprobate—in the Calvinistic sense—to make her living in such a fashion. Just the mention of poker conjured up dated images of late nights and smoky rooms filled with intoxicated, bleary-eyed players willing to risk their last penny, even though their children depended on the money. But professional players had to be patient, sharp and clearheaded or they wouldn’t be able to make a living for long.

Her father’s scraggly eyebrows slid toward his hairline. “No kidding. You win a lot?”

“Of money? Sometimes.” Because she was a woman, and younger, the other players tended to underestimate her. Or they got distracted coming on to her. She loved nothing more than to sit at a table full of older men who believed themselves to be better players than she was. That almost always worked in her favor. “There are also the endorsement deals, which can add up.”

“You must be really good if you have a sponsor.”

“I hold my own.”

“I remember teaching you the game,” her father said. “At least I left you with one skill.”

He’d taught her a lot of things. The parents of her friends had thought it a bit odd that she was introducing poker to her playmates in the fifth grade. Her upbringing certainly wasn’t conventional. But her father had always taken care of her and done what he could, considering his own background. He’d grown up in the foster care system and hadn’t kept in contact with the many families he’d lived with. He’d struggled with depression and with no extended family to rely on, they’d rambled around, which meant he hadn’t been the best provider. She’d been embarrassed and a little ashamed to have friends over, especially that last year as the richest summer boy started to show some interest in her.

But she remembered many times when her father had put her needs before his own. That engendered loyalty—and trust, which was why she’d never seen what was coming, and why she’d been torn in two ever since DNA evidence had connected him to the deaths of the old couple who’d lived in their trailer park. A separate jury had convicted him of a third murder involving a girl her age—someone she’d also known; someone who’d once been a friend—but on far less reliable evidence.

“You weren’t a bad father,” she admitted, which had to be the greatest irony in the world. She still couldn’t understand how a man could be two such opposite things. But he’d never hurt her. If he was going to kill someone, she would’ve thought he’d go after her mother. From what he’d said over the years, Billie had given him a million reasons to hate her. Her mother had let them both down in so many ways.

His forehead creased, and he shifted on the stool as if he didn’t know how to take the compliment. These days, he had to be far more accustomed to being reviled. Maybe he’d shut off all his emotions and what she’d said made him more uncomfortable than if she’d told him the opposite. “I thought . . .” He cleared his throat. “I thought I’d seen the last of you.”

“You told me never to contact you,” she reminded him.

“I thought that was what would be best for you—best for both of us. So . . . what brings you here? Must be important for you to have come so far.”

A million questions swirled in her mind. But she knew he couldn’t answer the ones that tortured her most. She’d already asked him why he’d done what he’d done—during the trial when her belief in his protestations of innocence began to crumble. He’d simply hung his head and said he couldn’t remember doing it.

“You told me something fifteen years ago,” she said, “something that’s bothered me ever since.”

“I’m sure there are many things that bother you about me,” he said wryly.

She wasn’t going to deny it. “This one had to do with Aurora Clark.”

“What about her?”

Aurora had been the most popular girl in high school. Born to wealthy parents who owned two art museums and a wine store in town, she’d also been interested in Ford Wagner, whom Lucy had been dating at the time. The fact that Lucy had disliked Aurora—for her aggressive pursuit of Ford and many other reasons—made it look as though he’d killed Aurora for her sake . . .

Maybe that was why this was so important to her. She was out to prove it wasn’t true as much as anything else. It couldn’t be true. She’d only ever mentioned Aurora to him as a “mean girl.” Unless . . . had he overheard her on the phone? Picked up on more town gossip than she’d imagined? “You said they could try all they wanted to come up with evidence linking you to her case, but they wouldn’t find any.”

“Because I didn’t kill her,” he said simply.

He stated it as if she could take it for what it was worth—and somehow seemed credible. Could she believe him, though? All the self-help gurus she’d followed on YouTube over the years would tell her she couldn’t. Before that fateful summer, there hadn’t been a murder in North Hampton Beach since forever. Then, suddenly, three bodies showed up within weeks of each other. What were the chances that there’d be two active killers at almost the same time?

Very small. Lucy understood that. She played poker for a living, calculated the odds on everything.

And yet . . . There were always outliers. Odds only predicted what was most likely true.

“You killed Tony and Lucinda.” Even she could hear the petulant accusation in her voice. “Why should I believe you about Aurora?”

He seemed world-weary when he answered. “You are the only thing I’ve ever cared about in my entire life, Lucy. But what I did created a permanent divide between us. Are you going to feel the way you once did about me if I killed one less person?” He chuckled humorlessly. “No. And I’m not going to torment myself by wanting it.” He jerked his head to indicate their surroundings. “You stay in here long enough, you grow numb. I told you when they took me away that I never wanted to see you again, and I meant it. I couldn’t face the pain and disappointment in your eyes. That was the real punishment. But now that you’re here . . .” He sighed. “I’m telling you the truth.”

There was so much in his statement that hurt—that he honestly had, and maybe still did, care about her, that he knew better than to even hope she could ever love him back, that by taking other people’s lives he’d essentially given up his own.

Flinching against those emotional daggers, she told herself to focus on the information instead. “If you didn’t do it, who did?”

He met and held her gaze. “Hell if I know. But someone’s getting away with murder. Maybe you care about that,” he said and hung up the receiver, signaling the end of the conversation.

2

May 21

Virginia

Ford Wagner stood on the beach, facing the sea, and closed his eyes as he drew the salt air into his lungs. God, he’d missed this place. He’d spent all his childhood summers in North Hampton Beach—had such magical memories of the warm sand shifting beneath his feet, the icy surf rippling over his body, the melodic sound of the ice cream truck as it made its daily rounds and the sight of an egg-yolk sun peeking up over the horizon when he was so eager to hit the beach sleep was no longer an option.

As he’d grown older, there’d been parties and bonfires to attend, not to mention losing his virginity to the much older girl staying in the house next door. He even got his driver’s license while he was here, after learning to drive in the Jeep his parents had given him for his sixteenth birthday.

Those were the days . . . But so much had changed. First, there were the murders that’d taken place between his junior and senior years in high school. They’d stolen the innocence of this small community, cast a pall over everything—and freaked his mother out so much she refused to come back.

Then, just before he’d graduated from Brown University with his MBA, his parents had gone through a bitter divorce and his father had married a woman who was half his age. After spending eight turbulent years with her and having two more boys—a second family—he’d had a heart attack and died in January. Now his widow was contesting the will, attempting to get more money. And not just a little. She was going after the bulk of the estate—something he couldn’t even mention to his mother. Sara was so bitter about everything that’d happened, it would just send her back into therapy. And he couldn’t expect his brother, older by two years, to help carry the load. Houston was an alcoholic who’d be on the streets if not for the paycheck he received from Wagner Business Solutions for doing absolutely nothing and Sara letting him live with her. Ford had to run the family business, as well as fight the parasite attempting to attach herself to the family fortune—while going through a divorce himself.

The perfect, healthy, happy family he’d once had was now shattered and broken, and his soon-to-be ex-wife was pregnant, which absolutely terrified him. He’d always looked forward to having kids, but this was not how he wanted to start a family. Now he was facing a custody battle with a woman who’d proven herself to be so vengeful he suspected she’d quit taking her birth control pills on purpose.

When he opened his eyes, he felt as though he could see the pieces of his former life drifting in the ocean like debris after a shipwreck.

“Ford, is that you?”

He turned to find an old friend walking toward him—someone he hadn’t seen for years—a Frisbee in one hand, an empty leash in the other and a Labrador retriever trailing behind, sniffing at a pile of seaweed. “Chet! How are you, man? I had no idea you’d be here.”

“I still come every summer. My sisters are too busy with kids in various sports, but as the baby of the family, I’m not involved in all of that quite yet. My wife and I use the house, and I get a few paintings done while I’m not in school teaching art classes. Then my folks, sisters and their families join us for a couple of weeks in August.”

“Where do you teach?”

“I’m in Baltimore these days, at a community college.”

“That’s great.” The last time he’d seen Chet Anthony was when they’d planned an Atlantic City meetup—together with a few other guys—during college. They’d all lived in different places and gone to different universities, so the only thing they’d had in common was summers in North Hampton Beach and that they came from mostly wealthy families, which was probably why, despite promises that it’d never happen, they’d drifted apart.

“I enjoy it—but would like to become successful enough with my own painting to do it full-time.”

“What kind of painting do you do?”

“Mostly I paint birds—in acrylics.”

“It’ll happen.”

“I hope so. It’s good to see you again. What brings you back after so long?”

Ford was searching for the peace and happiness he’d once known in this place. But he wasn’t about to admit that. His mother would be furious. She wouldn’t want anyone to know they had problems; she was all about keeping up appearances. “We’ve been renting out the house for so long it needs to be repaired and updated. So I’m taking a few months off to make that happen.” He was actually supposed to get it ready for sale. Since his mother and brother never used it anymore, they were pressing him, as the trustee of his father’s estate, to liquidate. They wanted the money. He might have to give his soon-to-be ex a portion of the proceeds, too, and Paris, his father’s widow. But he didn’t want the locals to know what he was planning to do until he pounded in the For Sale sign, mostly because he didn’t want to deal with their reaction. And he couldn’t face parting with the house that held his best memories. He wasn’t even going to allow himself to think about putting it on the market until the summer was over.

The dog was wandering too far. “Eddie!” Chet called and whistled to bring him back before saying, “Heard about your father, dude. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. Came as a shock. He was always so active. We thought he was perfectly healthy.”

“From what I heard, his new wife kept him busy.”

That was a euphemistic way of acknowledging the embarrassing relationship. Ford was shocked his father could be stupid enough to be fooled by someone like Paris. Just looking at the two of them together gave the impression she was a gold digger, and that was exactly what she’d turned out to be. “She’s not an easy person to deal with.”

“Spoiled?”

“Selfish, too. And she’s the mother of my two half brothers, so I’m unlikely to ever get her completely out of my life.”

“That’s rough. I wanted to attend the funeral, but Kira was days away from giving birth to Kenzie.”

A warm wind, coming off the water, ruffled their hair and clothes. “So you’re married and have a baby now?”

He smiled like a besotted fool. “Yeah. And both are pretty amazing.”

“Congratulations!”

“You’ll have to come by. I’d love for you to meet them.”

“I’ll do that. I’m sorry I haven’t kept in touch. Life has . . . gotten away from me.”

“No worries. It’s not all your fault. It’s been overwhelming for me, too. How’s your mother?”

Not the same. That was the thing. Sara was once a warm, fun-loving, well-adjusted woman. But the divorce seemed to have damaged her irreparably. Now she was anxiety riddled; only her psych meds kept her going. “Fine,” he lied.

“And Houston?”

Houston had been a burnout since high school. Most people assumed he’d never amount to much. And that was proving to be true. “The same.”

Chet once again called his dog to his side. “How long are you in town?”

“The entire summer.” He’d never needed three months to himself more . . .

“Really? Who’s taking care of the business while you’re gone?”

“My next in command.”

“You must trust him a great deal.”

“It’s a her, and I do. I’ll be working remotely while I renovate the house. But I can’t imagine Renee will need me too often. She’s been around forever, and sales typically slow down in the summer.”

“Wow, man, you’re running the whole freaking empire already. I always knew it would be you and not Houston.”

He ignored the Houston part. His brother benefited from what their father had built almost as much as he did, but he was the one doing all the work so things wouldn’t fall apart. The inequity of it sometimes bothered him. He kept telling himself to be grateful he was capable of following in his father’s footsteps, but he felt Houston could do more to help than he did. Instead, he’d become a burden, and that had created even more contention in Ford’s marriage. “Selling software to businesses isn’t an empire.”

“From what I’ve heard, you’ve made vast improvements to something that was already the best on the market. Wagner Business Solutions does data warehousing, right?”

He dug his toes deeper in the sand. He was still wearing the khaki shorts and golf shirt he’d arrived in. He’d been so eager to set foot on the beach he’d dropped his luggage as soon as he entered the house, kicked off his shoes and padded down the stairs off the deck. “Among other data-driven things.”

“Why would you take time off to renovate a house?”

Because he needed to do something different, something therapeutic, and for him that included working with his hands. By the end of each day, he planned to be too exhausted to think. “I’m looking forward to the challenge.”

“Have you ever been involved in construction?”

“No. But it isn’t rocket science. I’ll figure it out.”

Chet clicked his tongue. “If anyone can do it, you can.”

“And if I can’t, I’ll just hire a sub.”

“Some of the faces around here have changed. Let me give you my number. If you need help, I should be able to steer you to the right person—if I can’t lend a hand myself.”

“I appreciate that.”

They exchanged contact information. Then Chet called his dog one final time, put him on a leash and lifted a hand to wave. “We’ll figure out a date to have you over for dinner,” he said as he started to walk away.

“I appreciate that. It’s nice to run into a friendly face.”

“I might’ve given you the wrong impression. You should still know quite a few people. The old guard never seems to change.” Chet retraced the steps he’d just taken in anticipation of leaving, a serious expression on his face. “Matter of fact, I was just at the barber’s, where I heard that Lucy is back for the summer.”

“You mean . . . Lucy McBride? The one whose father . . .”

Chet’s mouth twisted. “Killed that old couple? And Aurora? Yes.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope. Only she goes by Sinclair now.”

“So she’s married . . .”

“According to the Clarks, she isn’t.”

“How would they know?” he asked.

Chet shrugged. “You got me. She’s rented the Smoot cottage—where that spinster librarian lived?”

“Lived? What happened to Ms. Smoot? Don’t tell me she passed away—”

“No, she’s in a home these days. Fell and broke her hip, so Dahlia’s taking care of the place while her aunt recuperates.”

He remembered Dahlia. She hadn’t hung out with his group, either, but he’d seen her around quite a bit. “And she rented it to Lucy?”

“Now you’re catching on. Aurora Clark’s parents are furious about it.”

Ford could see why, but . . . He scratched his neck. He thought of Lucy every now and then—more often than he wanted to—and felt bad for how he and the rest of the community had treated her. At the time, everyone had been so shocked and horrified they could think only of their own loss and anger. No one had been looking out for the daughter Mick McBride would leave behind when he went to prison, even though she was only seventeen at the time.

That seemed pretty harsh now. He’d wondered over the years how she’d gotten by on her own, what she’d been doing and how she’d turned out. She’d been smart. Savvy. He knew that from the time he’d spent with her. Had she gone to college? “What’s she been doing since she left?” he asked.

“No idea,” Chet replied. “I don’t think she stayed in touch with anyone.”

That didn’t come as any surprise. “Then . . . what in the world would bring her back?”

“That’s what we’d all like to know.”

“When will she be here?”

“I’m assuming the first of the month. That would make the most sense for rental purposes.”

The Smoot property was a small bungalow set off by itself, just down from his place. “Then I guess we’ll soon find out,” he said.

When Ford reached his family’s summer house, only half a mile or so from where he’d run into Chet, he didn’t stop and go inside as he would’ve done had he not learned that Lucy Sinclair was coming to town. Curiosity compelled him to continue walking and, when an inlet cut off the beach, take a small trail through the scrub grass to the Smoot cottage.

Although it was much smaller and didn’t have a view of the ocean like Coastal Comfort—the name his mother had given their house—the Smoot cottage offered privacy. He could see why Lucy might want to stay there as opposed to somewhere in town. It was out of the way of the locals, and most of the tourists wouldn’t even know about it, let alone wander this far from the public beach and the quaint restaurants and shops they frequented.

The trailer park she’d once called home was off the beaten path, too, he remembered, except it was on the other side of town. He could understand why she might not want to be close to that, either. He could only imagine the terrible memories seeing it would bring back. He’d never forget the day the police showed up to search her trailer. Ford had taken Lucy out several times by then—they’d actually become a couple—and she’d texted him immediately, terrified and confused.

She’d needed a friend. But he’d put her off, told her he couldn’t come over.

Looking back, he cringed at his response, especially because he’d never followed up like he’d promised. Instead, he’d distanced himself the way his parents demanded. They’d insisted she was trash, bad news, not worth his time. They’d said she had to have realized her father was a violent man who’d done something unforgivable, and not coming forward was just as bad as participating in those crimes herself.

He’d known they were stretching for something to hold against her. Judging by the stricken look on Lucy’s face during the trial, which was held in Montross only twenty-five minutes away, she’d had no clue.

Still, he’d allowed his parents to persuade him, and the fact that everyone else turned on her, too, convinced him they must be right. Kids were heavily influenced by their peers; he’d been afraid standing by her would make him a pariah. It wasn’t as if he’d been with her for months or years. If he’d known her better, maybe he would’ve reacted differently.

At least, that was what he’d told himself since. But he knew in his heart that what he’d done had hurt her—so much that she had to hate him.

He’d hate him if he were her . . .

The place looked dark and closed up, and the garden was overrun with weeds. It’d obviously been untended for a while. He remembered seeing the little free library old lady Smoot had put up next to her mailbox when he was just a kid and wondered if she’d ever be able to come home.

He walked around front. Sure enough, there was no car parked in the drive. But according to what Chet had told him, there soon would be. What did Lucy hope to accomplish here?

There had to be some motivation because, for her, returning to North Hampton Beach would be like bleeding in shark-infested waters.

He was just pivoting to head back when a car turned in. He’d been caught nosing around, which felt awkward, but it would only make matters worse if he skulked off as if he’d been doing something wrong. It was much smarter to wait and say hello to whoever was behind the wheel. At least then he could play off his visit.

Dahlia, Sharon Smoot’s niece, climbed out as soon as the engine went off. With her distinctive red hair and myriad freckles covering her face and arms, he recognized her immediately, despite the years that’d passed since he’d last seen her.

“Well, if it isn’t Ford Wagner, the boy everyone wanted to be—or be with!” she said, grinning from ear to ear.

“What are you up to these days?” he asked.

“Causing trouble, as usual.” She opened the back door of her SUV and hauled out a laundry basket full of sheets and towels. “What about you?”

“Just working for a living.”

“Well, what you consider a living and what I consider a living are probably two different things,” she said with a cackle.

“It’s good to see you again.” He walked over to carry the basket for her. “How’s your aunt?”

“Old, which makes it hard for her to mend. She’s been in a convalescent home in Richmond for months.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Looking confused, she relinquished the basket into his hands. “So . . . you walked over to visit my aunt? I didn’t realize you knew her that well.”

“I don’t. I just got into town and was on the beach when I ran into Chet, who told me you rented this place to Lucy Sinclair—who’s actually Lucy McBride. That true?”

With a grimace, she grabbed her purse from the front seat and slammed the door. “Don’t tell me you’re going to start in on me, too. I’ve taken so much grief over that. Everyone who comes to the bar where I work bitches at me for it. But I didn’t know Lucy Sinclair was Lucy McBride until I’d already admitted the cottage was still available. It took me a few moments to realize there was something familiar about her and ask if it was her.”

“And she admitted it was?”

“Seemed a little hesitant, which made me feel bad. She was obviously worried I wouldn’t rent to her if she told me the truth. And yet she was always nice to me when she lived here. So I’m not going to discriminate. Besides, my aunt needs the income to offset some of her medical bills and, as far as I’m concerned, Lucy hasn’t done anything wrong.”

He arched one eyebrow. “The Clark family would disagree with you.”

She shot him a sheepish expression. “I know. I remember that summer, too, and I feel bad for what happened to Aurora. She wasn’t the nicest person—not to me, anyway—but she didn’t deserve to die.” She dug around in her purse, came up with a set of keys and started for the front door. “Still, who am I to tell Lucy McBride that she can’t come back here?”

“I’m not suggesting you should’ve done that. I’m just wondering if you know why she’s coming.”

She unlocked the door and swung it wide before waving him inside ahead of her. “Nope. Didn’t tell me. And I didn’t want to pry. I’m just going to freshen the place and hope she doesn’t cause any trouble while she’s here.”

He glanced back at her as she followed him in. “I think the Clarks are more likely to cause trouble than she is.”

“They’d better not. She’s not the one who killed Aurora.”

“So they’re no longer claiming Mick did it for her benefit?”

The level of light in the room dimmed as she closed the door. “To get rid of her romantic rival? So that she’d have no competition for you?”

He didn’t want to be the reason anyone had died. He could only imagine how much worse it would be for Lucy to be accused, even if it was only via gossip, of having a girl killed over normal teenage drama. “They were claiming something like that,” he mumbled.

She took the basket and put it on the floor of the living room. “Aurora thought you were too good for a poor girl living in a trailer park. She complained about Lucy to her friends and family all the time. I bet that’s where it’s coming from.”

“Probably.” He remembered Aurora showing up at his house late one night, smelling of alcohol and being a little too eager to climb into his bed. Fortunately, he’d been so caught up in Lucy he hadn’t been interested—or he would’ve felt even worse about her death. “You’re saying they’ve stuck by it ever since?”

“Really seem to believe it,” she said. “I warned Lucy that they still live in town, and it might not be pleasant for her here, but . . .”

“But . . .” he prompted.

She sighed as she rested her hands on her hips and looked around at the dusty interior. She obviously had her work cut out for her. “Lucy’s either brave or stupid, because she wanted to rent this place, anyway.”

“So . . . when’s she coming?”

“Lease starts first of June. But I told her it’s sitting empty, so she can come whenever she wants.”

“And what’d she say to that?”

“She just thanked me—politely—and left it there.”

He didn’t need this complication. He’d come here to escape. But in a way he was glad. Maybe he’d have the chance to apologize and make up for what he’d done—or hadn’t done—so he could really leave the past in the past. “Do you have her number?”

Dahlia’s eyes narrowed. “I do. Why?”

“I’d like to have it—so I can check on her now and then while she’s here.”

“Check on her? Last I heard, you were married. As a landlord, I’m not sure I can give out that kind of personal information, anyway.”

“I’m divorced—or soon will be. But this isn’t about that. I feel I should’ve done more for her back then and would like to be able to look out for her now, from a distance,” he clarified. “I won’t bother her other than to make sure she isn’t harassed.”

Dahlia studied him for several seconds. “Okay, I believe you,” she relented and got out her phone.

3

He had Lucy McBride’s—Sinclair’s—phone number, which felt strange after so many years. Ford had been excited about her once, could still remember how beautiful she was with all that thick, curly dark hair tumbling down her back, her big, liquid brown eyes and her smooth, golden skin. When she wasn’t in a simple bikini at the beach, she’d almost always worn the same pair of cutoffs that hung loosely on her hips with a scooped-neck tee and a pair of flip-flops, and never bothered with makeup. Since all the other girls were highlighting their hair, getting their nails done, tanning for hours each day and buying expensive clothes, makeup and jewelry, she’d stood out. She didn’t seem to care all that much about her appearance, and yet, the more he’d looked at her, the more he’d thought she was the prettiest one of all.

She hadn’t been part of the group of friends he’d hung out with, though, so it hadn’t been easy to get to know her. He was among the rich summer folk, staying in multimillion dollar vacation homes with a view of the ocean, and she was a year-rounder who lived in a trailer park and worked at the hot dog stand by the beach to help her father pay the bills. The first time he’d seen her, he’d been with his buddies, sitting on towels to protect them from the hot sand, enjoying some shaved ice after tossing around a football, and she’d been playing in the surf with the three-legged mutt she’d called Trip she’d adopted from a shelter because no one else wanted him.

He remembered being mesmerized by the fact that she didn’t care whether or not they were watching her—didn’t care if anyone was. When her dog came hobbling over, she’d followed to drag him away, and from the start she’d seemed refreshingly wholesome and unpretentious—real in a world where everything else seemed staged. She’d come as a relief to him. His mother, and the other girls he’d known, were so concerned with the trivialities of life.

Of course, all that natural, God-given beauty made Lucy even more appealing. He wondered what she looked like now.

After spending the evening on the back deck with a glass of whiskey, staring out at the foaming waves washing up the beach under a full moon, he’d slept in the master bedroom and had breakfast in town, where he ran into several people who welcomed him back. He also heard Lucy’s name again, so he knew word was spreading fast and that the community wouldn’t be quite as welcoming to her.

He was tempted to warn her. Now that he had her number, he could text her. But Dahlia had already alerted her. She knew what she’d be facing here . . .

Before returning to Coastal Comfort, he drove past Shady Lane Trailer Park. The community had purchased the mobile home where the Matteos had lived, yanked it out and burned it to ashes. Then they’d put a statue in its place honoring the three people who’d been murdered in North Hampton Beach. Lucy’s old trailer was gone, too—replaced by a tiny park with a single bench. His parents had contributed to make these changes. So had the Clarks, of course, and many others.

He remembered his folks talking about the project, but they’d been back in Bethesda, Maryland, by the time it was finished.

He turned off his engine and got out so he could read the plaque on the bronze angel.

Did Lucy know about the memorial? How would she feel when she saw it? And what about the park bench that’d replaced the home she’d once shared with her father?

Nothing that summer could’ve been easy on her. That was what he kept coming back to—that and the fact that he hadn’t made it any easier.

When he returned home, he had a slew of work emails waiting for him. That would probably be the case most days. He’d have to wade through them and check to see if Renee needed him before he tackled any construction work.

But after he’d finished with his regular job, he wasn’t in a hurry to start on the house. Although the place was a little the worse for wear—it could use new flooring, window coverings and paint—he enjoyed being surrounded by the familiar. Fortunately, the service that’d managed the property had kept up with some of the bigger items. The roof and HVAC system had been replaced over the last few years. So had the deck.

He figured he’d have time to update the hot water heater and deal with the cosmetic stuff. He’d come here mostly to have a chance to heal from his coming divorce. He hoped he’d be able to do that. But he couldn’t stop thinking about Lucy . . .

Would she wait until the first of the month to move in? Or would she come in the next few days?

Maybe she was already in town, had shown up this morning, and the community just didn’t know it yet.

As soon as he got off the computer, he went out for a walk and veered around to the Smoot cottage on the way back. It looked quiet and dark, like it had yesterday. He assumed Dahlia had finished with the inside, but she’d done nothing to tame the weeds or make the outside presentable. He didn’t get the impression she was even planning on doing that . . .

He told himself the outside didn’t matter. But coming back here had to be so daunting for Lucy that he wanted to do something to make it easier—something that wouldn’t be attributed to him but just might make it feel a bit more welcoming. And if she didn’t move in until she was technically supposed to, which was still several days away, he’d have time.

After circling the house and assessing the flower beds, the broken gate and the overgrown hedges, he made a list of tools and plants he’d need. Then he jogged back to his own house and got his car to head to the closest nursery.

June 1

Las Vegas

Dahlia had said she could move in early, but Lucy had needed time to make all the arrangements. Even if she could’ve come earlier, she probably wouldn’t have. She’d spent fifteen years trying to distance herself from that terrible summer when her life fell apart. She still couldn’t believe she was reversing that decision and going back.

But if he didn’t kill Aurora, then someone else did, and that person should be held accountable. It wasn’t like she could just call the police and tell them they needed to reopen the investigation into Aurora’s murder. If she did, they’d probably laugh at her.

The death of the Matteos had broken her heart. Lucinda used to bake the best chocolate chip cookies, and Tony always had a smile and a kind word for her. That her father could harm them was unthinkable. But it was Aurora’s murder that’d affected her the most, because she’d been blamed, in an indirect way. So maybe she wanted to redeem herself, too—to prove she hadn’t been involved at all.

She had to sit on the lid of her suitcase so she could zip it shut—she’d definitely overpacked—but if she was going to be gone the whole summer, she’d need all the stuff she was bringing.

Once she had it closed, she checked her watch. Her Uber would be arriving any moment. Then she’d be off.

With a sigh, she wandered around the condo she’d purchased with cash from her poker winnings. It was a decent place, one in which she felt secure and far from the girl she used to be in North Hampton Beach. That would all change by the end of the day, but at least this haven would be here waiting for her.

If things got too bad, she could always return early.

Ford had worked at the Smoot cottage for four days. What’d started out as a simple cleanup job had turned into an all-out effort to make the cottage as appealing as it could be. Other than purchasing some basic supplies and plants, he hadn’t spent a lot of money. It didn’t make sense to spend too much on someone else’s property. But he’d invested plenty of sweat equity and was so pleased with the results that he kept going back to do just a little more and a little more after that until he was damn proud of how it had turned out.

He didn’t know anything about landscaping when he’d started and yet the place was now as appealing as the ones he’d found on Instagram and used as inspiration. As a matter of fact, he wished he could be present when Lucy arrived so he could witness her reaction. He thought she was going to love it. Who wouldn’t?

There were a few things he wished he could go over with her, to make sure that what he’d planted would survive if he couldn’t manage the watering and such. He didn’t want to freak her out by coming onto the property again and again, especially when he knew she’d probably rather not see him, not after how it had gone the last time he’d seen her.

He’d never forget stopping by the trailer after the trial was over. He’d felt bad that with her father in prison for life, she was suddenly on her own, cast adrift at seventeen with no family to help support her—and he felt guilty for walking away from her as soon as the police arrested her father—so he’d gone over to see how he could help.

He’d found her selling all the furniture they owned, wrestling what she could outside and taping a piece of paper on each item with the price, but she’d acted as if he was absolutely invisible, as if he wasn’t standing right in front of her. If he blocked her, she’d simply move on to something else. She wouldn’t respond to him even when he’d said he wanted to give her some money to help with the move. So then he’d tried to buy something, but she wouldn’t even look at him let alone take his money.

In the end, he’d left five hundred dollars on the counter—which she returned the next day by leaving it on the seat of his Jeep.

He winced as he recalled how he’d felt when he found the money. He’d known how badly she needed it, so he’d gone back over to try to get her to take it. But the trailer held only the remnants of her life in North Hampton Beach—what she hadn’t been able to sell. She was gone, and he hadn’t heard from her since.

As far as he knew, no one had.

Until now.

Again, he wondered why she was coming back. She had to be a glutton for punishment. Or was she out for revenge against the people here who should’ve been kinder but were so shocked and frantic over her father’s crimes they couldn’t help punishing her—to some extent, anyway—along with him?

His phone went off. Setting the lawn edger he’d just used against the side of the house, he dug his cell out of his pocket—and cursed when he saw that it was his soon-to-be ex. Christina had changed so much since the day he met her. He still wondered how he’d been so easily duped. Yes, she was a beautiful woman, but he’d always considered himself smarter than to be fooled by a pretty face.

Well, she was a lot more than a pretty face. It was her poise, her quick wit, her gregarious nature and her adventurous spirit that’d drawn him in. It wasn’t until they were married that he encountered her darker side. She soon became so demanding there wasn’t any way to satisfy her. She’d make her expectations clear, he’d do his best to meet them, thinking that was the only way to find peace, and then she’d just raise her expectations again. In the end, it’d felt like she was devouring his very soul.

He considered ignoring the call. He needed to finish gathering his tools so he could get off the property in case Lucy arrived. Let Christina scream at his voice mail. Then he could text her back, thus avoiding what was sure to be an emotionally charged conversation—because they all were.

Except she didn’t leave a message. She just kept calling him.

Steeling himself against the anger and irritation that welled up, he hit the Talk button. “’Lo?”

“Whoa! You answered?” she said.

Ignoring the accusation in her voice, he cut right to the point. “What can I do for you, Christina?”

“I heard you’re in North Hampton Beach . . .”

Someone at the company must’ve told her. She used to work for Wagner Business Solutions—that was where they’d met. But she’d alienated so many people over the years, he was surprised she still had a friend there who would speak to her. “And that’s of interest to you because . . .”

“You’ve told me a lot about that place.”

He still didn’t get it. “And?”

“God, you’ve gotten prickly!”

“We’re in the middle of a divorce,” he reminded her. “People who divorce usually aren’t on the best of terms.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”

“Friends?” he echoed.

“Look, I’ll be having your baby in seven months. Do you really want to give up on our relationship? Our biggest problem was all the time you had to devote to your work and your family. You never knew where to draw the line.”

That hadn’t been their biggest problem; it had only been one of them. And he’d been willing to compromise, as much as he could. But every time he took a step in the direction she wanted, she pushed him to take another. If he wasn’t free 24/7 to be at her beck and call, she wouldn’t be happy. “I still have the same job,” he said blandly.

“But you’re taking the summer off, right? Why don’t I come join you and . . . and we can try to rebuild what we once had—for the sake of our child?”

For the sake of our child . . . Everything she said was manipulative. She knew refusing a plea like that would make him feel terrible.

But he wasn’t going to make that mistake again. When he’d agreed to reconcile on two other occasions, it hadn’t worked. She’d already proved she wasn’t willing to put forth the effort necessary to change anything. She wanted him to be the one to please her, but that would require sacrificing his own judgment in favor of hers in every instance—becoming a mindless drone who believed only what she told him to believe and did only what she told him to do. What she wanted was control of everything, her way every time, and that was the one thing he couldn’t give her.

Closing his eyes, he chuckled mirthlessly while he imagined the summer with Christina in town. There was no way he wanted any memory of her attached to this place.

And even if he didn’t feel that protective of North Hampton Beach, reconciling with her would be like getting back into a car with a drunk driver who was already careening out of control. It would be one hell of a ride—and then they’d crash, and he’d have even more healing and rebuilding to do.

“I wish I could do that, but I can’t.” He’d lost too much of himself already.

His reply met with silence. Displeased silence. Stubborn silence. At this point, he knew the conversation would go one of two ways. She would either start screaming that he was solely responsible for the failure of their marriage, or she’d try to convince him to come back to her. She never listened to what anyone said, never accepted a reality she didn’t like—she always had to push for more. And because she was carrying his baby, she had incredible leverage over him. She knew how important it was to him that he be part of his child’s life, knew this would enable her to retain a certain amount of control.

“Don’t you remember what it was like in the beginning?” she asked, cajolingly. “It could be that good again.”

Except it couldn’t be. That was an illusion. A lyric from a Taylor Swift song came to mind—something about a nightmare being dressed as a daydream. “That ship has sailed, Christina. We’re no good together. We just need to figure out a way to move on with mutual respect and kindness.”

“You don’t think I’ve shown you the proper respect?” she snapped.

When she got angry, she didn’t show anyone respect. She could be absolutely ruthless one minute only to shrug it off the next. That she didn’t already know that about herself stunned him. But she was the least self-aware person he’d ever met, always blamed the other party for provoking her instead of taking responsibility for the cruel things she said and did.

“I’m talking about the future,” he clarified. “Let’s move forward with a renewed commitment to kindness—for the sake of our child,” he added, turning her own words back on her.

“That isn’t what our child needs. He needs both a mother and a father.”

“You don’t know it’s a ‘he.’” And a “he” wouldn’t tempt him back any more than a “she,” so she was throwing out another hook that wasn’t going to snag him. He’d love a child of either gender.

“I have a feeling it is.”

“Well, you’re mistaken if you think I have a strong preference.”

“You’re not interested in trying to make our marriage work either way?”

“It can’t work! We’ve already tried,” he said, and considering how long he’d suffered over the breakup, he was relieved to find he was truly done this time. He’d had enough.

“Fine,” she snapped. “Then I’ll just tell our child his father didn’t give a shit about him.”

“Christina—” he said, but she disconnected.

He sighed as he slid his phone back into his pocket. No wonder he’d enjoyed cleaning up the yard around the Smoot cottage. It was something he could fix. Nothing else in his life seemed to fall into that category.

The sound of a car turning into the drive caught his attention, and he quickly ducked behind a thick bush. He’d lingered too long. Now, if he didn’t want to be seen, he had to stay out of sight.

Was it Lucy? Or Dahlia, coming to see if Lucy had arrived and was getting settled in?

When the engine shut off and he heard a door open, he couldn’t help trying to peer through the leaves—and could immediately tell it wasn’t Dahlia. This woman was taller, thinner and had the same long, curly black hair he remembered Lucy having. She’d waited until the first of the month to move in, but she was here now.

She was in the driveway, and he didn’t have the best vantage point, so he couldn’t see her face clearly. The glimpses of her he did catch told him only that she was dressed in a white T-shirt, faded jeans and a pair of sneakers.

Her style hadn’t changed much. She still looked as if she preferred comfortable, casual clothing. But then . . . she’d been traveling. What he saw might not mean much.

He waited while she stood looking at the house. He was hoping to catch a glimpse of a smile—but the most he got was a look of cautious trepidation. Then she reached back in the car for several bags of groceries before jogging up the stairs to the porch.

He couldn’t see her after that, but he heard the spring of the screen door as she held it while trying to get inside. It took her so long he was tempted to see what the problem was.

She finally got in, at which point he was going to slip back over to Coastal Comfort, but she must’ve set the groceries on the counter and turned around right away, because she came back for her purse and a backpack.

He waited until she’d taken that inside, too. Then he grabbed his edger, because it was close, and left his other tools where they lay, figuring he could slip over and grab them after dark or when she went to town for something. He wanted to get away while he could do it cleanly. Her first moments here had to be hard enough; he didn’t want to make them any worse.

As he started down the dirt path leading to the beach, he couldn’t help turning back to look, with some satisfaction, at the landscaping he’d put in place. It was picture-perfect—unlike everything else.

4

The inside of the cottage was about what Lucy had expected—worn but functional with dated furniture and lots and lots of books. Lucy was hoping Sharon Smoot would be able to come home. The former librarian was kinder than most people, had brought over a casserole and homemade rolls after Mick was arrested. Sharon never specifically addressed the murders or Lucy’s father’s involvement when she stopped by that night with dinner. Lucy guessed she’d been as shocked as anyone, and yet she’d offered a scared seventeen-year-old girl a warm smile and a meal and didn’t rush to judgment.

That Sharon had shown some self-restraint and compassion was part of the reason Lucy had wanted to rent her cottage—it was one of the few places left in North Hampton Beach with which she had a positive association. She was also drawn to it for its location, of course. She liked that the cottage was sheltered and out-of-the-way. She didn’t want to attract too much attention.

But once the Clarks learned she was in town, they probably wouldn’t allow her to lie too low, so maybe she wouldn’t be able to avoid it.

After she finished putting away the groceries she’d purchased, she went back out to get her suitcase. Whoever was taking care of the yard was doing a fabulous job, she thought, as she noticed the carefully tended bushes, shrubs and flowers. She didn’t remember the place looking this nice when she lived in town before and was surprised Dahlia hadn’t posted photos of the exterior. If she had, the cottage probably would’ve rented before Lucy could even inquire about it. It was tourist season, after all. North Hampton Beach didn’t get as busy as Virginia Beach and some of the other towns, but it still received an influx of people looking for sun and sand and a chance to get away.

Apprehensive about being seen, she took a furtive look around before hauling her big suitcase out of the SUV she’d rented at Ronald Reagan Airport, where she’d flown in. She felt safer inside the house. But there didn’t seem to be anyone else in the immediate vicinity, so she breathed a sigh of relief and used her key fob to lock the vehicle. When she’d first moved to North Hampton Beach with her father, most people didn’t even bother to lock their cars or their houses. Such precautions hadn’t seemed necessary.

That’d all changed with the murders, of course. Or maybe it’d been long enough that things had gone back to normal, but she guessed she’d still be a target for the vandalism and other acts of hate she’d begun to experience once her father was tied to the deaths that’d occurred here, so she was going to do what she could to protect herself.

As she dragged her suitcase inside, she noticed a roll of plastic lawn bags, some clippers, pruning shears and a rake at the side of the house. Apparently, the gardener had forgotten some tools. So she went to retrieve them and put them in the detached garage, which was full of storage anyway, to save them until he or she came next time.

After that, she tried to distract herself by becoming acquainted with the contents of the kitchen so the nostalgia—and the more difficult memories that kept bubbling up—wouldn’t overwhelm her. But staying busy wasn’t enough. As the sun started to set, her spirits began to sink, too. Had she been a fool to return here? What did she really hope to accomplish? How would she go about it? And how long would it take?

That was probably one of the biggest questions because she wasn’t convinced she’d be able to last the entire summer.

She was pacing in the living room, trying to decide if she should give up before she even started and go back to Vegas, when her phone rang. She hoped it was one of her friends, checking to see if she got in okay. A familiar and friendly voice would probably help. But Caller ID indicated it was Dahlia Hunsacker, Sharon Smoot’s niece.

If she was going to have to interact with the locals, Dahlia would be a good place to start. They’d already spoken over the phone and she’d been decent, so Lucy drew a deep breath and answered.

“Hi, there!” Dahlia responded once she’d said hello. “You in town yet?”

“Just got in,” she confirmed.

“Great. How was the flight?”

It’d been interminable—a very long time to second-guess her decision. “Tedious.”

“I bet. Well, I hope the cottage is comfortable, at least. Everything okay there? I stocked the kitchen with water, coffee, creamer and some snacks to tide you over until you can reach the store.”

Her kindness nearly brought Lucy to tears. It was more than she’d expected. “That was very nice of you,” she said and meant it.

“No problem. Is there anything else you need?”

“No, I’ll be fine from here. I’ve stopped by the store on my way into town, so I have plenty of supplies. And everything looks great, especially the landscaping. I don’t know who you hired, but you definitely don’t want to let go of him or her.”

“Landscaping?” Dahlia repeated in apparent confusion.

“Yeah, the yard.”

“But I haven’t hired a gardener.”

“You did it yourself?”

There was a slight pause. “I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t even think about the outside. It was . . . it was pretty overgrown when I was there last, so I should have. But . . .”

Lucy crossed to the window and peered out at the dogwood, yellow border forsythia and mountain laurel—she didn’t know the names of the rest of the trees and plants. “It’s not overgrown anymore,” she said. “It’s all been groomed very recently.”

“How?”

Lucy had no answer. “I don’t know, but I found a bunch of gardening tools on the side of the house, which also suggests someone was here recently.”

“I’m completely baffled!” Dahlia exclaimed. “I mean . . . it’s hard enough to get someone to do a good job when you’re paying for it. But to have someone clean up the yard without charging me or even telling me about it is . . . just plain odd.”

“Maybe it’s someone who has fond memories of Sharon—a favor to her. As I remember, she was good to the whole community.”

“But we don’t even know when she’ll be back,” she said. “And no one seems to be paying any attention to the cottage. The only person I’ve seen around there, at least in the past few days, is Ford Wagner.”

Lucy had just taken a drink from her water bottle. At the mention of Ford’s name, she nearly choked before she could swallow. “Ford Wagner was here?” she asked in sheer disbelief once she could speak.

“Yeah, but there’s no way he’d ever act as gardener for anyone. Rich as he’s always been, I doubt he even knows how to mow a lawn.”

Lucy cleared her throat. “I thought . . . Well, I assumed he’d be somewhere else—Bethesda where they lived before, I guess—helping his dad with the family business.”

“His dad died in January. Ford’s running the show now.”

“What about his older brother?”

“I get the impression Houston’s still not up to much.”

Closing her eyes, Lucy pressed a finger and thumb against her eyelids. She’d purposely not allowed herself to think about Ford in a very long time. He’d been her first love, so the fact that he’d no longer had any interest in her after her father was arrested had ripped her heart out. She’d given him her virginity only days before news of her father’s killings had broken and still hated herself for being so stupid as to believe he might truly have been interested in her as a person. She’d thought she saw something deeper in him than she’d first expected—judging by the friends he’d hung out with—but she should’ve known better. “I’m sorry to hear about his father.”

Her words had been clipped so as not to invite more conversation on the subject, but Dahlia didn’t veer away from it. “I guess it was totally unexpected. A heart attack. Came out of nowhere.”

“That’s too bad,” she muttered. Then, before she could catch herself, she asked the question that was suddenly burning uppermost in her mind. “So where’s Ford now—I mean, today? He’s not here in North Hampton Beach, is he?” Please, God, no . . .

“I think so. He told me he’s planning to stay for the whole summer.”

Shit! “What about . . . Didn’t you say he was in charge of the family business these days? If that’s the case, how can he be gone for so long?”

“Apparently, he has plenty of people to help him. Besides, he said business is slow this time of year.”

Lucy dropped her head into her hand. That wasn’t something she’d bargained for when she decided to return to North Hampton Beach. What was she going to do now?

She didn’t want to bump into Ford. She didn’t want to speak to him. She didn’t even want to think about him. Ever. Again.

“Lucy? You still there?” Dahlia asked when she fell silent.

Trying to shake off this latest blow, she pulled her mind out of the well of her own thoughts and quickly formulated an answer. “Sorry. I was just . . . distracted by a text that came in.” It wasn’t true, but it was a believable excuse, which was what she needed. “I’d better let you go. I have to get back to . . . to this other person.”

“No problem. I won’t keep you,” she said. “I just wanted to welcome you to North Hampton Beach and make sure you’re comfortable.”

“I appreciate that.” Dahlia had obviously turned into a kind adult, like her aunt.

Before Lucy could disconnect, however, Dahlia spoke again, “I also wanted to tell you that . . . that the word is out.”

“The word?” she echoed, once again confused.

There was an uncomfortable silence before Dahlia clarified. “Everyone knows you’re in town this summer.”

“How?” she asked.

“I wanted to break the news ahead of time, so it wouldn’t come as such a shock. I thought it might help, that maybe everyone would treat you better for having been prepared. But I also want to warn you, just in case . . . just in case they aren’t as nice as I’m hoping.”

Damn it. Why did Dahlia have to give her presence away so soon? Lucy had been hoping for a few days to acclimate before she had to contend with the hostility of the community. “Thanks for letting me know,” she said, trying to keep her voice as even as possible.

Dahlia still didn’t say goodbye. “They’re mad at me for renting to you.”

Lucy wanted to say, Then maybe you shouldn’t have told them. But she swallowed those words and curbed her tone. At least Sharon’s niece had been willing to let her have the cottage. Dahlia could easily have decided not to accommodate her. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to make anyone’s life more difficult. Would you like me to find somewhere else to stay?” By now, there had to be people who’d bought homes in the area who were willing to rent to her and wouldn’t realize who she was—or care.

“No. I would like to ask you something, though.”

Tension knotted Lucy’s back and neck muscles. “What’s that?”

“What is it you want here? Why have you come back?”

Lucy couldn’t tell the truth. That would send the whole community into an uproar—not to mention put the person who really killed Aurora on high alert. “I was happy here, for a while,” she said. “I’ve missed it, wanted to see it again and have as much right to be here as anyone else.”

“You’re not out for any sort of revenge . . .”

“Against a family who has already lost a daughter? That would almost make me worse than my father.”

“Good to hear. Okay, then I hope the summer goes well for you. Call me if you have any trouble with anything at the house.”

“I will.”

“And if the gardener ever comes back to get those tools, let me know who it was and why he or she went to so much work,” she said with a laugh.

“You’ll be the first person I call.” The yard was certainly a mystery. Lucy didn’t quite understand why Dahlia couldn’t at least guess at who’d done it. But neither did she care. She had much bigger questions to answer.

“Did you hear that Lucy McBride is back?” Anna Stover shifted nervously, holding her phone to her ear while glancing over her shoulder at the patio where her husband was grilling hamburgers. She didn’t want him to overhear, didn’t want him to ask her who she was talking to or what she was talking about. He hated her brother with a passion, said he was a bad seed, and since Reggie couldn’t seem to keep himself out of jail for any length of time, he wasn’t welcome at their house any longer.

Reggie did have a terrible temper. Anna had always been extremely careful of how she behaved around him, and it didn’t make life any better that he seemed to be getting more volatile as he aged.

Still, she couldn’t help trying to see the best in him. He had his good points. He was handsome and funny, the first to defend those he loved and the life of the party, at least when he was in a good mood. But his drinking and drug use had grown worse after Lynnette, his wife of five years, took their little boy, Zander, and left him several months ago.

“’Course I know she’s back,” he responded. “Everyone knows she’s back. It’s all I hear about when I go into town.”

“And?” she prompted.

“And what?” he barked.

She heard the edge to his voice, understood what it meant. The slightest thing could set him off. But this was important, so she steeled her nerves and pressed on. “You’re not . . . uneasy, worried?”

“Why would I be?”

She lowered her voice so that neither of her children—a six-year-old boy and an eight-year-old girl—could hear her. She didn’t know exactly where they were, but they were in the house. “Because of what you told me that day in the park!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said dismissively.

Had he been too high to remember that conversation? Or was this pure denial—with a hefty dose of regret for revealing what he’d revealed to her in the first place? She certainly wished he’d never mentioned it. She’d been wracked with guilt ever since, trying to balance the love and loyalty she felt for him with what she believed to be right. “You told me you made it up!”

“You’re remembering it wrong,” he said. “Without me, the police would’ve had a much more difficult time solving Aurora’s murder. I did them a favor. I did her family a favor, too. Do you think the Clarks wanted McBride to get away with claiming he didn’t do it?”

He could turn things around so quickly—twist them beyond recognition—and didn’t seem to feel even a flicker of remorse. “But you lied!” she reiterated.

“Sometimes lying is necessary,” he responded, a shrug in his voice. “You’re not a child. You know that.”

“When you don’t want to hurt someone’s feelings, maybe,” she allowed. “But this is different.”

“How? I brought them closure. Hell, I’m proud of myself.”

“But are you sure Mick McBride is the one who killed Aurora?”

“Anna, there couldn’t have been two murderers running around North Hampton Beach at the same time. That’s ridiculous!”

She agreed. That was why she hadn’t come forward, but knowing he’d lied haunted her, troubled her.

Before she could respond, he continued, “Look at it this way. There’ve been no more murders since McBride went to prison. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“Yes. I guess.” It did mean something, didn’t it? “But . . . you don’t plan on telling the truth—ever?”

“No! And you’d better stay out of it! It’s over and done with. Everything turned out for the best.”

She could see why he’d think so. He’d been facing arson charges for burning down a house that was, fortunately, empty at the time he started the fire—all to get back at one of his druggy friends for ripping him off. Becoming a jailhouse snitch had enabled him to get away with another slap on the wrist. But the truth was the truth. She knew her husband would look at it that way, which was why she’d never told Joel that Reggie had perjured himself. “I just . . . I wonder if we shouldn’t speak to someone about—”

“Anna, stop!” he broke in. “Do you want me to go back to jail? For what? Telling the truth at this late date would only make everyone mad. And I’m sure the Clarks would want me to remain silent. The same holds true for the prosecutor and the police.”

If only they hadn’t put McBride into Reggie’s cell the day they arrested him . . . “In other words, the end justifies the means,” she muttered.

“You just need to let it go,” he reiterated. “The decision’s been made. It can’t be undone now.”

But she’d been only sixteen when he’d made her promise she wouldn’t tell anyone! “Are you sure?”

“I’m positive!”

“O-kay,” she said, reluctantly. Then she heard her husband open the slider. “I have to go.”

“But you’re good?”

“I’m good,” she insisted and disconnected.

Her husband had forgotten something in the kitchen. After he came in, he went right back out, giving her a little more time alone, for which she was grateful. Maybe Reggie was right, and she was making a big deal out of nothing. Of course Mick McBride was the one who killed Aurora. Who else would do it?

A strange thought popped into her head, sending a shiver down her spine. Reggie had been out of jail when she was killed. And he’d done some terrible things in his life—besides burning down that house. He’d bullied other kids, sold drugs, broken into cars to steal wallets and purses at the beach, gotten too physical with his old girlfriend and been in more than his share of bar fights.

But there was no way he’d ever commit murder.

Or was she simply blinded by her love for him? Her familiarity with him? Although Reggie didn’t believe Lucy’s return meant anything, Anna couldn’t help finding it rather ominous. If all Lucy wanted was a few months by the sea, she could’ve gone to so many other places. Places that didn’t hold such terrible memories. Places where she wouldn’t have to face the friends and families of her father’s victims. Places where she wouldn’t have to deal with the resulting prejudice.

Reggie had to be wrong, didn’t he? Because when Anna looked at the situation from all angles, she could only believe that Lucy would not have come back without a very good reason.

5

Ford was so drawn to the cottage he had a hard time not going back over to it. Although he tried not to think about Lucy and what happened that summer, he was curious about her, and his curiosity seemed to be growing now that he knew she was so close. What was she like now? What’d happened to her after she left North Hampton Beach?

He waited until dark before returning for his tools. But they were no longer where he’d left them, and he couldn’t find them even after walking around the house. She, or someone else, must’ve taken them.

That wasn’t happy news. He’d need them if he planned to keep the yard in tip-top shape, which was somehow important now that he’d gotten it to its current state. Working with plants and soil had been oddly therapeutic for him, especially because he’d brought the yard from ruin to a state of great promise.

He figured he could replace the rake and other things easily enough, though. They hadn’t been expensive to begin with.

The squeak of the screen door on the back porch caused him to freeze. Someone was coming . . .

He hesitated by the side of the house, where he couldn’t be seen, and waited as someone descended the two steps to the ground. Although he couldn’t see who it was, he knew it had to be Lucy.

She headed down the beach.

Curious, he moved slowly and quietly so that he wouldn’t catch up with her. A fairly strong wind rippled over the water as he watched her bend over to pick up a small piece of driftwood or a seashell and throw it back into the sea. Once, he saw her examine something and slide it into the pocket of the loose-fitting, holey cutoffs she wore with a simple T-shirt.

Her body hadn’t changed much, he realized. She was still slender and athletic. Not just any woman could pull off those baggy cutoffs and still look so appealing . . .

He remembered encountering her one day as they were filing into the courthouse. Although he had no official role, he’d attended as much of the trial as he could. The whole town had. They were fascinated by it. So many people had known both the victims and the perpetrator. And he’d known the perpetrator’s daughter better than most people. The pain in Lucy’s eyes as they connected with his that day was palpable, made him feel like throwing up, and yet she’d quickly shuttered her expression, blinked stoically and turned away as if he were any other stranger.

He shook his head at how excited his parents had been when he’d brought Christina home. The daughter of a wealthy real estate developer in Florida, she’d had the pedigree Lucy lacked, thus they’d been completely supportive. The fact that Christina and her family had plenty of money was partly why it was so enraging that he couldn’t reach a settlement with her in the divorce. No matter what he offered, she refused it simply because her only goal was to make things more difficult for him.

The echo of his soon-to-be ex-wife’s voice had been reverberating in his head ever since she’d called him yesterday: I’ll just tell our child his father didn’t give a shit about him.

He wouldn’t take that lying down, would do all he could to counteract her lies and vindictiveness. But would it ever be enough? Or would Christina poison their son or daughter against him no matter what?

Lucy had stopped walking. She was facing the sea now, staring out into the black void.

He pulled back into the bushes, suddenly afraid she’d see him and be spooked. But he couldn’t move away.

“Turn around,” he whispered, and then, almost as if she’d heard him, she did.

He held his breath as she slowly wandered closer. She seemed deep in thought, but it was starting to get late. He assumed that was partly what was urging her to go home.

He could see her face clearly for only the few seconds she was in the moonlight, but from what he could tell, she’d matured nicely. Her gorgeous brown eyes and that riot of hair were still her best features.

Still, as much as she looked the same on the outside, he was willing to bet there’d been marked changes on the inside. And he hated to think he might be responsible for some of them.

He waited until she was back in the house and it was safe for him to move. Then he continued back to Coastal Comfort.

He had a sinking feeling this summer wasn’t going to be the peaceful getaway he’d hoped.

That night, Lucy sat at the kitschy blue table in the cottage with a notebook, a pen and a glass of wine. She’d gone over the details of what’d happened when she was in North Hampton Beach fifteen years ago many times—but always with the goal of convincing herself she was wrong to believe anyone could’ve hurt Aurora other than her father. She’d argued with herself for years—insisting she only wanted to believe it could be someone else. Never had she forced herself to make a list of people who might know more than they realized or could’ve harbored some ill will against the most popular girl in school. Entertaining the possibility that it could’ve been one of her peers seemed outlandish. They’d been so young!

But it was equally shocking that her own father could take a life. So she figured she needed to open her mind to whatever the facts presented.

The first person who came to mind was Ford Wagner, probably because she couldn’t quit thinking about him. If his family still owned the same vacation home, he wasn’t staying too far away from her, which made her wish she’d found a different place to rent for the summer. She didn’t think he had anything to do with Aurora’s death—she’d been with him until very late that night—but she thought he might know something that could help. Maybe he was protecting a friend or wasn’t even aware that he held information pertaining to the case, because everything—and everyone, including Aurora—had circled around him that summer. It stood to reason he was connected in some way.

His face appeared in her mind. She remembered how playful he was, how much he liked to tease her, and had to smile, although a bit sadly, when she imagined his big hand engulfing hers as they walked down the beach. It’d felt like she could tell him anything.

Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to relive the first time he ever approached her. He’d seemed surprisingly shy, as if he didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t expected that; every girl in North Hampton Beach had wanted him. He’d told her later his reticence was because she didn’t seem to be interested in the same things other girls were, and he’d assumed that would include him.

The emotions tied to those long, sun-drenched summer days threatened to overwhelm her as she remembered their first kiss. Although she’d kissed a couple of other boys by that time, she’d never had an official boyfriend. Ford was her first, and she’d been totally swept away. Having his mouth on hers . . . She’d never experienced anything quite so intoxicating.

Oddly enough, that held true all these years later. Maybe it was because she couldn’t let herself be carried away quite to the same extent—not after the scars he’d left—but the warmth and excitement that’d come over her when he kissed her that day had been unique.

Still, she’d been careful not to get physical with him too soon. It’d been difficult to trust his interest in her. She hadn’t been part of his crowd, couldn’t help wondering why me?

But as those idyllic weeks passed, during which they spent almost every moment together, she’d fallen more and more deeply in love and her resistance soon melted away. Before long, she’d wanted to be with him so badly she no longer cared what happened to her after.

And that was when he’d dropped her—as soon as she’d overcome her reservations.

Wincing, she opened her eyes and forced her attention back to the task at hand. She needed to forget the personal aspect of this exercise and focus on Ford’s connection to Aurora. Since Aurora had been calling him—even coming over late at night, according to gossip started by Chet and Ford’s other friends after Aurora was murdered, which was partly why so many people thought she might’ve had something to do with it—he could’ve been one of the last people Aurora tried to reach before she died. That certainly hadn’t come out during the trial but, probably thanks to his powerful parents, Ford hadn’t even been put on the stand.

The girls Aurora had hung out with could know something, too. Aurora had had plenty of enemies. She hadn’t even been able to get along with her own brother. Darren, only one year older, hadn’t been nearly as popular as she was. That summer he’d seemed sullen and unhappy—and strangely unemotional during the trial.

Of course, there could’ve been people involved that Lucy hadn’t even thought of. But eliminating those she already wondered about would be a start.

She needed to put Reggie Burton on her list, too, she realized. If Aurora had been the stereotypical “mean girl,” Reggie had been the stereotypical “bad boy.” A poor local, like her, he’d gotten into trouble all the time, which was why he’d been in jail when Mick was arrested.

Scooting her chair back, she reached for her purse and pulled out the two letters she’d received from her father. She’d written him once she got back to Vegas to ask if there was anything he could tell her that might help.

It’d taken a couple of weeks to get a reply—long enough that she’d begun to think he wouldn’t write back—but, ultimately, she’d received a single sheet of paper with three short paragraphs that included his suggestion for how to proceed:

. . . I’d see what Reggie Burton is up to these days. Everything that jailhouse snitch said was a lie. Even if I was the one who’d killed Aurora, I’d never be stupid enough to tell him or anyone else about it. He made it all up.

She’d written back again after that and asked him to tell her everything he knew about the night Aurora was murdered.

His second letter had arrived much more quickly. But his response was no help. He claimed he couldn’t remember anything about that night. Since he hadn’t killed Aurora, there was nothing remarkable to remember.

Lucy let her gaze linger on his signature: Dad. Not Love, Dad. Just Dad. Somehow the fact that he wasn’t love bombing her made it easier. She’d sworn she’d never have anything more to do with him, especially after he told her he’d refuse her visits and ignore her letters even if she tried. Yet here she was, striking up a correspondence for the sake of what she was hoping to accomplish. Now that she was back in Virginia, he wasn’t so far away, but visiting him wouldn’t be quick or easy. Red Onion State Prison was on the other side of the state.

If he didn’t write back quickly enough, it might be worth the seven-hour drive, however. What she was trying to do in North Hampton Beach wouldn’t be easy. She was afraid she’d wind up spending three miserable months here with nothing to show for her time in the end. If it came to that, she fully intended to go home and leave the past in the past once and for all. At least she would’ve done what she could, would’ve tried to make sure justice had been served. That would have to be good enough.

Until that day came, she’d simply do her best. But if she was to have even a small chance of success, she’d very likely need her father’s help.

Putting his letters back in her purse, she went onto social media to search for Reginald Burton. She hoped he was still in the area and that she’d be able to find him. If her father said to start with him, that was exactly what she intended to do.

Anna looked around to see who might be watching. She wasn’t supposed to be at Reggie’s house. Her husband would be angry with her for stopping over. He said Reggie could hurt her one day, that he didn’t deserve the love and devotion she showed him. But being family meant you didn’t have to earn love and devotion.

At least, that was what it meant to her. And as badly as her brother behaved sometimes, she couldn’t believe he’d ever truly harm her . . .

Besides, her mother had asked her to look in on him. Natalie said he hadn’t shown up when he was supposed to meet her in Baltimore for lunch and he hadn’t been answering his phone. Standing someone up without an explanation was so typical of him that Anna might’ve told her to relax, he’d resurface eventually, and left it there. But she figured she might as well relieve her mother’s concern since she was hoping to have another opportunity to talk to him, anyway.

She needed to convince Reggie to take Lucy’s presence a little more seriously. Had he told anyone else what he’d told her? Bragged to his so-called friends about how he’d helped to convict a killer? Or tried to look like a hero to some girl he was hitting on?

She wouldn’t put it past him. He was mouthy, especially when he was drunk, and cocky enough to think he could get away with anything. So far, he’d been lucky enough to wriggle out of almost every scrape he’d gotten into. But that didn’t mean his luck would hold . . .

She banged on the door of the dilapidated duplex he called home. He complained about having to pay rent when the place needed so much work. But if the landlord fixed things, he’d probably raise the rent, too, and Reggie would no longer be able to afford to live here. He was out of a job more often than not.

She didn’t get a response, but there was no point in knocking again. LeRoy Brown, her brother’s pit bull, was barking like mad and jumping against the door. If Reggie was home, he had to know he had company. But that didn’t always mean he’d answer, so she yelled out, “Reggie? It’s me, Anna! You in there?”

He didn’t holler back to her. The only thing she heard was more barking from LeRoy. Reggie worked as a Sheetrock hanger for a couple of local contractors. Maybe his truck was in the drive because he’d caught a ride from someone who was on the same jobsite . . .

She was just starting to walk back to her car when an SUV pulled in behind her Ford Escape. At first glance, she thought the driver was Reggie’s new love interest. It wouldn’t be surprising that he’d already moved on. After all, his wife claimed he’d been unfaithful too many times to count.

But as the woman got out, Anna’s stomach fell to her knees. Shit! Reggie was a fool to be so cavalier. It was Lucy McBride.

Lucy had never thought much of Reggie Burton. There’d always been something about him that frightened her. Although she didn’t know what he was like these days, he’d been a two-bit crook even as a kid. If he wasn’t ditching school and stealing cigarettes from the convenience store, he was joyriding in his mother’s car long before he had a driver’s license. But Reggie hadn’t killed anyone.

Or maybe he had. For all she knew, he was the one who’d strangled Aurora. If that was the case, she was taking a chance coming to his house on her own, so she was somewhat relieved to see his sister on the stoop when she arrived. Anna had been as quiet and obedient as her brother was the opposite. If Lucy had to trust one of them, it’d definitely be Anna.

But she hadn’t anticipated encountering anyone besides the man she suspected of lying about her father, and she wasn’t eager to explain why she’d come to see him.

She considered backing out of the drive and leaving, but that would raise as many alarm bells as staying, so she figured she’d get what she could out of this visit.

After turning off the engine, she left her purse in the car and got out.

Anna, squinting against the sun, watched her suspiciously as she approached. “Never thought I’d see you again.”

“I never thought I’d see you again, either,” Lucy said.

“So . . . why have you come back?”

“Unfinished business.”

“How’d you get Reggie’s address?”

“He gave it to me.”

She looked alarmed. “What?”

“He posted it on Facebook Marketplace. Reggie’s selling a generator, isn’t he?” That Reggie would include his address on a public forum said something about him. He obviously thought he was top dog and didn’t have anyone or anything to be afraid of.

“You’re looking for a generator?” she asked skeptically.

“No, but the fact that he’s selling one came in handy. He around?”

“I don’t think so.”

Lucy looked pointedly at his truck.

“If you don’t believe me, go ahead and knock.” Anna gestured at the door. “I can’t get him to answer. Either he’s passed out drunk or he caught a ride with someone.”

It didn’t sound as though Reggie had changed a whole lot. Lucy wasn’t interested in going any closer, not without more hope that doing so would accomplish something. Even from where she stood, she could hear a dog barking furiously from inside the house. She had no idea what that dog might do if he was let loose. “I’ll come back later.”

Anna followed her as she backtracked to her rental vehicle. “What do you want with Reggie?”

Lucy was tempted to ignore her. She didn’t owe anyone an explanation, especially Anna, who would naturally be protective of her brother. The last thing she wanted to do was make anyone feel she was a possible threat. That would only escalate the animosity she’d encounter this summer.

But she had to have some reason for returning, and as soon as she started asking questions about Aurora’s murder, everyone would realize what she was after, anyway.

Bracing for whatever might happen, she turned. “I want to know why he lied about my father.”

The blood drained from Anna’s face. “Wh-what do you mean?”

Lucy opened the door to her car to give herself an easy escape. Revealing her plan meant she’d be drawing battle lines; Aurora’s family and everyone who supported them would be arrayed against her. But she had to be strong and stand up for what she believed to be true, regardless of how unpopular it would make her. If her conscience had allowed her to do otherwise, she would’ve stayed in Vegas.

Besides, she only had three months here. As much as she might want to put off any type of confrontation, she couldn’t. “My father’s a murderer, Anna. I’m not defending him. But I don’t believe Aurora was one of his victims.”

She stepped back. “Why not?”

“Because her case was different.”

“Maybe that was because he wanted to take care of your little problem with Ford.”

“That’s what everyone said. It makes it all so plausible, so believable, right? But I hadn’t even told my father that Aurora was calling and texting Ford. My father was all I had. I relied on him, and he seemed to care about me—as much as someone like that is capable of caring, I guess. But I didn’t share a whole lot about my love life. He didn’t think I should even have a boyfriend at that age. I wasn’t about to draw his attention to the fact that I was seeing someone, especially someone like Ford. He complained about the wealthy people buying up all the real estate in this town, didn’t take kindly to the way they were driving up prices. And since I didn’t tell him about Ford or Aurora, he would’ve had no reason to go after her.”

“Maybe it was just bad luck. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time—like the Matteos when they came home from Florida a day early,” Anna shot back.

“What happened with the Matteos was completely different. The murders didn’t even happen in the same way. One was a robbery, the other a sex crime.”

“The result was the same.”

“Someone else killed Aurora,” she insisted. “Maybe it was even your brother.”

Anna’s jaw dropped. “What’d you say?”

“He was out of prison the night she was murdered,” she said. “He wasn’t arrested until right before my father was caught.”

“That doesn’t mean anything! A lot of people were out of prison.”

“None of them lied to help get a conviction against my father.”

She blinked several times. “He—he didn’t lie,” she stammered. “And he would’ve had no motive to . . . to hurt Aurora.”

“That you or I know about.”

The color rushed back into her face. “You can’t come here and accuse innocent people of—”

“Innocent?” she broke in, incredulous. “If I’m right, Reggie committed perjury and maybe obstruction of justice, too!”

“You’re grasping at straws. I’m not having this conversation,” Anna said. “The past is the past. Why don’t you just leave it there?”

Lucy gaped at her. “Are you saying it doesn’t matter who killed Aurora? That you’re fine with the wrong person getting the blame?” Stepping closer, she lowered her voice because she saw a curtain move on the other side of the duplex and knew the neighbor was looking out at them. “You realize that would mean there’s a murderer on the loose . . .”

“Well, if there is, it’s not my brother.”

The sound of an engine drew their attention. A man who looked to be in his fifties pulled to the curb, and Reggie got out of the passenger side.

“What’s going on?” he asked as he slammed his door shut so his ride could leave.

Anna put up her hands as if she could hold back the tide of his response. “Nothing. Lucy was just leaving.”

Lucy wanted to ask Reggie about his testimony. Surely, even he could understand that what he’d done meant whoever had really killed Aurora had walked away without any accountability.

But she felt outnumbered. And he was already so defensive and belligerent she didn’t think she’d get anywhere with him. She’d been hoping he’d grown a conscience since she left; that certainly didn’t seem to be the case. “I just want to say . . . if you lied on the stand that day, you should come forward—not to save my father from taking the rap. He’s where he needs to be, and he’ll never get out. But if someone else killed Aurora, it’s high time we recognized that fact and did something about it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “So you’re back to cause trouble.”

“I’m back to make sure justice was carried out—and to give Aurora a voice if it wasn’t.” She knew she was asking a lot of Reggie, probably too much. From what she’d learned on the internet, perjury was a Class 5 felony, punishable by up to ten years in prison. And there was no statute of limitations. Someone who lied under oath could also be charged with contempt and several other crimes. Not many people were tried—perjury was hard to prove—but if Reggie admitted to lying during her father’s trial, there would be no burden of proof. No one could say how well that would go for him, but it might not go well at all.

“You’re calling me a liar?” he yelled.

She’d thought she could at least try to reason with him. But his instant rage suggested he’d never do the right thing, which meant her time in North Hampton Beach would not only be difficult, it would probably turn out to be a total waste of effort.

She was tempted to back down. After all, she wasn’t getting her information on good authority. Her father had killed two other people.

Still, she couldn’t escape the fact that she believed him about Aurora. Maybe that made her a fool, but he’d managed to convince her. And if he didn’t kill Aurora, Reggie had to be lying. “Yeah, I am,” she said.

He charged toward her, calling her a stupid bitch who wouldn’t know her head from her ass, but Anna grabbed hold of his arm while Lucy hurried to get inside her vehicle. If she’d learned nothing else today, it was that Reggie wasn’t someone she wanted as an enemy.

And yet . . . what kind of person would she be if she backed away from her beliefs as soon as she faced resistance? If everyone did that, good would never triumph.

She wasn’t going to allow him to intimidate her. Whatever happened this summer couldn’t be any worse than what she’d faced fifteen years ago, when her entire world fell apart. At least she was an adult now. At least she had work and resources and a home waiting for her in Las Vegas.

She knew it was reckless, but before she pulled out of the drive, she rolled down her window. “I can tell you this much,” she said. “You might as well come out with the truth because I’m going to get to it eventually.”

6

Ford was sitting at Bleu Mer, a sidewalk café that served some of the best seafood in the world, working on his laptop when a hostess led Nelson and Patti Clark to a table nearby. Ford noticed them immediately. He’d been looking around while thinking about how to compose the email he was writing. But they didn’t see him. They were too preoccupied, visibly upset.

Done with work for the day, he closed his laptop and put his credit card on the table so he could pay before the dinner rush started. There wasn’t any need to continue taking up space. But then he heard Lucy’s name and motioned for the waiter, who’d started toward him, to get him another glass of wine instead.

“That was what he said,” Patti insisted.

“But why would Lucy suddenly show up at his place out of nowhere?” Nelson responded.

“He said she doesn’t believe her father’s guilty of Aurora’s murder and she’s come back to prove it.”

“Seriously? She sat through the same trial we did. She knows her father’s a cold-blooded murderer.”

“Love for a parent is a strong bond to break. She must still be in denial. Otherwise, why would she ever come back here and . . . and upset us again? Haven’t we been through enough?”

Nelson didn’t respond right away. When he did, his speculative tone surprised Ford. “Except . . .”

“What?” Patti had obviously picked up on the change.

“You know what Reggie’s like, Patti. He’s hardly a pillar of the community.”

“What does that mean?” she demanded.

“It means I’ve often wondered how reliable he is. A person like that would probably say anything to save his own skin. And the police were under so much pressure to solve the case . . . Maybe they were a little too eager to accept his story.”

“You can’t really mean that!”

“I’d be lying if I said his lack of credibility has never crossed my mind.”

Patti lowered her voice; Ford had to strain to hear her. “I don’t care if he was lying. And when he called me, I told him as much. So what if the police had to bend a few rules? At least they got the man responsible for our child’s murder! Mick McBride’s in prison now, where he belongs. That’s what counts.”

“That’s why I’ve never openly questioned Reggie’s testimony. But think about it for a second. What if he was lying?”

Patti leaned closer to her husband. “Where are you going with this? You always have to play devil’s advocate, but I’m not having it. Not when it comes to Aurora.”

“Honey, I loved her, too,” he said soothingly. “So bear with me for a second.”

Apparently, she wasn’t willing to even entertain the idea because she came back fighting. “Mick McBride has to have done it!”

Ford was tempted to turn so he could see them in more than his peripheral vision, but he was afraid that would draw their attention. So he continued to sit quietly, with his back slightly to them, as Nelson lowered his voice.

“Calm down. We’re in public.”

“You think that matters to me? You think anything matters more than Aurora?”

“I’m not challenging you. I just wish there’d been more direct evidence.”

“Mick McBride killed the Matteos, too. It’s not like he’s rotting away on the testimony of only one unreliable witness!”

“I’m glad he got caught. It’s just . . . hard to think that . . . that maybe the person who took Aurora’s life might still be out there.”

“Oh, my God!” Patti cried. “Are you listening to yourself? There is no one else! Are you forgetting how jealous his daughter was of Aurora? Aurora was everything Lucy wasn’t.”

“Some would say Lucy was beautiful, too,” Nelson said, which Ford had to applaud, given the man’s obvious prejudice. Personally, Ford had found Lucy to be more attractive.

“She was no good, just like him,” Patti spat. “The way he rambled around this town at night was creepy, especially in retrospect. He had the opportunity, and his own daughter gave him the motive.”

“But I wouldn’t be able to trust what Reggie said if I didn’t want to believe it so badly. You don’t feel the same?”

She lowered her voice again. “Of course I do. But . . . why would he lie about this?”

When Nelson didn’t answer, Ford had to assume he was giving his wife a shocked look. Reggie definitely had something to gain; Nelson had already pointed that out.

“Never mind,” she said, probably realizing that she could hardly be objective. “We’re just lucky he said what he did—whether it was true or not.”

The waiter brought Ford’s drink, which must’ve caused the Clarks to look up and recognize him, because Nelson got up and walked over. “Ford!”

Ford tried to act surprised, as if he hadn’t known they were there. He didn’t want them to know he’d been listening to them argue. “Hey, Nelson. How are you?”

“I’m fine. I didn’t realize you were back.”

“Just got into town a few days ago.”

“It’s been a long time since you were here last.”

“Years,” Ford agreed. “I’ve missed the place.”

“You might not be so happy to be here when you learn that Lucy McBride is also in town.”

Ford thought about all the work he’d put into making the yard at the cottage beautiful for Lucy but didn’t want anyone to know about that. “I’m aware. Word’s been going around.”

Patti came over, too, causing Ford to shift uncomfortably. He preferred not to have a conversation with the Clarks, especially about Lucy. “Do you know why she’s back?” Patti asked, following up on what Nelson had just said without so much as a greeting.

“I have no idea,” Ford replied. Except what he’d just overheard, of course. That was the first clue he’d been given as to why Lucy would return to North Hampton Beach, and he was as surprised by it as they were. What made her think her father hadn’t killed Aurora?

Patti’s eyebrows slid up as if she didn’t quite believe him. “It’s just a coincidence that you’re both here together?”

Reminding himself that the pain of losing a child never went away, Ford tempered the irritation that threatened to enter his voice. “That’s exactly what it is,” he said. “I haven’t spoken to her since she left here fifteen years ago. To be honest, I can’t believe she’d ever want to return. This place has to harbor some terrible memories.”

The waitress approached, probably wondering if the Clarks were planning to move tables. Ford wished they’d go back and order their dinner, but they didn’t. Patti said they weren’t ready quite yet, and the girl retreated with a promise to return in a few minutes.

“You seem pretty sympathetic when it comes to Lucy,” Patti said when the waitress was gone.

“I guess I am,” he admitted. “After all, she was hurt by what her father did, too.”

“Are you sure she didn’t ask for it?” Nelson challenged. “She might be the one who got Aurora killed.”

It would’ve been easy to let them think whatever they wanted to. He had enough fires burning in his life; he’d be a fool to start another one, especially here, where he was hoping to heal.

But he’d let Lucy down fifteen years ago. Now that he was no longer so easily influenced by the thoughts and feelings of those around him—including his parents, who’d figured prominently in his decision-making back then—he was going to handle things differently, act according to his own conscience, regardless of the consequences. “I don’t think she had anything to do with Aurora’s death,” he stated firmly.

Patti gaped at him. “Because you don’t want to feel partially responsible?”

He felt his muscles tighten. These people were suffering, but they were trying to place blame where it didn’t belong. At what point did Lucy’s feelings and well-being matter? Why wasn’t she as important as everyone else—including their precious Aurora? “I’m sorry about your daughter. But you should know that I wasn’t seeing her. I was seeing Lucy.”

“What does that mean? You were stringing them both along?” Patti said. “I certainly hope not, because that would make Aurora’s death as much your fault as it was hers!”

“Patti . . .” Nelson’s tone served as a rebuke, but Patti didn’t apologize.

Ford stood so that they could all be at eye level. “Look, I don’t want to be a callous jerk. But I also don’t want to see Lucy treated the way she was treated last time—as if she was as responsible for what happened here as her father. So it’s important that you understand the way things really were. I wasn’t conflicted about who I wanted. Lucy and I were excited about each other. We were having fun, oblivious to everything and everyone else. She would’ve had no reason to complain to her father about Aurora, because I gave her no reason to believe I was going to break up with her.”

Patti’s eyes flared wide. “You’re talking as though you and Lucy were exclusive, as if . . . as if you weren’t seeing my daughter, too. But she talked about you all the time. Told me . . . lots of things. So I know better.”

He shook his head. “I can’t imagine what she told you. She came over several times, but it wasn’t at my invitation and . . . and nothing happened. I didn’t even kiss her.”

“What are you trying to say?” Patti asked.

Ford winced. “I’m saying she would call me and text me and show up at the house unexpectedly, but . . .”

“You didn’t want her to,” Nelson filled in.

Considering the situation, Ford hated being so brutally honest, but he also felt it was about time. Although he’d said basically the same things before, he hadn’t been nearly vocal enough, and because he’d been so young at the time, his parents and others had cast his assertions and opinions aside. Nodding to affirm Nelson’s statement, he said, “It put me in an awkward position because I already had a girlfriend.”

Patti lifted her chin. “Trailer trash! You wanted trailer trash over our beautiful daughter?”

He’d had a lot of time to think about the kind of person Lucy had been, how classy she was when he cut off their relationship—without even calling her—and how stoically she’d carried on in spite of everything. “Lucy was one of the kindest, most decent people I’ve ever known. I sincerely regret that I didn’t make a bigger point of telling everyone that fifteen years ago.” He picked up his credit card along with his laptop and tossed a hundred-dollar bill on the table. “And now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“So . . . what is it you’re doing in North Hampton Beach?” Missy asked.

Lucy was still a little rattled by her encounter with Reggie Burton, which was why, after spending the rest of the afternoon trying to talk herself into some sort of calm and failing miserably, she’d called her best friend in Vegas. She’d needed to hear a familiar voice, be reminded that she was no longer the vulnerable person she’d been when she lived here. “I just . . . wanted to get away.”

“But why North Hampton Beach? I’ve never even heard you mention that place.”

For good reason. She’d been trying to escape the terrible legacy her father had left behind. She wished that would’ve been possible, that whatever was driving her to seek justice for Aurora hadn’t reared its ugly head and interrupted the life she’d built so carefully in the west. “You’ve probably heard that quote by e. e. cummings—it’s always ourselves we find in the sea.”

“California’s on the coast, too,” Missy reminded her. “And it’s a hell of a lot closer.”

“California beach towns are different.” She’d missed the East Coast but coming back probably wasn’t going to be worth what it cost her, especially now that she’d alerted Reggie to the reason she’d returned. She’d kicked a hornet’s nest, which would very likely get the whole town buzzing.

Lucy didn’t like to think about what Reggie might’ve done had Anna not been there. It was entirely possible he wouldn’t have done anything more than he did—shout at her. But he was so damn menacing. He reminded her of a growling junkyard dog, teeth bared, as he strained at his tether, probably because his own dog had been barking so threateningly from inside the duplex.

“So what’s it like there?” Missy asked.

Lucy pulled her mind back to the conversation. “The town or the coast?”

“The town, I guess.”

“It’s located on Virginia’s Northern Neck Peninsula, about an hour’s drive from Washington DC and Richmond, and it’s a river town as much as a beach town.”

“What river are we talking about?”

“The Potomac.”

“Isn’t that the one George Washington crossed?”

Lucy chuckled. “That was the Delaware.”

“Oh, well, I was never very good at history. How many people live in North Hampton Beach?”

“Only about four thousand. It’s a sleepy little town most of the time with a handful of mom-and-pop restaurants, some gift shops, that sort of thing.”

“You seem to know a lot about it . . .”

“I lived here once,” she admitted.

“On the East Coast? When?”

Propping her legs on the coffee table where she was sitting on the screen porch, she looked out at the darkness. She couldn’t see the ocean from the cottage, but she could hear the surf. “When I was a kid.”

“Before your father died?”

Her mind conjured up the image of Mick as she’d seen him in prison. He’d looked like a stranger. In some ways, he’d felt like one, too. She’d gained enough distance from his crimes that she felt she could be more honest about her past—with Missy if no one else. But if she remained silent, she’d be able to return to Vegas when she was done with North Hampton Beach and never have to be reminded of the past, never have to talk about it or account for it. So as hard as it was to continue to hide that part of her personal history now that she was dealing with it again, she decided to stay the course. “Yeah, before my father died.”

Everything else she’d told Missy about her childhood was basically true. She told everyone who asked about her past that after her mother ran off, she’d been raised by a single father, that they’d moved around a lot and that he’d died when she was only seventeen, at which point she’d set out on her own. Death instead of prison. That was the only change—and yet it left out what had defined her life more than anything else.

“If that’s where you lost him, it must be a trigger for you.”

“I was happy here, so the memories are definitely bittersweet.”

“I’m sorry he died so early, especially considering how much you must’ve needed him. Do you want me to see if I can get some time off so I can come out there? I hate that you’re facing those kinds of memories alone.”

“I’m fine. Really. I’d never expect you to do that. I know you need to work.”

“I’ll take the time off if you need me.”

“Thank you. Just the thought makes me feel better.” She shoved one of the throw pillows behind her lower back. “How are my plants doing?”

“Much better than when you were taking care of them, that’s for sure,” she said with a laugh. “Did you ever remember to water them?”

“Occasionally.” It was getting late. Completely relaxed, Lucy covered a yawn. But a second later, she tensed and sat up straight. Someone was outside! She could’ve sworn she saw movement—the dark shadow of a man at the corner of the property.

Her mind immediately returned to Reggie. Surely he wouldn’t bother her . . .

A chill ran down her spine as she got up and crossed to the screen that enclosed the porch, straining to see through the trees and deep into the shadows.

“Lucy?” Missy’s voice came through the phone.

“What?” she said, absently.

“I said my mom’s trying to reach me.”

“Oh, sorry. I’ll let you go.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow when I get off work.”

“Okay.” She was still staring outside when her friend disconnected. But she couldn’t make out the same shadow, didn’t see or hear anything move, either. Had she imagined it?

She wanted to take a flashlight and reassure herself that there was nothing out there. But she knew that would be foolish. Instead, she went inside and after making sure the doors were locked, she went around and closed and locked all the windows, too. She’d been enjoying the breeze as the temperature cooled, but she knew she wouldn’t feel safe if she left a window open.

The house grew stifling within an hour. To cool off and help battle the terrible humidity, she took a cold shower and wore only a tank top and a pair of panties to bed. But still she lay awake for hours, listening to the creaks and groans and other settling noises of the house before finally drifting into a fitful sleep.

7

Ford sat at the kitchen table with his laptop, studying Reggie Burton’s Instagram account. It was a long shot that he’d find something that would indicate whether Reggie had lied during the trial of Lucy’s father. It’d been far too long since then. But getting to know him again in a general sense could help Ford gain some sense of what the man was like these days. Having Lucy back in town could even prompt Reggie to post something he normally wouldn’t—or shouldn’t. The fact that he’d called Patti Clark about his encounter with Lucy was interesting. It gave Ford the impression that he was trying to make sure the Clarks remained united—with him—against her. Most people didn’t have much respect for Reggie, but it was different for Nelson and Patti. They had money, which gave them a certain degree of clout, and, unlike Reggie, they actually contributed to the community. So if Reggie was guilty of lying, it would be wise of him to shelter in the shade they provided . . .

Was that what he was doing?

Ford scrolled back through the man’s posts. They were mostly about Confederate statues and symbols, trucks and women. He didn’t have many followers, so there wasn’t a lot of interaction. His sister, Anna, seemed to be the most supportive person he knew. She commented on anything that wasn’t too politically charged or divisive. For instance, she hearted every picture he put up of his little boy, and she’d wished him a Happy Birthday a few weeks ago.

Would a man who’d just killed three people give a cellmate he barely knew details of his crimes?

Ford figured that sort of thing had happened before, especially with personalities who craved attention or were prone to brag. But he remembered Lucy’s father as a quiet loner, a man too antisocial to take to a stranger that quickly. When Ford looked at the situation from that perspective—from how gruff and unfriendly Mick had seemed, not to mention how self-serving Reggie still was—he could see why Lucy might have her doubts about Reggie’s testimony.

But what did it mean? Was there something that required what happened that summer to be reexamined? Aurora’s parents certainly wouldn’t be happy to have such a question raised; he’d heard their reaction at the restaurant. No one else would be excited about it, either. The fact that there was strong evidence to connect Lucy’s father to the Matteo murders made it easy to believe he’d also killed Aurora. Maybe too easy.

At least Ford now knew why Lucy had returned. She was looking for answers—and maybe vindication. She’d also been maligned because of Aurora.

But if Mick hadn’t murdered Aurora, who had?

The idea of a second killer seemed ludicrous. No one had been harmed since.

Pushing away from the table, he got up and began to pace as he scoured his memory of the night Aurora went missing. At about nine o’clock, she’d texted him, asking to meet on the beach. He’d told her he was tired and heading to bed—because he was already hanging out with Lucy and wasn’t interested in seeing her but didn’t want her to get jealous and cause a problem. When Aurora didn’t respond, he’d been relieved to have gotten away so cleanly. But he woke up the next morning to his parents pounding on his bedroom door, asking if he knew where Aurora was. They said she’d told her parents she was going to a party with him and several other friends and had never come home.

At the time, he’d been more annoyed at being disturbed than worried. The Clarks had let their children run wild. Patti had been the kind of mom who was so eager for her daughter to be popular that she made almost nothing off-limits to her. He’d simply assumed that when he’d told Aurora he was going to bed, she’d gone over to Stephanie’s or Jackie’s or Josephina’s. Those were the girls she’d hung out with most often.

But he’d soon learned that she’d gone to a party down by the river with Stephanie, who’d had to get home before Aurora was willing to leave. After Stephanie said goodbye to her at the party, no one seemed to know what happened to her—when she’d left, where she’d gone or who she was with. Everyone just grew more and more concerned.

Then, a week later, her body was discovered floating in the Potomac. The coroner’s report named strangulation as the most likely cause of death—there’d been no water in her lungs to suggest drowning—but the body was too bloated and decomposed to determine if she’d also been sexually assaulted.

Stepping onto the porch, Ford stared out over the beach as he replayed what he could remember of the conversations he’d had with Lucy after Aurora went missing. At first, she hadn’t acted too worried about Aurora, either. But as the days passed and the search intensified, Lucy had expressed mild concern, and she’d seemed as shocked as he was when they found Aurora’s body.

Pulling out his phone, he scrolled through his contacts to locate Lucy’s number. He wished he could communicate with her, let her know he’d do what he could to help her this summer. If there were still some unanswered questions about what happened fifteen years ago, she had the right to put her doubts to rest.

But he knew that after the way he’d behaved before, she wouldn’t want anything to do with him, so he eventually put his phone away.

Lucy hadn’t felt so conspicuous in ages. She’d gone to the grocery store to pick up some fresh basil for the pasta dish she planned to make for supper, and while she was there got the distinct impression that the gazes of the people she encountered were following her as she passed.

She told herself she was imagining it. She had to be. She didn’t recognize many of those at the store. And if there were people she did recognize, she quickly skirted around them—widely, so they wouldn’t have the chance to speak to her. But she was no longer the anonymous person she’d turned into after she left North Hampton Beach and changed her name. That was clear. Not only had she come out into the open, she’d painted a big target on her back. But she needed to ask the tough questions no one wanted to hear, let alone answer.

As soon as she found the basil, she hurried to the checkout register, but while she was waiting to pay, one of the police officers who’d come to the trailer to arrest her father got in line behind her. Only five years older than she was, he’d been young in those days, too, and new on the force. She remembered how shocked and horrified he’d been by her father’s crime—not that he could’ve been any more shocked than she was. Still, he’d studied her that day as if she might be so contaminated she’d become radioactive, so she’d hoped he didn’t recognize her. But as she stepped up to the register, he said, “Dahlia mentioned you were coming back.”

She pretended not to hear him. The cashier gave her the total and she stuck her credit card in the processing machine. But that didn’t deter him.

“What brings you to North Hampton Beach after so long?” he asked, speaking more loudly.

The register spat out her receipt. Although the cashier hesitated because she, too, could hear him talking, she ultimately handed it over, probably because there was nothing else to do and she was required to continue through the line.

Before Lucy could get more than a step away, however, he said her name emphatically enough that everyone in the immediate vicinity turned to look at them. She was afraid he’d just follow her out into the parking lot if she didn’t respond, so she drew a deep breath and turned, and that was when she saw his nametag. He’d become chief of police in her absence. “Just minding my own business,” she mumbled.

“Not from what I hear,” he replied.

She raised her eyebrows. “What does that mean?”

“It means I don’t want you digging up the past. That’s what it means.”

She stepped back in surprise. As long as she didn’t break any laws, could he dictate what she did in North Hampton Beach? “If you’re so convinced we already have the truth, there’s nothing to be afraid of, right?”

“No, that’s not right. It’s taken a long time for this community to heal. Having you come back and destroy what peace of mind the Clark family’s been able to cobble together won’t serve any good purpose.”

The Clark family . . . Was he truly worried about them? Or was he more worried about the reputation of the force he now headed?

A bead of sweat rolled between her breasts, partially from the heat and humidity and partially from the anxiety that held her in a viselike grip. Over the years, she’d had so many nightmares in which she was suddenly and inexplicably back in North Hampton Beach and everyone was pointing and screaming at her: Murderer! You’re just as bad as he is! “Even if my father didn’t kill Aurora?” she challenged.

“You’re the only one who’s willing to believe that.”

“What if I can prove it?” She was a long way from being able to do that. She wished she could suck the words back into her mouth as soon as they passed her lips. But she shouldn’t have worried. He didn’t call her bluff. His mind was already made up, despite any new “proof” she purported to have.

“You can’t, so don’t even try,” he said. “Do you understand?”

The narrowing of his eyes added enough heft to his words to indicate the conversation was over. He’d spoken, and she’d better listen. So what would he do if she didn’t?

She had no way to answer that question. She certainly hadn’t expected the police to help her once she got here. She’d assumed they’d turn a deaf ear to her insistence that they got it wrong, at least in one regard, fifteen years ago.

But she also hadn’t expected them to actively work against her.

Apparently, she’d underestimated the friendships and loyalties that were so often formed in a small town like this. “Or . . . what?” she asked, hearing the threat even though he didn’t actually voice one.

He blinked several times. He obviously didn’t like that she’d dared to question him. But he seemed conscious of the fact that they had an audience. His gaze slid to those who were gawking at them before he focused, once again, on her. “I’m telling you this for your own good,” he replied. “After all, I wouldn’t want your stay this summer to be too . . . unpleasant.”

Although that, too, wasn’t an overt threat, the subtext took his words much further. What she heard was, “Then I won’t be responsible for what happens to you.”

“Thanks for the warning,” she said drily, but before she could escape the store, she heard someone else call out, “Go back to wherever you came from. You’re not welcome here!”

Lucy lay awake, staring at the ceiling and going over—word for word—her exchange with the chief of police. The spectacle he’d caused in the grocery store made her cringe. How unlucky that Kevin Claxton was still in town and played such a big role in the power paradigm around here. He was obviously prejudiced against her and her father—understandably in her father’s case. But didn’t he see how blinding that prejudice could be?

She wasn’t convinced he cared one way or the other. Self-righteous, closed-minded people generally didn’t consider the possibility of being wrong. But he also had a good reason to prefer to leave things as they were, and she was well aware of it. The police had been widely praised for solving the murders that occurred that summer so quickly. If the narrative suddenly switched, and it came out that Reggie had indeed lied, it would shame and embarrass the department to have relied on him, a jailhouse snitch, to get a conviction in Aurora’s murder—make them look like the bumbling stereotype of a small-town Mayberry R.F.D. type of force. That was probably closer to the truth, at least in some ways. They certainly weren’t experienced or sophisticated, and they had limited resources and funding.

But how far would Claxton go to stop her from picking through the rubble of what transpired fifteen years ago?

Was she sure she wanted to find out? Should she pack up and go home?

The echo of the woman who’d yelled after her reverberated in her ears—Go back to wherever you came from. You’re not welcome here. But she couldn’t allow herself to consider bailing out at every turn, or she would give up and go home. She’d put herself to a lot of trouble—even reconnected with her father, which she’d sworn she’d never do—to right this wrong.

With a huff, she flopped over onto her other side and checked the time on the alarm clock. One in the morning. Dawn was hours and hours away. This was turning into another long night . . .

Giving up on sleep, she climbed out of bed and went around, once again, to peer through the windows. She’d begun to believe she’d imagined what she thought she’d seen last night. Nothing had happened.

When she got up this morning, she’d gone out and checked for cigarette butts, gum wrappers or footprints in the yard and found no evidence of a visitor. That didn’t necessarily mean there hadn’t been one. Someone could’ve been lurking around without leaving any telltale signs. But she’d drive herself mad if she allowed fear to imprison her. Yes, she was going to keep the doors and windows locked when she could, just in case. But that might not always be possible; it turned the house into an oven.

Desperate to cool off, she unlocked the door and slipped out onto the porch, dropping her head back in relief as the cool air rushed over her matted hair and sweat-dampened skin. I’m fine. Everything’s going to be okay. I’m completely alone. There was just the full moon, the swaying grasses and the sound of the surf not too far away.

She didn’t turn on any lights and made as little noise as possible when she opened the screen door, crept down the two stairs and darted through the trees to the narrow path that would take her to the ocean.

By the time she got to the beach, she felt much better. No one was out and about. She waited a few seconds to be sure, but then she ran down the soft, shifting sand into the cool embrace of the sea.

The water cascading over and around her brought even more relief. Diving beneath the churning waves, she swam out to where she could ride the swells before they rolled over and crashed onto the shore. Then she turned on her back so she could gaze up at the stars twinkling against the black velvet sky. Despite how dark and inky the water was, she felt safe here. Untouchable. Unreachable. In her mind, all the real threats were on land.

It wasn’t until fifteen or twenty minutes later when she got out of the ocean and was wringing the water from her hair that she realized she wasn’t alone, after all. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood on the beach, wearing a short-sleeved shirt that wasn’t buttoned all the way up with a pair of loose-fitting shorts that hung low on his narrow hips. She couldn’t see his face—only his outline—and didn’t know how long he’d been there, but she could tell he was watching her.

Once he realized he’d been spotted, he came toward her, but she wasn’t about to allow him to get too close. Forgetting about her wet hair and dripping tank top and cutoffs, she started to run away from him toward the cottage. She told herself she had no idea who he was or what he wanted. But that wasn’t entirely true. Although she could easily be mistaken, she was fairly certain she recognized his build and the way he moved. His voice sounded familiar, too, as he called out to her.

“Lucy! Lucy! I just want to talk to you!” he yelled.

But she only ran faster—and didn’t look back again.

Ford shoved his hands in the pockets of his shorts as Lucy disappeared. When he’d spotted her from his deck, rushing headlong into the sea, he’d come down to the beach, eager to speak to her. He’d also felt he should be on hand in case she wasn’t taking the proper precautions. He had no idea if she’d been drinking or was feeling suicidal or whatever. She’d been through a lot, and not many people were comfortable enough with the ocean to go swimming this late at night, especially alone.

But she’d always been a strong swimmer, seemed to feel right at home in the sea. She didn’t have a problem until she came out of the water and spotted him.

With a sigh, he trudged back up to Coastal Comfort. He was the one who’d been drinking, and he was feeling enough of a buzz that he was tempted to follow her home. If only he could get her to listen to him for a minute. He’d reassure her that he meant her no harm, which might help her feel she had at least one person who supported her presence in North Hampton Beach.

Getting her to believe he’d actually be there when she needed him wouldn’t be easy, however. She’d thought he was her friend fifteen years ago—and look how he’d behaved when she needed him most.

“Fuck,” he muttered as he reached the steps.

Swaying slightly, he put a hand on the banister to steady himself. But instead of going up and into the house, he veered away, heading for the path she’d just taken to the Smoot cottage. Maybe Lucy wouldn’t answer the door. If she didn’t, she didn’t. But at least he would’ve made the effort.

8

Lucy had just peeled off her wet clothes when she heard someone pound on the back door. “Lucy? It’s Ford. Can I have a word with you?”

She tensed. She’d never dreamed he’d follow her. What was she going to do now?

Since it was easiest not to do anything, she ignored him as she pulled on a pair of yoga shorts and a clean, dry tank top. She figured he’d go away eventually. But when she didn’t answer, her phone went off showing a number she didn’t recognize.

It was odd to be getting a call this late, especially one that didn’t have a Nevada area code. No one had her number on this side of the country except Dahlia. And this wasn’t Sharon Smoot’s niece . . .

Afraid Dahlia had shared her contact info with Reggie, and he was calling to threaten or harass her, she hesitated before answering. But she felt it would be better to know if he was willing to go that far—and safer to take the risk of finding out while another human being, no matter who it was, stood close by.

Flipping the wet hair out of her face, she pressed the Talk button. “Hello?” she said tentatively.

“Can you give me a moment? Please?”

It was Ford! “How’d you get my number?” she asked.

“How do you think?”

Dahlia, of course. She just couldn’t imagine Ford being interested enough to ask. But she shouldn’t be too surprised. The drama of having her back in town would probably pique everyone’s attention. “Why would you bother?”

“Because I really want to talk to you. I promise I’ll be decent. I won’t say anything upsetting or . . . or anything you’ll need to worry about.”

Even if that was true, why take the risk of letting the tender emotions she’d once felt for him bubble up again when she was already dealing with so much? She already knew what he was really like; there wasn’t any point in ever speaking to him again. “I’d rather not,” she said and craned her neck around the corner to peer through the living room.

“I might make a good ally while you’re here,” he said.

“How?” she asked with a skeptical laugh. “You’re already allied with all the people who hate me—with your family and the other wealthy families in the area.”

“I’ve never hated you. And wealth has nothing to do with it.”

She skipped the minefield that constituted the first part of his answer and focused on the second. “It did before.” Money put all the power in the hands of those who’d treated her like a cockroach that’d had the audacity to enter one of their expensive homes. She’d been left with nothing. No way to convince anyone that she hadn’t known about her father’s evil deeds. No way to go to college. No way to survive, except to leave and scrape along as best she could. After she left North Hampton Beach, she’d been homeless, living out of that old van, for nearly five years.

“I was young and impressionable, Lucy,” he said. “And . . . and I shouldn’t have listened to my parents. I know you won’t believe me, but I’m sincerely sorry.”

She didn’t want an apology. She didn’t want anything from him. But the quickest way to get rid of him was probably to let him off the hook. “It’s fine. No problem,” she said. Then she disconnected and held her breath while waiting to see what would happen next. She hoped he’d leave. It was too difficult for her to interact with him. His voice brought back so many memories—some of which were among the very best in her life, which only made the problem worse. She’d been happier that summer than she could ever remember—until it all came crashing down.

He pounded on her door again. “I’m not asking to be friends,” he yelled. “I just want you to know that . . . that I’m glad you’re back here, and if there’s anything I can do to make you feel more comfortable, I’m just a few houses down.”

As if she could forget the proximity of his expensive beachfront property . . .

She squeezed her eyes closed. “Damn it,” she whispered. Why wouldn’t he just leave? On some level, she didn’t really blame him for abandoning her fifteen years ago. Sure, she’d been devastated when he turned his back on her, just like all the others. But she’d been stupid to believe he’d cared about her in the first place. They’d been teenagers, together for only five or six weeks. They hadn’t really known anything about life or love.

Besides, she’d been well outside his socioeconomic class, wasn’t someone his family would ever approve of. She couldn’t expect him to choose her over them, especially once her father’s murders came to light. “I don’t need anything,” she called back. “But thank you.”

“Are you sure? Because if you have a moment, you might be interested in a conversation I heard between Patti and Nelson Clark.”

“I can easily guess the wonderful things they had to say about me.”

He didn’t respond to her sarcasm. “They were talking about Reggie.”

This caught her attention. Why would they be talking about Reggie? She wanted to ask, but that would invite more interaction.

Don’t be fooled. Don’t trust him. He had no reason to care or get involved. So . . . why was he?

Could it be that the Clarks wanted him to speak to her? Maybe they thought he’d be able to convince her to leave . . . “What did they say?” she asked grudgingly.

“I’ll tell you. But can you open the door first? It’s hard to talk like this.”

She rubbed her temples while trying to decide. “Fine,” she yelled at last. “Give me a minute.” Then she made him wait until she’d combed and dried her hair. It took so long that he was walking away by the time she opened the door.

“I thought you were planning to leave me out here all night,” he grumbled.

“Nobody asked you to come over,” she reminded him.

He returned to the closed-in porch, where he stopped about five feet away.

She’d thought she’d grown into a confident person in the years that’d passed since she’d been absolutely leveled. But seeing him again thrust her back in time and seemed to steal all the power she’d felt only a moment earlier.

“You look great,” he said.

She could’ve told him the same thing but swore those words would never pass her lips. He seemed to have gotten taller, had to be six foot four, with a thin yet muscular build and wavy blond hair. She couldn’t help remembering the thickness and texture of it.

She remembered a lot of other things about him, too—like the way his hands had felt on her body.

But only because she hadn’t been with anyone in months, and even then she’d just gone through the motions. It was difficult for her to get that close to someone else, to allow herself to feel something beyond the physical pleasure she’d first experienced with Ford. As a result, as she’d grown older, she’d begun to isolate herself from almost any kind of real intimacy.

Looking at him now, however, she suddenly felt every moment of that long period.

A boyish smile broke out on his face, so something in her expression must’ve given her away, making her wish she hadn’t been foolish enough to agree to talk. Whatever he had to say couldn’t help enough to offset the impact of being this close to him. Her heart was suddenly pounding out of her chest. What she’d felt for him had been so poignant . . .

Forcing herself to remember the agony of going day after day feeling as if she’d been staked in the town square for all to mock and belittle, without so much as a call or a text from him, helped her overcome the impulse to forgive everything and walk right back into his arms.

“Would you like to come in and sit down?” she asked.

His smile faltered at her cool tone, but he soon rallied and nodded. “Sure.”

She held the door before pivoting away from him and going into the kitchen. “I have a bottle of wine,” she called back. “Are you interested?”

He didn’t answer. When she leaned around the corner to see why, she found him walking through the living room, examining the various knickknacks. “It’s sad to think Sharon Smoot may never return to this house,” he said when he noticed her.

“I’m still holding out hope.” She had no more room in her heart for sadness. She had to block out what she could to be able to move forward. Maybe once she got back to Vegas, she could allow herself to feel more empathy for poor Sharon. “Did you want a glass of wine?”

Finally drawn out of his preoccupation, he looked up. “Yes, please.”

She went back and opened the bottle of Chardonnay on the counter before carrying two glasses into the living room. She was about to set his on the side table and let him pick it up himself—she really didn’t want to get too close to him—but in three long strides he was towering over her. Suddenly she found herself looking up into his face again, and his startling, sea-green eyes were staring back at her.

Stepping away as soon as he accepted his glass, she cleared her throat. “So what did the Clarks have to say? Did they, by any chance, ask you to come over to see if you could talk me into leaving town?”

He flinched. “I’m not acting on their behalf, Lucy.”

“Then I’m not sure why you’re here,” she said.

“I wanted to apologize.”

“And you did.”

“I also wanted to offer you some support. I—I was your boyfriend when everything . . . came out about your father. I should’ve been better to you.”

She waved those words away. “Don’t be silly. None of that meant anything to me. We were just kids. Forget about it.”

He looked equal parts stricken and surprised. “O-kay,” he said, drawing the word out as if he didn’t really know how to respond.

“But thanks for making the effort.” She turned away so that he couldn’t see her face. “You mentioned Reggie . . .”

When he didn’t pick up the conversation, she turned back to face him and found his head bowed as he studied the rug.

“Ford?”

He looked up.

“What about Reggie?”

“He, um, called Patti as soon as you left his place and told her why you’re here.”

She thought about that for a moment, then shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t surprise me. He feels threatened, so he’s gathering his army.”

He took a sip of wine. “You accused him of lying on the stand?”

“He was lying,” she said.

“How do you know?”

“I know because my father didn’t kill Aurora.”

Ford appeared skeptical. “Can you really be that certain? It would be so easy for someone in your shoes to . . . to go into denial.”

“This isn’t about denial. I’m not denying my father killed the Matteos, am I?”

“Maybe he’s looking for attention,” he argued. “Murderers often try to remain relevant in some way.”

It was a possibility she had to consider. But her gut told her he was telling the truth. “Ford, I tried not to believe him—for fifteen years! But there’s something inside me that insists there’s more to the story.”

“Then you’re acting on intuition . . .”

She couldn’t help bristling because she could tell he didn’t put much stock in that. “And a few facts,” she said. “Reggie had a lot to gain by saying what he did. And just so you know, my father wouldn’t tell anyone, especially a stranger and someone as untrustworthy as Reggie, even if he had killed Aurora.”

“In a normal situation, maybe. But he’d just been arrested, had to be frightened, or at least off his emotional center. Then they put him in a cell with another guy, and the two of them had nothing to do for days—more than two weeks—except talk. I can see how long those hours might get, how easy it would be to dwell on what you’re facing.”

“That would require a degree of trust, and my father wasn’t a trusting person. He felt the whole world was out to get him. And Reggie was so much younger. He wouldn’t have said anything, not to him.”

“Then who else would’ve murdered Aurora?”

“That’s what I have to find out.”

He frowned. “I hate to discourage you, but you realize that Reggie could’ve been lying, just to get himself out of prison, and your father could’ve killed Aurora. The two aren’t mutually exclusive. His testimony simply helped get a conviction.”

“Is that how everyone justifies not caring whether it was true?”

“Everyone?”

“The police. The Clarks. Aurora’s other friends and loved ones. You and your family.”

He didn’t speak for a moment, probably because she’d included him on the list. “My family never had a strong opinion.”

“Oh, really?” she said with a laugh. “That isn’t how I remember it.”

“I think this town was just grateful to get some closure on the whole thing.”

“In any way possible?”

“Considering we’re talking about a known killer and having him off the streets?” he responded. “Yes. I realize that took your father away from you, and—”

“What if I’m right, Ford,” she broke in, “and it was someone else?” She didn’t want to make this about her or discuss what she’d been through. That could cause her to get emotional, and being emotional made her vulnerable, which was something she never wanted to be again, especially with this particular person.

He rubbed his chin with his free hand. “That’s a scary thought. If it’s true, it means there’s probably a killer running around loose.”

“It also means that killer might still be right here in North Hampton Beach.”

“But your father had already demonstrated a capacity for that kind of violence. Who else would do such a thing to a seventeen-year-old girl? And how will you discover that?”

“I’ll probably have to hire a private investigator at some point. But I want to see what I can learn first.” She was already taking three months away from poker, which meant she was losing any opportunity she had to make money. She didn’t dare spend a lot until she felt more confident it would make a difference. She’d already lost so much here—family, friends, a home. She didn’t want to add thousands of dollars to the list, not unless she became convinced that was the answer.

He drank some more of his wine. “If you’re right, there’s got to be at least one person who doesn’t want the truth to come out.”

“I believe there is,” she said.

Concern showed in his expression. “I’m saying it might not be safe to dig up the past, Lucy.”

Hence the reason it was broiling inside her house right now. She didn’t feel safe leaving the windows open at night. She was using two fans she’d found stored in closets, but they did far too little. “I’ve thought of that. Of course I have. But right is right. I refuse to let fear dictate my actions.”

He sighed. “That scares me.”

She made a face. “Why? You have nothing to worry about.”

One eyebrow slid up. “I’m not scared for me.”

“Well, whatever happens, it won’t impact you either way, so there’s no reason for you to worry about it. And I’m doing what I can—keeping my doors and windows locked.”

He wiped the sweat beading up on his forehead. “Now I know why it’s so damn hot in here,” he said, looking at the moisture on his palm.

So what if she was scared? She wasn’t embarrassed by it. She had reason to be—which he’d just pointed out. “I said I wouldn’t let fear drive me away. I didn’t say I was going to make it easy for someone to climb through the window while I’m sleeping and hurt me.”

“No,” he said laconically. “I can plainly see that you won’t let anyone get that close.”

“You’re the one who taught me to keep my defenses up!”

His lips parted in surprise. He’d been joking—so her response had come off a little too harsh. “I guess you’ve got me all figured out,” he said with a sad smile.

“I do. I’m fine. I don’t need you or anyone else to worry about me. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.”

“Right.” He put down what was left of his wine. “Then I’ll get out of your way. Thanks for the drink.”

She’d wanted to make him feel bad so he’d keep his distance and never be able to hurt her again. And yet she didn’t feel any better after he left. She stood in the living room for several long minutes, trying to convince herself that she’d done the right thing chasing him off. She didn’t need his help, his support or his opinion. She’d made it this far without him. She’d do what needed to be done and, once again, put North Hampton Beach in her rearview mirror—along with all the people she’d once known here.

9

Ford didn’t sleep well. Every time the cool ocean breeze rustled the curtains of his bedroom, making it a tolerable temperature, he thought of Lucy in that closed-up, stifling house. At least, when necessary, he could resort to turning on the air conditioner. The Smoot cottage was older and didn’t have one. He couldn’t imagine how she was able to get any sleep. No wonder she’d gone into the ocean so late at night. The cool water was probably her only respite.

When he got up the next morning, he carried a cup of coffee out to the porch to watch the sunrise and automatically looked for her in the surf.

She wasn’t there. He told himself he was glad. She’d been pretty caustic with him last night. He was going through enough in his own life. He’d only been in town for five days. He’d been keeping up with work, but he hadn’t even started dealing with any of that. He’d be better off staying out of the fight that was brewing between her and the Clarks—and probably a lot of other people around here.

And yet . . . he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her. The memories he’d locked away, including the shame and regret he felt for the type of “friend” he’d proven to be, rolled over him like the waves crashing onto the beach, only to retract and hit again and again.

A figure appeared in the distance. Someone was walking toward him, coming from the opposite direction of the Smoot cottage. It wasn’t Lucy. He could tell that immediately.

He squinted, trying to get a better look and saw a golden retriever come bounding through the surf. It was Chet with Eddie.

Leaving his coffee on the table, he walked out to say hello.

Eddie reached him first. Ford gave the retriever a scratch behind the ears as Chet caught up to them. Ford missed his own dog, Mo, a French bulldog his wife had insisted on keeping because he’d given it to her for their anniversary, even though he’d mostly been the one to love and take care of it.

“Morning.”

As soon as Ford straightened, Eddie darted off again, too excited about exploring to stand still for long. “Morning.”

“You’re up early,” Chet commented.

“So are you.”

He responded with a wry grin. “I’m an artist. You know . . . the emotive, conflicted type who goes from one existential crisis to another?”

“What deep issue are you contemplating today?” Ford asked, playing along.

“Just thinking about Lucy.”

“McBride? Still?”

“Hard to avoid it. Having her back is all anyone around here can talk about. Have you seen her yet?”

Not only had Ford seen her, he’d spoken to her, but he figured it was best not to mention that. It’d just keep the gossip and conjecture going, might even cause people to wonder if they’d meant to rendezvous here. Patti Clark had already insinuated as much. If he wasn’t careful, others could join that bandwagon and might even start claiming that Lucy was the reason for the breakup of his marriage. Never mind that he hadn’t talked to her in fifteen years. People could create a scandal out of anything. “No, have you?” he replied.

“Nah. But in case you’re interested, I now know what she’s up to.”

Ford hadn’t yet donned a shirt—hadn’t showered yet, either. He’d gotten up, brushed his teeth and pulled on the same shorts he’d worn last night. “I’m interested,” he said while trying to smooth down his hair. “What’s she up to?”

“She doesn’t think her father’s guilty and is out to prove it.”

“Guilty of what?” he asked, trying to get Chet to clarify.

“Anything!”

Ford dropped the hand he’d been using on his hair. “Who told you that?”

“It’s what everyone’s saying.” He spread his hands. “Never mind that McBride’s DNA was found under Tony Matteo’s fingernails.”

It was starting—the same old bullshit and misinformation, if not downright lies. Ford felt his muscles tighten but nudged a small pebble lose with his bare toe. “I can’t imagine she’d contest that.”

“And yet she is. You remember Reggie Burton—the guy who was McBride’s cellmate right after he was arrested and ended up testifying against him?”

“Of course. He was a big part of the trial.”

“Well, he says she came over to his place and was harassing him, insisting he was lying on the stand and that’s why her father went to prison.”

Ford started to laugh.

“What?” Chet said, looking confused.

“Have you seen Reggie?”

Chet seemed surprised by this turn in the conversation. “Here and there.”

“I haven’t. Not in person. But just going from what I saw on Instagram last night—all the pictures he’s posted—he has to be almost as tall as I am and at least fifty pounds heavier.”

“So?”

“Do you remember Lucy? My guess is she weighs one hundred fifteen pounds soaking wet. So, if you were Reggie, would you be afraid of her?”

“Maybe,” Chet responded with an uncomfortable laugh. “I mean we know she’s vengeful, or she wouldn’t have put her father up to murdering Aurora.”

Ford shook his head, adamant. “Stop!”

Chet shoved his hands in the pockets of his loose-fitting khakis, which were rolled up at the ankles. “Stop what?”

“Saying she had anything to do with it is just . . . ridiculous!”

“Only if you don’t want to believe it.”

“Let’s wait until she does something to indicate she’s not a good person before we close ranks against her this time, huh?”

Apparently, the irritation Ford was feeling had come out in his voice, because Chet took a step back. “That’s fine—as long as she doesn’t get too close to me or my family.”

Ford scowled. This was the kind of reaction that’d caused everyone to treat Lucy so poorly before. “Chet, I don’t think she’s a risk to you or anyone else, except maybe Reggie, and only because she’s out to expose him. If he was lying about her father’s jailhouse confession, he might have something to worry about. But that’s it. She doesn’t think her father’s innocent of the Matteo murders—only Aurora’s.”

Chet’s eyes widened. “How do you know what she’s thinking? And, for that matter, what she looks like these days? Have you talked to her, after all?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “Last night.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

Ford made an impatient gesture. “I want to stay out of it. That’s why.”

“Then . . . why don’t you?” he asked.

“Because what happened to her fifteen years ago was bullshit, and I won’t let it go that way again!” he snapped and strode off.

Ford slammed the door behind him as he returned to the house. Apparently, he wasn’t going to take his own advice. He’d decided to stay out of Lucy’s business—she’d made it clear she didn’t want him in it—and yet he’d just taken a stand with Chet that put him solidly on her side.

But he was the only one on her side and that was what had forced his hand. The fact that he hadn’t stood up for her fifteen years ago made him cringe every time he thought about it. He was determined never to make that mistake again—never to feel as though he should’ve stopped someone from being mistreated or bullied and hadn’t done it. He didn’t want to be the kind of man that would make him. So . . . whether she wanted his help or not, he was now her official protector.

As if fate had set out to remind him that he should be paying more attention to his own problems, he found an email from his divorce attorney waiting for him as soon as he opened his laptop.

Christina’s lawyer has sent me another certified letter. She’s raised her demands yet again. She’s claiming the pregnancy is already a “difficult” one, which will make it impossible for her to work. Do you want to raise your offer?

He pinched the bridge of his nose while battling an avalanche of anger and frustration. Christina didn’t want to work. Almost as soon as he’d met her, she conjured up an excuse to quit Wagner Business Solutions and depended on her father until they married. Then she’d lived off him. She could easily rely on her family’s fortune once again, if she wanted to. Instead, she was using her father’s expensive attorney to take him for as much as she could get. This was about revenge for wanting to get away from her, not the pregnancy or fairness or anything else.

It doesn’t cost nearly as much to live as what I offered. She could have a mansion, a maid and a nanny. She’s trying to take advantage. The answer is no.

He knew his response would only prolong the fight, which meant she’d be front and center in his life that much longer. But now that she was having his baby, he’d never truly be free of her. He figured he might as well fight for what was right, especially because this would set the precedent for everything she demanded from now on.

He tried to calm down by switching his attention to work. Writing and forwarding various emails to people with instructions on how to proceed took hours. The routine of it helped. But he was still bugged when he was done, so he went on Instagram, found Reggie’s account and sent him a DM.

Just so you know, I’m keeping an eye on you. Don’t you dare do anything that’ll make Lucy McBride’s time here any worse than it will be already.

He waited, hoping Reggie would get back to him. He was itching to tell everyone they’d better stay the hell away from her. But after fifteen minutes with no response, he ran out of patience. He felt like a caged tiger, pacing back and forth.

Obviously, he needed another outlet, a healthier one, so he went to get what was left of his gardening tools and returned to what had brought him the most satisfaction in ages—the Smoot yard.

Chet couldn’t feel his face. His lips, his cheeks—everything tingled or felt numb. Would this summer be the end of life as he knew it? The big reveal he’d had nightmares about, where the truth came out, costing him his job, his wife and child, his entire future?

“Honey? Are you listening?”

He tuned in to Kira once again. She was sitting across from him at Lanie’s Grocery and Deli with Kenzie, their baby, sleeping in a carrier at their feet. Chet generally looked forward to returning to North Hampton Beach each summer. Sure, it held some terrible memories—the one night in his life he wished he could forget more than any other, as well as the tension-filled weeks right after that when he’d been terrified the police would arrive at any moment to take him to jail.

But returning regularly gave him the chance to take the temperature of this place—check on what people were thinking and feeling and make sure nothing was creeping up on him from behind. He also believed that being a familiar face, one most people around here knew and trusted, would make it much less likely that they’d ever suspect him of having any involvement in what transpired the night Aurora was killed.

“Yes, of course,” he replied, trying to act as normal as he could. Lanie’s served the best blue crab sandwiches in the world, but today he couldn’t taste anything. He was having trouble swallowing—even breathing. Just when he’d finally begun to believe the past was a closed chapter, that the actions he so regretted would never come back to haunt him, he was afraid that would all change. That after being saved by such a crazy stroke of luck, he’d be found out because of something just as unlikely—Lucy returning here after so many years, claiming her father hadn’t killed Aurora.

“I was asking how much you remember about the girl who was murdered.”

Although it went down hard, he managed to swallow the food in his mouth. It didn’t surprise him that Kira wanted to discuss what’d happened fifteen years ago. With Lucy back in town, everyone was talking about the murders. “Not a lot,” he said. “I mean . . . Aurora was part of the group we hung out with on the beach that summer. But there was never anything between her and me. She was kind of stuck-up. Thought she was all that. So I didn’t have any interest in her.” He used his napkin to wipe his mouth so it wouldn’t seem unnatural when he broke eye contact. “She liked Ford, anyway.”

Kira shook her head, frowning sadly. “He must’ve been destroyed when she was killed.”

“I think he was shocked, like the rest of us. But they weren’t together. He was seeing Lucy at the time.”

Her jaw dropped. “The daughter of the man who murdered Aurora? Why haven’t you ever mentioned that before?”

Still striving for normalcy, he took another bite and spoke around it. “I’m sure I have.”

“No. I would’ve remembered. I’m surprised you haven’t said more about all of it, to be honest.”

He didn’t like thinking about it, let alone talking about it. He was afraid he’d slip up and say something he shouldn’t. But when he and Kira first got married, and he’d started bringing her to North Hampton Beach, someone had mentioned the murders that’d occurred here, so he’d filled in a few of the blanks. After all, being too reticent could seem as odd as talking about it all the time. He had to hit the right balance. “It’s not something I’m eager to relive, I guess.”

The vision that passed before his mind’s eye nearly unsettled his stomach. That happened occasionally. His mind would flash the unforgettable image of Aurora as he’d seen her last, after he realized he’d gone too far. “Everyone was freaked out—they were afraid to come out of their houses at night.”

Kira used a straw to drain her iced tea. “Did you ever meet him?”

“McBride? No. But I saw him at his trial.”

She slid her chair back a few inches. “You attended the trial?”

“Almost everyone did. It was a big deal around here, worth the short drive to Montross.” It was an even bigger deal to him. He’d been worried that the state wouldn’t be able to prove its case when it came to Aurora’s murder, prompting the police to keep digging.

But then Reggie had come forward, claiming Mick McBride had confessed to him while they were sharing a jail cell. Chet almost couldn’t believe it. It’d felt like someone had been firing a gun in his direction and a mere bystander had stepped in front of him to take the bullet.

“Oh, I didn’t know that.” Kenzie started to squirm, so Kira picked up their baby girl. “When do you want to have Ford over? I’d like to meet him.”

Chet remembered Ford defending Lucy this morning and wondered where that would lead. It certainly didn’t bode well for him. As long as the whole community remained united against her, he didn’t feel he had much to worry about. But if Ford decided he believed her and wanted to help her get to the truth, everything could change. After all, Ford had the credibility and resources Lucy lacked. “Why not this weekend?” he asked.

“Sounds good to me. Should we grill teriyaki shish kabobs?”

He didn’t answer. He just stared at her, studying the face that meant everything to him.

“What?” she said, growing self-conscious.

She had to be the most beautiful woman in the world. And the sweetest. He knew she’d never be able to believe he could be responsible for someone’s death—and hoped to God she’d never have to find out. “I love you. You know that?”

“I know.” She smiled shyly as she rested Kenzie on her shoulder so she could reach across the table to squeeze his hand. “I love you, too.”

Surely, the past wouldn’t reach into the present and destroy everything he’d established, would it? What purpose would it serve to punish him? He hadn’t set out to hurt anyone fifteen years ago, and he certainly hadn’t harmed anyone since. Sending him to prison for the rest of his life would only cause more harm, would break up his little family and shock his parents, friends and associates for nothing.

She gestured toward his phone on the table beside him. “Are you going to text Ford?”

He was afraid of his old friend, especially after this morning. But that was exactly why he needed to get and remain as close to him as possible. “Sure.”

10

Ford Wagner was in the yard! Lucy watched in shock as he moved around the plants, spraying and trimming and weeding like a regular gardener. What did he think he was doing? Maybe an even better question was—why was he doing it? Dahlia hadn’t even asked for his help. When Lucy mentioned it, Sharon Smoot’s niece had made it clear she didn’t know who’d helped out in that way.

Whatever was going on, Ford didn’t seem to be in a hurry. He also didn’t seem to care if she spotted him. After an hour, during which she kept going to the window to see if he’d left, he knocked on the front door.

She answered right away—too curious not to.

“Can I have my tools back?” he asked as soon as she poked her head through the crack.

“You mean the gardening stuff I found the day I moved in? I put it in the garage,” she said. “Give me a second, and I’ll . . . I’ll get it for you.” She closed the door while she went to the kitchen and dug around in the utility drawer. When she found the key she’d been looking for, she went back out.

He was sitting on the front porch, waiting for her. He didn’t say anything, just stood and followed her as she hurried over to the garage, unlocked the side door and got the rake, pruning shears and other tools she’d put away.

“Here you go.”

“Thanks.” He took them as if that would be that—but she called him back.

Sweat dampened his T-shirt and face when he turned. She wished the fact that he was obviously hot and dirty made him less appealing, but somehow it only made him more. “What are you doing?”

He lifted the tools. “What does it look like?”

“It looks like you’re taking care of the yard here at the Smoot cottage. But you don’t even do your own yard, do you?”

“We have a gardener. I don’t want to disrupt everything just because I’m going to be around for a few months.”

“And yet . . .” She swept her arm to indicate the work he’d done in the Smoot yard.

“You should’ve seen this place,” he said. “Everything was so overgrown. It looked terrible.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “Do I need to point out that it wasn’t your problem?”

With a sigh, he leaned on the rake. “I thought . . . I thought maybe the place would be more welcoming if it looked as if it was being kept up.”

“More welcoming to who? To me?” She pressed a hand to her chest. “You don’t even want me here! No one does!”

“That isn’t true, Lucy. Like I told you before, I’m sorry for how I behaved, and I want to have the chance to prove that I’m not the terrible person you must think I am.”

“Why bother?” she asked. “I’m not back here for a vacation. You know that. You’re better off hanging with the opposition.”

“Your enemies . . .”

“Yes. Why not? Save yourself! What my dad did or didn’t do isn’t your problem any more than this yard is.”

“That isn’t how a friend behaves. And you and I were more than friends. Maybe we weren’t together that long, but . . . my God, we’d just made love on the beach. It was your first time—”

She put up a hand. “Let’s not go into that. I appreciate the fact that you feel bad about how everything went down, and I’m willing to let bygones be bygones. You should take that approach, too. Keep your distance from me, or this whole community could turn on you. I realize you probably don’t understand what that would be like, since you’ve never experienced it. But who you are, and your financial status, won’t matter all that much if you start associating with me.” She started back to the house but stopped when he spoke again.

“Turns out, I’m good at gardening. Who knew? And I enjoy doing it. Working with soil and plants is an escape for me, so if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”

She gaped at him. Was he serious? Apparently so . . . “Fine, but . . . can’t you do it somewhere else?”

“No. I’ve gotten things turned around nicely here. I can’t watch it all go back to the way it was.”

She blinked at him. “Okay,” she said, throwing up her hands. “Suit yourself.”

“Thanks.”

She climbed the steps to the front porch before turning around again. “What on earth would you need to escape from, anyway?”

He scowled. “From the shit that’s going on in my own life, I guess.”

“Your father’s death . . .”

“The ramifications of that, yes. Not to mention my divorce.”

Divorce? She hadn’t even realized he was married. “I’m sorry.”

“See? You’re not the only one who has problems,” he said wryly.

She couldn’t help smiling at the crooked grin he’d shot her. “Although . . . I would say my problems are rather unique,” she pointed out.

“And I’d have to give you that,” he responded. Then the smile slipped from his face. “Still. What’s going on in my life isn’t much fun, either.”

She studied him. “How long have you and your wife been together?”

He adjusted the garbage bags, clippers and shears he was holding. “Seven years. Married for five.”

Something had gone wrong for him? That came as a shock. He was one of those people who seemed to roll through life without encountering a single obstacle. “Where’d you meet?”

“She used to work for Wagner Business Solutions, was in charge of putting on a charity event for Shriners Hospital. We met that evening when I approached her to thank her for doing such a great job.”

“Isn’t Wagner Business Solutions your company?”

“My father’s company.”

Which was basically his now. “Do you have kids?”

“One on the way.”

A pang of jealousy tightened her chest, and she hated herself for it. She was over Ford—completely—had been for years.

But maybe all ex-girlfriends felt a little something when they learned the man they’d once loved was expecting a child with someone else. “Seems like an odd time to split up.”

“It’s an odd situation.”

Lucy told herself to go back inside and leave it there. But someone with her trust issues faced the very real possibility of never settling down and having children, and that made her far more interested than she thought she should be. “How far along is she?”

“Ten weeks.”

“Just starting out . . .”

“Yes. It was . . . unexpected, to say the least. Happened the last time we got back together.”

“The last time you got back together? Are you sure it’s over?”

He chuckled without humor. “I hope so.”

She wanted to ask why they couldn’t make it work but knew better than to be that nosy. She’d already asked more than she should have. “Co-parenting isn’t easy, but a lot of people make it work.”

“I plan to be as involved as she’ll let me.”

The way he’d said that made Lucy stiffen. “Why is it her choice?”

He wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Trust me, I’ll do all I can, won’t settle for anything less than joint custody. But she’ll fight me every step of the way, make co-parenting a living nightmare.”

Lucy was glad he was going to press the issue. Fathers were so important. As terrible a person as Mick had turned out to be, she didn’t know where she would’ve ended up without him. He was the one who’d gotten her through her first seventeen years, not her mother. He’d been an alcoholic, sure. But a fairly functional one. Although he was out a lot at night, rambling around—as he’d been the night the Matteos were murdered—with her help, they’d managed. “I’m sure you’ll make a great dad.”

“Thank you.”

When his gaze met hers, she felt slightly breathless—the way she used to feel when he looked at her—which was downright alarming. She was still attracted to him! Despite everything. Which was so unfair. She didn’t want him coming over to do the yard all the time, didn’t want to let him back into her life, even as a friend.

“Well, good luck with the divorce,” she said and went back inside, hoping he’d get bored doing manual labor and wouldn’t bother her again.

Anna was sitting in her car, waiting at the local elementary school for the bell to ring so she could pick up her kids, when she received a text from her brother:

How well do you know Ford Wagner?

The question took her off guard. She’d had a crush on him many summers ago but had only ever watched him from a distance. She doubted he knew she existed. She replied:

Not too well, but I remember him. He came here every summer while we were growing up. Part of the wealthy set. Why?

From what I hear, he’s in town. Do you know what brought him back here?

What was Reggie talking about? She tried to call her brother. He didn’t pick up so she sent him a question mark to prod him, but it didn’t do any good. Frustrated that he’d quit responding—after all, he was the one who’d initiated this conversation—she tried calling him again and was transferred immediately to voice mail as if he’d purposely put her through.

Irritated, she checked the time—she had only three minutes until the kids got out—and called her mother.

“Hi, honey! What’s up?” Natalie chirped.

“Reggie’s not there with you, is he?”

“No, why?”

“He was texting me and then just . . . disappeared.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. He does that all the time. But he’s not with me. He only comes around if he wants money.”

Anna felt bad for her mother. Natalie loved Reggie so much. But it was partially her own fault that Reggie used her the way he did. She allowed it, always gave him what he wanted and bailed him out whenever he got into trouble. “I’m a little worried about him,” Anna admitted.

“Why?”

Her mother sounded alarmed—for good reason. With Reggie, it was always something. “He seems to be melting down since Lynnette left, partying too much and not working nearly often enough.”

“That would explain why he always needs money,” she said wearily. “His substance abuse and lack of work is probably why Lynnette left.”

Lynnette had said she couldn’t take his mood swings, his cheating or his temper, and Anna couldn’t blame her, especially now that they had a child. Lynnette had to do what was best for little Zander, so she’d taken him to live with her folks in Richmond. “That and more. It’s too bad Joel was there when she was telling me about it. Hearing that stuff just made him more adamant that Reggie not be allowed around the kids.”

“Your husband’s attitude has to hurt your brother,” Natalie said. “I wish Joel would have some understanding, go a little easier on him.”

Joel had tried, at first. But when Reggie ruined holiday after holiday with his drunken outbursts and got belligerent whenever he was challenged or someone said something he didn’t like, Joel drew a line. “He says he’s done putting up with that kind of behavior, and we should be, too.”

“Love is patient. Love is tolerant.”

Anna chuckled without mirth. “Not according to Joel. He says we need to have some tough love and demand more—or cut Reggie out of our lives until he shapes up.”

Her mother sighed. “We’ll see what Joel thinks of that idea when your kids are older.”

Anna was praying neither of her children, who were now racing toward the car, turned into behavioral problems like her brother. So far, they’d been happy and well-behaved. But they had a stable, good father—two parents who loved them. Reggie’s father, Dixon, hadn’t been part of his life since he was two. And he’d been so abusive when he was around that Natalie had to move across the state to escape him.

Fortunately, he let her go. Then Natalie had met and married Anna’s father. Dale was a biker who turned out to be a much better man. But trying to help parent Reggie caused too many fights between him and Natalie. Natalie would always take Reggie’s side, even if he was in the wrong. So Anna’s father moved out when Anna was three. Although he’d remained part of her life to an extent, he’d also indicated he wanted nothing to do with Reggie, and that’d made it very difficult for Anna. She was riddled with guilt when he came to see her and they left Reggie behind, so riddled that she began to act less enthusiastic about spending time with him, especially because that reluctance made her mother and brother treat her better. And soon the visits ceased.

“You’ve heard that Lucy McBride’s back in town, haven’t you?” Anna asked.

“No, how would I have heard?” her mother asked.

From Reggie, for one. But Anna didn’t say that. “You did hair in this town for years, have a lot of old clients and other people you’re still in touch with.”

“I’ve been busy, haven’t talked to anyone or checked Facebook in ages. But that’s certainly news. I bet it’s causing quite a stir.”

“It is.” She broke off from the conversation to greet her kids as they slung their backpacks into the car before climbing in.

“Tell Aria and Campbell hello from me,” her mother said.

“I don’t need to tell them. You’re on Bluetooth, Mom. They can hear you.”

The kids told their grandmother about their day while they got buckled into their seats. Once the two kids fell into a conversation with each other about a hamster at school, Natalie went back to what they’d been discussing before. “What brings Lucy back to North Hampton Beach?”

Anna put the car in Drive and got in line to exit the crowded lot. “She doesn’t believe it was her father who—” she glanced into the backseat to make sure her children weren’t paying attention “—caused Aurora’s death.”

“But he admitted as much to Reggie!”

“That’s what Reggie says. She thinks he was lying to get a deal with the commonwealth attorney.”

There was a pause, but then Natalie said, “That’s ancient history. Doesn’t matter what she thinks.”

“I wouldn’t be too quick to assume that. She’s different these days, Mom. I think she got kicked around so much she’s ready to fight back, determined to prove she’ll be the one in charge this time.”

“Why does she even care if her father didn’t do it? He’s not going to get out of prison either way.”

“I don’t think she’s trying to get him out.”

“Then what’s she trying to do?”

“Think about it for a minute. If Reggie wasn’t telling the truth . . .”

“He could be in serious trouble.”

Natalie saw the world as it related to them. But there was more to this.

Again, Anna glanced into the backseat. Her children were arguing over a pencil, but it kept them occupied. “It would also mean that someone else did it, someone who’s still walking around free.”

Silence.

Anna was finally clear to turn into the street and navigate the congestion surrounding the school. “You don’t think we have anything to worry about, do you?” She was fishing, trying to find out if Reggie had admitted to their mother what he’d admitted to her. Or if her mother suspected the truth. If so, she wanted to discuss it, see if Natalie agreed with Reggie that they should keep their mouths shut. In Anna’s view, the real culprit deserved to be punished. She hated to think that, in their efforts to protect Reggie from the consequences of a much lesser crime, they’d also be protecting a murderer.

Her mother finally spoke. “That’s disconcerting.”

“You don’t think there’s any chance that . . . that she’s right, do you? That Reggie could have been mistaken?”

There was another long silence. Obviously, the idea of Reggie lying about Mick McBride’s confession hadn’t been something Natalie had seriously contemplated before. “Mom?”

“We’re creating problems where none exist,” her mother insisted, suddenly sounding certain.

“Maybe. But we wouldn’t want someone to get away with . . . with something like that, would we? I mean . . . if one of us thought there might be a small chance Reggie wasn’t telling the truth, we should come forward, shouldn’t we?”

She held her breath as she waited for her mother’s response. She wasn’t even sure which side of the argument she preferred Natalie to take. Did she want her mother to say, “Let sleeping dogs lie?” Would that be enough to ease her conscience—the fact that even her mother felt Anna should keep her mouth shut?

Or did she hope Natalie would come out strongly on the side of truth and accountability? Because then she’d feel obligated to betray her brother, which would not only make Reggie hate her, it would probably make her mother hate her, too, once Reggie had to suffer what would happen as a result.

“It’s been fifteen years,” Natalie said. “Everyone’s moved on. It’d be foolish to go back and try to correct anything.”

Anna bit her lip as she brought the car to a stop at the first light. She should’ve known how her mother would respond. Natalie did whatever she had to do to protect Reggie, and the same was expected of Anna.

11

When Ford returned home, he was sticky and eager to peel off his dirty clothes and get cleaned up. But working with plants and the land had once again helped him find his center. He had to stop being so reactionary, he realized. He needed to figure out how he wanted to resolve the various problems in his life and take the necessary steps to get there—while having faith that it would happen over time if only he stayed the course. And he needed to do that without letting Paris and Christina, or even his mother and brother, ruin his quality of life.

After he showered and dressed, he called Jack Minter, an attorney in DC who’d done so much work for Wagner Business Solutions over the past decade that he’d become a friend. Jack acted as general counsel, handled everything from patent and trademark protection to mergers and acquisitions to labor and employment law. So far, he hadn’t been involved in helping Ford with his divorce or haggling over the estate. Those were personal issues handled by other attorneys. But when Ford needed to find the right person to help with something and he didn’t know where to turn, Jack was often a good place to start.

“Ford, man, what’s up? I haven’t heard from you in months.”

Ford wanted to go down to the beach. After spending most of the past decade cooped up in an office, he couldn’t be outside enough. Coming back to the sea made him feel as if he was finally escaping—both the confines of the office and a marriage he’d found suffocating.

But it was between five and six, the hottest part of the day. Since he didn’t plan to get in the water, he’d just get sticky again. He walked over to the windows instead, where he could view the ocean in air-conditioned comfort. “That’s unusual, I know. But I’ve been swamped.”

“You’re always busy.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been dealing with more personal stuff than usual.”

“More trouble with your father’s widow?”

“That—and Christina and I are getting a divorce.”

A sigh came through the line. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

He and Christina had been out with Jack and his wife on numerous occasions—whenever they were visiting DC or occasionally when Jack came for a meeting or something at Wagner Business Solutions. “Was it that obvious?”

“At times.”

“We struggled from the beginning. I should’ve bailed out sooner.” Before a child was involved . . .

“You have a good divorce attorney?”

“I do.” Another work associate—who headed up one of the company’s biggest accounts—had given him a recommendation for that.

“I’m sorry for what you’re going through.”

“Thanks. I’m hoping to put it behind me soon.” The marriage, anyway. The baby was another matter. Because of what it would mean for a child coming into a relationship like the one he had with Christina, that was a painful subject, one he could barely bring himself to think about.

He had the summer. He’d get back on his feet by then, he told himself.

“I hope the same,” Jack said. “So . . . what can I do for you?”

“Fifteen years ago, there were some murders here in North Hampton Beach.”

“Did you say murders?”

McBride, Lucy, Aurora, the Clarks and everything that’d happened that long-ago summer had been on Ford’s mind so much since he got back, he hadn’t realized how jarring such an intro would be to someone hearing about it for the first time. Jack dealt with a lot of problems, but murder wasn’t typically among them. “Sorry,” he said with a chuckle. “I should’ve warned you that this wouldn’t be the usual kind of call.”

“You’ve got my attention. But now I’m scared the police over there don’t know you like I do so you’re looking for a defense attorney.”

Ford laughed again. “No. They caught the guy responsible—Mick McBride. Ever heard of him?”

“I don’t recognize the name, no.”

“The murders were a big deal at the time, made the national news.”

“I was in law school fifteen years ago, Ford. I wasn’t paying attention to anything but getting laid and getting through—in that order.”

“At least you had your priorities straight.”

He laughed. “Exactly. Why don’t you give me a quick recap?”

Ford caught him up to speed, telling him about Mick’s tragic childhood, that he’d been shiftless as an adult and struggled to keep a job, that he’d eventually found work in North Hampton Beach managing the trailer park where he and his daughter were living, that he’d broken into a neighboring trailer and killed an old couple while attempting to rob them and ending with Aurora’s murder.

“That’s a tragic story,” Jack said. “But what does all that have to do with you?”

“I’m getting there,” Ford replied. “I was dating his daughter at the time.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. How old were you?”

“Seventeen. So was she. We were only together for like . . . four weeks, but yeah.” What Ford didn’t add was that the length of the relationship didn’t adequately represent it. Being with Lucy had been easy, comfortable, fulfilling—arguably the best weeks of his life. As a matter of fact, they’d fit together so well it’d been impossible for him to forget her even though he’d broken things off, as recommended by his parents, for the sake of his “future.”

“Don’t tell me this woman is stalking you or something like that . . .”

“No.” Lucy had actually told him to stay away from her—advice Jack would probably echo if he knew what Ford was getting involved in. “She is back in North Hampton Beach, though, and she’s insisting that her father didn’t kill Aurora, which would mean the real culprit has gone unpunished.”

“Where’s McBride these days?”

“In prison. DNA tied him to the murders of the old couple—the Matteos. But in Aurora’s case, they convicted him on very shaky evidence.”

“How can I help?”

“I was wondering if you could find me a good investigator.”

“Seriously? Why?”

“To figure out if Lucy’s right.”

“But it’s been fifteen years, Ford. You’re now running the family business—meaning you have much better things to do. Do you really want to spend your resources trying to prove something that’s unlikely to begin with? Or were you close to the girl who was murdered?”

No, this was about the other girl, the one who lost everything when her father went to prison. “It’s not that. I’d just like to see if there’s any truth to what Lucy’s saying.”

“Don’t tell me you’re interested in her again . . .”

There was a certain part of him that couldn’t help wondering, “What if?” Had he ignored his parents and stuck with her, would they have lasted very long? Been happy together in spite of everything? They’d been so young; it was probably a ridiculous thought. “No, of course not,” he said.

“Then let me be the voice of reason. What you’re trying to do could get expensive and ultimately go nowhere.”

Ford was aware of what that might look like over the next few months—and simply didn’t care. He was done listening to other people when it came to Lucy. “I’ve considered it from all angles.”

“And you’re set on proceeding?”

“Completely.”

“Okay. I’ll get you the best damn investigator money can buy.”

“Thank you.” After he hung up, he stood at the window a little longer—and smiled. Maybe he was about to waste a whole lot of time, effort and money. But somehow the call he’d just placed made him feel better than he had in a long while.

It was getting dark when Lucy heard a knock at the door. She hadn’t yet locked up for the night, so she felt a little vulnerable when she went to the window and peered out to see who it was.

A man, the muscles of his shoulders and arms thick and ropy like a powerlifter’s, stood on the porch with blond dreads pulled into a ponytail at the back of his head and tattoo sleeves extending below his white T-shirt.

It wasn’t until she turned on the porch light that she recognized Darren Clark. Then she grew even more apprehensive. She had no idea what he was like these days, but he’d been sullen and standoffish fifteen years ago, and she couldn’t imagine that losing his sister had softened him in any way—especially when it came to her, since his family believed it was her father who’d murdered Aurora and she was partly to blame.

Because she had no idea what he might do, she wished she had something she could use to defend herself, just in case. There were knives in the kitchen, of course, but she wasn’t about to grab one of those. He could take it away from her far too easily.

The best she could come up with at a moment’s notice was the bat she’d seen in the coat closet—something Sharon Smoot had probably put there when the murders occurred fifteen years ago.

Lucy retrieved it and set it just inside the door before throwing back her shoulders and poking her head out to see what her unlikely visitor wanted.

For probably fifteen seconds, she didn’t say anything. Neither did he. They just studied each other warily.

“What can I do for you?” she asked at length.

He stared at his worn tennis shoes before looking at her again. “My parents told me why you’re back.”

She stiffened as she continued to eye him, one hand on the door so she could slam it quickly, if that became necessary, and the other free to grab the bat if she didn’t make it in time. “I’m sorry if my being here upsets you. But I can only act on what I believe to be true, even if you’re convinced I’m wrong.”

He shoved his massive hands—calloused and rough, suggesting he worked with them—into the pockets of his worn jeans. He wasn’t over five-ten or five-eleven, but he looked almost as wide as he was tall. “That’s the thing,” he said. “I’m not convinced you’re wrong.”

Lucy gaped at him. “You don’t think it was my father who killed your sister?”

“I know it wasn’t.”

His response was so opposite to what she’d been expecting, it took a moment for the meaning to sink in. “How can you be so sure?”

“I saw your father the night Aurora went missing. He was at the liquor store.”

She’d never heard this before. “How does that preclude him from . . . from hurting your sister?”

“The timing. She was already missing by then. I’d been trying to reach her for almost an hour, was looking everywhere. There’s no way he would’ve had time to strangle her, dump her body in the river and get to where he was between the time I talked to her and she quit answering my calls and texts.”

“When did you last have contact with her?”

“Shortly after 1:00 a.m.”

At least that remained true to his testimony. “And when did you bump into him?”

“Maybe . . . one forty? The liquor store was the only business still open. I was running out of options, but I wasn’t about to go home without her. My mother was all over me that night, telling me I needed to get my sister before my father realized she hadn’t come in. She didn’t want him to be mad at her for letting Aurora go out again. Aurora had been partying too much, and Dad was worried about where it was all leading,” he said as an aside. “Anyway, I was hoping I’d find someone from the party making a liquor run or something, and I’d be able to figure out where she was. The last time she answered her phone, she told me she was at a big house on the Potomac. She was supposed to ask someone for the address and text it to me, but she never did. By the time I got to the liquor store, your father was the only one around—just drinking and leaning against one of the posts out front.”

Lucy remembered him relating some of the same details at her father’s trial—the part about the party and his attempts to get his sister to come home. But he’d never mentioned that he’d seen Mick. “Why didn’t you say something about this sooner? At the trial, for instance?”

Sighing, he stretched his neck. “It’s . . . complicated. I didn’t get the impression my parents, or the commonwealth attorney, wanted me to talk about it. I was never asked about it on the stand. So I just . . . kept quiet.”

Lucy wasn’t sure how to react. She had this big hulk of a man on her porch—so large he was intimidating—and yet he was coming forward with information that might help her. Sure, he could’ve said something before and didn’t. But given who he was, she couldn’t imagine it was easy for him to speak up even now. “Did you ask my father when you ran into him at the liquor store if he’d seen Aurora?”

“I did.”

“How’d he respond?”

“He didn’t even know who I was talking about. I got the impression he’d never met her. And he didn’t want to be bothered. He just shook his head and stumbled off, but what I noticed at that point also makes it hard for me to believe he was the one who killed her.”

She opened the door a little wider. “What did you notice?”

“He was drunk off his ass, could hardly stand up. He wouldn’t have had the physical strength, the balance or the coordination to be able to drag a woman into the woods, strangle her and dump her. How would he have gotten her to leave the party with him in the first place? I couldn’t even get her to leave. And he didn’t have his car. There was no way she would ever have been interested enough in your old man to leave the party without some sort of force being involved, and he couldn’t force her if he could barely stand up. Besides, there would’ve been people around.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked.

“I wanted you to at least be able to tell the assholes who claim you put your father up to it to shut their damn mouths.”

She took a step back. “You realize you’re talking about your own parents.”

He ducked his head. “They aren’t the only ones, but . . . yeah.”

“Have you told them what you told me?”

“I tried—back then. They insisted I didn’t know what I was talking about, said your father could’ve run into Aurora right after he left the liquor store and been far more capable than I realized. I was only eighteen, after all. They didn’t think I knew anything. But they weren’t at the liquor store that night. They didn’t see what I saw.”

Seemingly satisfied that he’d accomplished what he’d come for, he started to leave.

She followed him into the yard. “Darren . . .”

He turned.

“If my father didn’t kill Aurora, who do you think did?”

“I have no clue,” he replied. “That was another reason I didn’t take a stronger stand fifteen years ago. I couldn’t believe there could be someone else, not after the Matteo murders.” He took another few steps toward his truck, then turned back again. “And maybe, on some level, I was afraid they’d try to blame me. The way Aurora and I fought . . . We couldn’t get along for five minutes, and everyone knew it. I was terrified someone would point a finger at me, claiming I’d murdered my own sister, because it isn’t as if I had an alibi. I’d been out alone, looking for her.”

Lucy could understand how a boy his age would be scared and might succumb to the pressure he was feeling from everyone around him, especially with the trauma of learning his sister had been strangled. But it was ironic that he was the only person who could provide her father with an alibi. “Why are you coming forward after all this time?”

“I felt if you were going to be brave enough to come back here, I’d better step up and do my part.”

As morose and off-putting as Darren had been when they were kids, she liked him now.

“Besides,” he continued before she could respond. “At some point, all the bullshit has to stop, right? I mean, if you can find out who really killed my sister, that’s what I want—the truth and to see the bastard punished. I can’t stand the thought that I’m letting Aurora down by hiding behind a lie just so Mom and Dad can live in some pretend world where they believe justice was served.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know that I’ll be able to accomplish what I hope to accomplish here, but I’m going to do everything I can. And the more I know, the better my chances.”

He nodded. “I hope it’ll make a difference.”

Lucy sagged a little in relief. This was huge, much more than she’d expected to get when she returned to town. Surely, she’d be able to do something with it. “So do I.”

12

Lucy had just locked up and was about to go to bed when she heard another knock on the door. It was late for visitors, so she grabbed the bat she’d left out after Darren came over.

As soon as she turned on the porch light, however—before she could even peer through the peephole to see who it was—she heard Ford say, “Lucy, it’s me.”

Lowering the bat, she frowned. What was he doing back? She’d already taken off her clothes, was wearing nothing except the panties and tank top she slept in. “What can I do for you?” she called.

“I’d like to talk to you. Can you give me a few minutes?”

With a sigh, she set the bat down and went into the bedroom to pull on the shorts she’d just taken off. Then she went back out and cracked open the door. “Don’t tell me you want to do something with the yard.”

“I think I’ll wait for daylight,” he said in response to her sarcasm and lifted a bottle of wine. “But I did bring this . . .”

“A bribe?”

He nodded.

She eyed the bottle of cabernet sauvignon. “What’s it supposed to get you?”

“An audience.”

“For . . .”

He spread his hands in exasperation. “If you’ll give me the chance, I’ll explain.”

She lifted her hair off her neck. It was already getting hot and stuffy inside the house. “Fine, we can talk on the back porch.”

“Sounds good to me, but as long as I’m here, you might as well open the windows and let the house cool down.”

“I don’t think you’ll be here that long,” she said and stepped back to let him walk through.

He raised an eyebrow at her response but didn’t seem put off by it. “You know I have a house with five bedrooms and bathrooms a short distance away. If it ever gets too hot, you could always come over and use one of the spares. It would beat sweltering over here.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’ll be fine.”

“You might change your mind after you hear what I have to say,” he told her with a knowing grin. “As a matter of fact, I think you’re going to start being a lot nicer to me.”

She rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t count on it,” she said but was secretly relieved when they were sitting on her back porch, enjoying the breeze coming in off the ocean as well as the wine he’d brought over. With Ford around, she felt safe, didn’t have to worry about Reggie or anyone else.

There were other worries, though . . .

“You have to admit this is nice,” he said.

“I don’t have to admit anything,” she said grudgingly but smiled.

He chuckled. “Are you ever going to forgive me?”

“I already have. I just don’t see any reason for us to be friends.”

His smile disappeared. “Maybe I need a friend more than you do.”

She was sitting in the swinging chair to his right. “Then you should pick someone else. Even if my father didn’t kill Aurora, he murdered Tony and Lucinda, Ford.”

“That’s tragic. I wish it never happened. But it did, and he’s in prison now. There’s nothing else that can be done in that regard.”

“I’m still related to him,” she pointed out. “That was what made me anathema last time—besides the fact that I had no money and no real prospects for college, I suppose.”

“My parents were wrong to treat you the way they did,” he said with a grimace. “So was I.”

The lump that formed in her throat embarrassed her. It’d been fifteen years! Certainly, she’d gotten over what’d happened in that length of time.

She cleared her throat so the emotion wouldn’t show in her voice. “You’ve already apologized. And I’ve accepted. It’s over. No need to mention it again. Anyway, I can see why they did what they did. They didn’t want someone like me to get hold of you.” She laughed, but he didn’t laugh with her.

“That’s such bullshit,” he said. “I wish they’d handled it differently. I wish I had, too. But if you’ll let me, I’d like to show you that I can be a better friend. I’m convinced I’m a nice guy—down deep,” he added jokingly.

She didn’t know how to respond. She used to prefer him to any other person on the planet. But that was when she was young and naive. “I’m sure you are,” she said and quickly moved on to a more comfortable subject. “So what’d you want to tell me?”

He crossed his long legs out in front of him. “I hired a private investigator today.”

She looked up from her wine. “To . . .”

“Figure out who killed Aurora—or at least prove it wasn’t your father.”

She put down her glass. “Why’d you do that?”

“So that you’ll have the help you need.”

“I can hire my own investigator, Ford. And I will, when I’m ready. I don’t have the resources you do. I’ll probably never be that rich. But I’ve got some money saved up. I’m just waiting until . . . until I find the right person before tapping into those resources.”

When he sat forward, she could tell he’d picked up on the edge in her voice. She didn’t want his pity. She also didn’t want to feel indebted to him. Somehow, that would only make things worse. At least she’d never taken anything from him, including the money he’d tried to give her the day before she left town.

“Now you don’t have to,” he said simply.

“This isn’t your problem,” she insisted, but she’d told him that before.

“Actually, it’s not your problem, either,” he pointed out. “I could easily make an argument that you shouldn’t bother. I mean . . . I’m guessing it won’t make much difference in the way you feel about your father, given what he did to the Matteos. It certainly won’t get him out of prison. And it won’t bring Aurora back.”

“It might mean that she’ll get justice,” she said. “It’s important to get these things right.”

“I agree, but that isn’t your responsibility any more than it is mine. Or are you out to prove you didn’t encourage your father to get rid of her?”

“That could be part of it,” she allowed. “Since I didn’t. I don’t remember so much as mentioning Aurora to him. I didn’t want him to know I was seeing someone. He was insanely protective, wouldn’t have liked it. Besides, I felt secure with you at the time, or I wouldn’t have . . . let it go so far.”

He winced visibly. “You regret making love with me?”

“Let’s just say it wasn’t the best decision I’ve ever made,” she replied, chuckling without mirth.

“That makes me feel terrible. I remember that night fondly. I don’t know why I let anything interfere with our relationship.”

“You had a lot of voices in your ear,” she said but didn’t like the way the conversation was going. It was too personal. Too revelatory. Too awkward. “But back to my purpose here this summer. If you must know, I feel I owe this community a little something after . . . after what my father did. So I’m happy to bear the expense of the investigator.”

“You did nothing wrong, Lucy. You don’t owe anyone anything.”

She looked out over the dark shapes in the yard—shapes that were obviously benign in the light of day but could spook her at night. “Maybe it’s not totally logical. But there’s a sense of responsibility that goes with being so closely related to a man like my father.”

“Did you see anything strange the morning after the Matteos were killed? Any blood on his clothes or boots? Was he acting weird?”

“He came home and washed his own clothes that morning, which was a bit odd since he generally left all the cooking and cleaning to me. But he said he wanted to wear a particular shirt, and I didn’t think twice about it.”

“It’s a plausible enough story. I think people were just looking for a target—something or someone they could blast to make themselves feel better.”

And she became collateral damage.

They sat in silence for the next several seconds, each of them sipping their wine. “About the investigator . . .” she started.

He lifted a hand. “That’s already handled. The guy comes highly recommended, so I know he’s good.”

Should she continue to insist she be the one to find and pay for an investigator? It would mean she could retain control of what happened here, to a point—keep Ford at arm’s length. But she didn’t even know where to find an investigator, not one she could trust. And Ford had far more resources than she did.

Maybe she should let him help. After all, he’d known Aurora much better than she had. And after Darren’s visit, she was even more confident that her father wasn’t the one who’d taken Aurora’s life. “He from around here?”

“DC. So close enough that he can come out if and when he needs to.”

She finished what was in her glass. “You’re taking a risk. You realize that.”

“In what regard?”

“If someone finds out you’re paying for an investigator and word begins to spread, there are plenty of people who won’t be happy about it.”

“The Clarks.”

“Yes, the Clarks. They don’t want you or anyone else to upend what they believe—take away the closure they’re so grateful for. But there are others who want things to remain exactly as they are.”

He seemed mildly surprised. “Who else would care that much?”

“Kevin Claxton, for one. In case you’re not aware, he’s the chief of police these days. And he’s not happy I’m back in town.”

“How do you know?”

“He told me as much when we bumped into each other at the grocery store the other day. He said it’s taken a long time for this community to heal and revisiting what happened back then won’t do anyone any good. But I’m willing to bet he’s more worried about the reputation of the police force.”

“If they settled for a jailhouse snitch instead of digging for more solid evidence, forensic evidence, and the real killer went free . . . I can see why that would make him nervous.”

“The question is . . . how far will he go to stop me?”

Ford lifted his glass. “Further than he’d go to stop us.”

She studied him for several seconds. “You’re serious. You’re going to plow ahead, even though I’ve warned you?”

He stood. “I’m not seventeen anymore, Lucy.”

“Which means . . .”

“I know what I want to do, and I’m not going to change my mind.”

She wished his confidence didn’t appeal to her, but it did. That he was willing to get involved impressed her, too, because he had nothing to gain. “Okay, but I hope you don’t wind up regretting it.”

“We’re only after the truth. I don’t see where that’s a bad thing.”

“A fight is a fight, Ford. And that’s what we’re looking at. I’m telling you for the last time—you don’t want to be on my side.”

“That’s the thing. I really do,” he said and put down his glass before showing himself out.

Lucy had locked up again and was trying to fall asleep despite the oppressive heat when she received a text from him.

It’s not nearly as hot over here . . .

Ignoring the invitation, she got up and opened the windows. Then she took the bat to bed.

The fact that she had an investigator on the case—who’d been vetted by someone who knew more about who to hire—was a relief, but that relief didn’t really hit Lucy until morning. As a gentle wind wafted through the window of her bedroom and washed over her, making it possible for her to cover up for the first time since going to bed, she lay there, watching the curtains flutter while remembering her talk with Ford last night. He wanted to make up for what he’d done. He’d made that clear. And she wasn’t opposed to letting him. She was in favor of forgiveness. It was working together that worried her. If she truly believed he wasn’t a threat to her peace of mind, that wouldn’t be a problem, either. But when she looked at him, she still felt the same magnetism and desire that’d brought them together in the first place. How was it that hadn’t changed?

With a sigh, she squeezed her forehead. Bottom line, she could really use the financial help he was offering. She had her savings, but if he was willing to step in, why would she waste it? He had more resources than she did. And finding out what’d happened to the girl they both knew wasn’t technically her responsibility, as he’d said—especially her responsibility alone.

At least, that was the justification she was allowing herself. She hoped it was all about saving money but feared it was more about craving Ford’s time, attention and involvement.

“Ugh. You’re so weak.” She kicked off the sheet so she could go out and make some coffee. But she’d tried to dissuade Ford. She figured, at this point, he’d made his decision and wasn’t going back on it.

She took a mugful of coffee and went out to the porch, which was quickly becoming her favorite place to be in the cottage, and started writing to her father. He’d never said anything about running into Darren Clark the night Aurora went missing, but if Darren was right, Mick had been totally wasted, so maybe he didn’t remember it.

Still, what Darren had told her might give him a reference point, jog his memory.

Dear Mick—

She couldn’t make herself use “father” or “dad,” didn’t plan on calling him by either of those names ever again.

I had an unexpected visitor yesterday. It was Darren Clark, Aurora’s older brother. He claims he saw you at the liquor store right before it closed the night Aurora was killed. Do you remember anything about that? Did he speak to you? If so, do you recall what he said? And can you tell me where you went after you left the liquor store? Did you see or talk to anyone else that night?

He’d probably write back to tell her he didn’t remember anything. He’d said as much before. Still, it could be worth asking again.

She’d just signed the letter with her name and stuffed the single sheet into an envelope when she received a text from Ford.

Are you awake yet? If so, can you come over? The investigator would like a word with you. I thought we could call him together.

“See?” she said aloud. As long as he was paying for the investigator, he’d want to be part of everything.

She almost refused, except having him involved would certainly be beneficial to her end goal, and attaining that goal was why she’d come to North Hampton Beach in the first place. Besides, she was an adult, no longer a vulnerable young girl. She could keep up her defenses.

Even if she couldn’t, nothing would come of it. He was dealing with a divorce and had a baby on the way. He’d have to go back to solving his own problems eventually. And she was returning to Vegas at the end of the summer. Maybe she wouldn’t even stay that long. If they found what they needed before then, she’d be able to head home early.

Give me thirty minutes.

Do you remember which house it is?

She wished she could say she didn’t. But she wasn’t going to lie. She’d stood on the beach, gazing up at that elegant structure too many times to ever forget where it was or what it looked like.

After putting a thumbs-up on his text to signify that she could find it, she went to take a shower.

13

When Lucy showed up, Ford couldn’t help noticing that she hung back far enough to indicate she wasn’t eager to be there.

“Hey,” he said and wondered if she’d thought about him last night. He’d certainly been thinking about her.

“Don’t smile at me,” she grumbled.

He laughed at her sullen expression. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to see it.”

“Should I scowl instead?” He drew his face into a severe frown. “This better?”

She looked away. “Just . . . don’t do anything, okay?”

He couldn’t resist another chuckle, which she ignored.

“When does the investigator want to talk to us?” she asked.

“He said to call him as soon as you arrived.”

“Great. I’m here.”

All business. Ford stepped back and held the door as she came in. Then he waved her into the main living area.

She circled the room, stopping at the large picture window that created a frame for the sea before picking up a weathered, wooden bird displayed on a side table. “I always wondered what this place was like on the inside.”

They’d been together for such a short period of time he’d never brought her to the house. He’d known his family wouldn’t approve of her. Even before it came out that her father was a murderer, Mick had been a maintenance man, barely eking out a living, and the fact that they lived in a run-down trailer park served as proof. Sara and John would not have reacted in a positive way. They’d always been worried about their image and connections.

Oddly enough, Aurora had been inside the house, however. Ford hadn’t thought twice about introducing her to his parents. He’d known they’d be more than happy to associate with the Clarks.

Even if that hadn’t been the case, he didn’t care how they reacted to Aurora because she hadn’t mattered very much to him. It was Lucy he’d liked.

“I need to get it updated,” he told her. “That’s partly why I’m here this summer.”

“Looks good to me.”

He wondered where she lived these days—not just what city but if she had a good home, maybe with roommates or a boyfriend. And what did she do for a living? He was interested in all of that, but now, when she was so prickly, was not the time to ask.

“Needs new flooring, paint, that sort of thing.” He gestured toward the kitchen and changed the subject. “Would you like some coffee or tea?”

“No, thanks.”

Apparently, she wasn’t going to lower her guard. He figured he might as well get the investigator on the phone.

It took only a few seconds for Lester Friedman’s receptionist to patch him through. As soon as Ford heard his voice, he put his phone on Speaker. “I’ve got Lucy McBride here, Les.”

“Hello, Ms. McBride,” Friedman said.

“Call me Lucy,” she told him. “And for the record, I’ve changed my last name to Sinclair.”

“Duly noted. I can see why someone in your situation might want to do that. Why don’t we get started by having you tell me why you believe Mick McBride wasn’t responsible for the death of Aurora Clark?”

She told him how eager everyone had been to blame him, despite the lack of evidence, because of the Matteo murders. She also told him that Aurora’s aggressive pursuit of Ford had provided the motive, that it was what helped convince everyone that he had reason to kill again.

“Did your father confess to the Matteo murders?” Friedman asked.

“He claims he doesn’t remember killing the Matteos. But he was an alcoholic. Being unable to remember—that wasn’t a new thing for him.”

“So you still have a relationship with him?”

“Not really. We’re in touch for the first time in fifteen years. He still won’t say much about the Matteos, but he’s been very vocal and consistent when it comes to Aurora.”

“Ford told me you were only seventeen when your father was tried and convicted. What’d you do after they put him away?”

She opened her mouth as though she’d explain. Ford was interested in hearing this answer, too. But then she shook her head. “I’d rather not go into it. Unless you need that information for some reason.”

“No,” Friedman was quick to say. “Forgive the intrusion. I am an investigator, after all. I was just curious how you were able to get by.”

“I managed,” she said. “But it was a bumpy ride there for a while.”

“I bet.” Friedman sounded legitimately sympathetic. “I’m sorry.”

Ford was sorry, too. By contrast, he’d been well taken care of, which only made him feel worse about how he’d treated her. He’d had so much more than she did.

“I’ll need to get hold of the court transcripts,” Friedman was saying. “But that should be easy enough. I’ve found that the key to solving almost any cold case is going to the effort of reading everything. I can’t tell you how many times the string that unravels the whole mystery can be found in witness statements or other documents that were sitting in the file the whole time.”

Ford thought of what Lucy had told him about Chief Claxton. “Will you be able to get hold of the files? Because we have reason to believe the police won’t be friendly to outside involvement.”

“I’m sure there were journalists, back in the day, who requested the information I’ll be after. I’ll start there. And if that doesn’t turn up the documents I need, I’ll submit a formal request to the department for their records.”

“And if that gets denied?” Lucy asked.

“It’s been long enough now that they’ll have a hard time justifying a refusal. With Ford’s name behind me, I doubt they’ll even try. If they do, I’ll threaten to go to the press and say they’re hiding something, blow this thing up into a big deal. That’s never a good look for a police department.”

Ford felt a bit awkward that Friedman had mentioned the clout of his name. Lucy had never had the benefit of anything like that. In fact, she’d had to deal with the opposite. “Sounds good. When can we expect an update?” he asked.

“Hard to say. The information gathering process takes time. Besides getting the files and going through them, I’ll need to talk to as many people who were involved as I can. Maybe someone will change their story or offer information they didn’t realize was important before. I hope that happens, because I’ll be honest with you, it doesn’t sound as if we have a lot to go on so far.”

“There is one other thing . . .” Lucy said.

Ford looked up at her in surprise.

“What’s that?” Friedman asked.

“Darren Clark came over last night.”

Ford stiffened. “Aurora’s brother? When? After I left?”

She had the good grace to glance away. “Before.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I was trying not to draw you into this.”

That was true. She’d done her best to keep him out of it. “Did he threaten you?”

“No. That’s what I was expecting. I thought he was upset that I was in town, that . . . that he was coming over to tell me to go away and leave his family alone. But he wasn’t angry with me. He said he knew my father didn’t kill his sister.”

Ford felt his jaw drop. “What?”

“How would he know?” Friedman asked, eager to pounce on the possibility of greater proof.

Ford was grateful for it, too.

“He saw my father that night, said that he wouldn’t have had the time or the opportunity to kill Aurora. He also said my father was so drunk he wouldn’t have been capable of overpowering anyone.”

Friedman sounded excited when he asked, “Do you think Darren would speak to me?”

Lucy nibbled on her bottom lip, giving Ford the impression she was skeptical. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I don’t know if he was just getting it off his chest, or if he’s truly willing to go head-to-head with his folks.”

“I can’t see him doing that,” Ford admitted.

“It might be worth talking to him,” Friedman said. “Ford, can you get me his contact information?”

Ford knew Darren only in a peripheral sense. Darren had been a year older and mostly stayed away from his sister—didn’t seem to like her—which meant Ford hadn’t had much contact with him. “I can probably get his number. But like Lucy, I’m not confident we can count on his help.”

“He came to us,” Friedman pointed out. “Maybe there’s a chance.”

Lucy tucked her hair behind her ears. “He wants the real culprit caught.”

“Let’s hope he wants it badly enough to remain firm in his convictions,” Friedman responded.

After they said goodbye and disconnected, Ford put his phone down. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about Darren,” he said.

Lucy’s shrug came off as manufactured. “I hadn’t fully decided I wanted to work with you.”

“And now?”

“‘Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.’”

That wasn’t an answer he’d expected. “What’d you say?”

Her lips twitched as if she was tempted to laugh. “It’s from The Tempest.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Shakespeare. A man who’s been shipwrecked has little choice but to seek shelter next to a sleeping monster.”

“Ouch!” He pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m the sleeping monster?”

“I guess we’ll see,” she said.

Ford decided he wouldn’t wait for word to leak out that he’d hired an investigator. He’d go to Darren Clark himself and see if Aurora’s brother would repeat what he’d said to Lucy. That way, if Darren started telling a different story in the future, it wouldn’t be his word against Lucy’s. Perhaps Ford was being too cynical, but he worried that Aurora’s brother had been setting her up in some way. He couldn’t see anyone in the Clark family being nice to her.

But first, he had to find out where Darren lived, and the person he felt most comfortable asking was Chet.

He texted his old friend as soon as Lucy left.

Hey, man. Any chance you’ll be around today? I’d like to swing by and talk to you, if you’ve got a minute.

It didn’t take long to get a reply:

Painting today. But why not come over for dinner tonight?

They set up a time, then Ford spent the rest of the afternoon handling calls and emails for work.

He arrived at Chet’s with a bottle of wine. Chet’s wife, Kira, answered the door holding a chubby baby who gave him a darling but drooly grin.

“This must be Kenzie,” Ford said.

“Yes, and I’m shocked she’s so willing to flirt with you,” Kira responded. “It’s her bedtime, but Chet wanted me to keep her up so you could see her.”

“She’s beautiful.” So was Kira. Chet’s wife had long, silky black hair that fell straight down her back, smooth, unblemished skin and dark eyes. From what he could tell, she wasn’t wearing any makeup. She didn’t need any.

“We think so,” Kira said. “It’s nice to finally meet you, by the way. Chet has told me so much about you.”

“Chet and I had some fun together back in the day.”

“We sure did.” Chet’s voice boomed through the house as he came to stand behind his wife at the door. “I hope you’re hungry, brother.”

“You know me,” Ford said. “I never met a meal I didn’t like.”

Kira waved Kenzie’s little fist. “Say goodbye to Uncle Ford. I’m going to put her down,” she told Chet. “I’ll join you boys in a minute.”

As Kira walked away with the baby, Chet took the wine and motioned Ford inside. The Anthony family’s summer house was almost as big as Coastal Comfort but that was the only similarity. Located on the Potomac, not the sea, it was decorated with far more colors and contained what looked like a collection of secondhand furnishings, creating an aesthetic drastically different from Coastal Comfort’s more cohesive, designer-like interior and palette of neutral colors. But it was comfortable and homey. Ford liked it.

“Kira’s made squash soup with cranberries and walnuts to sprinkle on top, which we’ll eat in a sourdough bowl. And we’ll start the meal with a beet and goat cheese salad and end with her fabulous pineapple cake.”

“Sounds delicious.”

“She’s quite a cook,” he confided, patting his rounding middle. “Almost everything she makes is healthy, too—not that you’d be able to tell by looking at me.”

“Too many calories are too many calories, I guess,” Ford said with a chuckle. He couldn’t help being a little surprised that Chet had married someone as tall and elegant as Kira. Chet had always had trouble getting the girls he wanted, because he’d gone for the most popular, beautiful girl around, and that kind of girl never seemed to be interested in him. Although Chet was nice, Ford didn’t get the impression the opposite sex found him all that attractive. It didn’t help that he’d started losing his hair as early as their Atlantic City trip in college.

Eddie brought them a dog toy.

“He’s jealous of the baby. When she’s not around, he knows it’s his turn for a little attention,” Chet explained as he took the stuffed rabbit and threw it across the living room, sending Eddie into a frenzy as he scrambled to collect it.

Ford shook his head. “You’ve really settled down, man. You’ve got a beautiful wife, a beautiful baby and a good dog. I mean . . . Eddie might be a little hyper, but two out of three ain’t bad.”

Chet grinned. “Eddie’s young yet.”

“You and I, on the other hand, are not so young anymore. Where has all the time gone? It’s great to see you like this, by the way. So happy. So . . . on track.”

“I haven’t gotten where I want to be in my career yet, but I’m working on it. And I’m certainly satisfied with everything else.”

“You deserve it all,” Ford said.

Chet smiled broadly. “Thanks. Let me get you a drink.”

They decided to save the wine for dinner and have a cold beer while waiting for Kira. Chet showed Ford all the paintings he’d done that were hanging in the house and what he was working on in his studio, which was essentially a spare bedroom. Then they talked about his students, his hopes of spending a summer abroad when Kenzie got older—to inspire his art—and his dream of owning a gallery, possibly in North Hampton Beach, which meant he’d compete with the Clarks.

“We’d have different collections. And I’d have live events with artists and local musicians. I have a lot of ideas,” he explained.

After about fifteen minutes, Ford decided to get to the point of his visit, so they wouldn’t have to talk about “that summer” at dinner. “How well do you know Darren Clark?”

There was a slight pause before Chet answered. “Darren? Fairly well, I guess. He works for a roofing company. Can’t remember which one, not off the top of my head, but he came out to patch the roof on this place a few years back, when it was leaking. I’ve seen him at the local bars over the years. We even went out together once, before I got married, and played some darts.” He drained his beer and got up to grab another one. “We’re friendly with each other. Why?”

“I was wondering if you could give me his number or tell me where he lives.”

Chet popped the top of his second beer. “You need some roofing done? I thought you put a brand-new roof on that place not too long ago.”

“I did. This isn’t about roofing.”

“What’s going on?”

“Darren showed up at Lucy’s last night.”

His arm froze with his beer halfway to his mouth. “Oh, boy. People are already trying to run her off, are they?”

“Surprisingly, not Darren. He went over to tell her he knows her father could not have killed his sister.”

Chet nearly choked on the gulp he’d just taken and pounded his own chest as he coughed.

“You okay?” Ford asked.

“Yeah. Just . . . went down the wrong way,” he managed to gasp as his eyes watered. When he’d recovered enough to speak easily, he added, “Sorry about that.”

“No problem.”

“Was he high? I mean . . . everyone knows Mick McBride killed Aurora.”

“People might think so, but I’m no longer convinced it’s true. Lucy makes a good case for the fact that it could’ve been someone else.”

“No way . . . Two killers? Come on.”

“Improbable isn’t the same thing as impossible.”

Making a face, he set his beer aside as if it was souring his stomach. “Well, I don’t believe it. If you ask me, Lucy’s going on a wild-goose chase. She’s foolish to waste her time, energy and resources. I mean . . . what does she hope to accomplish here? She’s come back for nothing. Stands to gain nothing!” he repeated more emphatically.

“People treated her badly when she lived here, Chet. I think she wants everyone to know that she might be related to a terrible person, but she isn’t a terrible person herself. That’s important to her. It would be important to anyone. She also feels whoever did hurt Aurora needs to be punished.”

“There is no one else. She’s just going to upset everyone for no reason. I mean—” he threw up his hands “—what’s she going to do? Ask those who were living here back then if they know anything?” He chuckled humorlessly. “Anyone who might have something to share probably won’t even speak to her, so it’ll go nowhere. She needs to weigh the cost-benefit ratio.”

“That’s just it.”

Chet leaned forward. “What?”

“The cost won’t be quite so bad for her since I’m helping. I’ve hired a private investigator to look into it.”

Chet’s jaw went slack. “Are you kidding me?”

“No.”

He stood. “Why would you get involved?”

“Because I think she has a right to clear her name, if she can.”

“She didn’t get the blame!”

“In a way, she did,” Ford argued.

Chet wrinkled his nose to show his skepticism and denied that statement with a shake of his head. “What she’s doing is ridiculous!”

Kira came from putting the baby down and did a double take when she saw her husband’s face. Normally pale under all the freckles, it was now mottled red. “What’s ridiculous?” she asked, picking up on the last of the conversation.

“The daughter of the murderer I told you about is back—”

“Lucy,” she broke in.

“Yes, Lucy. She’s trying to get everyone riled up again.”

Ford scowled. “She’s not trying to get everyone riled up again. She just wants to do what the police didn’t and make sure we really have the answers we think we do.”

“But why?” Chet asked. “There’s no point.”

“I just explained it to you,” Ford said.

Kira looked confused. “Honey, why would it make any difference to you?”

Finally, Chet seemed to get hold of himself. “I don’t know,” he said, sitting up straighter. “I guess that was a crazy time for all of us, and I was looking forward to a fun summer here—not one where we’re once again plagued with that old bullshit. It’s upsetting to have a friend die, but it’s even more upsetting to learn that she was killed.”

At the softening of Chet’s tone and attitude, Ford relaxed. “I get it. Sometimes I think about Aurora and can’t believe she’s gone—that I know someone who was murdered.”

“It’s upsetting,” Chet said. “We don’t need any reminders.”

Kira put a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “I married a sensitive guy. And I love him all the more for it.”

Chet reached up to cover his wife’s hand while pretending to be emasculated. “Come on, honey. I’m not sure I want you to perceive me as that sensitive,” he joked. “I’d rather you thought of me as a big, tough dude.”

“You’re everything I want you to be,” she said with a smile. “So let’s not get caught up in Lucy’s return and what she might be doing this summer.”

“Okay,” he said.

As they migrated to the dining table, Kira started asking Ford about his business and other aspects of his life, and he was glad for the change of subject. As she’d said, there was no reason to get hung up on the past.

“Where did you meet Chet?” he asked after they’d eaten their salads and she was ladling the soup.

“He came to my yoga class,” she said. “I’m an instructor during the winter.”

“I thought it would be an easy way to get in shape,” Chet explained. “But . . . damn! Have you ever tried it?”

Ford laughed. “I’ve gone to a few classes. I prefer to run and lift weights, but I’ve seen it do incredible things for a lot of people.”

“I never could catch on to it!” Chet laughed with him. “I tried and tried.”

“He wasn’t enjoying it, but he kept coming back because he was interested in me.” Kira wore a fond expression as she looked at her husband. “I thought he’d improve eventually, but it just wasn’t his thing.”

“Fortunately, once I got her to go out with me, I didn’t have to go back,” he said, “because then I had what I wanted.”

She leaned conspiratorially toward Ford. “I didn’t care if he could do yoga. I was drawn to his warmth and sincerity. He was the nicest guy I’d ever met. Besides, I’ve always had a thing for redheads.”

“You two are very lucky to have found each other,” Ford said.

Chet reached over to squeeze his wife’s hand. “I couldn’t love anyone more.”

Ford felt a twinge of envy. The lack of love in his own marriage had made every day a difficult grind. He believed he’d loved Christina in the beginning. But their relationship had turned toxic so quickly—and that toxicity had eaten away at those tender feelings until they’d been obliterated. As hard as he’d tried, he couldn’t seem to reverse the downward spiral. It only got worse, and yet he’d hung on as long as he could, hoping something would change.

As they continued to talk and laugh and eat, a sense of loss swept over Ford—for what could’ve been. Had Christina been willing to get counseling or help him make changes, or he’d married someone more compatible with him, maybe he’d be as happy and in love as Chet was. Then he’d be excited to be welcoming his first child into the world instead of dreading the terrible battle it would incite between him and his soon-to-be ex.

The evening drew to a close almost before he knew it. By the time it was over, he was convinced Chet had it all. He didn’t have the financial success Ford had, of course, but he had what mattered most.

“Kira’s great,” Ford told Chet as they walked to the door. “You two are perfect for each other.”

Kira had been cleaning up in the kitchen while they visited after dinner. She’d said she wanted to give them some time alone to catch up. But she came to the door to hand him a paper plate with a big piece of cake to take home with him and say goodbye.

“Thank you. Dinner was delicious,” Ford told her. “It’ll be my treat next time. I’ll grill. Or I’ll take you all out somewhere that’s friendly to babies.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” she said.

Ford started to leave, then remembered why he’d contacted Chet in the first place. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, catching them just before they closed the door. “Can I get Darren Clark’s contact info from you?”

Chet looked crestfallen that Ford had mentioned Darren again, but he nodded and reluctantly pulled out his phone.

14

It was another hot night. But Lucy was feeling better overall. She hadn’t heard from Reggie, and although she didn’t want to allow herself to lean on Ford, she felt safer knowing he was close by. Besides, she’d slept with her windows open last night without incident. That somehow made her feel more confident doing it again.

She glanced at the bat that was now leaning against the wall in her bedroom. There was a chance it wouldn’t help her—not if Reggie broke in and was on top of her before she could grab it—but she was probably letting her imagination run away with her. Surely, he wouldn’t go that far. She’d watched too many true crime shows, trying to better understand her father—and begun to think almost everyone was dangerous.

With a sigh, she rolled over to go to sleep—but heard a knock at the door.

“It’s me!” Ford called out immediately.

She couldn’t believe it. Was he going to make a habit of showing up at her place after dark? she wondered as she put her clothes back on and went out to let him in.

Cracking open the door, she peered at him. “What’s going on?”

He was holding a plate covered with tinfoil with one hand, the other was shoved into the pocket of his faded jeans—jeans that fit him far too well to go unnoticed. “Just checking on you.”

She wasn’t his concern, but she was grateful. She knew she had enemies. “I was . . . in bed.”

He gestured toward the closest window. “Are you giving up on locking everything?”

“I don’t really have a choice,” she admitted. “It’s too damn hot.”

“That makes me a little nervous.”

She lifted her eyebrows. There was no reason for it to make him nervous. Why would he care one way or the other?

“I’m trying to help you,” he said, responding to the look she’d given him.

“And I’m grateful. I think,” she added uncertainly.

“I realize I have zero credibility with you, but I’d appreciate you giving me the benefit of the doubt.” He held up his phone to show her Darren’s contact record. “After all, I got Darren’s number. I’m going to give him a call tomorrow.”

“To see if he’ll speak with Mr. Friedman?”

“Yeah. I thought if I prepped him a little, we might have a better chance.”

“Makes sense.” She leaned against the door as she held it partially open. “I hope he’ll be receptive.”

“Maybe I’ll talk to Reggie, too.”

“You must have a lot of confidence in your powers of persuasion if you think you can convince Reggie to speak to Friedman. That guy is selfish and angry and . . . just plain scary.”

“If he was telling the truth on the stand, he has no reason to refuse.”

“Except that he was lying, which means he has a very good reason to refuse.”

“You never know.” He handed her the plate he’d been holding. “I thought you might like this.”

She pushed her long hair out of her face. Although she’d worn it up all day, she’d removed the tie before bed. “What is it?”

“The best damn pineapple cake on the planet. I didn’t even know pineapple cake could taste so good.”

“You mean like . . . pineapple upside-down cake? I haven’t had one of those in years.”

“It’s more like a carrot cake—moist with nuts and a thick, cream cheese frosting.”

A homemade cake was something Lucy would never bother to make, not just for herself. The scarcity of home-baked goods in her life made his offering even more appealing. “Where’d you get it?”

“My friend Chet and his wife, Kira, had me over for dinner tonight and sent that home with me.”

She tried to hand it back to him. “Then they wanted you to have it.”

He gave her a coaxing smile. “Why don’t you let me in, so we can share it with a glass of milk?”

He was far more appealing than the cake, and she loved cake. Because of that, she was casting about for an excuse to refuse when he said, “Come on. Don’t be like that.”

“Fine.” Reluctantly, she opened the door wide enough for him to get past her and the cake she was now holding.

“Chet’s in town, huh?” she said as he made himself at home in her kitchen by getting out a second plate as well as a knife.

“You remember him?”

“Of course. He hung around you all the time.”

“He still comes back every summer and stays in his family’s vacation home on the Potomac.”

She remembered the house, too. Like Coastal Comfort, she’d never been inside it, but she’d seen it. It wasn’t far from the party Aurora had attended before she was murdered. “Is it as nice as your place?”

“Depends on what you like. It’s . . . cozy.”

“And how would you describe Coastal Comfort?”

“You’ve seen it.”

“A decorator’s dream?” she said.

“A decorator’s work,” he clarified. “It’s comfortable, too, in a different way.”

“In the way money makes everything comfortable—expensive mattresses and pillows and thousand thread count sheets?” she said with a laugh.

“I guess I can’t argue there.” He cut the cake she’d put on the counter and slid a thin sliver onto the extra plate before handing the much bigger piece to her.

“Whoa, this is a lot more than half,” she said.

“I’ve already had some.” He went through the drawers until he found the forks while she got the milk and poured two glasses. “Shall we go to the porch again?” he asked.

“Why not?” she replied. “It’s the best place in the house. Well, it’s not really in the house, but you know what I mean.”

He followed her out and muttered “thank goodness” as he took a seat on the wicker furniture, apparently relieved to get a small reprieve from the heat. Even with the windows open, the house was hotter than the outdoors.

“What kind of house do you live in?” he asked as she sat across from him so she could use the table nearby for her milk.

She picked up her fork. “If you’re wondering if I hit the lottery since I left here penniless, the answer is no.”

“I’m not comparing or judging you. I’m just curious about your life. Is that so terrible?”

What she had could never compare with what he had, but she was proud of herself for owning a piece of real estate. Her father had never owned anything beyond a vehicle, and even that was generally a piece of junk. “I have a condo in Vegas,” she told him. “I could’ve bought a house, but I didn’t want to worry about the yard, and I like the security the complex offers—the amenities, too, with the pool and clubhouse.”

“Why Vegas?” he asked.

She put the first bite of cake into her mouth and closed her eyes as the cream cheese frosting melted on her tongue. “God, this is good.”

“Lucy?”

She opened her eyes.

“Why Vegas?”

“That’s where I work.” Although, she could live anywhere if she could get used to playing poker online. So far, it hadn’t been her thing. Maybe she was a little superstitious, but she tended to do better in person, felt it was easier to read the players around her.

Already finished with his small sliver of cake, Ford put down his fork. “What do you do that enables you to take the whole summer off?”

“I’m not going to tell you,” she said and took another bite of cake.

He looked up. “Why?”

“I’d just rather not.” Some people frowned on gambling. She didn’t want to give him another reason to feel superior—or his parents another reason to commend themselves for keeping their son away from her.

“Are you a teacher?” he guessed. “Teachers have summers off . . .”

“Not a teacher. I didn’t have the opportunity to go to college. I was homeless until I was twenty-two. I doubt I would’ve been able to get through college even if I’d had the money. I was pretty messed up after what happened here.”

His lips compressed into a straight line. Then he said, softly, “How’d you survive?”

She used her fork to make swirls in the frosting on her cake. “It’s kind of a blur, to tell you the truth.”

He drank his milk. “You didn’t have any family to help you?”

She shook her head.

“I didn’t think so. What about your mother? You never reconnected with her?”

“Maybe you forgot, but I didn’t know where she was. I still don’t. And I don’t want to know.”

“You’ve never tried to look for her?”

“No. I figure I’m probably better off without someone like that in my life.”

He studied her for several seconds, long enough that she began to feel uncomfortable.

“What?” she said, scowling at him.

“You should be proud of yourself,” he replied.

She laughed humorlessly. “For what?” She thought it was pretty cool that she’d been able to buy a car and a condo and amass some savings. But that would be nothing to him.

“Not only did you survive, you landed on your feet. Not many people could’ve pulled that off.”

Wishing his praise didn’t feel quite so good, she told herself not to take it seriously. Words were just words. “I appreciate that. I’m glad things have gotten easier.”

“So am I.” He stood and gathered his glass and plate. “I’ll let you get back to your night—and I’ll call you tomorrow after I talk to Darren.”

Grabbing her own plate and glass, she followed him inside. “You weren’t serious about contacting Reggie, were you?”

“I was.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“You’ve said as much.”

“You’re not going to listen?”

“Nope,” he replied, but tossed her such a devilish grin she wanted to smile back.

Resisting, she looked away while putting her dishes in the sink. “I guess that’s your choice.” She turned on the faucet so she could rinse the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. “Thanks for the cake.”

He didn’t walk out like she expected. He stood next to her, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body, and waited until she looked up at him again. Then he lifted his hand and wiped her bottom lip with his thumb. “Frosting,” he explained.

The beat of her heart seemed to radiate through her whole body as she met his gaze. Then the memories came rushing back—not only of the first time they’d kissed but of making love with him on the beach.

Lucy ordered herself to blank her mind, feel nothing, but that crooked smile of his, not to mention the way he smelled—so clean and warm and male—made her wish she could lean into him, if only for a moment. Apparently, she, who had such trouble getting close to men, still craved what she’d lost in this place.

Maybe that was really what’d driven her back . . . She was trying to plug that hole. There were still times, like now, when she asked herself why she hadn’t meant more to him. It didn’t matter that she’d been only seventeen. Had their roles been reversed, she never would’ve abandoned him.

“Thanks,” she muttered as if she felt nothing, but she could barely breathe and stayed right where she was for several minutes after he let himself out.

Lucy had ended up in Vegas? That was more than halfway across the country. Ford couldn’t help wondering what’d drawn her there, other than the fact that she’d probably wanted to get as far away from North Hampton Beach as possible.

He wondered what she did for a living and where she’d gotten the savings she’d mentioned. Obviously, she didn’t like talking about her past, but he was curious. What had she been forced to do? Eat out of garbage cans? Sleep on the street? How desperate had she gotten?

The images that paraded across the stage of his mind made him cringe. He felt he was part of the reason she’d had no support. He certainly could have and should have done more to help her. Although . . . at seventeen, he probably couldn’t have done enough. Still, he’d feel better about himself if he could at least say he hadn’t piled on.

He thought of how much she seemed to enjoy the cake he’d brought her tonight. Christina had always had so much. She wouldn’t have thought anything about getting some leftovers, homemade or not. She could have a chef bake her whatever cake she asked for. She probably wouldn’t eat something that calorie-laden, anyway.

Lucy, on the other hand, had closed her eyes and savored every bite. And seeing how much she enjoyed it made him happy he’d given it to her . . .

It was such a simple thing. But it was joy about the simple things that was missing in his life.

His phone rang and his estranged wife’s picture popped up on Caller ID. He wanted to remain courteous to Christina, which meant he should answer her calls. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it, not when he was finally feeling a little warmer inside. He hadn’t felt human in so long. He’d been completely empty, just kept pushing himself to fulfill his duties and responsibilities so he wouldn’t let his mother and brother down.

He turned off his ringer and put on some music. He was tired but not quite ready for bed. He wanted to live in this moment a little longer. The slightly bewildered expression on Lucy’s face as she’d gazed up at him tonight had to be the most heartbreaking look she’d ever given him, and yet there was something there that offered him hope of real forgiveness.

After a few minutes, the music cut out, signifying he’d received a text. He knew better than to do it, but he glanced down to see what it was. He’d been hoping it was Lucy. Regardless of everything, he liked being with her, felt at home in a way that was difficult to describe.

But it was Christina. She was saying she’d visited her OB/GYN today and heard the heartbeat of their baby for the first time. She’d sent him a recording of it.

Listening would only make him sad he wasn’t there, even though he couldn’t be there—couldn’t be with Christina—any longer.

Still, he pressed Play.

The heartbeat was much faster than that of a baby outside the womb and had a whooshing sound: Wow . . . wow . . . wow . . . wow . . .

He closed his eyes as he listened. He wanted to be excited. Especially because he’d just seen Chet’s baby and instantly loved her. How could he miss the birth of his own little girl or boy? Staying up at night to help with changings and feedings? Holding his child in his arms whenever he wanted?

And yet he couldn’t go back to Christina again, not when he already knew how it would end.

Although . . . Maybe the baby really would make all the difference. Would Christina care enough about their child to be decent? Should he get back with her and put off the divorce until he absolutely couldn’t take it anymore? Or stay with her indefinitely, no matter how miserable he got, for the sake of this other person they were bringing into the world?

A lump formed in his throat. He generally avoided a lot of emotion—did whatever he could to distract himself when the regret and longing struck. That was why he’d worked so many hours; work was the only antidote to his turbulent home life. But all the pain and disappointment, and the sense of failure, he’d been shoving away hit him as he played that heartbeat recording over and over.

He could take the summer for himself, but then he had to go back to Christina, he realized. She’d had him from the second she told him she was pregnant. On some level, she knew it, too. It was because he’d tried to tell her no that she’d sent him this little reminder. The recording sounded like wow . . . wow . . . wow . . . wow, but it was really saying, I’ve still got you. You’ll never escape.

Lucy woke up thinking about Ford. She’d gone to sleep thinking about Ford, too. And that simply wasn’t acceptable.

Disgusted with herself, she got out of bed and made breakfast. She was going to scan the two letters she’d received from her father so far and send them to Friedman. She thought he might be able to glean something from them or give her questions he wanted her to ask. After all, she was the only one who had a connection with Mick. She doubted her father would talk to anyone else—about Aurora or the Matteos. He hadn’t in all these years, wasn’t the kind of guy who pandered to the press.

While she was eating, Missy texted her a picture of her plants, which were thriving. Her friend also said the last guy she’d dated had come back into the restaurant where she worked. Missy insisted he was feeling her out, hoping she’d encourage him to get back in touch with Lucy. But Lucy knew she’d done the right thing calling it quits with him. The way she felt when she was around Ford showed her what it should be like when she was interested in someone. She couldn’t allow herself to succumb to the attraction she felt for her first love—had to find someone else who stirred her in the same way. She was positive of that now, just as she was positive that she’d done the right thing breaking up with the other men she’d been with since leaving North Hampton Beach.

She told Missy to discourage him. Then she got dressed and grabbed her keys. She planned to go to the house where Aurora had attended the party the night she was killed—to see, through an adult’s eyes, how things might’ve played out. What exit Aurora might’ve taken. Where she might’ve walked. Where whoever killed her might’ve found her and/or abducted her.

Maybe, since it’d been so long, some of the neighbors who weren’t closely tied to the Clarks would be willing to talk to her—if the same people still lived in or used those homes.

She piled her hair into a messy bun, put on some mascara and lip gloss and grabbed her purse. But as she was letting herself out of the house, she heard the pounding of feet as someone ran away and turned just in time to see the trees move where whoever it was had torn through them to reach the road.

Who’d been in her yard? And why hadn’t that person come to the door?

Hoping to catch a glimpse of the culprit—to put her mind at ease that it was just kids—she started to follow. As far as she knew, there was no reason for anyone to be at the cottage besides Ford, who was taking care of the landscaping, and he wouldn’t run away when she came out.

But she hadn’t gotten very far when she heard a motor flare to life and saw a quick glimpse of the back end of a beat-up orange truck scatter gravel as the driver peeled out and rocketed away before she could see who was behind the wheel.

15

The house wasn’t as easy to find as Lucy had expected. Too many other neighborhoods had been built up around the original one. All the new development messed with her memory, but she eventually located the right street. The grand old mansions were still there, sitting on large lots that backed up to the river. Some had tennis courts, others had large outdoor living areas with pergolas and expansive barbecue areas. Almost every house had a pool as well as a dock with a fishing boat. The number of mature trees, everything from bald cypress draped with Spanish moss to silver maple to white oak, signified the age of the neighborhood. But even on the original street she found change. Several of the homes had been updated, which made it more difficult to decide which house Aurora had visited the night she was murdered.

The road was paved but narrow, barely wide enough for two cars, and didn’t have a curb or gutter. After cruising down it and not immediately recognizing what she’d come to find, Lucy parked just past the stop sign where the old neighborhood started and got out to walk, thinking it might be easier to look on foot. She knew the house Chet’s family owned was also on this street. If she could decide which one that was, she figured she’d be able to get her bearings and go from there. From what she could recall, the Zampino house, which was where the party took place, was only two or three doors down from the Anthony house.

As she walked, the fecund scent created by all the vegetation, the moist earth and the nearby river triggered several memories—not of that fateful summer but of four years earlier, when, for a brief time, she’d been friends with Aurora. It was right after Lucy and her father had moved to town and Aurora had braces and acne and hadn’t turned into the beauty she would later become. At thirteen, Lucy would ride her bike over to this side of town from the trailer park and wait for Aurora to get out of the piano lessons she took from a Mrs. Lindsay, who’d long since moved away. Then Aurora would get on the back of Lucy’s bike, and they’d go to see another girl named Mara who lived in a little shack about half a mile down the river.

Aurora’s mother thought the friend they were visiting after piano lessons lived in the same neighborhood as Mrs. Lindsay and put a stop to it once she learned they were running around unchaperoned, catching snakes and bugs, playing with the feral cats she insisted “spread disease” and using an old tire swing to jump into the river, where they “could’ve drowned.”

After that, Mrs. Clark had made it more and more difficult for Lucy to see Aurora, and it wasn’t long before Mara moved away and Aurora changed and didn’t seem to mind the end of their friendship. She had a new set of friends who could afford the same fancy clothes, jewelry and makeup she could.

But Lucy’s trips to this part of town were certainly memorable. It wasn’t only quiet and peaceful, it was elegant. She remembered thinking that this was what an adult meant when he or she called something “tasteful.”

She hadn’t gone very far when she heard a motor. A vehicle was coming up from behind. She immediately moved over to give the driver plenty of room to pass her, but the car didn’t go by. It slowed until it was barely rolling. Then the driver lowered the passenger window.

“Lucy? That you?”

Lucy ducked her head to see inside the older model Mercedes sedan. “Chet?”

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

She hadn’t expected to encounter him, hadn’t been planning to go up to his door or anything. It was just bad timing that he’d come home when she was walking down the street. She knew Ford liked him. She’d liked him, too, back in the day, which was why it’d hurt her so badly when she’d learned he was the one crowing to everyone that Lucy had probably encouraged her father to get rid of Aurora because Aurora was pursuing Ford. Lucy had been shocked when she heard the rumors he’d started, thought Chet knew her better than to accuse her of something like that. But the moment her father was arrested, she’d become anathema to him—just like she had to Ford.

Unlike Ford, however, Chet had actively made her life even more miserable by saying what he did.

So how was she going to handle seeing him again?

Keeping a friendly smile pasted on her face despite the tightening of her chest, she said, “I, um, can you tell me which house is the Zampino house?”

He came to a complete stop. “I’m not sure the Zampinos still live here.”

She shaded her eyes as she leaned in the window. “Well . . . do you remember which house they owned when they did?”

“Why do you want to know?” he asked.

She figured she might as well be honest. Ford’s investigator would probably be looking for the same house at some point. “I just want to see it.”

“Because . . .”

“Because I don’t believe my father killed Aurora, Chet. I think it was somebody else. So I want to see the house where she attended that party, get a feel for what it might’ve been like that night and what could’ve happened.”

Chet was wearing sunglasses, which made it hard to read his reaction, but he hesitated long enough to tell her he wasn’t willing to embrace her doubt. “After fifteen years?” he said. “If it’s your father who’s sent you on this fool’s errand, he’s lying to you, plain and simple, which shouldn’t surprise anyone. After all, he is a murderer.”

“That doesn’t mean he murdered Aurora,” Lucy stubbornly insisted.

“Then who do you think did?”

“I don’t know yet. But like I told Reggie—who lied under oath, by the way—I intend to find out.”

He smacked the steering wheel. “That’s so stupid!”

Pushing away from the window, she straightened. “Be that as it may.”

“I don’t want any part of what you’re doing,” he said.

“Fine.” With a shrug, she started walking again. “I’ll find it on my own.”

Muttering a curse, he sped up and got beyond her. But a second later, she saw his brake lights go on, and he waited for her to catch up. “Honest to God, Lucy,” he said when she could hear him again. “I don’t understand what you think you’re doing. Coming back here after so long . . . It won’t amount to anything. You realize that. Nothing good, anyway. You’re just going to rip this community in two, pit friend against friend, family member against family member!”

“I’m not so convinced of that,” she said. “Everyone managed to remain united against me last time, remember?” She glanced over at him. “And you were part of the reason.”

In spite of his dark glasses, she could tell that she’d surprised him. He hadn’t expected her to punch back. But she was tired of being a victim of circumstance, tired of feeling powerless. She would do what she needed to do here—and neither he nor Reggie would stop her. The same went for everyone else.

“What are you saying? I didn’t do anything.” He spoke evenly, but she could feel a strong undercurrent of emotion.

“That’s not how I remember it.”

Cursing louder this time, he hit the gas pedal and rocketed away from her. She’d thought she’d seen the last of him. But he didn’t turn into a drive. Once again, he stopped in the middle of the road, only this time he was so far away that he put the car in Reverse.

She could hear the whine of the engine as he raced back to her, going so fast the vehicle rocked hard when he stomped on the brake. “Look, I’m sorry for whatever you’re holding against me. I didn’t do anything to hurt you, not on purpose.”

“Telling everyone I put my father up to killing Aurora wasn’t doing anything?”

“She was trying to take Ford away from you, and I know you know that, because I was the one who told you. We had a conversation, remember? Where I said you should confront her?”

“And I refused! If Ford wanted to go out with her, that was his decision. So if I wasn’t even willing to confront her, why would I press my father to kill her? I was seventeen years old! That sort of violence never even crossed my mind!”

“You’re asking me, and everyone else, to take a lot on faith with that statement.”

“It’s the truth!”

He said nothing, but he didn’t drive away, either. He continued to roll slowly, keeping pace with her.

“Is there something else?” she asked at length.

“That was an unusual situation, a difficult time for everyone, Lucy.”

She gaped at him. “You’re telling me?”

“Fine, if you want to see the Zampino house, I’ll take you there.” He pressed the button to unlock the car doors, and Lucy heard the corresponding thunk. “Get in.”

She shook her head. “That’s okay.”

“Seriously,” he said. “Don’t be like that.”

“It’s not far. I’ll find it on my own.”

“You asked me which house it was, and I’m willing to take you there. Just get in!”

He was so insistent she reached for the handle and had just climbed in when her phone went off.

He looked over as she got it out of her purse and must’ve seen the name on Caller ID because he said, “Ford’s calling you?”

“Apparently,” she replied and answered.

“Where are you?” Ford asked.

“Where are you?” she responded.

“At your place. I thought you might want to go with me to talk to Darren.”

“I’d be happy to do that, but I’m with Chet right now.”

“Chet!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing with him?”

“I wanted to see the house where Aurora attended the party the night she was killed, but everything has changed so much on this side of town that I couldn’t remember exactly which house it was. He happened to drive past, and now he’s helping me find it.”

“Really! That surprises me.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I’ll explain when I see you,” he replied. “And I think I’ll head over to Darren’s without you. We can talk later.”

“Okay.”

“Call me when you get back.”

“I will,” she said. Although she didn’t want to interact with Ford on a daily basis, she couldn’t see how they’d get anywhere without frequent communication.

Chet’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “So . . . Ford just calls you whenever he likes? You two are friends again?”

“Not really,” she mumbled.

“Then what was that about?”

She put her phone in her purse. “Nothing important.”

He slowed the car to a crawl as he studied her.

“What?” she finally asked, growing uncomfortable beneath his prolonged stare.

“A lot has changed over the years.”

Or nothing had changed. That was what freaked her out the most. She was still drawn to Ford even though she had a very powerful reason to keep him out of her life. Why hadn’t that changed? Maybe a better question was . . . why couldn’t she change it?

“Sounds to me as if you two are getting close again,” he said.

She wished he’d drive faster. “We’re friends, more or less.”

“Is it more—or is it less?” he asked.

She shot him a look that told him she didn’t appreciate the implication. “It’s nothing—that’s what it is.”

At last, he pulled over in front of a house that only partly resembled the one she remembered.

“This is it?” she said.

“This is it,” he confirmed.

“They’ve done a lot of work to it.”

“Rich people renovate, Lucy. They don’t let their houses get worn and dated.”

He was letting her know her place, reinforcing the fact that she didn’t belong in the same socioeconomic class he and Ford did. He may come off like a nice guy, she realized, but he wasn’t. “Right. Thanks for helping me find it.”

“No problem,” he said as she opened the door. “If you want to waste your time, I guess that’s up to you. And just so you know, Ford’s in the middle of a divorce.”

“That’s none of my business.”

“I’m glad you feel that way because his wife, Christina, is pregnant, which means he’ll soon have his first child.”

Although she was already out of the car, she paused long enough to respond. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, but it doesn’t matter. Again, what’s happening in Ford’s life is none of my business.”

Chet’s hands shook as he watched Lucy approach the Zampino house. What was the point of her coming here after so long? What could possibly be left to discover?

Nothing that would lead to him, not after fifteen years, he told himself. Let her look. He’d been at the party—had gone specifically because a friend had texted him to say Aurora was there. He’d lived just down the street, so even though Lance Zampino was five years older than he was and they’d never hung out, it was easy for him to walk over and join the crowd. A lot of other people had shown up who weren’t invited. And it wasn’t a secret that he’d been there. The police had taken a statement from every guest, including him, and he’d said what everyone else had said: Aurora had been at the party, she was terribly drunk, and he didn’t see her leave with anyone.

Fortunately, no one knew she’d left with him. His friend had already been gone by that time. So had hers, and no one else had noticed. At least, no one had come forward, which had to mean he was in the clear. But it’d been late when they left, and they’d gone out the back. Most everyone was drunk by then, so not paying close attention, and it’d started raining as the night wore on, which meant no one was in the yard.

He’d told Aurora he’d take her to his house, where he could get his truck and drive her home. But instead of walking, she’d wanted to go in the boat, the back way, and he certainly hadn’t minded. As a matter of fact, he’d been excited. He’d thought once they reached his house he’d have a chance with her before they left—that maybe she’d be eager to climb into his bed the way she was Ford’s. He’d been convinced if he could just show her how much she meant to him, how well he’d treat her, she might realize she was going after the wrong guy.

She’d been willing to sneak inside to his room to get his bong—she’d wanted to smoke—but when he’d tried to kiss her . . .

His stomach nearly revolted at what’d happened next. He’d never struck another woman in his life. He wouldn’t have struck her if she hadn’t started ridiculing him, and when he’d tried to get her to stop, it’d just made things worse. The only way he could stop her from screaming was to choke her—he had to do it; he was afraid his sleeping parents would hear her yelling at him if he didn’t, and he was afraid of what she’d tell other people about their time together. She was so popular that if she turned on him, he’d wind up without a single friend.

Closing his eyes, he blocked the memory from his mind. He’d had a lot of practice doing that over the years. He’d been coming back to North Hampton Beach every summer since that terrible incident as if nothing had happened. But . . . Lucy. That she’d decide to dig up what was long buried when he had a wife who loved and believed in him and would be destroyed by the truth made him livid. When he had a baby girl who needed her father.

He sat in his car, watching as she knocked on the door.

“Stupid bitch,” he muttered. Ford felt so sorry for Lucy, but she was fine. She’d gotten beyond what’d happened here. Why couldn’t she just leave things alone?

His heart began to pound as an elderly woman answered the door and immediately admitted Lucy.

“Shit, fuck!” he cursed and slammed his fist into the dash of the old Mercedes his parents kept at the summer house. It cracked beneath the blow, and his hand hurt so badly he swore again as he stared down at it. Had he broken a bone?

Gingerly, he stretched his fingers. He could move them—that was encouraging—but there might still be a hairline fracture. His knuckles were chafed and starting to swell, which would mean Kira would ask how he hurt himself and he’d have to say he tripped and fell or something. She’d get him an ice pack—she was so caring—and he would soon feel better. On the surface, anyway. Nothing could fix what was roiling underneath.

With Lucy playing amateur detective and Ford providing the money she needed for a real investigator, what happened when they were teenagers threatened to blow up in his face.

He had to do something. He couldn’t be discovered, couldn’t allow his family to be hurt. The question was . . . what? How could he get her to either think she had all the answers or give up and leave?

There had to be a way . . .

16

The Zampinos hadn’t moved. A plaque with their name hung in the entryway as proof. But Lucy didn’t recognize the woman who’d answered the door. With pure white hair and a walker, she was shuffling around in a pink fuzzy robe and slippers and had to be her eighties. Lucy assumed it was a relative who was now living with the Zampinos and suffered from dementia or something else that made it difficult to think clearly—because after acting as if she knew Lucy, even though they’d never met, she’d had her come right in and asked for help getting the TV on.

Lucy had said she’d give it a try, but the woman didn’t lead the way. She seemed to grow bewildered as she stood in the middle of the entry hall, as if she didn’t know what to do next.

After guiding her into the living room, Lucy was lucky enough to find the remote and put on It’s a Wonderful Life. That seemed to satisfy her, because she sat and promptly forgot that Lucy was even there—or just didn’t care. Lucy had to ask twice if there was someone at home with her. Even then she couldn’t get an answer. When the woman finally looked over, she simply gave Lucy a blank stare.

Lucy wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting when she knocked on the door, but it certainly wasn’t this. She hadn’t been highly confident that whoever she spoke to would let her in, but she’d thought by pleading her case, she might have a chance. The Zampinos certainly hadn’t been friends with the Clarks. During the trial, they’d sat apart, and Lucy understood why. One day, as everyone else was filing out of the courthouse, she’d heard Mrs. Zampino tell the commonwealth attorney how unfortunate it was that the Clarks hadn’t kept better track of their daughter. Aurora had no business coming to our son’s birthday party. It wasn’t as if she was invited. Lance was turning twenty-two. He and his friends were too old to be hanging out with a seventeen-year-old girl.

Vickie Zampino had been angry that Patti Clark’s laissez-faire parenting had landed her in the middle of a murder investigation. She and the rest of her family had had to allow their home to be searched, give statements to the police and endure speculation that they were somehow involved—at least during the days Aurora was missing and her body had yet to be found. And all they did was host a party!

It didn’t have to be this way, she’d told the attorney. Then she’d glanced over and realized Lucy was standing close enough to hear her and cut the conversation short. As upset as she was with the Clarks, she wasn’t on Lucy’s side, either.

The TV blared so loudly, Lucy expected someone else to show up, but when that didn’t happen, she realized she might’ve caught a break. She left the old lady in the living room and wandered through the main living areas, discreetly filming in case the investigator needed it.

The kitchen was huge and had obviously been remodeled. She had no idea what it’d been like before, but now it had a built-in refrigerator, tons of cabinets, a farmhouse-style sink and a range with six burners—not to mention a large marble-topped island. The best part was the back of the house, which was almost exclusively glass, including the doors, and looked out on the river.

The security system beeped to signal that an exterior door had opened when she stepped outside, but that didn’t concern her. She’d rung the doorbell when she arrived, and that hadn’t drawn anyone, other than the woman who was currently watching a movie.

A labradoodle approached, wagging his tail as he followed her around the pool and barbecue area. She bent to pet the dog while making note of the size and layout of the yard. Then, still filming, she walked down the sloping lawn to the dock.

It was growing hotter and more humid as the morning progressed. Lucy pulled her blouse away from her moist skin as she looked up at the dark clouds gathering in the sky. It was about to rain, but she didn’t hurry back inside. She knew she might never get the chance to see this place again.

She took more video from the riverbank. Aurora’s body had been found in the Potomac, though farther down, snagged in a copse of trees. But perhaps her body had been tossed in the water here and the current had carried it away . . .

“Hello? Can I help you?”

The umbrage in the voice startled Lucy. Sliding her phone into her front pocket, she turned to see Vickie Zampino speed-walking across the yard. Although the lines in the other woman’s face showed that she’d aged since Lucy had seen her last, there was no gray in her blond hair—probably because she dyed it—she had a deep tan and was wearing a tennis outfit.

“Lucy!” she exclaimed. “I’d heard you were back in town, but . . . what are you doing here?”

“I . . . I knocked,” Lucy stammered. “A woman let me in.”

“My mother doesn’t know any better. I certainly wouldn’t have done the same. What is it you want?”

Already tense, Lucy felt rooted to the spot. “I was hoping to talk to you about what happened here fifteen years ago.”

Her eyebrows snapped together. “Nothing happened here. That was established at the trial. All we did was have a birthday party. Everything else happened off-site, and I don’t even want to remember it.”

“I can understand why, but I can’t shove it out of my life quite so easily.”

At her response, the other woman blinked and the lines in her forehead smoothed. “I realize it must’ve been hard for you.”

“It still is,” she said. “But I came back here anyway, because I don’t believe it was my father who killed Aurora Clark.”

“I know it must be a terrible thing to face—”

“And yet I’ve faced it with the Matteos and accepted it, Mrs. Zampino. I’m telling you this case is different.”

Distress once again tightened her face. “You must be mistaken.”

“I’m not!” Lucy was done quibbling over it. “And if I am wrong or deluded, then this won’t come to anything. But if you could just be so kind as to humor me for a few minutes . . .”

Vickie’s stance softened. “Fine,” she said with a sigh. “What is it you want to know?”

“Did you see Aurora at the party that night?”

“I caught a few glimpses of her, here and there. My son didn’t want his parents hanging around so we were making ourselves scarce. But I did check on the party now and then.”

“Did you notice who she came with? Who she was hanging around with while she was here?”

“I can’t tell you anything more than what was said at the trial, Lucy. She came with Stephanie Beaumont, who went home fairly early. She had parents who were doing their job,” she added drily. “My son said Aurora stayed behind and was flirting with him and some of his friends. We didn’t want to hurt the Clarks any worse by making a big deal of her behavior, so that wasn’t really pointed out in court. To be honest, we also didn’t want anyone to claim that it was Lance or one of his friends who’d killed her. We were terrified the wrong person would get the blame.”

Which was exactly what’d happened. The only difference was that her father really did deserve to be in prison, even if Aurora wasn’t one of his victims, so no one cared. “If you think of anything that doesn’t quite jibe with what came out at the trial, will you call me?” Lucy asked.

“I don’t have my phone on me. I was trying to get in a few practice serves when you came.” She gestured in the direction of the tennis court. “But I’ll give you my number, and you can text me so I’ll have yours.”

Lucy created the new contact record in her phone. “Thank you. I appreciate your patience and kindness.”

She nodded. “I’m glad to see you didn’t let what happened destroy you.”

It’d come darn close, but Lucy didn’t volunteer that. She just thanked her again and turned to go.

But Vickie spoke, causing Lucy to stop and turn. “Actually, now that I think of it, there was one thing that was never mentioned at the trial, and I’ve always wondered why.”

Lucy felt an upwelling of hope. “What was that?”

She gestured to the rowboat sitting on the sandy strip that formed the bank of the river. “Someone took this little boat out that night. We saw that it was missing when we came down to clean up at about . . . two-thirty? Our son was playing poker in the house with a handful of friends while we went out to bring in the decorations. It was raining, so we knew we’d have a real mess on our hands if we didn’t get to the crepe paper before it fell on the lawn. While we were doing that, my husband thought to check the boat we had moored here at the time. He actually wanted to be sure the motorboat was secured, and it was fine. It was the rowboat that was gone. We assumed the wind must’ve taken it, but when I got up the following morning, it was back.”

“And you don’t know who brought it back?”

“No. We just assumed it had to have been a neighbor. How would anyone else know where it belonged?”

“Had the boat ever gone missing before?”

“No. Not since then, either. At least, not during such a mild storm. The wind wasn’t even very strong that night—it was just rain. We figured one of our guests had been messing with it—that maybe someone took it out and had been drinking too much to drag it back up on shore. But when we tried to find out who’d been so kind to return it, every single neighbor said they didn’t know anything about it.”

“Why didn’t this come out at trial?”

“I don’t know. We told the police about it, but no one ever mentioned it again.”

“Did the police examine the boat? Check it for blood or DNA?”

“They did, but they didn’t seem to come up with anything, and they quit pursuing it once your father was arrested.”

“Because his DNA wasn’t found on the boat.”

“I guess.”

They would’ve mentioned it if it had been. That was the missing link they never found, why his conviction for Aurora hinged on circumstantial evidence and someone like Reggie. “I took some video,” Lucy told her, “just to get a feel for the layout of this place. I hope that’s okay. I’m only going to share it with a private investigator, to try to help him get a feel for Aurora’s last night.”

She seemed hesitant—it was an invasion of privacy, which was why Lucy had felt the need to tell her—but ultimately shrugged. “I can’t see how it would hurt anything.” She started to follow Lucy toward the house. “I’ll show you out.”

Ford left Darren’s totally astonished. He’d been going along with what Lucy said mostly to make up for letting her down so terribly in the past—and because, on some level he didn’t want to examine too closely, he still cared about her. He hadn’t had any real conviction she was right. He just thought she should matter as much as anyone else, which meant she should have the chance to ask questions and do her own investigation in the hope that it could finally bring her some peace.

But that’d all changed while he was standing at Darren’s door. Speaking to the Clarks’ son had made him realize that Darren wasn’t setting her up or playing games. What she’d been talking about since she came back to town needed to be heard and acted on. Her father didn’t kill Aurora Clark, which meant the real killer still needed to be brought to justice.

“Whoa,” he muttered as he drove away from Darren’s house. No wonder the Clarks didn’t want to hear what Lucy had to say. It was hard enough to lose a daughter, especially the way they’d lost theirs. But to believe the monster who’d murdered her hadn’t been caught and punished? They thought they had that much; losing it wouldn’t be easy.

His phone signaled a call. It was from Lucy. He hit the button that would cause his Bluetooth to pick up.

“How’d it go with Darren?” she asked.

“Surprisingly well,” he said as he turned out of Darren’s neighborhood, a blue-collar section of town filled with older homes and rentals not far from the trailer park. “He told me the same thing he told you, so now he’s said it to both of us.”

“Will he talk to Friedman?”

“Claims he will.”

“I wonder if he’ll stand by his words once his parents find out what he’s been saying,” she said skeptically.

With what she’d experienced, he could see why she might be reluctant to trust Darren—or anyone else. “I believe he will. He told me he thought it through before he approached you—that he’s been thinking about it for fifteen years and is convinced that telling the truth and finding the real culprit is the only way he’ll ever be able to feel good about himself.”

“If he’s been that troubled, why didn’t he come forward earlier?”

“Because it’s a gamble. He could be ripping away what little closure his parents have been able to achieve. And what if we can’t figure out who did it? Then they might never have the answers they need.”

“That could easily happen.”

He adjusted the air-conditioning vents. “Hey, where has all your confidence gone?”

“It wavers,” she admitted. “I have moments of doubt where I think . . . who am I to solve this? Especially if the police couldn’t do it.”

“Maybe you’re more determined than they were. You’ve already uncovered a piece of the puzzle they didn’t have.”

“If you’re talking about Darren, he claims he said the same thing back then. It was just that in the horror of finding my father’s DNA at the Matteo crime scene, no one bothered to listen to him—or they assumed he didn’t have his facts straight. People could ignore what we say, too. In this situation, denial is far easier than acceptance.”

Unlike Lucy, Ford was used to being heard. Now that he felt it was important to follow the facts, he wasn’t worried about being shoved to the side. “We’re fifteen years older. We’ll be the ones making the decisions, not those around us. And I think we can count on Darren. I get the impression he feels it’s about time he spoke his mind, that he’s glad we’re trying to do something about the situation, because he should’ve done something long before now. In any case, I recorded the conversation,” he added with a laugh.

“You didn’t!”

“I did.”

“Does he know that?”

“I told him I was going to.”

“That was brilliant! But the poor guy’s in a tough spot. It would be really hard to come forward, knowing your parents might disown you.”

She wouldn’t know what that might be like. She’d never had parents—not parents like his or Darren’s or Chet’s, anyway. And that was the saddest thing of all.

Ford stopped at the light as he came into town. “We must reach the truth, Lucy. The truth is what matters.”

“I feel the same. I’m just pointing out that there will be a cost—and maybe not a small one.”

“It’ll be worth it. You’re as important as anyone else involved in this. And Friedman should make a big difference. Once we gather more proof, we’ll get other people on board.”

“Not your friend Chet,” she said. “I don’t think anything could convince him.”

Ford remembered how passionate he’d been when they were talking about Lucy. Even his wife had questioned why he felt so strongly about Lucy’s presence in North Hampton Beach. “Don’t worry about Chet. He doesn’t really have a stake in all this, so what he thinks and feels doesn’t matter.”

“If you say so,” she said. “Did you talk to Reggie?”

“On my way to his place now.”

“I wish you wouldn’t go there. You never know what he might do. He’s completely unhinged.”

“You went there.”

“I was hoping he’d grown into a decent adult. But he hasn’t.”

“I’ll be fine,” he assured her. “How’d the Zampinos treat you?”

“I spoke with Vickie. At first, she wasn’t very welcoming. But then she softened and told me what she could. I got a video of the house and yard, as well as her permission to share it with the investigator.”

“Good thinking. That’ll give Friedman a feel for where Aurora spent her last night.”

“There’s something else,” she said. “I don’t know if it’s connected to anything, but she told me a strange story about their boat.”

“Did you say ‘boat’?”

“Yeah. Their rowboat.”

“What happened?” He was eager to hear her response, but he’d just pulled to the curb at Reggie’s duplex and found him and his sister getting into his truck to leave. “Actually, I’ll come by later,” he said. “I have to go.”

Lucy didn’t like that Ford had gotten off the phone so quickly. It suggested he’d run into something that demanded his attention, and she guessed it had to do with Reggie. The last thing she needed was for someone else to get hurt, especially because this time she would feel responsible—for coming back and stirring the pot.

While they talked, she’d been driving to the trailer park where she used to live. As difficult as the memories were, she’d been happy in this town—until the end. For nostalgia’s sake, she’d wanted to see what was left of her home but found a park bench where the trailer used to be. And there was a monument where the Matteos had lived.

She’d just gotten out to have a look when Ford cut their conversation short. She wanted a moment to read the plaque, but she turned around and got back in her car instead. Considering how hostile Reggie had been to her, she felt she had to hurry over there.

She drove way too fast, glancing apprehensively into the rearview mirror every few seconds. She guessed Chief Claxton would love to see her get pulled over. Anything that would make it easier to discredit her and her claims—or discourage her so she’d go away. But the duplex wasn’t far, and she arrived without incident to find Ford and Reggie yelling at each other. Anna was there, too, next to her brother in the front yard.

Cutting off her engine, Lucy jumped out of the car and came around to stand by Ford.

“Don’t give me that! I know you lied!” Ford’s eyes were as steely as Lucy had ever seen them. He’d been just a boy when they were dating; she’d never experienced Ford like this—implacable, immovable.

Reggie was so focused on the argument he didn’t even glance at her. He probably didn’t want to be distracted in case this thing came to blows. At the moment, Ford was all he was concerned about. It was Anna who acknowledged her presence with a worried look.

“You don’t know jack shit!” Reggie yelled back. “So get your rich, entitled ass off my lawn!”

“You mean your dirt patch?” Ford spat. “I think I’m on what would be considered the sidewalk, if you had one. Anyway, I’m here to deliver an important message.”

“And that is . . .”

“It’s time to tell the truth. Because of you, the Clarks think the man who murdered their daughter is behind bars, and we both know he isn’t.”

“You can’t say that,” Reggie said. “No one really knows who killed Aurora.”

Ford stepped closer. “I thought you knew who killed her.”

“All I did was repeat what that bastard told me in jail. Doesn’t make it true.”

Ford laughed humorlessly. “Oh, so now he’s the one who’s lying? That’s convenient, isn’t it?”

Lucy jumped in, speaking calmly in an effort to deescalate the situation. “Reggie, Darren Clark ran into my father right when Aurora was being killed—according to the timeline established at the trial—and he wasn’t anywhere near the Potomac. Not only that but my father was so drunk he could hardly stand up.”

Anna spoke up. “Drunk men do terrible things all the time,” she said. She was trying to defend her brother, but her voice was small, and she looked as though she’d rather be anywhere else.

“Not when they’re this drunk,” Ford clarified. “Ask Darren. When he saw Mick McBride, it was nearly two o’clock, and Mick could hardly remain on his feet. How would he have gotten over to the Zampinos’ in that condition, especially unnoticed?”

Reggie waved a hand. “Who cares? That’s not my problem. The trial’s over. You two just need to let it go.”

“We’re not going to do that,” Ford insisted. “So you can stick with your story until we prove you a liar. Or you can come forward and tell the truth right now. And I promise, coming out with the truth would be much smarter for you.”

Reggie’s muscles bunched. “I swear if you don’t get out of here right now, I’m going for my gun! I have a right to defend my home!”

“Reggie, no!” Anna cried, grabbing her brother’s arm.

Lucy faced Ford. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. This isn’t doing anyone any good. We’ll let Friedman get to the bottom of it. You told me he’s a good investigator.”

Anna spoke from behind her. “You’ve hired an investigator?”

Ford stepped to one side. “We have,” he said. “And he’s digging up all kinds of things. So you might want to talk some sense into your asshole of a brother and anyone else who might be lying about what happened that night.”

She turned imploringly to her brother. “Reggie!”

“Stop it!” He shook her off before starting for the duplex as if he’d get his gun, after all.

He’d taken only two steps, however, when a cruiser pulled up behind Lucy’s car and an officer wearing the nametag M. Deacon got out. “Jesus, Reggie!” he said with a weary frown. “What is it this time?”

Reggie shook his head. “It’s nothing. I don’t even know why you’re here.”

“I’m here because we got a call that you’re disturbing the peace again, and it’s drifting toward violence.”

“It’s nothing. My neighbor calls you guys at the drop of a hat.”

“For no good reason,” Deacon said facetiously.

“For no good reason,” Reggie echoed emphatically.

The officer looked to the duplex next to Reggie’s, and for the first time, Lucy realized there was a woman who’d cracked open her front door and was watching them through it. “You the ‘anonymous’ caller?” Deacon yelled over to her, hooking his thumbs onto his duty belt.

The door opened wider, until they could see her face and a section of her robe-clad body. “No! I—it had to be someone else,” she exclaimed, her eyes round, but Lucy owed her success in poker to being able to read people. The woman was lying. She must’ve heard the argument, which frightened her so much she’d called the cops, but she certainly didn’t want Reggie to know it was her.

“Go back inside and mind your own business, Naomi!” Reggie called out, and she scrambled to do exactly that.

Deacon frowned but let Reggie’s response to his neighbor go as he looked between the four of them. “What’s happening here?”

“Nothing,” Lucy said. “We were just leaving.”

Although Ford allowed her to drag him to his vehicle, he yelled back, “Think about it, Reggie! We’re not giving up until we have the truth, so you might want to change the way you’re playing this thing.”

17

“What an asshole!” Ford was fuming as he paced in the living room of his family’s beachfront mansion.

Lucy appreciated all he was doing on her behalf—she’d never expected his support, especially to such a degree. But it was beginning to feel as if they were a team, and she understood the danger in that.

She stood at the edge of the room, waiting for him to calm down so she could tell him more about her visit with Vickie Zampino. Then she planned to leave. “He’s definitely reckless—and possibly dangerous,” she said about Reggie.

“That’s what scares me.”

She’d warned him not to go over there. “You should stay away from him.”

Pivoting at the window, Ford came back toward her. “He won’t attack me, Lucy. He’ll go for the easy target. And that’s you.”

He had a point, especially because no one would get upset or even be surprised if something happened to her while she was in North Hampton Beach. There would be a lot more questions asked if something happened to Ford.

“You’re taking a risk sleeping over at the cottage with the windows open every night,” he added.

“I know that,” she responded. “But it’s too hot to close them. I’ve tried.”

He stopped when he was only a foot away from her and drilled her with a pointed stare. “That’s not your only option, and you know it. You should stay here. There’s plenty of room for both of us. You can come and go without even having to see me if that’s what you want. But you need to take the precaution. It’s the only way I can keep you safe.”

Uncomfortable having him so close, she stepped back. “Once again, keeping me safe isn’t your responsibility.”

“Yes, it is,” he argued. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this, but giving it that kind of commitment means making certain people mad, and when emotions run high and there’s a lot at stake . . . You can’t predict human behavior in those circumstances.”

“I never meant to drag you into this—”

“You didn’t,” he broke in. “I got into it on my own. But now that I am involved, I’m determined. Will you work with me?”

She didn’t know what to say. Refusing would make her look unreasonable, possibly even foolish. He was offering her a place to stay where she wouldn’t have to stiffen in fear at every creak or bump in the night, wouldn’t have to be ready to jump up and grab the baseball bat. While she hated the idea of hiding behind him, he’d already explained that if she didn’t agree to stay at Coastal Comfort, she’d only make what they were trying to achieve that much harder. She didn’t even have a good excuse for refusing. A no would only indicate she was continuing to hold a grudge against him.

Maybe he was right. Maybe she needed to suck it up and navigate this summer with him. The sooner they found the answers they were looking for, the sooner she could return to Vegas. That was when she’d really be safe—even from the heartbreak she risked by getting too close to him. “I’ll think about it,” she grumbled, reluctant to give in too easily despite the fact that it made so much sense.

“Well, while you’re thinking, I’m going to make dinner,” he said. “I’m starving. What would you like?”

Now he was offering to cook for her?

She was about to say she’d make something at her place, but if she was going to be staying here, she figured she might as well embrace the friendship that was springing up between them, at least for the next few weeks. “Whatever you want is fine.”

He grinned, which told her he knew she was capitulating. “I make a mean beef stroganoff,” he said. “Or would you rather I throw a couple steaks on the grill?”

“Stroganoff sounds good.”

“Great. Stroganoff it is.”

She followed him into the kitchen and watched while he pulled various ingredients from the fridge. “Don’t you want to know what Vickie Zampino told me?” she asked.

He put the meat, onions and sour cream on the counter. “I got so caught up wanting to teach Reggie a lesson I forgot about that,” he said. “What’d she tell you?”

Taking the knife he’d just pulled from the butcher block on the counter from him, she nudged him out of the way so she could slice the meat while telling him about the rowboat that went missing and then was mysteriously returned.

As he listened, he put on a pot of water for the noodles. “That’s weird,” he said when she was done.

“What do you make of it?” she asked. “It would have to be a neighbor who brought it back, right?”

He cooked the onions and mushrooms before adding some beef broth. “I would think so. But if it was a neighbor, why wouldn’t the Zampinos be able to say who did it?”

“It’s possible Vicki was speaking generally when she said she asked around. Maybe she didn’t really make a concerted effort.”

“Still. Seems to me whoever it was would’ve come forward after learning Aurora was at the Zampinos’ the night she was killed—if they weren’t involved, right? Everyone had to have heard what happened. The whole community was in an uproar, and that makes me think the boat might be important. After all, Aurora’s body was found in the river.” He turned down the heat on the broth to a simmer. “We should canvass the Zampinos’ neighborhood, see if we can figure out what happened there.”

Finished cutting the meat, she put down the knife. “I can do that tomorrow.”

He shot her a frown. “Nice try, but I’ll go with you. Now that word is spreading that we don’t believe Aurora’s killer was caught, there’s no telling what the real killer will do with us poking around and asking questions.”

“Aren’t you being a little overprotective?” she asked.

“Possibly. But it’s because I didn’t protect you fifteen years ago, and I wish I had.”

Their eyes met, and she felt the same reaction she’d experienced when he wiped the frosting from her mouth—butterflies and weak knees. For her, there’d never been anyone else like him, and since that hadn’t changed in fifteen years, she was beginning to wonder if it ever would.

Clearing her throat, she pulled her gaze away. “Won’t your mother get angry if she finds out you’re providing shelter to someone she doesn’t deem worthy of your friendship?”

He scowled at her. “Please!”

“I’m serious,” she said. “She won’t like it, right? And that matters.”

“How?”

“She’s still your mother.”

“That doesn’t give her the right to choose my friends.”

“Okay, what about your wife?”

He didn’t answer this question quite so quickly.

“Ford?”

“Christina has no say over what I do, just as I have no say over what she does. If we were to get back together, that could change, but I’m not even willing to think about that right now.”

The way he’d responded put Lucy on high alert. “Ford, if you ever plan to get back with your wife, having me stay here could seriously hurt your chances.”

“That’s okay.” He turned to face her again.

“You’re willing to take the risk?” she said in surprise.

“Since it’s a matter of keeping you safe, yes,” he muttered as he went back to cooking.

She put the sliced meat in a pan and began to sear it on the stove while he stood next to her and seasoned the sauce and added the sour cream. Being in the kitchen cooking with Ford felt so natural, which was kind of odd since she’d spent so much time pushing other men away over the years. But there was also an added electricity in the air that kept her on edge, hyperaware of every move he made. “How are you feeling about the baby?” she asked at length.

He stopped stirring the sauce. “I feel terrible about the baby. I don’t want to let my child down.” He sighed. “If only I’d stayed away from Christina after we separated the first time. Then I wouldn’t be in this situation.”

Lucy should’ve felt some satisfaction that he hadn’t gone on to be blissfully happy with someone else—that his parents guiding him to a more “suitable” woman hadn’t been the answer they’d hoped it would be. But she could take no pleasure in his misery. That, more than anything else, told her how much she still cared about him. “I’m sorry.”

When he glanced over, she offered him a sad smile to show she meant it. “So am I,” he said, and she got lost in his gaze for a moment, because she could tell his apology was as sincere as hers.

A knock at the door interrupted, and they both turned in that direction.

“Who do you think it is?” Lucy whispered.

“I have no idea.” He started across the kitchen, obviously intent on finding out, but she grabbed his arm.

“Wait a sec,” she said and hurried down the hall. She didn’t want to be seen at Ford’s house no matter who it was. That was why she’d driven her car to the cottage and walked over after they left Reggie’s. She knew the kind of gossip seeing her vehicle in the drive or finding her in Ford’s house would start. It’d be worse than having people talk about him taking her side on the issue of Aurora’s murder. And getting even more tongues wagging simply wasn’t necessary.

A second later, she heard him answer the door.

Kevin Claxton was five years older than Ford, but he used to play sand volleyball with Ford’s brother, Houston, during the summers. And although Ford was younger than both of them, he’d been a good enough player that they’d asked him to fill in occasionally, if they were down a man.

Although Kevin had seemed decent enough back then, the age gap meant they’d never really been friends. So when Ford found him on the doorstep, he knew the chief of police hadn’t stopped by to catch up.

“Hey, Ford. Long time, no see,” Claxton said. “How’s Houston doing these days?”

Ford fixed a congenial smile on his face. “Houston’s Houston.”

“Unfortunately, I lost track of him years ago. He working for the family business?”

“You could say that.” Ford could also have said his brother didn’t do much. Although Houston had an office just down the hallway from Ford’s, it’d been so long since he’d been at work, his desk was slowly getting buried beneath all the car magazines he subscribed to and the junk mail that came thanks to the magazines that sold his personal information. But instead of revealing that, Ford indicated Claxton’s badge. “You’re running the whole police force these days, huh? Pretty impressive. Hometown boy makes good?”

“Not all of us can be as successful as you,” he said but the statement didn’t sound nearly as self-deprecating as it would have had he not been wearing such a proud smile.

“Well, I hope you’re not here because I’ve broken the law in some way.”

A scowl rejected that idea even before he could deny it. “Of course not. I just wanted to talk to you for a few minutes. With Lucy McBride back in town, there’s so much gossip flying around that I thought I’d come by and set the record straight, in case she’s been bending your ear.”

“You think she’s not telling the truth?”

“I know she’s not. She may be beautiful, Ford. A man would have to be blind not to see that. But the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Folding his arms, Ford leaned against the doorframe. That was such a flawed argument he couldn’t believe Claxton was trying to use it—or would figure he’d be stupid enough to fall for it. “Are you saying she’s a liar because her father’s a murderer?”

Claxton seemed put off by having to justify the logic gap. “I’m saying he’s a liar and she knows it, yet she believes him when he says he didn’t kill Aurora, and I can’t seem to convince her otherwise, even though I should have a hell of a lot more credibility.”

“Have you listened to her? Given her a chance to tell you why she believes him?”

“I’ve heard what she’s saying. She’s telling people that the police didn’t get it right, which is making Patti and Nelson think the man who killed their daughter hasn’t been punished. That’s just cruel.”

Not getting it right also didn’t reflect well on the department, which was probably what he cared about most. “But there are reasons Lucy believes what she does,” Ford pressed. “Have you heard those reasons?”

“Don’t need to,” he replied with an impatient scowl. “We performed a thorough investigation, and a twelve-person jury agreed with our assessment of the situation. We got the right guy.”

“What if you didn’t?”

He grimaced, obviously irritated that Ford kept pushing him to open his mind. “There’s no way it could be anyone other than McBride. Old man Matteo had McBride’s DNA under his fingernails. You don’t get more of a smoking gun than that.”

“But we’re not talking about Mr. Matteo—or his poor wife,” Ford said. “We’re talking about Aurora. Two different crimes. Two different crime scenes.”

“Oh, boy!” He rolled his eyes. “She’s already got her hooks into you, hasn’t she? I was afraid of that. Officer Deacon told me he received a disturbing the peace call this afternoon, and you were involved in it.”

“Reggie Burton and I were exchanging a few words, that’s all.”

“If you were only ‘exchanging a few words,’ I don’t think the neighbor would’ve called us.”

“She must know Reggie better than you do.”

“What I know is that everything was fine before Lucy got here. I told her I didn’t want her digging up the past. But apparently, she’s not going to listen to me.”

“Kevin, Darren Clark—Aurora’s own brother—saw Mick McBride at the liquor store during the time he was supposed to be murdering Aurora.”

“So what? Aurora’s body was in the river for a week. By the time the coroner saw it, there was no way to determine an exact time of death. What we had was an estimate, which means Mick could’ve killed her after that encounter.”

“Except he couldn’t even stand up. If he’d tried to drive in that condition, he would’ve hit a telephone pole before he could so much as get out of the lot. His car was at home, anyway. That’s been established. And walking all the way to the Potomac while being three sheets to the wind would’ve taken two hours, which would put him there at four! He would’ve had to kill Aurora, dispose of her body and walk home by seven, which was when he got a maintenance call at the trailer park and showed up to fix a plugged toilet.”

Claxton’s eyes narrowed. “The timeline might be tight, but it doesn’t rule him out.”

“But he would’ve had to do all that while her family was out searching for her—exhaustively—and yet they never saw him?”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Claxton challenged, allowing his “nice guy” veneer to slip a bit.

“Get what?” Ford countered.

“You think just because you run a successful tech company, you suddenly know more about police work than I do. But I was on the force when this murder happened. We worked incredibly long, hard days for weeks to get the answers we needed to achieve justice for the Matteos and the Clarks—our local citizens, our neighbors, our friends—and I’m not going to let you take away the peace we’ve provided.”

“And tarnish the reputation of the force in the process,” Ford added drily.

Claxton didn’t back away from it; his chin jutted forward as he doubled down. “Yes! That, too!”

“Just because you worked hard doesn’t mean you got it right,” Ford said. “And the reputation of the force doesn’t matter more than the truth. Even the Clarks’ peace of mind doesn’t matter more than that.”

“The man who killed all three victims is behind bars,” he stubbornly insisted. “The fact that we haven’t had a problem since that long-ago summer proves it. The Clarks have recovered and want to leave the past in the past. And I don’t want the reputation of the police force I run sullied for no good reason.”

“You need to talk to Darren, Kevin. He knows Lucy’s right about his sister. And so do I.”

“Oh, my God! I remember you had a thing for her. Is she spreading her legs for you again? Is she so good in bed you’re willing to buy into her delusions?”

Ford felt his hands curl into fists. “Get off my porch,” he gritted out between clenched teeth. “Now!”

“I’m telling you, you’re letting the wrong head do your thinking,” Kevin warned and stalked back to his cruiser.

Ford watched him drive away before going in and closing the door. When he saw Lucy’s face, he knew she’d heard everything.

“See?” she said as she came into the living room. “This was what I tried to warn you about. The community is starting to turn on you, and the longer you remain on my side, the more you’ll be cut off from all the people you know and like.”

“I don’t care,” he said. “I won’t let anyone bully either one of us.”

She gaped at him. “Even the chief of police?”

“Even him.”

“You don’t want Kevin Claxton for an enemy.”

“Now that I see how closed-minded and self-interested he is, I don’t want him for a friend, either.”

She sighed. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but—” she bit her bottom lip “—I think we might be getting in over our heads.”

“Does that mean you want to give up?”

“No, it means I want you to give up,” she replied.

He frowned as he guessed at what she was really saying. “Because if I’m going to fail you, it’d be easier if I did it now?”

“Because I don’t want you to be hurt!”

He reached for her hand and, reluctantly, she let him take it. As he stared down at their entwined fingers, he felt such a deep satisfaction he wasn’t even tempted to walk away from her again—and that was a little unsettling, considering what he had on the horizon. “We’ll have a better chance if we continue to work together,” he said. “Tell me you’re willing to hang in there with me—at least until the end of summer. We’ll do our damnedest while we’re here. Then we’ll reassess before we leave this place. Deal?”

Her chest lifted as she drew a deep breath, and once again, she shifted her gaze to meet his.

“Are you with me?” he said. “Because I’m committed to seeing this through. I won’t leave you floundering again.”

“Okay,” she said at length, but he couldn’t settle for grudging acceptance. They had to forget their personal history, be unified and determined, or those who didn’t want the past disturbed would get what they wanted in the end. “You’ll stay here at Coastal Comfort so I won’t have to worry about you over at the cottage? Quit fighting me along with everyone else? Because if we’re going to get anywhere, especially in such a short time, we need to pull together.”

When she finally nodded, he let go of her hand, because if he didn’t, he was afraid he’d pull her into his arms. “Great. Then let’s go over and get your things.”

She waved him off. “There’s no reason for us both to go. I can do it while you finish cooking. It’s still light out, and I was just there a little bit ago. Everything’s fine.”

“Okay, but don’t take long. Dinner’s nearly ready.”

18

What had she just agreed to? Lucy cursed as she walked over to the Smoot cottage. She had no business spending so much time with Ford—especially going so far as to stay with him. Just having him take her hand had caused her to feel such longing!

But how could she shove him away and continue on her own?

She couldn’t, not when he was here in North Hampton Beach, so close to where she was currently living. Besides, they’d had only four weeks together when they were teenagers. If he was the love of her life, why not allow herself to simply enjoy being with him this summer? That way, she could put her energy to better use—like working with him to accomplish what she’d come for.

With a sigh for the constant push-pull in her head and her heart, she entered the backyard via the path leading to and from the beach. She’d tried—for years—to obliterate her feelings for Ford, to forget him and relegate him to the past. But having him here, in the present, made that impossible. Apparently, she was going to risk getting hurt again, was afraid it was almost inevitable—unless she could somehow maintain some emotional distance.

Her phone buzzed with a text. Ford was telling her to let him know if she needed help hauling her luggage over. But she didn’t plan on packing her entire suitcase. She was going to bring her makeup, toiletries and a few clothes and see how the next few days went. If she was lucky, she’d find something she didn’t like about him now that he was an adult—something that would give her a way to climb out of the quicksand of old feelings that threatened to pull her under.

Fortunately, because the Smoot cottage was so close, she could go back and forth at will and no one had to know she was staying with Ford. Before she’d left Coastal Comfort a few minutes ago, she’d told him she didn’t want anyone to know, and he’d agreed they’d keep it on the down-low. That was why she’d approached the Smoot Cottage from the beach. Walking down the street would’ve created more opportunity for people to see her coming and going.

Because she entered the house through the closed-in porch, however, she didn’t at first realize that something was amiss. She was halfway to the bedroom before she saw that the front door was standing open and some of her panties, bras, socks and other clothes were strewn down the hall.

Coming to an abrupt halt, she covered her mouth and listened—above the pounding of her heart—to make sure whoever had done this was no longer in the house.

She couldn’t hear anything, was fairly certain she was alone. Chances were, she was. Otherwise, whoever had broken in would likely have run out of the house as soon as they heard her coming—or confronted her, if that was what they’d planned.

Moving as quietly as possibly, she crept forward, just in case she was wrong, and craned her neck to peer into the bedroom.

The window of the master had been broken. Glass glittered on the floor, and all the drawers had been tossed.

Had she been robbed?

She hadn’t brought anything of particular value to North Hampton Beach, except her purse, and she’d had that with her—thank God. It was safe at Ford’s. It didn’t look as though any of the household furnishings had been taken, either. So what was the point of this intrusion?

Lucy thought she could easily guess. Someone wasn’t happy she was back in town, and they were letting her know it. But she couldn’t rule out all other possibilities until she reached the bathroom, where she found some of her makeup dumped in the toilet and six words, written in lipstick, on the mirror.

Your the reason he did it.

Whoever had left that message hadn’t bothered with the appropriate contraction and had created a hard emphasis on your by going over it several times, making it much thicker than the rest.

Ford propped his hands on his hips as he stared at the mirror in Lucy’s bathroom. When she’d texted to tell him someone had broken into the cottage, he’d called the police while rushing out of his house, but no one had arrived. He suspected Claxton was behind the delay, that the chief of police was trying to teach them both that it was smarter to cooperate with him than to cross him.

Just the possibility that he could be holding up help made Ford furious. Someone had been killed fifteen years ago! This could be serious.

Or did Claxton have reason to believe it was merely a scare tactic? Because that was what it felt like. If someone truly wanted to hurt Lucy, they wouldn’t have come in, messed up a few things, written an ominous message on the mirror and left. The whole mirror thing was almost a cliché.

“What do you think?” she asked, standing beside him. “Was it really someone who doesn’t know the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you are’? Or was it someone pretending to be uneducated?”

He thought of how belligerent Reggie had been at the duplex earlier. Surely, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to break into the house where Lucy was staying. He had to know he’d be the first person they’d suspect . . .

“Ford?” she prompted when he didn’t answer.

He met her gaze in the mirror. “Reggie probably isn’t the smartest guy in the world, but I can’t imagine he’d do this. It’s too obvious.” He tilted his head slightly to one side as another thought occurred to him. “Unless . . .”

“Unless . . .” she echoed.

“Maybe he’s not worried about getting caught. Maybe Chief Claxton ‘suggested’ something like this. Reggie would certainly do it if he thought the police would turn a blind eye.”

Her mouth fell open. “You think Claxton might be behind it? That he’s . . . corrupt?”

“He may not view it as ‘corrupt.’ If he knows you’re not really in danger he might not think too much about it, especially if it gets you to back off and return to Vegas. Then the past stays in the past, and the problem is solved.” He gestured for her to follow him as he walked back through the house. “I mean . . . look at this. Other than the shattered window and a little ruined makeup, whoever broke in didn’t even do much damage.”

“He or she didn’t take anything, either,” she commented.

“Exactly my point.” The rest of the house had been untouched, even though whoever it was had obviously left through the living room. The front door was standing open, yet Lucy claimed she hadn’t so much as touched it since she arrived.

“Would Claxton trust Reggie enough to suggest such a thing, though?” she asked. “If he was going to allow it, why not just do it himself? Then he wouldn’t run the risk of Reggie ever blabbing.”

“I could see him having Reggie do the dirty work, just in case you came home and interrupted what was going on. But it could’ve been Claxton. He was incensed when he left. He carries the type of tools that would make it easy to break a window without getting cut. We both know he was in the area around the time this must’ve happened—he could’ve come here right after.”

“And no one would ever suspect him. Not only that but his police scanner would allow him to keep track of the calls that came in, so he’d know if someone reported any suspicious activity at the Smoot cottage.”

“He might even want us to wonder if it was him,” Ford mused. “That would be frightening in a different way, but it could easily achieve the same goal.”

She shook her head. “That’s messed up.”

He tested the lock on the front door. It still worked, didn’t look as if it’d been tampered with, which went along with his first assumption that after coming in the window the intruder had gone out the front. The fact that he hadn’t even taken the time to close the door suggested—to Ford, at least—that he’d wanted Lucy to see something wasn’t right from the outset.

“I agree.” He left the door open again because he felt the police had to arrive sooner or later and he wanted to know when they did. “But my guess is he feels justified—that he thinks you deserve this since we won’t listen to him.”

“Because, of course, he can’t conceive of being wrong, which makes him right,” she said facetiously. She went into the kitchen and stood at the window, looking out at the front yard. “But my car’s there. You’d think seeing my vehicle in the drive would’ve given him or whoever it was pause.”

“Not necessarily.” He circled the room just to make sure there really hadn’t been any other damage. “All anyone would’ve had to do to determine that you weren’t home was ring the doorbell a few times. And if it was Chief Claxton and he got caught breaking in, he could always say he did it because he thought you might be hurt or in distress.”

“It would be easy for a man in his position to get away with something like this,” she agreed.

“Too easy. I’m glad you’ll be staying at my place from now on.” His phone went off. Assuming the police were finally responding, at least in some way, he pulled his cell out of his pocket. But it wasn’t the police; it was the investigator. “It’s Friedman,” he told Lucy and put the call on Speaker.

“Hey, Les,” he said. “I’ve got Lucy here with me. She can hear you, too.”

“Good,” Friedman responded. “Because I have some questions for both of you.”

“We were hoping you’d have some answers,” Ford said wryly.

“With any luck my questions will lead to answers.”

“What’s up?” Lucy asked.

“I’ve been reading the case files on the Matteo murders, and there’s something wrong.”

Ford gave Lucy a startled look, which she gave right back to him. “We didn’t hire you to get involved in the Matteo murders.”

“But that’s where it all starts, so that’s where I had to start. Part of the reason Lucy’s father was convicted was that he’d supposedly killed two innocent people only weeks before Aurora died.”

“Supposedly?” Ford said, picking up on that word above all the rest. “Lucy’s father’s DNA was found under the fingernails of Tony Matteo.”

“I understand, but I’ve found something that can’t also be true, not unless Mick could be in two places at one time.”

The blood drained from Lucy’s face. She opened her mouth to respond, but a voice in the entryway caused her to whirl around instead. Ford turned, too, and saw Chief Claxton. He’d drawn his firearm as if he was approaching a dangerous situation, but the muzzle was pointed at the floor. “According to the call that came in, you need my help,” he said.

The smug expression on his face caused Ford to clench his jaw. “Nice of you to finally show up.”

He grinned as he slid his gun back into his belt. “Everyone loves to find fault with the police—until they need help.”

Lucy shoved her hands into the pockets of her cutoffs and followed as Ford led Chief Claxton down the hall. The two men were talking about the break-in. She was, of course, keenly interested in the conversation and yet she was barely listening. Ford had ended the call with Friedman abruptly, so they could deal with what was going on right now. But she couldn’t wait to hear the investigator explain what he’d found. How could there be any question that her father had murdered the Matteos? Was it even remotely possible that he was innocent of all the murders?

The mere thought caused her heart to pound. In the beginning, she’d believed in him so much. But the police had insisted it was an open-and-shut case. She’d heard the evidence herself; it’d certainly seemed incontrovertible. Even her father had stopped professing his innocence once all the evidence had been laid out. As an alcoholic, he’d often drink until he blacked out or couldn’t remember where he’d been or what he’d done. The CA had pointed to his history with alcohol every time Mick so much as tried to say he hadn’t killed anyone. They said the evidence proved he’d broken into the Matteos’ home, most likely intent on stealing whatever cash and valuables he could, only to find them asleep in their beds, at which point a savage beating had ensued. Because he managed the trailer park, he’d known they were supposed to be visiting a dying aunt in Florida. That was what gave him the opportunity—or so it was thought. And if he’d been drinking, the rest seemed plausible, too.

But it was the DNA evidence that cemented the case. Finding her father’s genetic material under Tony Matteo’s fingernails not only placed him at the scene of the crime, it proved he’d had personal contact with Tony.

Eventually, after his protestations continued to fall on deaf ears, her father had gone silent. Refused to even talk about it. Then he was charged with murdering Aurora, too, and because he’d killed the Matteos, everyone believed he must be guilty, especially when Reggie came forward with that jail cell “confession.”

Surely, even if her father hadn’t killed Aurora, he was guilty of murdering the sweet old couple who’d been so good to her whenever they saw her. Losing them had been like losing her grandparents. They were the closest thing she’d ever had to extended family, which had only added more fuel to her hurt and anger when she learned what her father had done.

But what if he hadn’t harmed them?

It would change his life. It would change hers, too—remove the giant weight crushing her heart and soul.

She quickly reined in the wild thoughts racing through her mind, along with the memories of her father as a basically kind man, a regular dad. Stop. Do not let hope get the best of you. DNA doesn’t lie.

“You want to tell me what happened here?” Chief Claxton asked.

She’d planned to explain, but as she studied his expression, she didn’t like what she saw. The glitter in his eyes told her he didn’t care about the broken window and ruined makeup; he seemed to feel she deserved whatever she got. “No.”

He’d already pulled out a pen and notebook. “You don’t want to file a report?” he said, looking up.

“Would there be any point?” she asked.

“Lucy,” Ford said gently. “We might as well document this. See what the police can do. Don’t you think?”

“They won’t do anything,” she replied.

Claxton lowered his pad and pen. “What are you talking about?”

“I read faces for a living, Chief Claxton. And you know what yours is telling me right now? It’s shouting that you won’t bother to investigate this. You want me gone as badly as whoever did it. Or maybe that person is actually . . . you.”

Claxton’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Are you accusing me of committing a crime?”

“No, she’s not. We know you would never commit a crime,” Ford said, obviously trying to keep this encounter from getting too out of hand.

But Lucy couldn’t stop herself from doubling down, not after being the defenseless girl who’d had no say—and wouldn’t have been heard even if she did try to speak up—fifteen years ago. “You were in the area.”

Red splotches appeared on his bulldog-like cheeks. “You’d better watch yourself . . .”

“You already threatened me at the grocery store, remember?”

“I didn’t threaten you,” he said through gritted teeth. “I warned you.”

“That my stay this summer might get ‘unpleasant’ if I questioned the past—and I’d say this is pretty damn unpleasant.”

He glanced at Ford as if he was tempted to say something he wouldn’t allow himself to say in Ford’s presence. “I take my responsibilities as chief of police seriously, always do what’s best for this community!” he nearly shouted.

She folded her arms. “Even if it’s illegal? Because I believe you know Reggie lied on the stand. You know he lied, but you don’t care because you think the end justifies the means.”

His voice dropped an octave at least. “I know your father was a very dangerous man. That’s what I know. We’re lucky his trial went the way it did. Maybe if you’d seen Aurora’s bloated and decomposing body or had to tell her poor parents that she’d been found dead, you’d be as happy about his conviction as I am.”

“You can’t assume my father killed Aurora because he killed the Matteos. You need more proof than Reggie’s testimony!”

“There was more than Reggie’s testimony. Your father had a strong motive, the means and opportunity.”

“There could be a lot of other people who had a strong motive, the means and opportunity,” she said.

“No one who’d killed before.” He stepped closer to her, prompting Ford to do the same—and lift a hand to keep the police chief from coming too close.

“You hated Aurora,” he continued. “Admit it! She was all over Ford that summer, and you were terrified of losing him.”

“That isn’t true! I loved Ford—was completely head over heels—but I also thought he loved me!”

Claxton gave her an “as if” look. “You knew he was way out of your league, that you couldn’t compete with someone like Aurora.”

“I think it’s time for you to leave,” Ford interrupted, but Claxton wasn’t done.

“You were willing to do anything to make sure you didn’t lose him,” he continued with a laser-like focus on Lucy. “So you bitched about her to dear old Daddy, and he took care of the problem for you. Isn’t that right? You’re the reason she was killed!”

Lucy was beginning to feel sick to her stomach but couldn’t bite back the retort that rose to her lips. “Just because you wrote it on my mirror doesn’t make it true.”

“Lucy, let it go,” Ford warned, his voice bordering on remonstrative. “The investigator I hired will get to the bottom of it. And if the prosecution relied on a witness the police knew was lying, we’ll do all we can to see that those responsible are held accountable.”

Ford had finally managed to draw Claxton’s attention. “You hired an investigator?” he asked.

“Lester Friedman,” Ford replied. “Have you heard of him? He’s one of the best private investigators in the country.”

The veins stood out in Claxton’s neck. “Goddammit, Ford! You have no idea what you’re doing,” he yelled and stomped out.

The slamming of the door reverberated through the house. Then they heard an engine rev outside.

“That went well,” Ford said sarcastically.

Lucy sank into the closest chair and buried her face in her hands.

“You okay?” He came to stand beside her.

“I’m fine. I’m sorry. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. But I couldn’t let him make fools out of both of us by pretending he was going to do something about this.” She gestured toward the hallway to indicate the break-in.

Ford shoved a hand through his hair. “I get that. But now he’s so pissed off there’s no telling what he’ll do.”

“He’ll turn the whole town against us. That’s what he’ll do. But this town has never been on my side, which is why I warned you not to get involved.”

“I don’t regret getting involved, Lucy. I just think some approaches might get us further than others.”

“And I think that maybe it was time I rattled his cage. Maybe the police need to understand that they might be the ones looking down the barrel of the—” she made air quotes “—truth before this is over.”

“If they know Reggie was lying, it’s about time,” he conceded and started gathering the clothes strewn down the hall.

She got up. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” he said. “I’m helping you pack so we can get you moved over to my place.”

“I was only going to take a few things until . . .”

“Until when?” he asked as she searched for the right words.

“Until I saw if it would even work!”

“We’ll have to make it work,” he said. “Because you can’t stay here—not after this.”

19

Ford couldn’t get Lucy to eat dinner while it was hot; she was too anxious to call Friedman back. And he could understand why. What the investigator had said threatened to upend everything they both understood about that summer fifteen years ago. As Mick’s daughter, she would be eager to grasp hold of any evidence to suggest her father was innocent, and Friedman seemed to be offering her that.

But Ford was afraid she’d only be disappointed in the end. The detective was merely sharing what he’d learned and getting feedback to help gauge how important or correct it might be. That was part of the process. He wasn’t thinking about what offering false hope might do to Lucy. And it had to be false hope, Ford told himself. The evidence against Mick McBride was simply too strong, at least in the Matteo case. After all, DNA was the gold standard.

Ford wished he could contact Friedman on his own, see what was going on and sift through what was true and what wasn’t before bringing Lucy into the conversation. But it was too late for that. Friedman had already mentioned the fact that there might be some reason to believe her father didn’t kill Tony and Lucinda, and now she couldn’t wait to hear what he’d learned.

Although Ford had turned off the stove before he went over to the Smoot cottage, he knew it might be a while longer before they could eat, so he covered the food and called the detective. Lucy was so hopped up on adrenaline, she wouldn’t enjoy a meal right now, anyway. She couldn’t even hold still. She paced across the room, pivoted at the window and returned to him three times before he was able to get through to Lester.

“What’s going on?” he asked as soon as Lester came on the line, with the phone on Speaker. “Are you suggesting the police planted evidence or that someone lied and said there was a DNA match when there wasn’t?”

“Or that the lab made a mistake?” Lucy chimed in.

“I’m still trying to figure it out,” Friedman said. “The file says the murder started as an attempted robbery, but nothing was taken. I think the house was tossed just to make it look like a robbery.”

“The police would probably argue that it was because everything went so badly—that Mick panicked and ran away after killing the Matteos,” Ford pointed out.

There was a pause before Friedman said, “Then who does the other DNA belong to?”

Lines of concentration formed on Lucy’s forehead. “What other DNA?”

“There was a small amount of unknown DNA at the scene—more than the miniscule amount they found of your father’s.”

“No one mentioned that at the trial,” Lucy said.

Ford didn’t remember it, either. But he’d had to miss school to attend, and that meant he couldn’t be there for the whole thing. “Maybe they determined it was from a door-to-door salesman or a pest control guy or whatever,” he said.

“Would someone like that have any reason to be bleeding?” Friedman asked. “Because this DNA was found in the drain of the kitchen sink, giving me the impression that was where the killer might’ve attempted to wash up.”

“You’re saying the killer was bleeding?” Lucy said.

“That’s what I’m saying,” Friedman clarified. “Not all the blood in that trailer belonged to the Matteos, which isn’t surprising. During such a violent attack, it isn’t unusual for the killer to be hurt, too.”

Ford took hold of Lucy’s arm near the elbow. “Do you remember your father having any injuries the morning after the Matteos were murdered?” he asked.

“That was my next question,” Friedman said. “Because I don’t see any injuries documented in the police file.”

She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment, seemingly far away as she remembered. Then she said, “No. He came in early, before I got up, and did a load of laundry. I remember because he usually left the laundry to me. Still, I didn’t think too much of it until his DNA was found under Tony Matteo’s fingernails. Then I realized he must’ve been washing the blood out of his clothes. The police said the perpetrator would have been covered in blood. I don’t recall my dad having any injuries, but he was a handyman—always had some nicks and scrapes on his hands or arms.”

“If he beat those old people to death the way they claim, he should’ve had some scratches or other marks from Lucinda trying to help as he attacked Tony—or the other way around,” Friedman said.

“The police claim he beat them with a hammer—probably the same one that was used to break in,” Lucy said.

“Did the hammer belong to your father? Or did they tie it back to a purchase he made?” Friedman asked. “Because there’s nothing about that in the file.”

“The hammer came from the Matteos’ own shed,” Lucy told him.

“Oh, right. Actually, that is here,” Friedman corrected. “I see it now. But I’m sure that didn’t help your father’s defense because he would’ve known where to find it.”

“And several weeks had passed before the investigation homed in on him,” Ford added. “By then, any injuries he’d gotten in the attack would’ve healed.”

“How’d the police get his DNA?” Friedman wanted to know. “Did he give it to them voluntarily?”

Lucy shook her head. “They asked for it, but he refused.”

Ford winced as Friedman voiced the obvious. “No doubt they found that suspicious.”

“He didn’t trust them,” Lucy explained. “He’d never been friends with law enforcement, and once they made him their primary suspect, he told me they were out to get him whether he was the killer or not.”

“They had to have gathered his DNA somehow,” Friedman said. “What’d they do, steal your garbage and take it from a beer can or something?”

“They got it from a coffee cup he used at a neighbor’s while fixing their heater.”

“Okay,” Friedman said, “so just to clarify—you saw no marks on him after the killings, and we still don’t know whose blood was in the drain.”

Ford exchanged a look with Lucy before she confirmed. “Right.”

“Seems to me these loose ends should’ve been tied up,” Friedman said.

“I don’t think my word meant anything, since . . . since they thought I was aiding and abetting him,” she said. “And we couldn’t afford a high-powered attorney. We had to go with the public defender, who didn’t think there was any way to compensate for the DNA evidence against my father.”

Friedman made a sound of disgust. “Meaning he gave up before he even started.”

“Not to justify what the public defender did—or didn’t do—but there was a lot going against him,” Ford said. “Mick knew when the Matteos were going to be gone, knew his way around their trailer and where to find the hammer that was used to break in. He didn’t have an alibi. He was a known alcoholic.”

Lucy frowned. “And that’s before you get to the hard evidence.”

“Exactly,” Ford concurred. “How do you explain his DNA being found under the old man’s fingernails?”

“I can’t explain it,” Friedman said. “But I can’t explain these other things, either. The blood in the drain has to mean something, and the police never closed that loop.”

The air conditioner was on. It wasn’t overly warm in the house, and yet a sheen of sweat covered Lucy’s face—proof she was rattled by what they were learning. She wiped her hands on her shorts as if her palms were clammy, too. “So where do we go from here?”

“We try to figure out who else was there that night,” Friedman told her.

Something that was, no doubt, much easier said than done, especially after so long.

Lucy wore a troubled expression as she spoke up so she could be heard. “Do you think there’s any chance my father might be innocent, Mr. Friedman?”

Ford closed his eyes, hoping the investigator would handle this question very carefully. He didn’t want to see her crushed again, could feel the emotion flowing through her body even though he’d already let go of her arm.

“I have more questions than answers at this point,” Friedman said. “But if he is innocent, I hope we’ll be able to find something to prove it.”

“That’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack—or maybe a needle that could be in one of several haystacks,” Ford said, trying to help her keep it in perspective.

Friedman readily agreed. “I can’t argue with you there. But I’ll stay on it and let you know what I come up with.”

They thanked him before disconnecting. Then Ford set his phone down and reached for Lucy’s hand. She gave it to him, somewhat reluctantly, and he tugged her into his arms.

He thought she might resist. She was so afraid of letting him get close to her. She reminded him of a wary animal, one that skittered away as soon as it was approached—or bared its teeth to scare off any threat. But she didn’t fight him. He was only trying to comfort her, and he was fairly certain she understood that.

“What if . . . what if he’s innocent?” she murmured against his chest. “I should’ve stood by him, Ford. I was all he had, and I let him down.”

He could feel her trembling. “Whoa, we have a long way to go before you start feeling that kind of guilt.” He held her tighter—as comfort, yes, but also because having her in his arms again showed him just how much he’d missed her. He remembered what she’d said to Claxton—that she’d been in love with him—which dredged up those old feelings, made them much more present. “You were only acting on the ‘facts’ provided by the adults around you, those in authority. And it’s still more likely that he did it than that he didn’t.”

“But what if he didn’t?” she asked again, obviously unable to get over that question.

“You were only seventeen,” he reminded her and pressed his lips to the top of her head, something he instantly regretted because that simple kiss seemed to wake her up to the fact that she was accepting solace from someone she’d been taught—by experience—not to trust, and she pulled away.

“I’d better call Dahlia and let her know about the broken window,” she said.

He watched her take out her phone. “Okay. I’ll walk over, vacuum up the glass and cover the hole with cardboard, but she’ll need to get someone out to fix it soon.”

Lucy couldn’t sleep. After seventeen years of feeling so much shame, humiliation and heartbreak, the idea that her father might not have harmed anyone was both shocking and overwhelming. Was it a viable possibility? Was there some other explanation than the one the commonwealth attorney had put forth during her father’s trial?

It’d seemed impossible at the time. Everyone had been so sure. But now it felt as if she and her father might’ve suffered a terrible injustice.

Her mind raced as she recalled what he’d said once the police focused on him as a suspect. He’d denied any involvement in the killings. And she’d believed him. It was only after the DNA evidence came out that his protestations had stopped. Since he didn’t have a firm recollection of where he’d been and what he’d done, and no one else seemed to be able to provide him with an alibi, Lucy got the impression that the prosecution had convinced even him. It’d certainly felt that way, which was why she’d quit holding out hope and tried to accept the truth as they’d presented it.

But maybe she shouldn’t have done that. Maybe she and her father should’ve stuck together and continued to fight . . .

Unable to get comfortable, she flopped over in bed. Thanks to the air conditioner, it was cool enough in the house. And she didn’t have to worry about Reggie or even Chief Claxton trying to break in and hurt her, not with Ford around. But still her mind would give her no respite. It kept screaming, “What if?”

With a sigh, she kicked off the covers, put on her swimsuit and slipped out of the house.

As she stood on the deck and looked out at the moon glinting off the ocean, she had to marvel at the beauty of it all. She’d always wondered what it would be like to live in such comfort—right on the beach, no less—and if she could focus on it, she knew she’d enjoy it. But there was too much going on in her head and heart. For one, she didn’t belong in this expensive house owned by some of the people who’d shunned her fifteen years ago.

She was also far too aware of Ford himself. The memory of how good it’d felt to have his arms around her, especially after so long, had plagued her ever since, making the dinner they’d shared afterward strained and awkward. They’d discussed what the investigator had found, with Ford mostly trying to convince her to reserve judgment and not set her expectations too high. Then they’d looked for neutral topics to talk about while being ultracareful not to so much as brush against each other as they cleaned the kitchen. It was still early when they said good night, but it’d relieved the tension to be able to escape Ford’s physical presence.

Besides, Lucy had been exhausted. She needed sleep, and yet she couldn’t get it, not with the memory of his embrace crowding into her mind whenever she wasn’t thinking about her father.

She had to be more careful, she told herself. She couldn’t continue to allow her resistance to crumble or what small amount of self-respect she’d clung to over the years would be washed away with the tide.

The steps creaked as she climbed down to the beach. The air was muggy and oppressive, made all the worse because there was no wind. The scene that greeted her was so still it looked like a photograph, one in which the moon wasn’t quite full but shed enough light that she could see the shoreline in both directions as far as the natural landscape would allow, with trees and grasses eventually blocking her view to the north and the land curving away from the row of expensive houses, including Ford’s, toward town and the public beach to the south.

It was almost midnight on a weekday; no one was out and about, not even the teenage sons and daughters of the tourists who came here to enjoy a warm, sandy holiday. There could be a few stragglers in the public section, of course, which she couldn’t see—a local drunk or a honeymooning couple eager to spend the night with the sound of the sea in their ears and the stars glittering overhead. But this part of the beach was reserved for those who owned the homes that fronted it and was rarely crowded, even during the day.

It’d seemed busier fifteen years ago, but schools weren’t out yet so most of the houses near Ford’s remained empty. She remembered spending many evenings on this beach once she got with Ford. On one such occasion, she’d been sitting around a bonfire with him, Chet and two other guys—one with a girl who was on vacation, as he was, and another without a girl because he was in a serious relationship with someone back home—when Aurora and her new best friend, Josephina, who’d moved to North Hampton Beach the winter before, had walked down from the public beach. Chet had offered to add rum to the Coke he offered them, and they’d stayed there drinking for quite a while. Every time Lucy had glanced up, she’d found Aurora watching her through the fire’s leaping flames, clearly not pleased to see her sitting on Ford’s lap.

But Lucy had been so caught up in her relationship with Ford that she hadn’t let it bother her. She hadn’t been friends with Aurora since the first year after she arrived in North Hampton Beach and had long since stopped lamenting it. Aurora had changed so much that Lucy didn’t even care to be her friend.

But Aurora’s feelings hadn’t been quite as indifferent. Her jealousy had been palpable, especially that night. So Lucy supposed she could understand why Chet and others might jump to the conclusion that she’d wanted to eliminate any threat Aurora posed. Thanks to the wealth and influence of her family, Aurora would’ve been considered better suited to Ford. And if he’d started showing significant interest in her, maybe Lucy would’ve experienced more jealousy than she did.

But what she and Ford had felt for each other was so intense and all-consuming that she’d never dreamed she was in danger of losing him. That was the night they’d first made love. After everyone else had drifted away, they’d both gone in to appease their parents, only to slip out again and meet up in the heavy darkness of a stormy night.

Sexual awareness skittered through Lucy as the memory of Ford moving inside her combined with the more recent memory of her cheek pressed to his chest only hours ago. What was it about him that drew her? That made it impossible for her to get over him, no matter how much time had passed?

It didn’t seem fair.

Planning to exhaust herself to the point that she couldn’t continue to stress, she took a final glance around before plunging into the surf.

Ford heard Lucy as she went out. Because he’d seen her go into the sea late at night once before, he knew what she was most likely doing. But he didn’t like the idea of her being out alone, especially after that break-in at the Smoot cottage. Since Chief Claxton was anything but a friend, Ford wasn’t even convinced they could count on the police for help if they needed it. There were also other dangers to swimming alone, especially in the ocean, so he got up and pulled on a pair of shorts. Then he went outside to watch over her.

He’d planned to stay on the deck while making sure she didn’t drown and no one bothered her. That way, he could slip back inside when he saw her getting out, and she wouldn’t have to know he’d ever been there. But he quickly realized he’d be too far away to help if she did get into trouble, so he walked down to the beach and stood off to one side.

He didn’t do anything to draw her attention, didn’t make any noise, and yet she came out of the waves as soon as he arrived—almost as if she’d expected him—and stood in the shallows, where the surf foamed up around her ankles and calves.

She was wearing a white bikini, and her dark hair was slicked back off her face, the tendrils dripping onto her skin. He wanted to slip his hands in the silky thickness of that mass of wet curls, tugging it ever so gently to get her to tilt her face up so he could kiss her. He could still remember what she tasted like—her mouth as well as other parts of her.

When she didn’t speak or come out of the water, he moved closer. He wasn’t sure what to say. He still felt bad about how he’d behaved fifteen years ago, but a lot had changed since then. He’d grown up. He’d apologized. And he still cared about her—far more than he wanted to.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Can’t sleep?” Her wet body glistened in the moonlight, reminding him of the first time they’d ever made love. The images his brain suddenly threw at him caused a visceral reaction in the rest of his body, making his pulse pick up and his breathing grow shallow. He wanted to touch her more than he’d ever wanted to touch a woman—but he didn’t. “Lucy, I know what Friedman told you has your mind going in a million different directions. I’d be freaked out, too. It’s been a long fifteen years, and you’ve been through a lot. But we’ll figure it out. I promise. I won’t let you down this time.”

Her lips parted and her chest lifted as if she was trying to catch her breath, too. But he didn’t think she’d been swimming long enough to be winded. “Ford, I . . .” She didn’t finish. Closing her eyes, she wiped the water out of her face. “Never mind. I can’t let this . . . this thing between us get started again. I have to go inside before . . .”

“Before what?” he asked, intercepting her as she tried to move around him.

Shaking her head, she tried to sidestep him again, but he caught her hand. He’d merely meant to stop her, to get her to face him so they could talk. But the contact seemed to charge through them like an electric current, and the next thing he knew she was sliding her arms around his neck and pressing her body against his as she kissed him deeply.

Ford groaned as she parted her lips, allowing his tongue access to hers. He felt as if he’d been waiting for this ever since he’d left North Hampton Beach fifteen years ago—that, on some level, he’d come back for what he’d found and then lost here. “I’ve wanted you from the first moment you showed up at the Smoot cottage,” he murmured against her lips. “You’re all I’ve been able to think about, Lucy.”

He regretted saying anything when she pulled away. He felt as though he’d gone too far again, like he had in the house when he’d kissed her head. But she didn’t go inside and leave him standing on the beach like he thought she was going to. She untied her bikini top and let it drop.

Ford didn’t know where it fell, nor did he care. His eyes were riveted to what she’d revealed. If it was possible, she was even more beautiful today.

The moment his hands cupped her breasts, he could feel her nipples harden beneath his palms and bent his head to kiss her again, this time with more authority, since he’d been invited.

A few minutes later, he slid her bikini bottoms down and when she kicked them off, he caught them and threw them as far as he could up the beach. He didn’t want to cause her to lose them like she might her top. But if she couldn’t find them later, he’d buy her as many swimsuits as she wanted.

Lifting her up, he felt her legs lock around his hips as he carried her into the water.

20

Lucy was going against everything she’d told herself she needed to do. This was not playing it safe; she was not keeping her distance from Ford. But he seemed to be everywhere in her life since she’d come back to North Hampton Beach. She couldn’t wall him out, not now that he was helping her. They talked to each other and saw each other too often. She was even staying at his house. There was no way she was going to be able to resist the urge to touch him again, especially with weeks and weeks of the summer still ahead of them.

So it suddenly seemed pointless to resist. Why not give in to the longing that kept her on edge all the time if they were going to make love before she left this place, anyway? It wasn’t as if she had to worry about getting pregnant. Fortunately, she was on the pill; her doctor had prescribed them to help regulate her periods.

Ford didn’t remove his shorts. He seemed hesitant to go that far. Instead, he held her and kissed her with his hands pressed firmly to her bare back as he paused briefly now and them to lick the salt water from her neck and breasts.

Lucy had never felt quite so desired. There was that, she supposed. He acted as if he’d missed her as badly as she’d missed him, so at least she’d have the memories of this moment, of being wanted by him, too. She wasn’t putting too much store in it, since he’d discarded her so easily before, but the fact that he seemed to think that maybe he shouldn’t have left her behind somehow felt like a victory.

Problem was, they were creating expectations her body demanded to have fulfilled.

Eager to take their lovemaking to the next level, she finally undid his shorts. It’d been fifteen years, but one more day, one more hour, one more minute was not acceptable.

“Wait.” He caught her hands. “I need to get a condom first.”

He already had one baby on the way; she certainly couldn’t blame him. “I’m on the pill.”

“Oh, thank God.” He rested his forehead against hers as he laughed. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you to go inside with me ever since this started, but I was afraid if I opened my big mouth, you’d change your mind.”

She didn’t say so, but she couldn’t have bailed out. She wanted him too much—had never really stopped. So she just laughed with him.

Once he’d been reassured that he didn’t have to worry about another pregnancy, he let go of her long enough to remove his shorts, which he threw in the general direction of shore. The beach was now farther away, but he didn’t seem any more concerned with losing them than she’d been with losing her bikini.

A swell lifted them both off the seafloor by several inches as he pulled her back into his arms, but he found his footing again as she wrapped her legs around his hips and guided himself inside her.

Lucy threw her head back, enjoying the intimacy—and remembering that night on this very same beach when she gave him her virginity. But instead of starting to move, he paused.

“Is something wrong?” she murmured.

“My legs have turned to rubber,” he said, laughing again. “My whole body’s gone weak. It’s having you in my arms again. I can’t believe it. Just give me a second and I’ll be okay.”

She was touched that he seemed so sincerely affected. She’d always believed that what she’d felt for him was far more powerful than anything he’d ever feel for her. But she didn’t have long to think about it. True to his word, he recovered almost right away, and they made love in the water for several minutes.

It wasn’t until he managed to maneuver them closer to shore, however, and they dropped onto the wet, sandy beach that he was able to roll her beneath him and finish what they’d started.

The waves foamed up at their feet, barely reaching them, as Lucy caught hold of his firm, round buttocks, so carried away by all the wonderful physical sensations she was experiencing that she was finally able to block every last bit of the worry that’d plagued her since she arrived here and simply let go, feel, enjoy.

“Lucy!” The raspy urgency with which he said her name a few moments later told her he could no longer hold himself back. He was warning her that he might climax too soon.

But she’d reached the same pinnacle. The tension broke with his next thrust, and the most exquisite pleasure surged through her, starting deep in her core before moving through the rest of her body.

When she gasped, she felt his body jerk. Then he collapsed over her, supporting the bulk of his weight with his elbows while he recovered.

She felt him kiss her neck one last time, then brush his lips against hers before he rolled onto his back where, like her, he gazed up at the stars.

As their breathing slowly evened out, she was afraid he might say something—something that would ruin everything. She didn’t expect a commitment, so she didn’t want to be treated to a discourse on why she shouldn’t take what’d just happened too seriously.

She almost got up to gather her swimsuit, if she could find it, and run to the house. Maybe when they saw each other in the morning, they’d be able to pretend this never happened.

But he didn’t speak. He just reached over and took her hand.

They’d lost Lucy’s top, but Ford plucked his shorts out of the surf while Lucy snagged her bikini bottoms, which she could find. Then they raced up to the house before someone could come across them. Being discovered wasn’t likely, given the very early hour, but it was better to be safe than sorry, Ford supposed. The last thing he wanted was for Eddie to come bounding down the beach with Chet right behind him, which had happened before, although well after the sun came up.

Once they reached the house, they used the outside showerhead to rinse off before climbing the stairs to the deck. Ford took Lucy’s wet bottoms as soon as they went in and dropped them in the washer with his shorts before tugging her into the bathroom in his room, where he turned on the shower. Although they’d gotten most of the sand off before coming in, he doubted she’d want to sleep with salt water in her hair, and she certainly didn’t complain.

After they got in and were standing beneath the warm spray, Ford enjoyed soaping Lucy’s body before washing her hair.

She didn’t say much, but neither did he. Maybe, like him, she was afraid one wrong word would destroy the dreamlike quality of this night. He’d fantasized about being with her so many times over the years, but the reality of holding her again was even better than what his mind had conjured up.

She took the soap when he was through with it and scrubbed him in turn, using her nails to scratch his back through the thick lather. As the water grew hotter, steam filled the bathroom. But they didn’t hurry. They lingered, kissing and touching and holding each other until their fingers began to wrinkle.

“It’s almost morning,” she murmured when he finally shut off the water.

He swung open the heavy glass door and reached for towels. “I don’t want this night to end,” he said.

Their eyes met as he turned to face her. “Neither do I,” she responded.

He should’ve let her go to her own bed. He felt she might sleep better there. But as she started to leave his room, he stopped her. “Sleep with me?”

She hesitated briefly, as if that might be the line she’d refuse to cross. He feared it was. Curling up with him was an entirely different kind of capitulation. It had nothing to do with hormones or sexual satisfaction. It was a decision made with a clear head, and it might even have more ramifications than what’d happened in the ocean, some of which they probably couldn’t foresee.

He tilted her chin up so he could gaze into her face while she thought it over—and felt the most amazing thing he’d experienced yet when a sweet smile curved her lips, she dropped her towel and took his hand.

Chet had been hoping to bump into Ford again. He’d walked down to their private beach from the public beach twice, but his old friend wasn’t out. He would rather have seen him there—speaking to him would’ve come off more natural, more casual that way—but when the beach remained empty, Chet resigned himself to going to the door. He hadn’t heard a word from Lucy since he’d run into her on the street before she went into the Zampinos’ house. Had they told her anything new, anything he had to worry about?

He didn’t think they had. The gossip around town certainly didn’t reflect it. But he needed to be sure. If he was to have any chance of sidestepping the devastating consequences that could be heading his way, he had to see them coming.

Picking up the Frisbee he’d been tossing for Eddie, he called out to his dog and trudged over to Coastal Comfort. He’d just climbed onto the deck and kicked the sand off his flip-flops when he looked up, intending to knock, and saw Lucy through the glass doors wearing nothing but Ford’s T-shirt, which hit her bare legs at mid-thigh.

His stomach twisted into painful knots. This was even worse than he’d thought it was going to be. Ford wasn’t wearing much, either, just a pair of loose-fitting khaki shorts as they talked and laughed and drank what Chet assumed to be coffee. With Ford’s hair standing up on one side and Lucy’s tangled and uncombed and falling around her shoulders, it looked as if they’d just gotten out of bed.

Chet would’ve hurried away and tried to speak to Ford another time. But Eddie whined and scratched on the glass, causing Lucy to look up and see him.

“Shit,” Chet muttered as she dashed into the bedroom, out of sight.

Ford pushed away from the granite slab that formed the kitchen island, where he’d been leaning as they talked, to answer the door.

“Hey, man, what’s up?” he said, stepping out onto the deck instead of inviting Chet in.

Chet felt clunky and uncoordinated as he moved back. He wished he hadn’t come to the door, but now that he had, he decided he might as well try to do a little damage control. Because if Ford and Lucy ever really got together—beyond a meaningless summer fling—Ford would leave no stone unturned when it came to appeasing her. And Ford wasn’t a man who was easily denied. “I just . . . I was out walking Eddie and thought I’d say hello, see if you wanted to grab breakfast in town.”

Ford lifted his coffee. “I’m covered this morning. But text me next time. We’ll set something up.”

There was a hint of dismissal in his friend’s voice. He obviously wanted to get back to Lucy. But Chet didn’t leave. He had to figure out where he stood. “Was that Lucy McBride I saw in the house a minute ago?”

Ford walked over and rested his elbows on the banister facing the sea. “Where’s Kira this morning?” he asked without answering. “How come she never visits the beach with you?”

Ford wasn’t happy that he and Lucy had been interrupted, and he was feeling protective of her. Chet could tell that much, or he wouldn’t have changed the subject without addressing the question.

Trying to do all he could to appear genuine, nonthreatening and not too heavily focused on Lucy, Chet smiled. “Kira likes having an hour or so to herself while I walk the dog. That’s when she does her yoga.”

“The beach is a great place to do yoga.”

“Yeah, but not so much with a dog. And definitely not with a baby. After Kira feeds Kenzie, and I play with her for a bit, we put her in her bouncer and Kira gets her exercise while I walk Eddie.”

“Teamwork.”

“It takes both of us,” he said with a weak chuckle.

Ford sipped his coffee. “You got a good woman.”

“Honestly? I don’t know where I’d be without her. I’m not the same man I was before she came into my life, Ford. Whatever happened in the past—I was an entirely different person.” He wanted Ford to understand, just in case the truth ever came out, that he didn’t deserve what would happen to him. The night Aurora died was more of an accident than anything else. One thing had led to another and then everything had gotten away from him and turned into something unbelievable. He only did what it seemed he had to do at the time.

“I’m happy for you both,” Ford said.

Chet glanced through the glass doors, looking for Lucy, but the kitchen–living room remained empty. He assumed it would stay that way until he left. “I ran into Lucy the other day,” he said. “Found her walking down my street.”

“She told me.”

“That’s right.” Chet leaned on the banister next to him. “You called while I was helping her find the Zampino place.”

“I appreciate you doing that, by the way.”

“No problem.” He probably should’ve said goodbye and left at that point. He wasn’t getting anywhere. But he couldn’t help pressing just a little harder. “She learn anything of value from them? They remember any details they didn’t disclose before?”

Ford shook his head. “Not really. Just that their rowboat was gone when they went out to clean up that night. They thought someone at the party might’ve put it in the river and let it get away. But it was back, sitting in its usual spot, the next morning.” He took another drink of his coffee. “That’s strange, don’t you think?”

Chet’s scalp began to prickle. He should’ve let the boat float on down the river. But he hadn’t wanted to draw attention to the Potomac. He’d been hoping that if he put it back, Aurora’s body would never be found. That would’ve been the best possible scenario, at least for him. “Not really,” he said, using an indifferent tone as he gazed out at the ocean. “We’ve got good neighbors around there. Someone probably found it floating loose and brought it back.”

“They asked all the neighbors. Everyone said they didn’t even know it’d gotten loose.” Ford straightened. “Do you remember if the Zampinos came to your house that night?”

Chet resisted the panic rising inside him, did all he could to appear relaxed and unafraid. “They must’ve. I mean, I didn’t talk to them, but my parents probably did.” He remembered his folks asking him about the boat. He’d said he didn’t know anything about it. And then, fortunately, just before it took center stage in the discussion around Aurora, the police connected Lucy’s father to the Matteo murders and the investigation abruptly changed direction. From that point forward, NHBPD set out to find evidence against Lucy’s father—not evidence in general—so they could solve all three murders. Because of the timing, they were convinced it had to be one and the same person, and the boat was a piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit, so they ignored it.

Although Chet had always been afraid the boat would come up again, after fifteen years of basically nothing, he’d started to believe he was in the clear. If it wasn’t for Lucy, that would still be the case, which was why he was starting to hate her. The boat was the kind of evidence he needed to remain buried—because it led to him.

“What do you think could’ve happened?” Ford asked.

“We know Aurora was drinking that night,” he replied. “If you don’t want to believe Lucy’s father had anything to do with her murder, maybe she climbed into the boat on her own, got out on the river and somehow tipped over and drowned.”

“The coroner claims she was strangled. He found no water in her lungs, which means she was tossed in the river after she was murdered.”

“You remember that after all these years?” Chet said, acting as though he was impressed. “I didn’t realize you paid much attention to the trial.”

“Lucy was my girlfriend. I didn’t turn out to be a very good boyfriend—my parents wouldn’t even hear of me seeing her again and I let them persuade me—but I definitely paid attention.”

The memory of dragging Aurora’s body down the embankment at his house played like a movie in Chet’s mind. She’d been so unwieldy, so difficult to move. He’d struggled to get her back into the boat. Then he’d struggled to drag the boat back into the water. He’d even capsized while dumping her once he’d gone far enough downstream.

After getting rid of her and flipping the boat over so he could paddle to shore, he’d dragged it out of the water, jogged home to get his truck, came back for the boat, scrubbed it in case he’d left any DNA evidence and returned it to the Zampino house—all without alerting his sleeping parents or being seen by anyone else.

Dawn was peeking over the horizon by the time he got the boat back to his neighbor’s. Fortunately, no one was around when he lifted it off his truck and dragged it through their side yard. They’d all partied until late. But his parents were awake when he got home. He was breathless from running—jogging down the street was quicker than trying to swim the river—when he saw the light in the kitchen through the front window and once again circled around to the back.

The smell of bacon and eggs had filled his nostrils as he let himself in through the side door he’d left open when he carried Aurora out of the house four hours earlier. To this day, he couldn’t eat bacon. The scent was tied to that terrible night, always reminded him of Aurora and the panic and regret he’d felt as his mind raced to find a way out of what he’d done.

He’d also never forget how fast his heart was racing even after he got into bed. The incident was over—he’d done what he could to cover it up—and yet he was so freaked out he was sweating profusely.

He was still awake three hours later when his mother knocked on his door and poked her head in to tell him Aurora’s parents were looking for her.

He’d muttered that he hadn’t seen her, that he had no clue where she could be, and rolled over, facing away from the door while pretending to be half asleep, and his mother had quietly let herself out. Then he could hear her talking on the phone, probably to Patti or Nelson, as she moved down the hall, repeating what he’d told her.

“Maybe the coroner got it wrong, missed something,” he said to Ford. “After all, people make mistakes. You think the police got it wrong, don’t you?”

Ford glanced back at the house. “I wasn’t sure at first,” he admitted. “But yeah, I think they got it wrong.”

Feeling faint as he imagined the police knocking on his door and Kira answering it to hear he was under arrest for murder, Chet grabbed the banister.

“You okay?” Ford asked.

“Just a little dizzy,” he said, waving away his friend’s concern. “Haven’t eaten yet.”

“Can I get you a glass of orange juice or something?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Do you need me to drive you home?”

Chet would’ve accepted if he thought having that extra time with Ford would help him in some way. But he wasn’t going to be able to change Ford’s mind. Lucy had too strong a hold on him. “That’s okay. It was a momentary thing.” After whistling for Eddie, who’d been sniffing around the deck, he started down the stairs as if it was nothing, but his head was still swimming, and he felt bile rising up his throat.

Chet heard Ford call out a goodbye before going back into the house. Then he leaned into the shrubs, and Eddie cocked his head, watching curiously, as he threw up.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Anna was startled by the sound of her husband’s voice. “What?” She’d heard him; she was just buying time to engage her brain. She was sitting on the couch with a book while he watched baseball, worrying about the private investigator Ford Wagner had hired to delve into Aurora Clark’s murder and how that might affect Reggie, which would in turn affect her and their mother.

“I said, ‘what’s wrong with you?’” he repeated.

She lowered Nora Roberts’s latest novel. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’ve been holding that book for almost half an hour, and I haven’t seen you turn a single page.”

She wished she could say she’d been distracted by the game, but he knew she didn’t care about baseball.

“Is something going on?” he asked.

“I’m just . . . thinking.”

He used the remote to pause the game. “About the kids?”

“No, the kids are doing great.” She could see them through the slider, playing with the neighbor boy on the tree swing Joel had built in the backyard.

“Then what has you so preoccupied?”

She noticed a new cut on his thumb. As a carpenter, he used his hands a lot, so they took a beating, but they were still the most attractive hands she’d ever seen. “Lucy McBride, I guess,” she said. “The murders. The trial. It’s all anyone can talk about.”

“I haven’t paid any attention, so I don’t know. What’s she saying?”

He hadn’t been living in North Hampton Beach that summer, wasn’t raised here, like she was. They’d met at the hamburger stand where she worked while he was vacationing with his brother, three years after McBride went to prison, and they’d stayed in contact throughout college. When they got married, she moved to upstate New York to be with him, but they didn’t like the harsh winters. So they came to North Hampton Beach—also to be much closer to her mother, who was alone and needed more support at the time, especially with Reggie always causing problems.

“She’s claiming her father didn’t kill Aurora Clark. She’s even hired an investigator to reopen the case—or verify everything or whatever a PI does.”

“Nothing’s going to change. I’m not even sure why she’d waste her time and money. Regardless, why are you worried about that?”

She opened her mouth to say she wasn’t, not really, but couldn’t bring the words to her lips. Ford was helping Lucy now, which meant she stood a much better chance of uncovering something that would prove Reggie had lied.

“Anna.” Her husband scooted closer to her. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“It’s Reggie,” she admitted.

His scowl deepened. “What’s he got to do with this Lucy situation?”

She closed her eyes, couldn’t believe she was about to reveal a secret she’d held close for so long, especially because she was frightened of how Joel would react. She didn’t want to get into a fight with him. Didn’t want to lose his respect, either. But she could no longer keep her mouth shut. She kept thinking about how she’d feel if she was in Lucy’s place. Or Patti’s. Reggie might claim that Patti and Nelson wanted him to stick by his story, but did they really want that? When it could mean that her daughter’s killer was running around free?

“Anna?” her husband prompted, more sternly.

She opened her eyes but stared at her feet while kneading her forehead. “You’re going to be mad at me,” she said. “And my mother and brother will probably never speak to me again. But at the end of the day, I have to live with myself, and I just can’t carry this secret any longer.”

21

Lucy couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed herself quite so much. After Chet left and they were alone again, she and Ford spent a lazy morning together before Ford suggested they go out to a late lunch. She tried to decline, said they shouldn’t be seen in public since word could get back to his family or the Clarks and upset them. But he shrugged that off, saying they’d be in the wrong for letting something like that upset them, and she didn’t have much to say against that argument. After all, she also believed that what they said or did wasn’t anyone else’s business.

They showered together. Then she dried her hair and left it down, which meant it was also curly—the humidity on this side of the country made it even more so—and donned a white sundress and sandals with a straw bucket hat. Ford chose a pair of chinos and a short-sleeved, button-down shirt with a blue and white shark pattern that made her laugh when she saw him.

He scowled as he asked what was wrong with his clothes, and she teased him, saying he looked like a model for Tommy Bahama, at which point he laughed, too. He seemed more relaxed and happy than she’d seen him so far this summer as he hooked his arm around her neck and drew her in for a kiss before saying she looked perfect, so perfect he was torn as to whether he really wanted to leave the house.

Pretending that getting naked again wouldn’t be an option right now—she knew he was joking, anyway—she caught his face in her hands and stared into his green eyes.

He sobered, probably because she was wearing such an intense expression. “What is it?” he murmured.

The words lodged in her throat. She was afraid to reveal how she was feeling for fear it would only hasten the end of this fairy-tale interlude. She knew what was coming. He’d already sort of indicated that he’d return to his estranged wife for the sake of the baby, and she couldn’t fault him for that. She admired his commitment and the fact that he wanted to be a good father. “Nothing,” she said.

He lifted his hands to cradle her face, too. “Last night was one of the best nights of my life, Lucy. No matter what happens, I want you to know that.”

She wanted to tell him basically the same thing. But she still couldn’t bring herself to do it. She was convinced it would jinx everything. So, with a single nod, she dropped her hands and stepped away from him, but he pulled her in for a final kiss before they drove to the restaurant.

“I feel self-conscious,” she whispered, after the hostess seated them.

“Why?” He seemed totally unconcerned about being seen together in public.

She rolled her eyes. “You know why. Going out together makes a statement—creates anger in this place. Who knows what people will say, what they’ll do.”

“They’d better not say or do anything,” he responded. “We have every right to be here.”

“Maybe, but we’re already drawing attention.”

“If someone has a problem with us having lunch together . . .”

“What?” she said when he didn’t finish.

A wicked grin slanted his mouth. “Fuck ’em.”

His attitude was contagious. If he didn’t care, why should she?

Finally, she relaxed, and they enjoyed a delicious meal—she got a teriyaki salmon salad and he ordered oysters on the half shell, which he insisted she try.

When she made a face because she could barely get the slimy thing down, he couldn’t stop laughing. “No?” he said. “You don’t like it?”

She guzzled half her water to get the taste out of her mouth. “Absolutely not.”

“Maybe you didn’t get enough Tabasco sauce.”

“No amount of sauce could make that taste good,” she insisted.

He was still laughing when she glanced toward the street and spotted an orange truck like the one she’d seen at her place the other day.

Shifting right and then left, she tried to get a better look at it. She wanted to catch a glimpse of the driver, but all she could make out was a dark-headed individual at the wheel before a building obstructed her view.

“What is it?” Ford peered in the same direction.

Lucy couldn’t say it was anything. Nothing had happened the day she’d heard those footsteps. It just felt like someone had been lurking around the Smoot cottage, which made her uneasy.

Could whoever was in that truck be responsible for the break-in last night and the message on her mirror?

“Lucy?” Ford prompted.

“Do you know anyone who owns an old orange truck?” she asked.

“No, why?”

She sat back, once again relaxing into her seat. “Never mind. It’s probably just a coincidence.”

Ford couldn’t help thinking that this was exactly the kind of summer he needed—one that was cathartic and restorative, one spent with the beautiful girl he’d been so excited about fifteen years ago, one with the kind of laugher and warmth that left him feeling whole again. He knew it couldn’t last. All his problems would be waiting for him when it was over. But he wasn’t going to think about that. Not yet. Not after the kind of night he’d shared with Lucy. It’d been so long since they’d been together, and yet it felt as if all those years had just melted away. They were carrying on exactly as they once had—completely caught up in each other, fulfilled and satisfied.

Fulfilled. That was the word right there, he realized. He still had responsibilities and worries. Nothing had changed. But being with Lucy somehow made everything better.

He was tempted to start worrying again—about how it would all end, how he would put the life he’d already established in DC back together when the time came, how he could, for the sake of his child, fulfill his responsibility as a husband to someone he no longer even liked—but shoved it all away. He still had more than two months before he had to face his old life.

He hoped it would be enough. That he’d be able to do what he needed to do, so that he could respect himself. He was coming to believe, despite how young he and Lucy had been before, that if they’d continued seeing each other, they’d be married and probably in a much better situation—maybe raising a family by now. So it was hard not to resent his parents for insisting they knew what was best for him.

Fortunately, no one bothered them at lunch. Although he saw a few people he recognized out on the street while they were sitting on the patio, eating, and those people did a double take when they saw him with Lucy, no one approached. He and Lucy were left in their own little world as they talked about his brother and how frustrated he was with Houston, how well Wagner Business Solutions was running, despite the loss of his father and his unexpected and early ascendency to the company’s leadership, a job he thoroughly enjoyed—which was the silver lining, and how needy his mother had become after the divorce. They even talked about the good old days—their summer together before the murders and what they’d thought and felt as they first started getting to know each other.

As they drove home, Ford was trying to get Lucy to tell him what she did for a living. She was playing coy, still keeping it a secret, but it’d turned into a game in which he’d make a guess and she’d shoot it down.

She laughed as he suggested everything from a principal’s receptionist to a janitor. He’d heard her tell Claxton she “read faces for a living,” but that could mean a lot of things. And he was stuck on school-related vocations because he knew she was off for the summer. “You’ll never figure it out,” she said, supremely confident.

“What could it be?” He wondered how she’d managed to survive, let alone succeed, after what she’d been through. “You’re really not going to tell me?”

When she opened her mouth to respond, he thought she was finally about to, but that was when they pulled into Coastal Comfort and found Patti Clark standing on the front porch. They both must’ve spotted her at the same time because he turned his head to gape at her in the same instant she turned her head to gape at him.

“Here we go,” Lucy murmured with a wary expression.

Ford squeezed her hand. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

“Of course it is. Why would I ever think otherwise?”

He could hear the sarcasm in her voice, but there was no time to react to it. She was already getting out.

Patti’s expression hardened as they approached. Feeling Lucy withdrawing from him—essentially putting on her emotional armor—he took her hand, which surprised her enough that she seemed slightly discombobulated.

“Mrs. Clark,” he said, dipping his head in greeting. “What can I do for you?”

“Is it true?” she demanded.

“Is what true?” he responded.

She stared down her nose at Lucy, which made Ford angry. Even though he knew he should feel pity for this person, he wouldn’t allow her to mistreat someone he cared so much about.

“Chief Claxton called me. He said my own son is claiming that Mick McBride did not kill Aurora.”

“He’s saying Mick couldn’t have killed Aurora, which is more to the point,” Ford said. “I spoke to him about it myself, heard those words with my own ears.”

“He tried to say that fifteen years ago, too, but he’s wrong about the timing,” she said. “He has to be. He’s just angry. He feels as though all I’ve ever cared about is Aurora, and he’s striking back, trying to hurt me in return.”

Lucy spoke up, but her voice was surprisingly gentle. “I don’t think so, Mrs. Clark. He truly believes what he told me. He made that clear. The reason it’s taken him this long to try to make his voice heard is because he’s torn in two. He doesn’t want to hurt you, yet he feels an obligation to his sister. You’re not the only one who’s suffered a terrible loss. Maybe he and Aurora didn’t get along very well, but it could be that the rocky relationship they had only made her death harder on him. He may have to live with regrets you don’t have.”

Patti blinked several times, obviously astonished by what Lucy had said. But then she gathered herself and returned to her usual rhetoric. “You don’t know that. You don’t know a thing about our family or Darren. How dare you try to instruct me on what’s going on with my own son!”

“You have one child left.” Lucy’s voice grew firmer. “You don’t have to listen to me. I get that I’m the enemy. But I believe this to be true. If you don’t let go of the past and focus on your husband and son, you could lose them, too. It might be in a different way, but having them give up on you and move on—for their own sakes—is a very real possibility.”

Patti had come looking for a fight. As soon as Lucy had begun to speak, she’d put her hands on her hips and jutted her face forward, prepared to rebut whatever she said. But Lucy’s heartfelt words took the fire out of her. Her mouth fell open, and she blinked as tears filled her eyes. Then, instead of continuing to insist on anything, she ran past them to her car.

Ford drew a deep breath and faced Lucy as Patti’s engine flared to life. “I think maybe she heard you.”

“I hope so,” she said. “For her own sake, I hope so.”

He couldn’t help comparing how the same situation would’ve gone had he been with Christina instead of Lucy. Their emotional maturity was miles apart. Christina was cunning—it wasn’t as if she was stupid. She just had no self-control and very little empathy for her friends, let alone her enemies.

Could he really go back to her?

If he wanted a relationship with his child, one in which Christina didn’t villainize him and use their son or daughter as a weapon against him, he had no choice.

But that wouldn’t happen until the end of summer, he reminded himself. Lifting the hand that held Lucy’s to his mouth, he kissed her knuckles. “I hope so, too,” he said, but before they could go in, another car pulled up.

Half expecting it to be Patti coming back, Ford turned just before they walked into the house to see someone he didn’t recognize. The man looked as though he felt awkward as he approached, especially when he offered an apologetic smile. “I’m Reggie’s brother-in-law,” he announced, “and I need to talk to you.”

“I can’t believe it,” Lucy said after Anna’s husband left. Joel had stayed only a few minutes, but the confirmation he’d offered meant so much. “Did that really just happen?”

Ford shook his head as if he couldn’t believe it, either. “You’re busting this thing wide-open, Luce.”

Something seemed to be happening—a change to the old power paradigm. When she came back to North Hampton Beach, she hadn’t been truly convinced it was possible, so even such a small win stunned her.

Too amped up to sit, she put her purse on the counter and continued to walk through the house to the glass doors fronting the deck and the ocean beyond.

“Want to go for a walk?” Ford asked.

She opened the door to step outside. “A short one. Just long enough to be able to soak in what Joel Stover told us. Then we need to call the investigator.”

“And Chief Claxton,” he added.

Her father had been right all along. Mick would know that, of course. But now they knew it, as well. Reggie did lie when he claimed Mick had confessed to Aurora’s murder. Anna’s husband had told them Reggie admitted to Anna, when she was just sixteen, that he’d lied on the stand, and she was willing to sign an affidavit stating as much. Throughout, Joel had been protective of his wife, said she’d been afraid to come forward because it could cost her the only family she had before him and the kids.

Still, he made it clear that she wanted to do the right thing at last.

Ford had thanked him, the two men had clasped hands, then Joel had left. When it came to her father, it’d been a very long time since anything had gone her way. “It’s the Ford effect,” she joked, kicking off her flip-flops as they arrived at the beach.

“The what?” Ford said, confused because she hadn’t offered any context.

She grinned at him before running toward the wet sand, which would be much cooler on her feet. “Nothing.”

He ran after her. Then they walked for a few minutes, sometimes pausing just to stare out to sea. “Who do you think killed Aurora?” he asked at length, finally breaking the companionable silence.

It wasn’t her father, despite what everyone believed. The thought alone was startling—or not the thought so much as the sudden conviction she could now put behind the thought. Lucy felt almost drunk with relief. “Has to be someone she ran into at the party, doesn’t it? But that doesn’t make it easy to figure out. There were a lot of people there.”

Ford’s voice was contemplative as he said, “The Zampinos’ son?”

She grimaced. “I don’t think so. Lance was playing poker with his friends long after Aurora went missing.”

“What if her brother picked her up, they got into a fight that went too far, and Darren dumped her in the river?”

“If he’d done that, he wouldn’t have come over to tell me that it couldn’t have been my father. He even admitted he was afraid he’d get blamed, which was why he hadn’t tried harder to be heard fifteen years ago. Those things don’t seem like the actions of someone who’s guilty of murder.”

“I don’t know about that. Sometimes people are so guilt ridden there’s a part of them that wants to be caught.”

“I hope it’s not him. I like Darren.”

“What about Reggie?”

She didn’t like Reggie. “I guess it could be him. But he comes off more as an opportunist in this situation—someone who simply figured out a way to benefit from everyone else’s pain.”

Ford bent to pick up a beautiful bluish green piece of sea glass he handed to her, and she admired it before slipping it into her pocket. “If we can get Chief Claxton to believe it wasn’t my father and actually reopen the investigation, maybe we’ll find out.”

“He needs to see if Reggie has an alibi for that night. He needs to talk to everyone who attended that party again, too. Maybe someone will remember something that takes the investigation in a different direction.”

“We know Darren doesn’t have an alibi.”

“If what he says is true, my father could give him one. Except he was so drunk he doesn’t remember much about that night.”

“How are you feeling toward your father?” he asked, picking up a broken shell this time and throwing it into the ocean.

“Conflicted,” she admitted. “I feel guilty for ever believing he killed Aurora. I remind myself that he did kill the Matteos. But then the little girl in me who still wants to believe in her daddy suggests that maybe he didn’t do even that.” Suddenly feeling more pensive than euphoric, she stopped and turned toward the houses lining the beach, staring down the row of mansions she’d once admired so much. They’d seemed as far out of her reach as the stars, and so did Ford after her father was picked up by the police. She could hardly believe she was spending so much of her time in North Hampton Beach with him. “He couldn’t be innocent of all of it, could he, Ford?” she asked. “It would be so unfair to suffer such an injustice.”

“Sadly, if he is innocent, he wouldn’t be the first innocent man to go to prison.”

But what were the chances? Her “poker brain” was always asking that question—about everything. “I can’t imagine how I’ll feel if that’s the case. If he was needlessly reviled, tried and imprisoned. He’s lost fifteen years of his life! I’ll regret that I didn’t do a better job of standing by him.”

“I’m sure it was all you could do just to be there for yourself.”

Ford was right. She’d almost folded, almost destroyed herself with drugs and alcohol. She could easily have become just another statistic.

“How’d you get by?” he asked.

For once, she couldn’t brush off this question. It’d been asked too earnestly. “I don’t know, to be honest,” she told him. “I got so lost for a while—doing drugs, hanging out with the wrong people. I never stayed in one place for too long, but it wasn’t hard to find a dealer. Eventually, once I could see what was happening to those around me, even to my boyfriend at the time, who rambled around with me, I decided that wasn’t the life I wanted to live.”

“So you got out of it.”

“It wasn’t that quick or easy but . . . eventually.”

“And now you’re here to fight for the truth, whatever that may be.”

“I’m just playing the cards I’ve been dealt—and hoping, at last, that I’m holding a winning hand.” She knitted her fingers together under her chin and grinned at him, watching to see if he’d catch on.

“What?” he said when he noticed the expectation on her face.

“I just told you what I do for a living.”

He looked confused. “You did?”

“Playing the cards I’ve been dealt? Hoping I’m holding a winning hand?”

The light dawned in his eyes. “Vegas. Cards. You gamble for a living?”

She could tell he could barely believe it. “I’m a professional poker player.”

“No way!” he said. “You must be good at it to be able to make a living.”

“I do okay.” But that wasn’t always the case. She knew what it felt like to lose—and she was gambling on much more than a game right now.

22

Ford was told Chief Claxton wasn’t available, so he allowed whoever had answered the phone at North Hampton PD to transfer him to Claxton’s voice mail. “It’s Ford.” He didn’t have to give his last name; his first name was recognizable enough. “Reggie was lying. And now his sister has admitted as much. I think you have a problem. Call me as soon as you can.”

Lucy looked disappointed when he hit the End button. “Do you think he’ll call us back?”

“He’d better,” he said. Then he called Friedman.

Ford could tell Lucy was filled with anxiety, despite their walk, which he’d hoped would relieve some of her jitters. She hovered nearby as the phone started to ring.

“Hello?”

“Les?” Ford was surprised when it wasn’t the PI’s receptionist who answered. But it was after five; she was probably gone.

“You got me.”

“It’s Ford. Lucy’s here with me. We have a development on our end,” he said and let Lucy tell the investigator about what Joel Stover had come over to say.

“The case against your father for killing Aurora was never strong to begin with,” Les said when she was done. “And now this. That’s good.”

Ford sank into the soft leather chair closest to Lucy. “Thanks to Darren Clark, we know Mick wasn’t anywhere near Aurora when she was murdered. And we have someone close to Reggie who’s willing to say on record that he lied about Mick’s confession.”

“Now all we have to do is deal with the odd timing—that Aurora’s murder occurred so close to the Matteos’, where Mick’s DNA was found—which could easily be a coincidence,” Friedman said.

“Or whoever killed Aurora knew they’d have a better shot at getting away with it because of all the confusion and panic created by the Matteo murders,” Lucy chimed in. “The police force was even smaller back then and wasn’t used to—or prepared for—such serious crime.”

“True,” Friedman agreed.

“Actually, the timing isn’t all we have to deal with,” Ford said. “There’s also the trumped-up motivation.”

“That Lucy was jealous,” Friedman said.

Ford frowned at Lucy. “Yes.”

“Jealousy can definitely motivate someone to violence,” Friedman said. “They’ve got that going for them, especially because, at the time, so many of your peers went on record to say Aurora was making a very obvious play for you and didn’t respect Lucy’s relationship with you at all.”

“But there’s no record of Lucy ever confronting her about it,” Ford said. “No escalation they can point to that would indicate the situation was heating up.”

“That part goes in our favor,” Friedman admitted. “A good lawyer would’ve pointed that out.”

Lucy pursed her lips before saying, “I remember my dad’s lawyer trying to argue that, but there was too much going against him. The prejudice in the community was another problem.”

“Have you found anything else?” Ford asked.

“Not yet. But I’m having the DNA profile from the blood in the sink at the Matteos’ trailer run through CODIS. When they ran it before, they didn’t get a match. But CODIS wasn’t what it is now, so we have a much better shot.”

“I’ve heard of CODIS,” Lucy said. “It’s the national DNA database, right?”

Before Friedman could confirm it, Ford said, “You have access to CODIS?”

“Yes to Lucy, and not directly,” Friedman replied. “But I’ve been in this business for a long time and have managed to make a few friends along the way.”

“Friends in the right places,” Ford said.

“Exactly.”

“Could it really be that easy?” Lucy asked. “We run the DNA through CODIS, come up with a hit and then we know who was there that night?”

“If it works out that well, it’ll be a miracle,” Friedman told them. “But if whoever left that blood has been convicted of a serious crime in the years since, there’s a chance. Even if we don’t get a match when it comes to the offender, we might get something that connects this case to other unsolved cases where they have more evidence and figure out who committed the murders that way, if it wasn’t your father.”

“It wasn’t him,” Lucy said.

Her sudden confidence worried Ford. Proving Mick didn’t kill Aurora would be much easier than proving he didn’t kill the Matteos. There had to be some reason Mick’s DNA was found under Tony’s fingernails. “I hope you’re right, Lucy, but . . .”

Her expression turned sheepish. “But I shouldn’t get my hopes up. I know.”

“For your own good,” Ford said gently.

A beep signaled another call. He looked down to see Chief Claxton’s name on his screen. “We’ve got to go,” Ford told Friedman.

“No problem. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear back on the DNA.” Friedman hung up as Ford switched over.

Lucy tensed as Chief Claxton’s voice boomed through Ford’s phone.

“I got your message. What the hell are you talking about now?”

“Anna’s husband came over here earlier. Said she finally broke down in tears and told him that Reggie made it all up—the whole confession. Reggie admitted Mick McBride scarcely said two words to him while they were incarcerated together, let alone confessed to murder. You’ve got the wrong man—at least when it comes to Aurora.”

“That can’t be,” Claxton insisted. “The timing . . . everything aligned.”

“I know. And there’ve been no murders since. But that doesn’t prove a damn thing. Call Joel and Anna Stover if you don’t believe me and have them make an official statement.”

There was a long pause. “Why didn’t Anna come forward fifteen years ago?”

“Why do you think?” Ford asked. “Because of family loyalty.”

“She’s still his sister.”

Ford’s hand tightened on the phone; Lucy could see his veins standing out. “She’s much older now, less vulnerable to how he’ll react,” he said. “And she has her husband to support her through the fallout.”

“Goddammit,” Claxton shouted. “You two just won’t leave this alone. You’re bent on disrupting everyone’s lives. And for what? For a murderer who deserves to be in prison, anyway! For nothing!”

“My father and I aren’t nothing,” Lucy said, speaking up for the first time. “The truth is the truth, and that’s what you should be protecting. Anna is showing more integrity than you.”

“Be careful what you say to me,” he said.

“Because you’re afraid to face the truth even about yourself?” she asked.

“I’ve warned you. You’re causing trouble—and you’re not going to like the consequences.”

“The consequences? You mean like ‘someone’ breaking in and messing up my things again? Writing on the mirror?”

Ford lifted his hands to signal for her to back off. No doubt he was worried about continuing to provoke Claxton, but she was so tired of the chief of police being stubborn and unsympathetic.

“The point is this,” Ford said. “Anna is coming forward. She’s willing to sign a statement. What are you going to do about that?”

“Nothing,” Claxton snapped. “Because it doesn’t change a thing. It’s just his word against hers, and there was a lot more stacked against Mick McBride than that.”

“Not for Aurora’s murder, there wasn’t,” Ford insisted.

Although Lucy tried to hold herself back, she ultimately failed. “You can stick your head in the sand only so long before it starts to look like you’re not doing your job,” she said, and then Claxton hung up on them.

Tossing his phone on the ottoman, Ford said, “What an asshole.”

“He’s not going to do anything,” she said.

Ford strode to the windows and peered out at the ocean before returning to her. “Let’s see what CODIS reveals and go from there, because if we get a hit, his whole thesis crumbles.”

Lucy nodded. “While we wait, maybe it’s time to go see my father again.” Mick hadn’t returned her last letter yet. Since nothing had changed in fifteen years, he probably didn’t see any reason to rush, but she was suddenly in a hurry to get his feedback. Cracks were forming in what everyone had believed to be an open-and-shut case. Maybe with his help, they could make those cracks wider and wider until, eventually, everything changed—the whole darn narrative.

Red Onion State Prison was located in an unincorporated part of Wise County, near Pound, very close to the Kentucky border, which was seven hours away. But Lucy didn’t mind the drive because Ford had insisted on taking her. He’d said he was willing to come inside the prison with her, too, but Lucy couldn’t see how that would help. If anything, it would just make her father clam up. So Ford had agreed to wait outside in the parking lot. Since it took most of the day to get here, they planned to stay at The Inn at Wise and head home tomorrow.

As she perched on a vinyl stool, she once again felt a great deal of emotion. But this emotion was nothing like what she’d experienced when she’d flown here from Vegas in April. Now, instead of feeling like the injured party, she was afraid she was the one who might’ve let him down, which tempered her hurt and anger, made her more open-minded and anxious to see him.

When he shuffled in and took his seat on the other side of the Plexiglas, she lifted the handset immediately. He was the one who delayed communication. He looked leery, as if he wasn’t entirely convinced he could tolerate whatever she had to say—even if it was hopeful.

Maybe he feared hope most of all.

At last, she saw his chest lift as he drew a deep breath. Then he brought the receiver to his ear. “You’re back.”

“Is that okay?”

He frowned. “I’d rather you didn’t come here.”

“Why?” She was afraid he was going to say, “Because it’s easier on me if you don’t.” Fortunately, he didn’t.

“I don’t want to be a ball and chain, that’s why. It makes me happier to imagine you building a good life—maybe finding a man who’ll give you the family you want.”

“I can’t move on until . . . until I take care of this unfinished business,” she said.

“It’s not unfinished if it has to do with me.” He chuckled without mirth. “Hell, the man I was died fifteen years ago. That’s about as done as a person gets.”

She studied him closely. Was he guilty? Or could she trust him as she’d once believed she could?

Maybe she’d begun to doubt him too soon, too easily. After all, she also had trust issues, hadn’t even known her own mother. Billie had run off with another man, abandoning them both when Lucy was just a baby. Mick once told her that Billie would occasionally show up early on. But the last time she came to see Lucy, he’d allowed her to babysit while he worked, and she’d stolen everything of value in the house and left Lucy sleeping in her crib.

That was shortly before Lucy’s second birthday, and Mick claimed he hadn’t seen Billie since. He’d contacted her sister and her mother and visited the diner where she worked to try to get his stuff back. But another waitress told him she’d broken up with the new guy, quit her job and moved to Texas, and her family closed ranks, wouldn’t give him any information.

Lucy still didn’t know where she was, didn’t even know that side of her family. Billie’s face was nothing but a distant, fuzzy memory, and she’d decided to leave it that way. She figured she’d had enough heartbreak in her life, didn’t need to ask for more by associating with a woman she already knew was completely unreliable. “Did you get my letter?”

He nodded.

“Were you going to write back?” she asked.

His shoulders lifted in a noncommittal shrug. “Was thinking about it—thinking about telling you to let it all go. There’s nothing to be gained by delving into the past. I should’ve discouraged you when you were here last. Why go back to that mess?”

“Because it’s important to me, and should be important to others, that the right person gets the blame.”

His eyes showed a little more life, but he said, “There’s no chance of figuring out who did it. It’s been too long.”

“I’m not nearly as pessimistic. Reggie’s sister has come forward to admit that she knows he was lying about your confession. That’s a start.”

He rubbed his chin for a moment. “Still a long way from catching the bastard who strangled her,” he said.

She could tell the news had made more of an impact than he was letting on. “I’m going to keep pushing.” She refused to be discouraged, not when she was feeling the first flicker of hope she’d had in ages, but she could see why he’d be hesitant to make too much of what she’d said. He probably couldn’t imagine ever getting out of this place. If he’d killed the Matteos, he was where he belonged, anyway. But since Lester Friedman had learned about that mystery person’s DNA in the drain, she was beginning to wonder if he’d killed anyone.

“Waste of your time.”

“I’m willing to take the risk, especially because I’m not doing this on my own anymore.”

His eyes and mouth tensed, and he sat very still while waiting for her to explain.

“Ford Wagner has hired a private detective—one of the best—to help us.”

“Ford Wagner,” he repeated.

“Yes. He and I were . . .” She cleared her throat. “We knew each other back when we were teenagers.”

“He wasn’t a local . . .”

“No. The Wagners owned the big beach house called Coastal Comfort, remember? They only visited during the summer.”

He nodded. “That explains why I don’t know him. I didn’t have much reason to interact with the rich summer folk. So . . . why’s he interested enough in what happened fifteen years ago to pay for an investigator?”

“He’s a—” she searched her mind for an appropriate word but could only come up with the stereotypical “—friend.”

When her voice caught, his left eyebrow slid up. “Must be a close friend to spend that kind of money.”

“He’s wealthy, so it isn’t as much to him as it would be to us.”

“Still. No reason for him to spend it.”

Ford was doing it for her. And she was grateful. But feeling too much appreciation left her even more vulnerable when it came to him, so she tended to shove that out of her mind. She’d tried to pay; he wouldn’t let her. “His motivation doesn’t matter. The point is his investigator has found out that there was someone else’s DNA in the drain of the Matteos’ kitchen sink.”

He slumped over. “The police have known about that all along.”

She couldn’t help feeling a little deflated that he knew about the blood in the drain. “I don’t remember hearing about it at trial.”

“Because it didn’t amount to anything. It was my DNA that was found was under Tony’s fingernails. That means I was a lot closer to him than whoever was at the kitchen sink.”

“Did you kill him?” she blurted out.

He scowled. “You’ve asked me that before—”

“And you assured me that you didn’t,” she broke in. “At least, you denied it at first. Then you . . . sort of went silent.”

“Lucy, they insisted so many times even I began to doubt myself,” he admitted.

“And now?” she asked. “Now that you’ve had fifteen years to think about it?”

“I was drinking that night. You know that.”

“Can’t you give me something to work with?”

“I hope and pray I didn’t. Just the possibility fills me with self-loathing, and that’s a far worse punishment than being in here.” He gestured at the cinder block walls. “Lucinda was sort of like the mother I never had,” he added, choking up. Then, apparently, he was done with the visit, because he hung up the phone immediately, as if it’d suddenly grown scorching hot in his hand, probably so she wouldn’t hear the emotion in his voice. But it was too late for that. She knew he was on the verge of breaking down.

Banging on the glass, she motioned for him to pick up the phone again and, reluctantly, he did.

“Write me today!” she said. “Tell me everything you remember about that night. Where you were. Who you were with. Why you don’t think it was you. Anything that could help me. Maybe there’s some detail that’ll make all the difference. But for that to happen, I need you to share what you know.”

“It’s not going to do any good,” he insisted. “If the police could ignore the DNA evidence in that drain, and accept Reggie’s bullshit testimony, they’re not suddenly going to reverse all that. They know how ridiculous it’ll make them look.”

They’d rather let him rot in prison regardless of his culpability. Lucy knew he was right. She’d heard how Chief Claxton had responded last night. But she wasn’t about to concede to that bastard. Claxton and others like him had won fifteen years ago; they wouldn’t win now that she was an adult and capable of fighting back. She had Ford. She had Friedman. And she had her own conviction and determination. “I’m finally holding a couple of good cards,” she told him. “Help me improve my hand.”

His mouth formed a stark slash in his face, but then he gave her a single, almost imperceptible nod and hung up.

“How’d it go?” Ford asked as Lucy climbed into the Land Rover.

She stared out the windshield toward the huge white buildings that made up the sprawling compound. “I don’t know. He’s pretty discouraged, doesn’t have a lot of hope. I think he’s afraid to commit to helping me. It’s harder when you try and then fail, you know? The disappointment takes something out of you.”

“So he wasn’t receptive?”

“He was as you’d expect someone to be who’s had such a hard life. And to make everything worse, I’m seeing so many things in a different light.”

He started the vehicle. “Like what?”

“The way my father behaved back then, for one. Why he didn’t continue to proclaim his innocence. Why he gave up fighting.”

“Because he didn’t have much to fight with?” Ford guessed. “We know he had a lousy lawyer.”

“I think there were a couple of forces at play. I think he might have sacrificed himself—for me.”

Although Ford had put the SUV in gear, he left his foot on the brake. “What do you mean by that?”

“Because he couldn’t be sure about the Matteos, felt he might actually have done something terrible to them while he was drinking, he feels he’s probably where he belongs. So he just let it happen. And he didn’t want all the legal stuff to drag on forever. He wanted me to be able to cut loose and leave him behind—like a drowning man who doesn’t want to pull anyone else down with him. He keeps telling me to move on with my life and forget him, be happy.”

Ford had never thought a great deal of her father, for obvious reasons. But this earned the man some respect. “Are you more convinced he’s guilty than you were before—or less?”

She gave him a troubled look. “I’m more convinced now than I’ve ever been.”

“That . . .”

“He’s innocent.”

Just a few days ago, Ford wouldn’t have believed it. But considering the way Chief Claxton had behaved yesterday, he was beginning to wonder if she was right, if her father had just been a convenient scapegoat.

He took her hand. “Then we’ll figure out a way to prove it.”

23

They were still in bed at the hotel the following morning when Ford’s phone went off. It was after eight, but he ignored it. He was too comfortable snuggled against Lucy’s naked body. He could feel the soft skin of her neck against his lips and the mound of her breast beneath his hand as he slowly woke up. He figured they’d get to the day soon enough—have breakfast, maybe look through a few shops and then start the long drive back to North Hampton Beach.

But he needed more moments like this one, when he was so deeply content he didn’t care if he ever left the hotel. Yes, he’d had a good life overall. At least, he’d never gone without. But something had been missing for a long time. On top of that, his marriage had been such a constant battle that just being at peace made him incredibly happy.

When whoever it was called right back, however, he thought it might be the investigator with news about CODIS. He’d be shocked if the results could come back that fast, but just in case . . .

He slid away from Lucy and reached for his phone, which he’d left charging on the nightstand.

It was still pitch-black in the room; they’d pulled the shades tight. But the bright screen made it easy enough to see. It was his mother.

“Damn,” he muttered.

Lucy began to stir. “What’s wrong?”

“My mother’s trying to reach me.”

She rolled over to face him. “That’s bad?” she mumbled.

It could be, he thought, but he didn’t say it.

After covering a yawn, Lucy asked, “Aren’t you going to answer?”

“I’m thinking about letting it go.” It didn’t feel right to accept a call from Sara while he was in bed with Lucy. He no longer cared whether his mother approved of his relationship with her. It was more that he had no idea what Sara might say. If she’d heard from someone in North Hampton Beach—possibly Patti Clark—that he was befriending Lucy, she could be upset, and he didn’t want Lucy to overhear her saying anything derogatory.

“Does she know that you’re helping me?” Lucy asked.

“Not yet.”

“Now I understand the hesitation,” she said with a worried chuckle and climbed out of bed to go to the bathroom.

He let his mother’s call transfer to voice mail again, just to see what she’d do. If she called a third time, something important was going on, and it was possible it didn’t have anything to do with Lucy. There could be bad news regarding the business that she’d gotten word of before he did. Maybe one of their attorneys had tried to call him at the office this morning and reached out to her when he didn’t answer.

Or Houston could’ve done something—crashed his motorcycle or overdosed.

Sure enough, his phone started ringing again. “Shit!” He connected the call. “Hello?”

“What’s going on?” his mother demanded. “Why haven’t I been able to reach you?”

“I’m just getting up.”

“You never sleep this late.”

“I’m taking the summer off, remember? Or . . . sort of. I’ve been keeping up with things at work—I could never take that much time off. So what’s going on? Is it Houston?”

“Houston?”

As frustrated as he could get with his brother, he breathed a huge sigh of relief at the surprise in her response. Houston wouldn’t do even the simplest things to improve his life, but at least he was unharmed. “I thought . . . I thought maybe . . . Never mind. What’s wrong?”

“Is it true?” she asked.

Ford let his head fall back on the pillows. “Is what true?”

“Chief Claxton just called Houston to say that Lucy McBride is staying at Coastal Comfort.”

Apparently, this was Chief Claxton’s way of fighting back . . . He knew his family wouldn’t approve. “She rented the Smoot cottage for the summer, but she’s being harassed.”

“So you had her move in with you?”

He heard the shower and was relieved that Lucy was giving him privacy. “Having her at the house isn’t hurting anyone, Mom. I’m keeping her safe.” He was doing a lot more than that. He was making love to her every chance he got. But that wasn’t any of Sara’s business.

“Chief Claxton said you’ve hired a private investigator to examine murders that’ve already been solved.”

“That’s one way to put it, I guess.”

“Why are you getting involved?” she cried.

“Because I’m not sure the police got it right.”

“They had DNA evidence, Ford!”

“That doesn’t amount to what they think it does.”

“As Chief Claxton just pointed out to me, the juries who heard all the evidence apparently thought so.”

“Because McBride didn’t have a decent attorney. The CA had full sway.”

“Whether they got it right or wrong doesn’t matter. It’s none of our business! This is nothing we should be wasting our resources on!”

He’d been the one to bring added value to Wagner Business Solutions. Because he’d been willing to spend more on research and development than his highly conservative father, and he’d done it at a critical time—well before his father died—the business was more profitable than ever. He’d made them all a lot of money. But he wasn’t paying the investigator through the business, anyway. Now he was glad, because she had no right to question him on it. “Our resources? This is a personal expense, which I’m paying from my own pocket, Mom.”

She fell silent.

“Is there anything else?” he asked.

“I’m just jittery, what with Paris and her two brats trying to claw away everything that should be mine and Houston’s and yours.”

“Coastal Comfort is part of the estate. They will get their fair share when we sell it whether we like it or not.”

“What your father did—”

“Mom, I don’t want to talk about that anymore.”

“Fine. What about Christina?”

“What about her?” he asked.

“She called here the other day. Said she was sorry for her past behavior and wanted me to be part of the baby’s life. And that means so much. I was afraid . . . I was afraid she’d make things difficult the way she tends to do.”

“She will,” he said flatly. “The best indicator of future behavior is past behavior. She hasn’t changed overnight, you know.”

He could feel his mother’s surprise.

“She apologized—” she repeated, but he cut her off.

“Because she’s trying to get me back.”

“She is?”

“She’s never heard the word no in her life and doesn’t like hearing it now.”

“Are you considering trying to make the marriage work?”

He blew out a sigh as he raked his fingers through his hair. “I don’t see that I have any choice. Even if I only last a few years, it’ll put me in a much better place when it comes to my parental rights.”

“You’d essentially be doing it for the sake of your child.”

“That’s the only reason I’d do it.”

Silence. Then she said, “Maybe that would be best for everyone.”

“How can you say that? You hate Christina,” he reminded her.

“Maybe so. But I’m going to love my grandchild, and like you, I’m willing to make concessions for the sake of the baby.”

Not to mention that if he got back with Christina, he couldn’t be with Lucy, who Sara felt was beneath him. She didn’t want him to be connected, even remotely, to Mick McBride. That Chief Claxton had called her only gave her more reason to support a reconciliation.

“I’m giving myself the summer to make a decision,” he informed her.

“Okay. Just don’t let Lucy McBride cost you more than you’re willing to lose.”

She disconnected before he could respond, but he was glad the conversation was over. “Damn it!” he said with a groan. “Why can’t anything be easy?”

The shower was still going. At least he had that.

Setting his phone aside, he went into the bathroom and stepped under the hot spray, pulling Lucy into his arms because he knew she would make him feel better. She didn’t even have to be naked. Just being with her did that.

“What did your mother have to say?” she asked, as she slid her arms around his neck.

“Nothing I cared to hear,” he replied.

Reggie showed up while Joel was at work and the kids were at school. Anna had been afraid he would. She knew it wouldn’t take long for word to get back to him. North Hampton Beach was too small a place, and with so many people talking about Lucy and her father and the murders again . . .

Her car was in the garage, but he knew she was home. Monday was her day off at the barbershop—the day she tried to augment her income by making hair bows, which she sold on Etsy. If he was going to stop by, he always chose that day. He knew he’d most likely find her alone, and if she didn’t tell Joel, Joel would never be the wiser.

As he banged on the door, she stood on the other side, trying to convince herself that it was safe to answer. He wouldn’t hurt her—would he? She was only frightened because Joel had continually pointed out the possibility that her brother, with his terrible temper, could get physical with her one day.

“Anna, open the damn door!” Reggie yelled.

The wooden panel shuddered as he hit it, and she squeezed her eyes closed. Her husband had said to call him if Reggie came over, but she knew there’d be a much greater chance of a fight breaking out if she did. Reggie and Joel couldn’t get along. Joel hated that she and her mother babied Reggie, that they didn’t demand he behave and treat others with respect. And Reggie hated Joel because he was the only one who’d ever drawn a line for him, at least when it came to family. She didn’t want to make things worse by putting them in the same room.

Joel wouldn’t be able to drop everything at work and run home, anyway. Even if he could, whatever was going to happen here today would already be over.

“Anna?” Reggie yelled. “You little chickenshit, open this door!”

She’d spent her life being intimidated by her brother. Doing what he told her to avoid retribution. Appeasing him whenever possible and trying to compensate for circumstances and other people who triggered him. In part, she’d done it because it was what their mother had always expected of her. But would she, as a mother, ever allow the same dynamic to exist in her own household? Allow her son to bully her daughter and encourage her daughter to take it?

She’d never been tested on that, but she certainly hoped she wouldn’t be. It wasn’t fair, wasn’t right. Reggie needed to get hold of himself or risk the consequences. “Tough love” was a difficult concept. But she was the one who deserved her mother’s support, not him. At least she lived a good life and treated Natalie well.

“I don’t want to fight with you!” she yelled.

“If you don’t open this door, I’ll break it down!”

She considered calling the police, but he hadn’t done anything to warrant that yet. And she didn’t want to give him any more reason to be angry, or this would certainly escalate. That was the reason she wasn’t calling Joel.

Afraid he’d bust a window or something to get in, she gathered her courage, unlocked the door and threw it open. “What do you want, Reggie?”

“What do I want?” he echoed. “You told Ford Wagner and Lucy McBride that I lied under oath. And they’ve already gone to the police!”

“I’m sorry, but you did lie under oath!”

“You ratted me out? My own sister? What, you’re a little snitch now?” He threw up his hands. “I can’t believe this. I’m never going to trust you again. And neither will Mom, especially if I end up going to prison because of you—”

“You mean because of you?” she broke in before he could finish whatever threat he was formulating. “What about the reason you were sent to jail in the first place? Arson, Reggie? Really? And then lying about another human being to get yourself out of trouble? A killer could be running around loose because of you, but as usual, you can only think of yourself.”

“You’ve been hanging around with your bastard husband for too long.”

“Joel’s a good man. And he’s right! I should’ve listened to him long ago. But I’ve been kissing your ass my whole life, and such an established pattern of behavior can be hard to break.”

The anger that blazed in his eyes frightened her as much as the fist he lifted. “You stupid bitch,” he said. “You’re going to be sorry.”

When he swung, she threw her arms up to protect her head, but instead of striking her, he slugged the wall. Fortunately, he hit only Sheetrock, so it gave and he simply made a hole. Had he struck a beam, he would’ve shattered the bones in his hand.

She stared at him, once again stunned by his lack of control. “You need to get help,” she said and pushed him outside so she could slam and lock the door.

Anna was shaking when she melted into a chair and rested her head on her arms at the kitchen table. What had she ever done to deserve such a brother?

She lifted her head as something else occurred to her, something that made her get up and hurry to her computer to search for information on the Matteo murders. She needed to determine the exact date they’d been killed, which wasn’t hard. It was in almost every article. July 13. A Saturday.

When had her brother come into possession of that baseball card collection he sold for five thousand dollars?

It was about the same time as the murders. In addition to testifying against Mick McBride, he’d had to pay reparation for the fire he’d started; it was part of his deal with the commonwealth attorney. She remembered being surprised that he had most of the money. When she’d asked him where he’d gotten it, he told her he’d given a friend a set of tires in exchange for a baseball card collection which turned out to be a very good trade. The tires had only cost him five hundred dollars at a garage sale, but the cards were worth ten times that much.

But . . . what friend would give up a baseball card collection like that for a set of tires?

She’d never thought to ask him, had simply been grateful their mother hadn’t been forced to come up with that kind of money.

She was curious now, though. Could it be that the cards had been stolen from the Matteos’ trailer? That they’d gone unnoticed because there were very few people who even knew Tony had them? And, if that was the case, how’d those cards wind up in her brother’s hands if Mick McBride was the one who’d killed Tony and Lucinda?

Houston has decided to join you in North Hampton Beach for a few weeks.

Ford got that message from his mother while Lucy was making dinner and he was catching up on email, but when it came in he shoved his computer away, struggling to tamp down the resulting irritation. Sara must not have liked the way their conversation had gone on the phone this morning, so she was sending his brother to act as a counterbalance, watch out for him or “talk some sense into him.” Or maybe Houston was just meant to report on what was going on or get in the way so Ford and Lucy couldn’t get too close.

Ford almost wrote back to tell his mother that Houston could visit in the fall after Ford was back at work. But that would only make his brother angry enough to come anyway. Houston still acted as though he, as the older brother, should be in charge—not that he was ever willing to take responsibility for the things that mattered. It was a patently unfair dynamic, but Ford couldn’t stop him from coming to North Hampton Beach. Coastal Comfort belonged to his father’s estate, not just to him.

Worst case, he and Lucy could move into the Smoot Cottage and relinquish Coastal Comfort to Houston, he decided. The window had been repaired. Ford knew because Lucy had insisted on paying for it rather than relying on Dahlia. It hadn’t been costly enough that the insurance would cover it, and Lucy didn’t want Sharon or Dahlia to bear the brunt of the repair.

As soon as they’d returned to town from the prison, he’d driven Lucy over there to check on the work and pay the contractor. The window looked good. Lucy had cleaned the bathroom mirror and the kitchen while he’d taken care of a few things in the yard. He wouldn’t mind living at the cottage for the next several weeks. It would be hot and uncomfortable at times, but if it got too bad, they could always go out and sleep on the beach. At least, if they weren’t at the Coastal Comfort, neither Houston nor his mother would have anything to complain about.

Sara might think she’d hit upon a way to make sure he and Lucy didn’t get too close this summer, but she’d soon learn that sending Houston would change nothing.

Fine with me, he wrote back but was still frowning when Lucy entered the room.

“Something wrong?” she asked when she saw him.

The scent of the pork roast she’d put in the oven drifted to him from the kitchen, making him realize just how hungry he was getting. “It’s my mother.”

“Is she still trying to get you to stay away from me?” she asked wryly.

“Not overtly. But that may be what she’s intending by sending my brother here.”

Her eyes widened. “Here, as in North Hampton Beach?”

“Here, as in Coastal Comfort.”

“Oh, I see.” She sat next to him. “I guess I’ll be moving back to the cottage, then.”

“We’ll both be moving to the cottage. Good thing you have it for the whole summer.”

She gestured around them. “You’re willing to give up all this luxury for me?”

Her impish smile suggested she was teasing, but he’d be willing to give up a lot more than that for her. The one thing he couldn’t sacrifice was a relationship with his own child, however. Christina held the trump card there, which was why he sometimes wondered if she’d gotten pregnant on purpose. He could easily see her making such a calculated decision to keep him from leaving her again. But that only made him resent her more. “I won’t even miss it,” he said and leaned over to kiss her.

“When will your brother get here?” she asked.

“I didn’t ask. I don’t want to appear even remotely concerned. We’ll just do what we want until he arrives. Then we’ll move to the cottage. No big deal.”

She looked hesitant. “I don’t want to cause any problems between you and your family.”

If only his family felt the same about her. He held her chin as he looked into her eyes. “I know that. It’ll be fine,” he said and pecked her lips again.

“I was thinking . . .”

He’d gone back to trying to finish his last email for the day, but at this, he paused. “About what?”

“That orange truck I saw the other day.”

“The one you were trying to get a better glimpse of?”

“Yeah, that one. It was parked in front of the cottage a day or two before the break-in. That’s why I was so eager to get a better look at it.”

“Why didn’t you say so? We could’ve driven around, tried to find it.”

“I’m not sure it means anything. I just saw it driving away. But orange is a distinctive color. If the person who owns it is local, we should be able to find out who it is. It wouldn’t hurt to ask why they ran away when I walked out of the cottage.”

“Chet’s come back here every summer. He might know. Want me to give him a call?” Ford asked.

“After dinner,” she told him. “I think it’s ready.”

24

Chet’s heart leaped into his throat when he saw Ford’s name on his screen. Ever since he’d found out that Ford and Lucy were focusing on the rowboat that’d temporarily gone missing from the Zampinos’ small stretch of shoreline, he’d been expecting a call from Chief Claxton or the investigator Ford had hired. He was afraid they’d be much more dogged about trying to figure out who’d returned it, since there was nothing to draw their attention away, not like there’d been before, what with the hysteria surrounding the Matteo murders once they’d found Mick McBride’s DNA under Tony’s fingernails.

Fortunately, that call hadn’t come, but thanks to Ford and Lucy, Chet knew it still could. So he’d been thinking about fabricating a story that would explain the boat away—get them to believe it was a dead end. Should he admit that he was the one who’d returned it in case someone had seen him do it? He could say he’d found it floating free, recognized it and taken it home. That didn’t make him guilty of murder.

“Shit,” he cursed as Ford’s call transferred to voice mail. He’d dithered too long, trying to make up his mind.

“Is something wrong?” his wife asked as she carried their baby into the bedroom he was using as his studio.

“No, why?” He felt guilty hiding so much from her, especially because of the nature of his dark secret.

“You’re working later than usual,” she said. “Kenzie and I were beginning to wonder if we’d even see you tonight.”

The moment Kira had walked into the room, Kenzie had started kicking her legs and stretching out her chubby arms for him.

“Sorry. I’ve been trying to finish this.” He gestured toward the blue and white sailboat he was painting on a cerulean sea, but he hadn’t made much progress on the piece today. He’d spent the entire afternoon worrying about what he’d done fifteen years ago and trying to devise a way to mitigate the threat Ford and Lucy suddenly posed.

He put down his paintbrush so he could hold his daughter and smiled as he pressed her soft, squishy body against his chest. He couldn’t imagine loving anyone or anything more, unless it was his wife. He had a lot riding on the decision he was trying to make.

He could put off calling Ford for a few minutes, but he couldn’t wait long, not if he planned to do the whole, “Hey, you were asking me about the Zampinos’ boat when I was at Coastal Comfort, and it just occurred to me that I returned it myself” kind of thing.

Briefly closing his eyes, he kissed the top of his baby’s fuzzy head before smiling at his beautiful wife, who was watching him with a fond smile of her own.

His future hung in the balance. Which way should he go?

The orange truck belonged to Stephanie Beaumont. Lucy hadn’t expected that. She’d assumed the driver would be someone far more threatening than the harmless-looking woman whose account she’d just pulled up on Instagram.

“Why do you think Stephanie would come to the cottage?” she asked Ford.

He was sitting next to her at the granite-topped island in the center of the kitchen, where they’d eaten before putting their plates aside to call Chet. He hadn’t answered, but it turned out they didn’t need him, anyway. Dahlia had told Lucy that Stephanie owned a truck like the one she described when Lucy called to tell her the window at the cottage had been repaired. “Stephanie was with Aurora that night at the party, wasn’t she?” Ford asked.

Lucy nodded. “Do you think she heard I was in town renting the Smoot cottage and was coming to tell me how despicable I am just because I’m related to the man she thinks murdered her friend?”

“Sadly, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Lucy held her phone up to read Stephanie’s latest post. “Neither would I. Maybe I’m glad she ran away instead of coming to the door.”

Ford wore a thoughtful expression. “Although . . . it could be that she wanted to tell you something.”

“Like what?”

“Something regarding the murder. I’m sure people are talking about the fact that we don’t believe Mick killed Aurora. I’m guessing she’s heard that, too.”

“But she didn’t seem to know anything important during the trial. She said she had curfew and left the party early, didn’t know what happened to Aurora after that.”

“Maybe that isn’t true.”

Lucy scrolled through Stephanie’s earlier posts. “She seems nice. She posts about her pets, her friends, how damaging body dysmorphia can be, goes over her weight loss journey and tries to raise funds for Alzheimer’s and cancer research.”

“We should reach out to her,” he said. “See why she came by—and why she ran away.”

Lucy had assumed whoever owned that orange truck wasn’t friendly, that the driver might even have been the person who’d broken in. The way Stephanie had fled had been suspicious. But Ford could be right. Either way, they needed to talk to everyone who was at the party, and Stephanie would be a great place to start. “How will we find her?”

“There’s nothing on Insta that indicates where she works?”

“No.”

Ford’s phone lit up. “Chet’s calling back. He might know. He seems to have remained in contact with a lot of the people around here.”

He pressed the Talk button, and Lucy got up to carry the dishes to the sink.

“Doing great . . . Yeah, we need to get together again . . . That was a delicious dinner . . . How’s the baby? . . . And Kira? . . . Tell her I said hello . . .”

After the small talk was over, Lucy returned to the table. If she listened carefully, she could also hear Chet’s side of the conversation, and Ford turned his phone to make that easier.

“I was just calling to see if you could tell me who owns the beat-up orange truck that we’ve seen around town.”

“Did you say . . . orange truck?”

“Yeah. It’s distinctive enough that I thought you might be familiar with it.”

“Why’s the truck important?” he asked.

“I’m not sure it is,” Ford replied. “Lucy mentioned it appeared at the cottage last week and then rocketed away. That’s all.”

“Rocketed away?”

“As if the driver didn’t want to be seen.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know who that could be.”

“No worries,” Ford told him. “When you didn’t answer, we talked to Dahlia, and she was able to tell us it belongs to Stephanie Beaumont.”

There was a long silence.

“Chet?” Ford said. “You still there?”

“Yeah, sorry. I got . . . I was distracted by Kenzie.”

Ford shifted in his seat. “You remember Stephanie, don’t you? She was with Aurora at the party the night she was murdered.”

“I remember,” he said. “Why do you think she went to the cottage?”

“Lucy and I have no idea. But we intend to find out.”

“Good luck with that.” His voice sounded oddly strained, giving Lucy the impression he didn’t believe they’d ever prove it. But she’d known from the beginning that it wasn’t going to be easy to convince the people around here.

“Thanks,” Ford said.

Chet cleared his throat. “This might help, too—if only to identify a dead end.”

Lucy could see the curiosity in Ford’s eyes when he looked up at her. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“The rowboat you mentioned. The one someone at the party was messing around with and left in the water instead of dragging safely to shore.”

“What about it?”

“I found it butting up against our dock the night of the party and carried it back to the Zampinos myself.”

Ford’s jaw dropped. “You returned the boat?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“Now or fifteen years ago?”

“Let’s start with fifteen years ago, when the police were trying to figure it out.”

“No one asked me,” he said.

“And when I brought it up?”

“It took me a minute, but that’s what reminded me.”

“What time was it when you took the boat back?”

“I have no clue. After I got home from the party I hung out in my room for a while, playing video games. Then I tried to go to bed but couldn’t sleep, so I went outside to dangle my feet in the river—and there it was.”

“No one saw you return it?”

“I guess not. By then, it was raining, and everyone had either left or gone inside.”

“I’m surprised the police never came to your door.”

“If they did, they talked to my dad or my mom. No one said anything to me.”

But he came to almost every day of the trial. Wouldn’t he have thought that information was crucial? Lucy drew her eyebrows together in concentration as she listened harder.

“And you didn’t think it was important to say something?” Ford pressed.

“Not at all. I knew the boat had nothing to do with the murder, so I wasn’t worried about it. The police seemed to understand that, too.”

Lucy grimaced. The police had turned their attention to her father almost right away, searched only for evidence that would prove he was the one who’d done it. The boat didn’t help them build their case against him, so they’d simply ignored that loose end.

Ford slid his chair back and offered Lucy a place on his lap—and she could hear even better when she took it. “Do you know where Stephanie lives?” he asked Chet.

“No.”

“You haven’t remained in contact with her?”

“Here and there, but . . . hang on.” Chet went silent for a few seconds. “Sorry about that,” he said when he came back to the conversation. “Kira needs me. I wish I could be more help.”

“No problem. I’ll talk to you later,” Ford said and disconnected as he looked at Lucy. “You heard that, right?”

She nodded. “I guess we no longer have to canvass the Zampinos’ neighborhood,” she said wryly.

“We should probably talk to the neighbors, anyway, see if anyone remembers anything strange from that night that we don’t already know about.”

“You think we might actually uncover something?”

“You don’t?”

“I’m afraid no one will talk to me. The people around here are more loyal to Aurora and Aurora’s family than they are to me, so they’ll shut me out even though I’m only after the truth.”

“They think they already have the truth.”

“Exactly.”

“We could wait for Lester Friedman to take care of it once he’s done everything he can from DC,” Ford said. “Or I could go alone. People might be willing to talk to me.”

“I think waiting for the investigator would be best. It’d seem more ‘official,’ make people feel as if they have an obligation to help.”

He kept fiddling with his phone. “That’s probably true.”

Lucy tightened the arm she had around his shoulders. “Something wrong?”

“Not really.”

“Now do you regret being involved—with me, with this case?” she asked.

He scowled. “Not at all. I was just thinking about Chet. I used to like him a lot more than I do now.”

“He’s changed?”

“Maybe not. Could be me.” Ford shifted her on his lap. “What do you think of him?”

“I quit liking him when he started telling everyone I put my father up to killing Aurora, especially because, once he said it, everyone else piled on, and nothing I said in my own defense made a difference.” She toyed with the hair at the nape of his neck. Those were some of the most terrible memories of her life and part of the reason she’d come back to this place. She wanted to banish the guilt and shame she should never have had to feel in the first place, since she really hadn’t done anything to cause Aurora’s death. “It felt like the whole town was chanting the same thing.”

Suddenly uneasy, she got off his lap and walked to the window.

“That was a bum deal,” he agreed. “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t answer. She was too caught up in the past.

Coming up behind her, he slid his arms around her waist, but he didn’t say anything. He just kissed the top of her head as they both gazed out at the moon hanging like a giant pendant over the ocean.

“This summer’s going to hurt me just like that summer did,” she said, finally breaking the silence that’d settled over them. “Isn’t it.”

It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t treat it like one. “This time, I’m pretty sure it’s going to hurt me more,” he said.

Chet stared at his own reflection in the window. While he was on the phone with Ford, he’d pretended Kenzie was in the room with him. But that hadn’t been the case. Kira had taken her down the hall to put her to bed while he was supposed to be cleaning his brushes. He’d needed his wife to be gone when he talked to Ford, was afraid that if anyone could see through him—sense the mental gymnastics he had to go through to navigate the call he’d just placed—it’d be her.

Fortunately, he’d had the time alone since she was busy with their daughter. But did Ford believe him? Had he said enough but not too much? Acted confident and untroubled? Completely convincing?

“I had to admit I returned it,” he said aloud. Once he’d learned that Stephanie had gone to the cottage, no doubt looking for Lucy, he’d felt as if he had to reveal that much. After all, he’d hung out with both Stephanie and Aurora that night, at least until Stephanie left the party, so she’d heard a drunken Aurora ask him to take her out on the river—several times—and she’d also heard him say he would. And someone else might’ve seen him with the boat later on, loading it into his truck and driving it back. He’d been up the entire night messing with it.

Telling Ford he’d returned the boat was the best move he could’ve made, he reassured himself. But he was sweating so profusely when Kira poked her head in to see why he hadn’t come out of the studio that she asked if she should turn down the air-conditioning.

25

Lucy woke up before dawn when the room was still almost pitch-black. Although the bed was more comfortable than any she’d ever slept in, especially with Ford’s body curved protectively around hers, once she reached consciousness her mind wouldn’t shut down again. There was too much going through it. Even while she’d been asleep, she’d had disquieting dreams. In the only one she remembered, Stephanie Beaumont had suddenly turned into a screaming banshee and hurled rocks through the windows of the cottage, yelling, “It is your fault Aurora’s dead!” And then her face melted into Aurora’s as it had looked in the upsetting and tragic photographs shown at the trial after her death.

Could it have been Stephanie who broke in? That was hard to believe after checking out her Instagram account. But it could’ve been her, or one of several other people. Lucy hadn’t expected to be embraced by the North Hampton Beach community. It was the fact that she was getting involved with Ford again that worried her. She’d lowered her defenses, thinking she should simply let go and enjoy him while she had him—especially since she wasn’t likely to ever see him again once she returned to Vegas. But she was falling in love with him for the second time, and it was happening so fast. She couldn’t maintain any greater emotional distance as an adult than she could as a young woman, and she hadn’t expected that, not after getting her heart broken so badly the first time. How was it that she’d been able to hold every other man at arm’s length?

She had no answer. Ford was just different. So . . . should she cut off their relationship? Go back to the Smoot cottage before she could want him even more? Or was it already too late?

“You okay?” Ford whispered, his breath moving a wisp of hair at her ear.

She hadn’t meant to wake him. Hoping he’d float back to sleep if she didn’t respond, she tried to slip out of bed so she wouldn’t continue to disturb him. But he tightened his arm to stop her. “What’s wrong?” he asked, sounding more alert.

“I’m just . . . worried about everything,” she murmured.

“Your father?”

“It would be good to finally reach the truth, to know if he’s really the kind of man who could do what was done to the Matteos, for a lot of reasons, but one of them is so I’ll know whether I’m the one who let him down or he’s the one who let me down.” Somehow, that had come to mean more than the rest of it. She didn’t want to feel as though she’d blamed her own father for something he didn’t do. If anyone believed in him, it should’ve been her.

“You’ve navigated life the best way you possibly could, Lucy. I don’t think it matters, even if you were wrong. You need to give yourself that kindness.”

“Just in case he didn’t murder anyone.”

“Just in case,” he confirmed. “Beating yourself up over how you handled what happened won’t do any good.”

She switched to her other side, so she could face him. “Your brother hasn’t been here for quite a few years, right? If he’s coming now, your mother must be pretty upset that we’re spending time together.”

“My mother insists coming here was Houston’s idea, that hearing about North Hampton Beach again has made him miss the ocean and want to return.”

“Do you believe her?”

“I don’t know. Houston’s never expressed much interest in returning here. Matter of fact, he’s had only derogatory things to say about this place—that it’s way overrated as far as beaches go, that there’s no good place to party, that it’s just a sleepy little hamlet for parents with small kids. Apparently, he didn’t love coming here while we were growing up as much as I did. He and my mother have been pressing me to sell this place, get rid of it.”

For some reason, Lucy hated the thought of that. “Do you have to listen to them?”

“Not necessarily. As trustee of my father’s estate, I’m in charge. The decision is mine. But they would benefit financially, so it’s difficult to tell them no.”

“That would be a hard decision. This place is special.”

“I was planning on selling when I first arrived, but now . . . I’d really hate to see it go. I don’t want to make the decision right now. There are too many other things on my mind.”

“You mean like my problems. That’s what’s on your mind?”

He nuzzled her neck. “Not your problems. You. Why would I want any distractions? Getting the house ready for sale would only rob me of some of the time we’ll have together this summer.”

She didn’t want to lose that, either. But what if the consequences of spending all that time together turned out to be too painful?

“You have nothing to say to that?” he asked, a grin in his voice, when she didn’t respond.

“I’ve had to weather a lot of things in my life, Ford.”

He sobered. She could hear it in his voice. “But . . .”

She couldn’t face losing him again, didn’t want a repeat of that, in particular. But she didn’t want to express so much emotion—wished she didn’t feel it—especially so soon. “Never mind. So . . . why would Houston have such a sudden change of heart? It has to have something to do with me, don’t you think?”

Although she couldn’t make out his expression in the darkness, he sounded contemplative when he answered. “Possibly. I’m guessing my mother’s told him you’re here. She probably wants to know what’s going on. But he was always big on gossip, loves being in the middle of anything sensational, so I could see your return attracting him even without her.”

“Are your brother and your mother close?”

“Surprisingly, they are.”

“Why is that surprising?”

“They live together in Maryland. It’s not far from where I live in DC, but it makes sense that they’d form a closer bond than the one my mother shares with me. They’re also more alike than she and I are. But she’s complained about him his whole life for not taking more initiative, working harder and accomplishing something. So there’s some frustration and disapproval there, too.”

Lucy remembered Houston coming to the courthouse quite often during the trial the following winter, but a lot of the citizens of North Hampton Beach did that. They’d been up in arms, bent on getting revenge.

In retrospect, it reminded Lucy of biblical stories where a whole village would come out to stone an offender. “Were you more like your dad?” she asked.

“Overall, I guess I was.” He curved closer to her and yawned, giving her the impression he was falling back asleep. But after several moments of silence, he said, “Lucy?”

She let her hand slide up over his forearm, then his bicep and into his thick hair. If she was going to pay dearly for loving him the way she did, she planned to make the most of every moment—memorize every inch of him, every detail. “What?”

“You know this time would be different if . . . if it could be different, don’t you?”

What she knew was that it was going to rip her heart out when he went back to Christina. “We still have the summer,” she said, reminding herself as much as him.

He sighed deeply. “It won’t be enough.”

“We might as well make what little time we have everything it could be,” she said and nudged him onto his back before kissing his neck and then moving down to his chest, his stomach and, finally, taking him into her mouth.

Anna jiggled her leg to siphon off the nervous energy she felt while waiting to speak to Chief Claxton. She’d just dropped off her kids at school and needed to be at the barbershop by nine for her first appointment. She’d made it clear to the sergeant she’d spoken with when she first walked into the station that she didn’t have much time. But Claxton didn’t seem to be in any hurry. She could see him through the interior window of his office, talking on the phone, laughing and gesturing as if it was a personal call.

Other officers were coming and going and moving around the station. Maybe meeting with one of them would be just as good. Surely, they could take a report. But because this had to do with her brother, and Claxton had been on the force since the murders occurred and would probably remember as much or more about them than she did, she felt it would be best to talk to him. She also knew him personally. Although she was younger than he was, they’d dated a few times one summer while she was home from college. He’d gained quite a bit of weight since, and was losing his hair, but he’d been attractive and athletic back then. Once she’d gotten to know him better, however, she’d realized she wasn’t all that interested. Then she’d met Joel.

Finally, just as she was about to give up and go to work, she saw Claxton put down the phone.

A minute or two later, a female officer approached to tell her the chief would see her now.

Had he made her wait to flex his power?

She hated to think he’d feel the need to do something like that after so many years, but he hadn’t been happy when she’d told him she didn’t want to see him anymore. She got the impression he’d never really forgiven her, could tell whenever they bumped into each other around town that the rejection had been a major blow to his ego and he wasn’t likely to forget it.

As she was shown into his office, anxiety overcame the irritation she’d felt while he was on the phone.

“Have a seat.” He gestured toward one of the well-worn, blue-cushioned seats across from his desk.

Anna perched on the edge of it, eyeing a signed photograph of him with baseball player Barry Bonds that hung on the wall. “Thanks for seeing me.”

“Of course. We’re old friends.” The ingratiating smile he gave her didn’t quite reach his eyes. She’d been right; he hadn’t forgiven her for not wanting to pursue a romantic relationship with him. He’d married shortly after she did, but she saw his wife, Pamela, at the barbershop when she brought in their son, overheard some of the things she said, and didn’t believe they were very happy together.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I need to talk to you about Reggie.”

He got up and closed the door before circling back around to his desk. “I’ve already heard. Ford and Lucy called me. But you’re getting yourself all worked up about nothing. McBride killed Aurora, Anna. At this point, all that really matters is that we got the right guy.”

“Are you sure you got the right guy? Because Lucy doesn’t believe it.”

“Of course she doesn’t. Who would want to believe their father could be capable of something like that?”

“No one,” she admitted. “But it’s been so long. You’d think she’d come to terms with it if—”

“The amount of time doesn’t matter,” he broke in. “She’s still in denial.”

“Ford Wagner’s convinced there’s validity to her argument.” And that meant something to Anna. She’d always admired Ford, didn’t know anyone who hadn’t thought highly of him.

Claxton gave her a “get real” look. “Ford Wagner is romantically involved with her.”

She relaxed slightly. Claxton’s level of conviction was making her feel as if everything she’d built up in her mind wasn’t anything to worry about, after all. “Are you still convinced Mick McBride killed the Matteos, too?”

He rocked back. “Of course! His DNA was under Tony Matteo’s fingernails!”

She drew a deep breath. Maybe there’d been no need to come to the station, after all. But since she was here . . . “Then this probably won’t matter, either, but I wanted to make sure you were at least aware of it.”

He rested his elbows on his desk as he leaned forward again. “What’s that?”

“Did the Matteos own a baseball card collection?”

He made a face that suggested he had no clue. “Not to my knowledge. Why?”

“Because around that time, Reggie came into possession of a baseball card collection worth a lot of money.”

Claxton blinked at her. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Now she was feeling almost euphoric. Thank God! After the way Reggie had acted yesterday, she’d begun to believe he was capable of anything. “Probably nothing,” she said with a relieved chuckle. “It just seemed strange that he would have something worth five thousand dollars, you know? He never had any money. And when I asked him where he got it, he told me some crazy story about trading a set of tires for it, which didn’t really ring true. Putting that together with the fact that it came into his possession about the time the Matteos were murdered, and knowing their murders started out as a burglary . . .”

“I get it. And I appreciate you coming in. But you’re jumping at shadows. Maybe Reggie lied. I’ll take your word for it on that even though I’m betting he’d deny it—I know he would since I’ve already spoken to him about it—but I promise you the baseball card collection doesn’t mean anything.”

She checked her watch and stood. “Great. Thanks. I’d better run, or I’ll be late for work.”

When they woke up the following morning, Ford had several issues he had to take care of for Wagner Business Solutions, so after making breakfast—spinach omelets and coffee—Lucy decided to spend her time trying to figure out where Stephanie Beaumont lived.

She assumed it would be difficult and that she’d have to ask Dahlia, who might be reluctant to tell her, or go through numerous posts by the various people connected to Stephanie on social media, which might not reveal anything definitive. But that wasn’t the case. All she had to do was Google Stephanie’s name along with “North Hampton Beach, VA” and an address popped up.

Lucy knew the general area. It was an older neighborhood of small homes built in the fifties and sixties. She asked Ford to text Chet to see if he knew where Stephanie worked—she would’ve preferred to “bump” into her if it was someplace like a restaurant, where such an encounter would seem natural. But Chet didn’t respond, so Lucy decided to drive to Stephanie’s house.

Even though Ford told her she could use the Land Rover, she walked to the Smoot cottage to get her own vehicle, and once she got there, she paused for several seconds to admire the carefully manicured yard. That Ford had gone to so much effort to make it beautiful for her seemed significant, meaningful, and yet she knew they were building only memories this summer—memories that would be bittersweet in the years to come.

She’d gotten herself into a no-win situation.

With a sigh, she got behind the wheel and drove to the address she’d found online. There was always a chance Google had gotten it wrong. Perhaps it was an old address. She’d thought that might be the case when she didn’t see Stephanie’s orange truck in the drive.

After turning off her engine, she got out and went to the door. If she wanted answers, she had to be bold. Someone who had a wind chime and a hummingbird feeder in the front yard, along with rows and rows of flowers and several ceramic gnomes, didn’t come across as a hate-filled, dangerous person.

But no one answered the door. Lucy was walking back to her rental car when the orange truck she’d seen at the cottage, and again in town, pulled into the drive.

Lucy turned as Stephanie got out. Since the other woman was sweaty and wearing workout clothes, it was easy to tell she’d been at the gym. “Hey, sorry to just . . . show up out of nowhere,” she said, “but I was hoping to speak to you.”

Stephanie reached into the truck and pulled out a duffel bag she slung over her shoulder. When she looked up again, she said, “I don’t think so. Not today. I don’t have time.”

“Then can I get your number so we can arrange something for later?”

“I’m afraid not. Sorry.”

Lucy followed her to the door. “If you don’t want to talk to me, why’d you show up at the Smoot Cottage? Are you the one who broke in and messed up my things?”

She whipped around. “No! Of course not. I would never do that. I—I was thinking about having a conversation with you but decided not to. I don’t want to cause trouble, don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

“Neither do I,” Lucy said. “I’ve never been out to hurt anyone, including Aurora. I hope you know that.”

She grudgingly acknowledged as much with a nod.

“You do know that?” Lucy clarified.

“I was one of Aurora’s best friends. She would’ve told me if you’d ever done anything wrong, would’ve used that to . . . to make sure you paid for it. She hated you, considered you a rival and said terrible things about you all the time, so she wouldn’t have held that back.”

It would’ve been nice if Stephanie had spoken up for her fifteen years ago. But she was one of the last people to see Aurora. And, like so many others, she’d been young at the time and was probably too freaked out to do anything more than watch what occurred in horror.

“My father didn’t kill Aurora, Stephanie.”

“How do you know?” she challenged.

“Because Aurora’s own brother saw him across town at the time Aurora was being murdered. It’s hard to be in two places at once, even if you’re a psychopath.”

“Some people would say it doesn’t matter,” she said. “If your father killed the Matteos, he’s where he should be.”

She didn’t dare reveal that she was beginning to doubt that, too. “The Matteos are a separate case. Don’t you care to find out for sure if he’s the one who killed your best friend?”

She looked confused. “I thought that was established.”

“There was no hard evidence.”

Obviously torn, Stephanie hesitated before unlocking her front door and pushing it wide. “Reggie comes down this street a lot,” she said. “He’s seeing a woman on Brentwood who refuses to believe she’ll regret getting involved with him.”

“You must know that woman,” Lucy said.

“She teaches at the same school I do. She’s the one who told me you were back and how angry Reggie is about what you’re saying and doing. I’d rather neither one of them saw us talking.” She went inside, then gestured for Lucy to follow. “Come in. Like me, she’s off for the summer while school’s out, so she might be home today, too.”

Lucy stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind her. She got the impression that Stephanie was single. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, and there was no evidence of a spouse or children or even a roommate.

Stephanie dropped her bag on the closest chair. “You said someone broke into your house?”

“Yeah.”

“Was it Reggie?”

“I don’t know.”

She fanned herself with her hand. “Bet Ford didn’t like that.”

“I didn’t like it,” Lucy said.

“But you’re seeing Ford again, right? That’s what I’ve been hearing.”

“It’s more of a working relationship,” Lucy said. It went well beyond that in her mind and heart, but she knew it wouldn’t be anything in the end.

“Reggie claims you’ve hired a private investigator.”

“Ford has, yes. Is there anything you can do to help us? What I went through when I lived here . . . No one should have to go through that, Stephanie.”

She frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything.”

“And yet you came to the cottage, said you wanted to have a conversation.”

“I’d just heard you were back in town and thought I’d say hi.”

“But we were never really friends . . .”

She looked even more uncomfortable. “I’m not proud of the way I treated you back then. It . . . it wasn’t kind. Aurora was a bad influence. I regret it now.”

Lucy remembered the way Aurora and her friends had made fun of other people, how cliquish they’d been, and had to agree. The acknowledgment and apology were nice, but she’d been hoping Stephanie knew something about her father’s case. Disappointed, she turned to go.

She was just starting to open the door when Stephanie called her back. “Or . . . wait.”

Lucy turned.

“Actually, I did want to tell you something. Well, show you something.”

Lucy waited while Stephanie unzipped her bag, got out her cell phone and went through her pictures. “I’ve kept a screenshot of it all these years because . . . because it was the last thing I ever got from Aurora. I didn’t show it to anyone at the time. I was trying to figure out whether I should when the police landed on your father, and I thought it was beside the point.”

“You don’t think it is any longer?”

“Now that I have some distance from what happened, I feel I should’ve shown someone, after all, especially with what Darren is saying these days.”

She thrust out her phone, letting Lucy read a screenshot of a text she’d received on the night Aurora died—a text that came from Aurora herself:

Can you come get me? I don’t want to ride with my stupid brother. He’ll be pissed off that he had to pick me up, so we’ll just fight the whole way. 1:06 a.m.

Never mind. Chet’s taking me out on the river. He’ll drive me home after. 1:18 a.m.

“I was asleep. Didn’t get them until morning,” Stephanie explained.

A chill ran down Lucy’s spine. Reading those texts was like hearing Aurora’s voice from the grave. “Did you ask Chet if he took her on the river?”

“I did. He said he didn’t. He said she was so stuck on Lance Zampino that he couldn’t get her to leave the party, after all, and he was afraid if he didn’t get home his parents would realize he wasn’t in bed, so he had to leave without her.”

“You showed him these texts? He knows about them?” she clarified.

“I didn’t mention them specifically. I just asked him what happened after I left, and he said she wouldn’t go with him.”

“And you believed him.”

“I did. It never even crossed my mind that he could be lying. That’s why I assumed these texts didn’t mean anything. But my neighbor says Darren is telling everyone your dad could not have killed Aurora. So then I thought . . . I thought maybe these could be important. I highly doubt it, of course. Chet’s a great guy and always has been, which is why I’ve been hesitant to say anything. I don’t want another innocent person to get the blame, but I also don’t want to keep these texts from the investigation if there’s a chance Aurora’s murderer hasn’t been caught.”

Stephanie had to be horrified to think her best friend’s murderer could still be on the loose, especially after feeling as though her murder had been solved. “Can I have a copy of this?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t have shown it to you if I wasn’t ready to give it to the police, too.”

Lucy sent the screenshot to herself. “I’ll make sure they get it, but they may reach out to you to verify,” she said as she handed the phone back.

“Okay, but . . .” Stephanie peered at her more closely. “You don’t think it’s anything important, do you? I mean, Chet would never hurt Aurora. He loved her so much.”

“I can’t imagine he’d ever hurt her, either,” Lucy admitted. Ford would be even more shocked. But the fact that Chet had told Stephanie that Aurora didn’t go out on the boat with him and yet he’d ended up in possession of the boat seemed odd.

It was also odd that he didn’t come forward fifteen years ago to say he was the one who’d returned the boat. Was that really something a person could forget?

26

Ford couldn’t imagine that Chet had anything to do with Aurora’s murder. “It can’t be him,” he told Lucy, adamant, when she got back.

“Why not?” she challenged. “Because he’s a family man now?”

Pushing his stool away from the island where he’d worked while she was gone, he stood and went to get a drink of water. “Because he was a decent human being even back then.”

She followed him to the fridge. “Most murders are an act of passion, Ford. Even Stephanie said, ‘He loved her so much.’ Maybe he was on something, didn’t have the restraint he would’ve had otherwise, and she enraged him—spurned him or belittled him.”

As much as he hated to admit it, that sounded like something Aurora would do. She’d thought she was so much better than everyone else. That was part of the reason Ford had never been attracted to her. She could be funny, was sometimes sweet, but she could also be mean. “So he killed her?” he said skeptically.

“Someone did. It’s not always someone who looks like an obvious monster. Sometimes even nice people do terrible things.”

“I know that,” he said. “But not Chet. You’re asking me to believe it wasn’t your father. I’m asking you to believe it wasn’t my friend.”

She touched his arm, probably to soften her response or offer some empathy while she pointed out the obvious. “Except we know that Chet and not my father was one of the last people to see her alive. She was found in the river. His house backs up to the river. And he admitted to returning the boat. Why didn’t he mention that before? That he was the one who found the boat and returned it?”

“Because he forgot about it,” Ford heard himself say but knew how ridiculous it was to believe that Chet could forget something like that. Ford had found it odd as soon as Chet told him; he just hadn’t given that little niggle of concern much attention—had immediately pushed it away in favor of believing his friend. He knew him, liked him.

Although . . . things were decidedly different between them these days.

He could see the sympathy in Lucy’s eyes when she said, “Maybe you’re right.”

But Ford didn’t want her to give in just because he wanted her to see things his way.

He combed his fingers through his hair. He was making it stand up in the wrong places, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want it to be Chet, didn’t want to arrive at the obvious conclusion—that Chet had a greater chance of being involved in Aurora’s murder than Mick McBride. Mick hadn’t been anywhere near the Zampino house, while Chet had attended the party. “He’s never hurt anyone else.”

“That we know of,” she said gently.

With a sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose while trying to hash it out in his mind. He knew there’d been a lot of drugs at that party. If Chet had been on something, it could’ve made a big difference in how he reacted to certain things . . . “If I accuse him—or even question him—it’ll be the end of our friendship.”

“I know. I say we give this information to the investigator and see where the case leads before we go that far.”

Ford wanted to agree, to back away from this as much as possible. But a scene was playing in his mind—the memory of Chet telling everyone they hung out with that summer that Mick McBride had killed Aurora because Lucy put him up to it. He’d been so adamant it had made Ford mad; they’d almost ended up in a fistfight. Was there a reason he’d been so quick to point a finger at her? Had he been using her as a scapegoat?

Pulling her to him, Ford rested his chin on her head. She was already coming to mean so much to him. The circumstances of those murders had robbed them of whatever relationship they could’ve had, and he felt they would’ve been happier if they’d been together.

If Chet was to blame for that . . .

Anger suddenly charged through him like fire racing down a line of gunpowder. Releasing her, he crossed the kitchen to get his keys.

“Where are you going?” she asked in surprise.

“To see Chet.”

“You don’t think it would be better to wait? I don’t want to come between you two. There could be some other explanation.”

“It there is, he can give it to me,” he said.

Lucy wished she could be present to hear what happened when Ford arrived at Chet’s. She’d begun to second-guess some of the conclusions she’d drawn after Stephanie showed her those texts. There could be perfectly good explanations for how Chet had handled that night. Maybe the texts and the boat were nothing to worry about. Then she’d feel responsible for the damage Ford’s visit was about to cause his friendship with Chet.

Come back. We should let the investigator do his job.

She sent that text and thought he had returned when she heard someone open the front door only fifteen minutes later.

“I’m glad you got my text—” she started to say but fell silent when Ford’s brother strode into the house.

The second he saw her, Houston came to an abrupt stop, then glanced around. “Sorry, I would’ve knocked since you probably weren’t expecting me. But the Land Rover’s gone, so I thought . . .” He let his words drift away.

She swallowed against a suddenly dry mouth. “Ford had to . . . to run an errand.” She didn’t want to explain further, didn’t want Houston to make her feel any more regret than she already did.

He slid his keys into his pocket. “You didn’t go with him?”

“It wasn’t that kind of errand.”

He studied her. “You know who I am, right?”

“I remember you, yes.”

“I remember you, too.”

That wasn’t a positive comment. Straightening her spine, she said, “Really? I didn’t think you ever noticed me.” Houston had mostly ignored her, until the police arrested her father. Then, picking up on what Chet was spreading around, he’d said a few unkind things about her, too.

“Everyone noticed you,” he said. “You’re still beautiful, I see.”

She wasn’t sure whether to thank him. It didn’t sound like a true compliment, not one he was happy to give anyway. He was going somewhere with it, and she thought she could guess where. “Are you saying you think my looks will make it harder for Ford to stay away from me?”

“It’s possible. He has a wife who’s pregnant. You know that, right?”

“Now you’re going to paint me as some sort of homewrecker?”

“My mother tells me he’s going back to her.”

“That’s what he tells me, too, so neither of you has anything to worry about.”

“Other than the fact that you’re getting him to fight your battles for you.”

“I haven’t asked him for anything,” she said. “He’s the one who wanted to get involved.”

“Well, I’m sure you didn’t—and still don’t—mind.”

She shook her head as she chuckled without mirth. “Wow. Thanks for making it so obvious that you’re still an asshole.”

“You’re standing in my house,” he pointed out.

“Don’t worry. I won’t be here for long,” she said and hurried into the bedroom to gather her things.

If Chet hadn’t maligned Lucy quite so badly that summer fifteen years ago, Ford might not have driven over to speak to him now. But the way he’d behaved when it came to Lucy suddenly seemed strange.

Kira answered the door. “Ford, how are you?”

“I’m okay. And you?”

She gave him a warm smile. “I’m good.”

He hated the thought that this kind woman might have to learn something heart-wrenching about her husband. Surely, that wasn’t the case. More than anything else, Ford was hoping to obliterate the terrible suspicion that’d crept into his own heart. “Chet around?”

“He’s painting—determined to finish the sailboat picture he’s been working on.” She stepped back to make room. “Come in and I’ll tell him you’re here.”

Ford forced a smile, afraid she’d be able to tell something was wrong if he didn’t.

Kenzie was in her playpen, rolling around with toys that squished and jingled. For her sake, too, Ford hoped he was wrong to doubt Chet.

Chet came right away, hadn’t even taken the time to remove the apron he wore to protect his clothes. “Ford, what’s up?” he asked.

Kira had returned with him. Ford was conscious of her standing at her husband’s elbow. “I was wondering if you’d take a ride with me.”

Kira looked startled. The request had obviously tipped her off that Ford had something serious to discuss. But, surprisingly, Chet didn’t ask what it was. He took off his apron and handed it to her. “Sure.”

Ford led the way to the Land Rover, and they got in at the same time. He thought Chet might ask what this was all about, but he didn’t. He waited until Ford had pulled out of the drive and eventually headed away from town. The last thing Ford wanted to do was risk an interruption by running into someone they knew.

“Do you know what I want to talk to you about?” Ford asked once they hit the open highway.

“Of course not,” he replied. “How would I know?”

Ford looked for a place to turn off where he could stop the vehicle and see Chet’s face while they talked.

“Ford?” he prompted.

“Just a sec.” After turning down a rutted dirt lane, he parked behind the shelter of some trees. He wanted to have this conversation when he could focus on Chet.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone you returned the boat to the Zampinos’ dock?” Ford asked once he’d turned off the engine.

His eyes widened. “I already told you—because I forgot.”

“You realize how unlikely it is that you didn’t make the connection between Aurora’s death and the missing boat?”

“Unlikely doesn’t make it untrue!”

“Did you take Aurora out on the river that night?”

“No!”

“She texted Stephanie Beaumont, telling her you were going to.”

He blinked several times, obviously registering this information, before saying, “I was going to, but I couldn’t get Aurora to leave. She was drunk, acting crazy. I gave up and went home before I could be grounded for missing curfew.”

Was he telling the truth? Ford had hoped Chet would somehow give himself away, but it was so difficult to tell. He could’ve been lying about that night for so long it was almost second nature to him. “Aurora’s body was found in the river.”

“You can’t think I had anything to do with her death!” he cried.

“Did you, Chet?” Ford asked.

“Of course not!” He pressed a hand to his chest. “You know me! I’d never hurt anyone!”

“You attended almost every day of the trial.”

“So did you.”

“Lucy was my girlfriend when Aurora died. Of course I’d want to be there.”

“And I wanted to see Aurora get justice.”

“You believe that happened?”

“Yes! My God, there’s no one else who could’ve done it!”

“You could’ve done it,” Ford said.

“Why would I ever do something like that?”

Ford rubbed his temples. Was he accusing an innocent man? “I don’t know. Maybe you wanted more from her than she was willing to give. I know you were hoping for a relationship with her, and she wasn’t interested.”

Chet shook his head helplessly. “Lucy’s making you believe some crazy shit, man. Why would I ever kill anyone?”

That did sound outlandish. But someone had killed Aurora. And Chet had been with her that night. He didn’t have an alibi, either, not one that could be verified by other people. He used to sneak out all the time without his parents knowing. Ford had done the same thing. “Chet, Lucy has been through enough. If you know anything about what happened to Aurora, you’d better tell me, because we’re going to get to the bottom of it eventually.”

“I said goodbye to her at the party, Ford. That’s the last time I saw Aurora.”

“Then you found the Zampinos’ boat floating in the river and took it back to them without telling the police or anyone else.”

For a moment, Ford thought he caught a glimpse of fear in Chet’s eyes. But it was gone so quickly, he couldn’t be certain. “Nothing says the killer used that boat. All I did was find it and take it back where it belonged.”

“I’m going to turn the screenshot of the texts Aurora sent Stephanie right before she was murdered over to my investigator and the police. So, again, I hope you’re telling the truth.”

“Go ahead,” he said with a wild gesture. “I don’t know why the police don’t already have those texts. Why didn’t Stephanie turn them in during the original investigation?”

“She told Lucy the police settled on McBride before she could turn them over. Then she thought they didn’t matter.”

“Are you sure that’s the reason?” he said. “Because Aurora’s body wasn’t found for well over a week. That’s a lot of time to deliberate. And the way she and Stephanie were fighting that night . . . Stephanie told me before she left the party that she hated Aurora, that she hoped she never saw that ‘crazy bitch’ again.”

Stephanie hadn’t mentioned this to Lucy or Lucy would’ve told him. “What were they fighting about?”

“Aurora told Lance Zampino that Stephanie wanted to give him a blow job, but it would cost him fifty bucks. He gave Aurora the money, then he started hitting on Stephanie. Stephanie assumed he liked her and was willing to make out with him, but when he tried to take her to his bedroom, she wouldn’t go. That made him angry because he’d already paid Aurora.” He adjusted his seat belt. “You know how straitlaced Stephanie was. She was embarrassed and infuriated, and it only made it worse that Aurora thought what she’d done was so funny.”

“If Aurora and Stephanie were fighting, why would Aurora text her for a ride home?”

“Who knows? They were both drunk. And Aurora was so used to her friends sucking up to her and giving her whatever she wanted, she probably didn’t think twice about it.”

“This is the first time I’ve heard anything about this,” Ford admitted.

“Because it was just normal party drama, man—didn’t figure into the case. And Stephanie was never one to make a scene, so maybe I was the only one who knew about it.”

“Other than Lance.”

“And a few of his friends,” Chet admitted. “But it wasn’t as if he was going to admit to offering fifty bucks to an underage girl for oral sex. Steph was seething, though. I remember that.”

Seething. Had she gone back to pick up her “best friend,” after all? Was that how Aurora had ended up in the river?

Ford could believe it, except . . . “I can’t imagine she would’ve had the strength to strangle someone, especially someone close to her own size.”

“I’m not saying she did. I believe McBride killed Aurora. But, on the other hand, Aurora was so drunk she could’ve passed out somewhere. Then Stephanie could’ve done anything—including strangling her and tossing her into the river. The boat coming to my house doesn’t have to mean a thing, which is why I never thought it was important enough to even bother remembering.”

Ford had never felt more torn. “I hope you’re as innocent as you say you are.”

Chet looked wounded. “I can’t believe you’d accuse me of something like that!”

Would they ever really know the truth? Ford sighed. “Neither can I, man. I’ll take you back to your family.”

Damn it! What was he going to do? Chet hadn’t known that Aurora had texted her best friend before going out on the boat with him that night. Once he got home after dumping her body and then returning the boat to the Zampinos, he’d realized he still had her purse, phone, shirt, bra and sandals in his room and had shoved everything under the bed until his parents left to go to the store and he had the chance to bury it in the yard. But he’d been too filled with panic, too desperate to avoid discovery and moving too fast to try to guess the password on her phone, so he didn’t know who she’d texted or who she’d called. He’d just known he had to get rid of that stuff as soon as possible and make sure he put it in a place where no one would ever find it.

It would’ve been good to know about the messages she’d sent Stephanie. Why hadn’t Stephanie ever said anything to him? Or to the police?

He couldn’t answer that question. He couldn’t say what else would crop up, either. He’d been seventeen years old. If it hadn’t been for Mick McBride and the Matteo murders, he probably would’ve been caught by now.

Fortunately, his luck seemed to be holding. He’d already admitted to Ford that he was the one who’d returned the boat, so that helped. Making that decision had been a gamble—and it’d paid off.

Except for Eddie, who greeted him with a wagging tail when he walked in, the house was empty. According to a message he’d received while Ford was bringing him home, Kira and Kenzie had gone to the store to get a few things for dinner. That gave him a moment’s reprieve. But he knew the question his wife would ask him as soon as she walked through the door—What did Ford want?

What was he going to tell her?

He had to tell her the same thing he’d told Ford. He didn’t really have a choice. Stephanie might already have shown Aurora’s texts to the police, which meant they could be coming over to question him next.

His heartbeat thudded in his ears as he stood in the living room, staring out at the road long after Ford’s taillights disappeared from view. Should he call Stephanie? Reinforce that he didn’t take Aurora out on the river that night, that Aurora was too focused on Lance Zampino to leave with him?

He had little doubt Stephanie would believe it. After the horrible joke Aurora had played—which she’d done just to get Lance’s attention—Lance hadn’t wanted anything to do with either one of them. The fact that Aurora would’ve slept with Lance had he given her the opportunity was part of what had made Chet so mad. Lance hadn’t cared about her. He was the one who’d wanted her. He would’ve treated her like a queen, and yet, after starting to make out with him, she’d suddenly called it quits—after he was so sure he was going to get what he wanted from her at last. Nothing he did could convince her to change her mind. But Aurora would still be alive today if they hadn’t been so damn drunk. The fight they’d gotten into was as quick and violent as it was ridiculous.

He squeezed his eyes closed as the same old regret filled him. He’d been young and dumb at the time and too strong for his own good. Once he’d struck her, he’d felt he had to do something to make sure she never told anyone—at least, that was the answer handed to him by his alcohol-addled brain. She was screaming for him to let her go, that she was going to call the police, and he was afraid she’d do exactly that. Besides, if he hadn’t cut off her screams almost immediately, she would’ve awakened his parents.

He saw his wife pull into the drive and, dreading her curiosity and the conversation they’d need to have as a result of it, walked out to help her with the baby and the groceries.

Just as he’d expected, as soon as she opened her door, she asked, “What was wrong with Ford?”

He made a face. “It’s that damn murder again.”

“Which one?” she asked as she climbed out of the Mercedes. “Weren’t there three?”

He opened the back door to get Kenzie. “There was DNA evidence in the Matteo case. This was about Aurora.”

Her door shut with a solid thud, and she passed him on her way to the trunk to get the groceries. “But the same man killed her, too, right?”

“I believe that. It’s Ford who doesn’t—because of Lucy. She’s getting in his head again, convincing him of all kinds of crazy things.”

She lifted the trunk lid. “So what does that have to do with you?”

He finally had the belts securing his daughter unbuckled so that he could lift her from her car seat. “A boat went missing from the Zampinos’ the night she disappeared, and I’m the one who returned it. Makes me look suspicious, that’s all.”

She bent her neck to peer around at him. “What do you mean, you returned it?”

He pressed Kenzie’s soft body to his chest, taking solace in the love he felt for her. “I found it drifting on the river early that morning and took it back to them. I had no idea it might’ve been used in a murder. I did it before I even knew Aurora had gone missing.”

“Why would you being the one to return the boat be news now?”

“Because I never said anything about it at the time, I guess. I honestly didn’t connect the boat to the murder.”

She blinked at him. “Even though she was found in the river?”

“That was a week later. By then, we knew it was McBride who killed the Matteos, Kira, so I didn’t think anything about it.”

She lifted the groceries out and closed the trunk but didn’t start toward the door. “There’s one thing that seems a bit odd to me.”

Panic nearly zapped his strength as he adopted an innocent expression. “What’s that?”

“Aurora’s murder seems so different from the Matteos’.”

“In what way?”

“Well, the Matteos’ case started out as a robbery, didn’t it? McBride broke in hoping to take what they had while they were gone, except they surprised him, and because they could testify against him, he had to kill them. But Aurora? She was a young girl who was strangled and thrown in the river. I’m guessing her murder had to be sexually motivated.” She shrugged. “I’m no FBI profiler, but it just seems like two different kinds of killers to me.”

His wife was clever. He had to admit that. He just hoped she wouldn’t be the one to outwit him, because the truth would destroy her life, too. “I don’t know. I just know she and Ford are barking up the wrong tree, because I had nothing to do with it.”

She grimaced. “They can’t seriously think you did.”

“Probably not with any degree of conviction. Stephanie Beaumont, who was with Aurora the night of the party, just turned over some text messages that are freaking everyone out. That’s all.”

“What’d they say?”

He wished he didn’t have to answer that question, but he knew he had no choice. He had to inoculate his wife against what she was going to hear around town—maybe from the police themselves. “That she was going out on the river with me and then I’d be taking her home.”

Kira nearly dropped the groceries. “What?” she exclaimed as she caught the bag. “How could anyone think . . . I mean, you didn’t take her out on the river that night, did you?”

“No. She wouldn’t leave the party. She was too obsessed with Lance Zampino, was hoping he’d take her to bed.”

When she blinked in obvious confusion, he feared he’d let too much bitterness leak into his voice. “What is it?” he asked.

“You say you didn’t take her out, but somehow the boat still ended up down here?”

“Right. Isn’t that crazy? That’s why Ford came over. And the police might stop by and ask me some of the same questions.”

Her jaw dropped. “Oh, my gosh! This could be serious?”

“I was with her at the party, so that’s nothing new. Doesn’t matter what they think, anyway. It only matters what they can prove.” As an afterthought, he added, “And the police don’t really want to find or prove anything new. They think they already have their guy.”

She cocked her head. “Because they do, right?”

He hadn’t stated that firmly enough, which was a Freudian slip, something he’d inadvertently allowed to leak out because he knew they didn’t. “Of course,” he said with a laugh, trying to make up for that mistake as he started toward the house. The less said, the less chance he had of screwing up, so he was eager to end the conversation.

It took her a moment, but she eventually followed him inside, and he immediately changed the subject. “Why don’t I take the afternoon off so we can go to the beach? Then we’ll eat out instead of cooking.”

“I thought you wanted to finish your painting,” Kira said.

“It can wait,” he told her. “I’d rather be with you.”

She seemed slightly hesitant—troubled—which worried him, but his enthusiasm eventually won out, and she got into the spirit of having a fun day as a family. “Why don’t I pack a picnic?”

“That would be great. I’ll go put away my paints.” Leaving her in the kitchen, he put Kenzie in her doorway jumper, where Kira would be able to see her, and hurried to his studio.

He’d done what he had to do, he told himself. Now he just had to hope there’d be no more surprises.

27

On the drive home, Ford was mad at himself for doubting Chet. But he could remember how obsessed Chet had been with Aurora—and such strong emotion could get out of hand.

“What happened that summer hurt everyone,” he muttered as he turned down his street.

He was anxious to get back to Lucy. He wanted to tell her about his conversation with Chet, go out for a late lunch and then head to the beach. While he was looking into Chet’s face, a face that was so benign and familiar to him, he’d started to feel like a real jerk for even wondering if one of his oldest friends was hiding something.

That was bad enough, but as he reached Coastal Comfort, he saw something that upset him all over again. His brother had wasted no time in coming to North Hampton Beach. Houston’s Ford Expedition was in the driveway.

Wondering how Lucy was faring with his brother, Ford parked in the driveway, too, instead of pulling into the garage, and jumped out of his vehicle. But when he barged into the house, Lucy wasn’t there. He found only Houston, watching the golf channel.

Ford didn’t even greet this brother. He glanced around the kitchen, then at the deck beyond the wall of windows that faced the sea and down the hallway toward the master bedroom. “Where’s Lucy?”

“Don’t know,” he said with a careless shrug. “She left.”

Irritated that Houston would crash the best summer of his life—his only chance to enjoy being with Lucy—he stalked into the bedroom and saw Lucy’s things were gone.

Immediately pulling out his suitcase, he started tossing his clothes inside.

A creak sounded in the hall just as he was zipping it up.

“Where are you going?” Houston asked, his voice filled with surprise.

“Where do you think?” Ford replied as he grabbed his shaving kit from the bathroom.

Houston leaned against the lintel. “Looks like you’re moving out.”

“I am. I’m going over to the Smoot cottage with Lucy.” He tried to pass his brother, but Houston stepped in front of him.

“You’re not going to talk to me?”

“No. Why would I? I don’t even know what you’re doing here.”

“I came to hang out with you, make sure you didn’t do anything stupid. It’s painful to go through a divorce. Mom and I didn’t realize how bad you were feeling until you bugged out of town. Now I hear you’re getting back with Lucy. Are you kidding me, dude? Her dad’s a murderer. Who knows what runs in her genes?”

It was difficult for Ford not to slug him. “Don’t ever say anything like that again,” he said, his hands curling into fists.

The menace in his voice caused Houston to straighten. “What the fuck? I’m just trying to look out for you.”

Since when had he needed Houston’s help to run his life—or anything else? If Houston really wanted to give him some support, why had he left Ford to figure out what to do with the company all by himself? To navigate every challenge and clear every hurdle with the business while providing for him? They’d both worked at Wagner Business Solutions for years, but the learning curve—once full responsibility became truly his—had still proved to be incredibly steep. “I appreciate the concern, bro. But Mom didn’t need to send you. I’ve got everything under control.”

“Everything but your personal life. Seems to be in shambles, you ask me.”

Ford shook his head. “Well, if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black!”

“I have more room for error,” Houston said with a laugh. “No one expects much of me—and I’ve never been married.”

Someone who eschewed responsibility as much as Houston did probably never would get married. Ford would feel sorry for any wife of his; he couldn’t be trusted to so much as pay a water bill on time.

“Now you have a baby on the way, too,” Houston was saying. “When you first said you’d be spending the summer here, I thought it might be wise for you to escape, take some time to decompress. But I don’t think diving into an old mystery—that’s already been solved—and rekindling a romance with someone you haven’t seen in fifteen years is going to get you where you want to go.”

Determined that his family wouldn’t get in the way of his relationships ever again, Ford clenched his jaw. “I care about Lucy.”

Houston studied him carefully. “Are you saying you’re in love with her?”

Ford didn’t answer. It was none of Houston’s business. Houston had plenty of his own problems to worry about.

“Or is Lucy just an escape, Ford?” he continued. “That has to be what’s going on. You’re escaping an unhappy marriage, and unlimited sex on the beach seems like the perfect way to make yourself feel better. But it’s an illusion. You two have nothing in common. You haven’t even seen each other in fifteen years!”

“I never quit caring about her,” Ford insisted and shouldered his way past his brother.

“Ford!” Houston followed him out. “Have you ever considered that she might be using you?”

Ford whipped around to face him again. “Really? You’re going there? Saying she’s after me for my money?”

“Kevin Claxton claims you’re paying a fortune for the investigator who’s trying to get her father out of prison. Is that true? Because I can’t imagine she has the resources to do that.”

“We’re not trying to get her father out of prison. We’re trying to find the truth. Hopefully, if we can get that far, everything else will take care of itself.”

Houston caught the door as Ford tried to shut it and followed him into the yard. “Slow down. I’m just pointing out that you’re on the rebound. It’s a thing, you know? A real thing. And it means you might not be seeing the situation very accurately.”

Ford shoved his bag in the backseat of his SUV before whirling around to confront his brother once again. “You, Mom and anyone else who might try to influence me right now had better back off. I’ve been making my own decisions for a long time—and I’ll continue to do so.”

He climbed behind the wheel, clicked on his seat belt and backed out of the drive, leaving his brother standing in the yard, gaping after him.

Lucy knew her relationship with Ford would end with the summer, when they each went back to their regular lives. But having Houston show up seemed to have ruined their idyllic interlude. At best, Ford would feel divided while his brother was in town. At worst, he’d distance himself from her all over again.

It was better to accept the loss now, before she got even more invested in the relationship, she told herself. And yet she kept checking her phone and going to the window, hoping Ford wouldn’t abandon her as quickly and easily as he had before.

“What does it matter? He has to go eventually.” She spoke the words aloud, determined to convince herself.

But her heart was more stubborn than she’d imagined. She couldn’t concentrate on anything but him and paced around the dining table until she saw him coming up the walk.

He was carrying his suitcase. At the sight of it, she nearly burst into tears. She was still trying to control her emotions when he knocked on the door.

Pressing herself against a wall, where he couldn’t see her through the windows, she tried to swallow the lump in her throat. The way things had gone fifteen years ago had created so much fear. Her mother had abandoned her years before that. Her father had essentially abandoned her by doing the terrible things he did—if he were truly guilty. And Ford and most of the friends she’d had when she lived in North Hampton Beach had abandoned her, too. Houston’s presence—the way he’d treated her when he showed up—had brought the pain of it all back.

“Lucy?” Ford called. “Lucy, open the door.”

Although she could easily hear him—it was so hot all the windows were open—she didn’t answer. She’d needed a few minutes to gather herself, but he was already getting impatient. She heard a thump. He must’ve dropped his bag before starting around the house, because he was moving fast when she caught a glimpse of him through a side window.

Once he reached the back porch, he’d be able to see her, unless she found a better place to hide. He’d also be able to get in simply by breaking the screen door. But doing anything more than ducking to the side for a few moments seemed childish. She had to speak to him. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

Battling the specter of what she’d experienced in the past, she drew a deep breath and went to open the door.

She’d managed to hold back her tears, felt like she was once again in control, but he knew what she was feeling. She could tell he did when his arms went around her and he kissed the top of her head. “It’s okay. Houston isn’t going to change anything. He can stay in the big house, and we’ll stay here. It might get pretty damn hot without air-conditioning,” he said with a chuckle. “But at least we’ll be together.”

Ford had told her before that he would remain committed to spending the summer with her even after his brother arrived. But when Houston showed up and Ford wasn’t there to deal with him, she’d lost all confidence. For Ford to follow through, he’d have to choose her over his family, and she couldn’t believe he’d really do that. He hadn’t before, and he probably shouldn’t now. After all, they’d be part of his life long after this one summer. “I don’t want to come between you and your brother,” she said, her mouth against his solid chest.

“If he lets the fact that I want to be with you come between us, that’s on him.”

It was more comfortable, at least for Lucy, to be back in the cottage. While Ford’s beachfront home was far more luxurious, and there was something to be said for air-conditioning, living there was also a constant reminder of the rejection she faced by his family. Houston’s appearance made it much more difficult to ignore the fact that Ford’s mother and brother weren’t happy that she was infiltrating their sanctuary all these years later.

But she and Ford made a pact that they’d blow off Houston’s presence, at least for today. Other than discussing Ford’s conversation with Chet and Chet’s insistence that Aurora hadn’t left the party with him, they didn’t talk about the murders or her father. Houston’s showing up in North Hampton Beach had reminded them of how very short the summer would be. They wanted to spend the day together without the overhang of the past, so they walked on the beach, swam and bodysurfed. Then they showered in Sharon Smoot’s cramped tub-shower combo, and Ford took Lucy to Washington DC for dinner, where they could have an evening out without the worry of running into someone they knew.

It was midnight when they got back. Ever since someone had broken into the cottage, Lucy couldn’t help feeling wary as she approached it, especially now, since it was so late. She could tell Ford was being cautious, too. He gently put her behind him as he opened the door. But everything looked fine and a quick turn around the house while they opened all the windows they’d closed when they left proved nothing had happened in the interim.

Ford had just gotten into bed and turned on the TV when she went out to get the mail and found a letter from her father.

“He wrote me!” she announced as she brought it into the bedroom and showed it to Ford before sitting down beside him.

He shifted to make more room for her, stuffing another pillow behind his back as she opened the envelope. “What does he say?”

As she stared at her father’s blocky all-caps printing—in pencil since inmates weren’t allowed pens—she marveled at the fact that he and Ford were both back in her life. She’d certainly never expected that to happen. For so long, she hadn’t been able to imagine feeling strong enough to return to North Hampton Beach, let alone interact with the two men she’d loved the most. She still didn’t know where this summer would lead—if she’d be glad she’d made the effort, or if the past would sweep her back out to sea, once again leaving her lost and alone and struggling just to survive.

But if there was any chance her father was innocent, she owed it to him to do what she could. And if he was guilty? If she could determine that with more certainty, she’d be able to move on with greater peace of mind, which also made the risk worth taking. At a minimum, she hoped to prove she’d had nothing to do with Aurora’s death—hadn’t even provided the motivation.

Regardless of how it all ended, she was in it now. There was no going back.

“He says that the clothes he washed the morning the Matteos were murdered were tested for DNA and there was no blood.”

“I remember that coming up at his trial,” Ford said.

“So do I. That was one thing his lawyer did point out. My father said he washed them because he’d thrown up the night before and didn’t want me to have to deal with the mess. But all of that got brushed aside when the prosecutor hammered home the DNA evidence under Tony’s fingernails, even though my father’s boots didn’t have any blood on them, either.”

“The assumption was that he must’ve cleaned them, like he did his clothes.”

“He insists he didn’t. And he brings up something new. He says Reggie used to buy dope from Cary Whitehead, who also lived in the trailer park. There were rumors Reggie came over trying to score some drugs that night, but he didn’t have the money and Cary wouldn’t sell to him on credit because he was already so behind.”

“That places Reggie—a known thug and troublemaker—in the park that night.”

“And he needed money. My father says that Susan Willett, who lived next door to Cary, told him she overheard the two of them arguing. Reggie wasn’t giving up easily, kept saying he’d pay him back, that he was good for it and so on. She called my father—well before the police discovered what had happened to the Matteos, which wasn’t until three days later—to complain about the noise.”

“Why didn’t the defense attorney make a bigger deal of that?”

“Because Reggie wasn’t the one on trial, I guess. The police weren’t looking for another suspect. Once they found the DNA evidence under Tony’s fingernails, nothing else mattered.”

“What a coincidence that your father was put in the same cell as Reggie.”

“And that Reggie’s the one who claimed he confessed,” she said.

“Do you believe what your father’s telling you in this letter?”

“I do,” she admitted, feeling a tiny surge of hope. “He gave up when they convicted him, couldn’t seem to trust that anything would make a difference. It’s only now that he’s started trying to help me with this. Why would someone so fatalistic lie? Someone who’s convinced he’ll never get out, no matter what he says or does?” She’d once taken such behavior as an admission of guilt. Now she was seeing it in a whole new light. “He’s no longer telling me to go away, like he did before, so that’s a change, too.”

“He told you to go away?”

“What he actually said was that he never wanted to see me again.”

“Ouch,” Ford said with a wince. “I’m sorry.”

Too lost in the past, she didn’t respond.

“I hate that I wasn’t better to you,” he continued. “That I didn’t help you through that period of your life. Maybe my parents would’ve disowned me, but we should’ve gone across the country together, living out of your van. We both would’ve been happier.”

Ford shouldn’t have meant as much to her as he had. They’d been so young when they fell in love. And yet losing him had been almost as painful as all the rest of it. “It’s better that you got an education. I can understand why you did what you did—and why your parents were adamant you stay on course.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“It sort of is,” she said with a grin and pecked his lips before rereading the letter from her father that signaled such a reversal in Mick’s behavior. For the first time, he seemed to be scraping together a little trust—enough to try to help her with what she was hoping to do. He didn’t have a lot of information to share. The events in question had occurred when he couldn’t even remember what he’d done the morning after. But it wasn’t his blood that was found in the Matteos’ kitchen sink, he didn’t have any injuries consistent with beating someone to death—not even any scratches—and there was no blood on his clothes or shoes.

Why not?

If he’d killed the Matteos, there should’ve been. Lucy had watched true crime show after true crime show where authorities used luminol on various surfaces—even surfaces that’d been cleaned, days, weeks, sometimes even years after—and it fluoresced to show the presence of human blood. That nothing had been found on her father’s clothes and shoes should’ve created more doubt.

But it didn’t—because it had all come down to the DNA under poor Mr. Matteo’s fingernails, the fact that her father managed the trailer park, could easily get in and knew they’d be out of town. And her father didn’t have an alibi.

Then Aurora was killed, and he got blamed for that, too.

“I can’t wait to see if the investigator gets a hit on CODIS,” she said. “It couldn’t be that easy, could it?”

“It could, but it probably won’t be,” he admitted.

When Lucy woke up the following morning, she found Ford already checking his phone. “Morning,” she mumbled.

“Morning.” His voice sounded subdued, and he didn’t look over at her.

She was sweating despite having the windows open, so she kicked off the sheet. “Something wrong?”

He handed her his phone. “A text from Chief Claxton.”

She read it:

Your brother and I had a drink together last night. He thinks you’re making a terrible mistake trying to prove Lucy’s father is innocent. Apparently, you don’t understand the DNA evidence.

“Your brother and Claxton are friends?” Lucy asked as she gave his phone back.

“They used to hang out together.”

She remembered them playing volleyball at the beach, but she hadn’t realized they’d spent a great deal of time together beyond that. She hadn’t been with Ford long enough to have gotten to know his family very well. The relationship had been so new they’d just wanted to be alone together, didn’t have a chance to go beyond that before her father was arrested. “Have they stayed in touch?”

“Not really. If I remember right, they had some kind of falling-out the summer of the murders.”

She scooted closer. “They seem to have gotten over it.”

“My brother rotates through friends pretty quickly.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“He’s not reliable. When he drinks, he can be hard to put up with. Always has to be right. Challenges you at every turn.” He made a gesture that put an exclamation point on his words. “It gets tiresome. But he can be fun, too—and very generous with money—so after pulling away for a while, his friends will sometimes drift back.”

“What are you going to say to Claxton?”

“I’m going to remind him someone else was in the Matteos’ trailer that night who bled in the sink, and that’s the guy we need to find.”

He sent that message and got an immediate and emphatic response.

Back off, Ford. Go home to your pregnant wife before you regret coming here.

“What do you think he’s going to do?”

“He’d better not do anything.”

Lucy frowned. “What happened fifteen years ago has caused enough pain. Maybe you should listen to him, back away and let me deal with this on my own.”

“Absolutely not,” he said. “That’s what I’d regret, and I know that’s true because of how much I regret the way I behaved last time.”

She leaned over to kiss him, and he pulled her back into bed.

28

Just in case Chief Claxton had contacted Reggie about their conversation, Anna had been on guard ever since she’d visited the police station. She was glad she’d spoken to Claxton; doing so had allayed her fears. But she knew her brother would consider it another betrayal, and she didn’t want him coming to her house angry like he had before.

She eyed the patch on the wall; Joel had repaired the hole Reggie had made when he put his fist through the Sheetrock, but it still needed to be painted. Then she checked the clock. Her last appointment at the barbershop had canceled, so she’d had the chance to come home from work and change, and she needed to pick up the kids from a swim party. But as soon as she scooped her keys off the counter, she caught sight of Ford and Lucy coming up the walkway and set them down again.

Shoot. Anna hesitated. Claxton must’ve told them about the baseball card collection, and now they were coming to speak to her about it.

When she answered the door, Ford briefly inclined his head. “Hey, Anna. We’re sorry to bother you, but we have a few questions we were hoping you could answer. Do you have a minute?”

“Sure.” She moved aside so they could enter the house. She could’ve kept them standing at the door, but she didn’t want Reggie to come by and see that she was talking to them again. He was already mad at her. “Let’s go into the living room,” she said and led the way.

“We’re sorry to intrude,” Ford said once they’d all sat. “But there’s just so much that doesn’t add up about the murders fifteen years ago. And now—”

“That may be true, but I’ve done all I can to help,” she broke in, wanting to back away from it all once again.

“We appreciate that,” he said. “But are you aware that your brother was at the trailer park the night the Matteos were killed, trying to score some drugs?”

She felt her heart sink. She’d just decided the baseball card collection meant nothing—and now this? “No. Who told you that?”

“Susan Willett. She says he didn’t have any money, so Cary Whitehead refused to sell to him.”

She didn’t want to hear this, didn’t want it to be true. She’d just decided that her brother hadn’t been involved.

“Then he happens to be the one who comes up with a ‘confession’ Mick McBride claims he never gave,” Ford continued. “It’s all a bit too . . . coincidental, wouldn’t you say?”

“It might be coincidental, but that’s all it is,” Anna replied, trying to keep her voice steady. “I admit I was worried when I spoke to Chief Claxton yesterday, but he insists that baseball card collection didn’t come from the Matteos’ trailer.”

“Baseball card collection?” Ford repeated.

Anna looked from one to the other. “I assumed he’d told you. I remember my brother bragging about a baseball card collection that came into his possession around the time the Matteos were killed. Reggie told me he traded a set of tires for it, but the tires were only worth five hundred, and the collection was worth nearly five thousand.”

Ford whistled. “That’s a nice trade.”

“A little too nice,” Anna said. “That’s why I went to Claxton about it. But he insists nothing was stolen—” She stopped talking midsentence; she’d been so focused on Ford she hadn’t realized the blood had drained from Lucy’s face. “What is it?” she asked.

Ford turned to Lucy, too.

“Tony Matteo did have a baseball card collection,” she said.

No! Anna caught her breath.

“I used to stop by their place every once in a while to see if they needed me to pick up anything from the store,” Lucy explained. “Tony had arthritis and Lucinda was on oxygen, so it was hard for them to get out, and it gave me something to do, somewhere to go, and an excuse to say hello. I liked being with them. My dad was hardly ever home, but Lucinda and Tony always were.” She scooted forward. “Anyway, Lucinda would sometimes reward me with a cookie or whatever she was baking, and I would hang out with them. One day, Tony showed me a baseball card collection. I had no idea it was worth anything, but he said, since he didn’t have any children or other close relatives, he wanted me to have it after he was gone.”

“How nice of him,” Ford said. “But . . . you never got it?”

“Of course not,” Lucy replied. “I didn’t even ask about it. How could I expect to get anything after what I thought my father had done?”

“You could’ve sold it,” Ford pointed out. “You needed the money.”

“I didn’t know how much it was worth,” Lucy reiterated. “I wouldn’t have taken it, anyway—didn’t even want to see it.”

Anna sank deeper into the couch. It was looking more and more like her brother could go to prison for the rest of his life, and she’d be responsible for speaking up about the baseball card collection. It was something she’d had to do, but that didn’t make it any easier. “Oh, God,” she muttered.

“Claxton didn’t think the baseball card collection signified anything?” Ford asked.

Knowing she had to see this through, that she no longer had any choice, Anna forced herself to sit up taller. “Claxton believes nothing was stolen,” she said, attempting to at least formulate an opposing argument.

“If he didn’t know about the baseball card collection—if no one did—and that was all that was taken, it would be easy to assume nothing was missing,” Lucy said.

“We need to talk to Claxton, tell him Tony did have a baseball card collection,” Ford said and, suddenly in a hurry, they both stood.

After they’d thanked her and she’d shown them out, Anna took another look at the patch on the wall in the entry and felt a great deal more fear. What kind of man was her brother? And would her mother ever forgive her for the fact that, if he got caught, it would be because of her?

It was Reggie who’d killed the Matteos. It had to be him. He’d been at the trailer park that night. He’d been desperate to make a drug buy he didn’t have the money for. He was known to be reckless, have no respect for the law or other people’s rights, and he had an incredible temper. He’d also had possession of the only item stolen from the Matteos’ home. Except for the DNA under Tony’s fingernails, everything fit. Could the blood in the sink have been his?

Lucy was so excited and hopeful she could scarcely breathe. She knew Ford was filled with the same expectant energy. His knee bounced as they waited to speak to Chief Claxton, who was in his office with someone else.

Claxton kept glancing over at them, so he knew they were there. But Lucy was willing to bet he wasn’t eager to give them an audience. He’d been so resistant, so afraid to take another look at the murders that’d occurred fifteen years ago for fear it would make the department look bad. But she and Ford had collected enough evidence that what they had to say should supersede something like that. A man’s life—his freedom—was worth more than the department’s reputation.

“You okay?” Ford murmured as she started to dig at her cuticles.

She clasped her hands together to stop herself from doing any more damage. “Just anxious. And hopeful. I would love to be able to give my father some good news.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he warned. “You know Claxton’s just going to point to the DNA evidence. That’s all he cares about.”

“This other stuff should matter, too.”

“Except he’ll say it’s circumstantial, so it isn’t enough to overthrow the case against your father.”

“I just want to know if they tested the DNA evidence from the blood in that sink against Reggie’s DNA. That’s all.”

Ford opened his mouth to respond but jumped up instead, and Lucy followed suit. An officer had approached them to say it was time to speak to the chief of police.

Claxton glowered at them as they entered his office. Clearly, she’d been right; he wasn’t happy they were there.

“What’s going on now?” he said in lieu of a greeting.

“Reggie’s sister, Anna, came to visit you yesterday.”

He leaned forward, resting on his elbows. “So?”

“The baseball card collection she told you Reggie sold for five thousand dollars around the same time the Matteos were killed—”

“Has no connection to the murders,” he interrupted.

“Except it does,” Lucy insisted. “Tony Matteo owned a baseball card collection from when he was a child. I’m guessing it would’ve been worth about what Reggie got for it, too.”

He stared at her for several seconds without responding. Finally, he said, “And how would you know this?”

“Because I used to visit the Matteos. They were sort of like grandparents to me—or the closest thing to grandparents I’d ever had. Tony showed me the collection one day, told me he wanted me to have it after he was gone.”

Claxton started to laugh. “Of course he did.”

Lucy felt like she’d just been kicked in the stomach. They finally had something solid—an item stolen from the trailer that night in the hands of a known ne’er-do-well—and Claxton still wouldn’t listen. “I’m serious,” she said.

“I have no doubt you are. You want to see your father walk free, but I’m convinced that would create a danger to society. And convicted killers don’t get out of jail on evidence like this.”

A muscle moved in Ford’s cheek. “You could at least look into it.”

“Why?” he said. “How many times do I have to say the case is closed?”

“What about the blood in the kitchen sink?” Lucy asked. “Has the DNA from that been tested against Reggie’s?”

“You’re forgetting that the DNA evidence points to your father.”

“Only what was underneath Tony’s fingernails.”

“Exactly. You don’t get any closer than that!”

“There’s still so many unanswered questions—” Lucy started to say when a voice called Ford’s name, and they turned to see Houston standing outside the police chief’s door.

“What are you doing here?” Ford asked his brother.

“Kevin and I are about to go to lunch. Is that okay with you?”

“Didn’t you just have drinks last night?”

“Is there a rule that says I can only see him once?” Houston said with a laugh. “What if I’m lonely? It’s not as if you’ve shown any interest in hanging out with me.”

“This isn’t funny, Houston,” Ford said.

Houston turned up his palms. “It kind of is. You’re letting your emotions draw you into a mess, little brother. I’m guessing it has something to do with what’s going on in your life back home. Coming here, focusing on something else entirely, is a great escape, especially when you get to be the knight charging in on a white horse to make it up to a beautiful woman who became collateral damage fifteen years ago. But you’re wasting your time playing amateur sleuth. Even worse, you’re wasting Kevin’s. Please, bro, give him a break, okay? Why can’t we all just enjoy the summer?”

Ford looked from Claxton to Houston and back again. Then he took Lucy’s hand. “Come on,” he said. “I don’t know why we bothered to come here. I guess we thought the chief of police would be interested in making sure his department didn’t put an innocent man in prison, but I guess not.”

“Ouch, go easy!” Houston called after him, but Ford didn’t respond. He didn’t speak until they were outside the building. Then he paced angrily back and forth at the side of the Land Rover.

“I’m sorry,” Lucy said. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”

“You didn’t drag me. And you’re not the one who should be sorry. They’re both assholes,” he said, flipping off the building.

“I get why they won’t believe us. Maybe we would be better off enjoying the summer. Nothing we find will matter. It all comes down to the DNA evidence in that sink.”

“We haven’t heard from Friedman lately,” he complained.

“I’ve been anxious for him to call, too. But you heard what he said when I asked about the timing—it takes a while to do what we need him to do.”

He nodded, then his phone buzzed. When he looked down, Lucy automatically did the same and happened to see the name “Christina” with a picture of a beautiful woman on his screen.

His estranged wife. Suddenly feeling like an interloper, she looked away, and he silenced the call and put the phone in his pocket.

Ford had to call Christina back. He wasn’t excited about it. He didn’t want to allow her to intrude on the three-month reprieve he’d allowed himself. But he wouldn’t be approaching the future in good faith if he ignored her completely.

“There you are,” she said.

Ford shaded his eyes to see Lucy in the ocean. He wanted to get back in the water with her, loved that she had no fear of the sea and they could laugh and swim and bodysurf together for hours. But he had to get back to Christina before he let it go too long, and because he’d returned to where they’d left their towels to finally put on some sunblock, he had a minute. “What’s up?” he asked.

“That’s it? What’s up? Aren’t you the least bit happy to hear from me? We haven’t talked since you first got to North Hampton Beach.”

He knew she didn’t want to hear his honest answer, so he didn’t give it to her. “I don’t want to play games, Christina,” he said. “And I’m busy right now. What can I do for you?”

“What can you do for me? You’re not even going to ask about the baby?”

He fought his own impatience. “How is the baby?” he asked.

“Not good.”

Her words hit him like a slap in the face. “What do you mean?”

“The doctor says I’m developing preeclampsia.”

That didn’t sound good. “Which is . . .”

“Something about high blood pressure and protein in my urine.”

“What does it mean?”

“It could be dangerous for the baby, could mean our child might not get enough oxygen and nutrients.”

He sank onto the hot sand, missing the towel completely. “How do we fix it?”

“Well, since it’s caused by stress, the doctor says I need to relax, which is why I’m hoping you’ll come home and support me like a caring husband should. We need to iron out our marriage—get into counseling and start working together again.”

Ford had thought this would be a quick call, that he’d just take a few minutes to placate her. But this was anything except superficial. It was the bomb that was going to blow up the greatest happiness he’d ever found.

“Are you there?”

The sand was burning him through his trunks, but he didn’t even move. He didn’t care about that; it didn’t hurt nearly as much as his heart.

“Ford?”

“I’m here,” he said woodenly.

“Will you come home to me?”

He hated the way she’d added “to me” as if that should have special significance. Returning early felt like he was letting Lucy down again, abandoning her when she needed him most. But he had to be there for his child, and if his child needed him now, what choice did he have? “I’ll think about it,” he said and disconnected.

Ford had been subdued all evening. Lucy asked him if something was wrong, but he wouldn’t really say. He just watched her carefully, would hardly look away, and instead of wanting to talk or watch TV like they usually did in the evening, he wanted to hold her whenever he could.

When they made love, it was different, too. Sex with Ford had always been good, but this time he took everything so slowly, as if it was the last time they’d ever be together. And when they were finished, and she’d closed her eyes to drift off to sleep, he’d whispered, “I love you, Lucy. I will always love you.”

He’d never said those words before. They were momentous. And she would’ve said the same. But she didn’t even open her eyes. She could tell he’d thought she was asleep, so he hadn’t really meant for her to hear them. Something was definitely wrong, and she had a terrible feeling about what it could be. She’d seen that call come in from Christina when they were outside the police station. She’d also seen him on the phone when he got out of the ocean to put on some sunblock while they were at the beach. She feared those two events were related to what was going on with him, and she knew that was the case the next morning.

Although she woke up to a beautiful bouquet of fresh flowers by the bed—which he’d gotten out of the yard he’d groomed so carefully—and the smell of bacon, she understood Ford was leaving. She could see that he’d taken his suitcase out so he could pack.

Covering her face with her hands, she tried to absorb the pain without tears. She’d known goodbye was coming. But once she dropped her hands and looked at the flowers he’d gathered for her again, she felt a warm tear roll across her temple and into her hair.

A sound drew her attention to the door. Ford was standing there in nothing but a pair of sweat suit shorts, watching her with a pained expression. “I have to go back to DC,” he said.

She couldn’t speak, so she nodded.

“I don’t want to,” he admitted. “But . . .”

“I know,” she managed to say.

“Will you have breakfast with me before I go?” he asked.

Again, she nodded.

When he returned to the kitchen, she reached over to pull the pillow he’d used into her body. She could smell his cologne on the linens, which made the lump in her throat grow that much larger. They were supposed to have had the summer. But she was willing to bet Christina had made sure it didn’t happen.

With a sniff, she finally climbed out of bed, went to wash her face and pulled on a simple white jersey pool dress before joining him in the kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” he said when he saw her.

She offered him a sad smile. “I know that, too.”

“I wish I could stay—to be with you but also to continue helping with your father’s case. I’ve actually started to believe he’s innocent, Lucy. I can’t explain his DNA under Tony Matteo’s fingernails, but except for that, everything seems to point somewhere else when you really look at it.”

“Thank you for keeping an open mind about that. I wish you could stay, too, for that reason . . . and many others.”

He walked over, pulled her into his arms and rested his chin on her head, and they remained in that embrace, taking solace in it, for several minutes.

“Do you think Houston called Christina? Had her . . . had her reach out to you to put some pressure on you to return?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“I hate that your family’s getting in the way again,” she admitted when he let her go. “But I know this isn’t about them.”

“I hate it, too. But you’re right. This isn’t about them. Whether Houston encouraged Christina to try to drag me back or not, she claims she’s developed preeclampsia. I guess that’s pretty dangerous for the baby, and I can’t make her go through it alone, not if I plan to try to make our marriage work in the end.”

At least she knew why he was leaving. Preeclampsia. She didn’t know what it was, but it sounded bad. “I hope everything’s okay.”

He shot her a sad look before going to put the pans in the sink.

She slid onto the stool where he’d put a plate of bacon, eggs and hash browns. “You’ve created quite a feast.”

“I’ve been up for hours.”

She’d been sleeping so soundly she hadn’t realized that. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Because I like watching you sleep.”

She didn’t want this to be any harder on him than it had to be. “It’ll be okay,” she said. “I’ll be okay.”

“I’m afraid to leave you.” He gestured around them. “We still don’t know who broke in here.”

“And we probably won’t, not unless we can get a hit on the DNA. Everything hinges on that—even Aurora’s murder, because if my father didn’t kill the Matteos, chances are pretty good he didn’t kill her, either.”

“We know he didn’t kill Aurora. Darren saw him clear across town when she was being murdered.”

She took her first bite. The food was probably good, but she couldn’t really taste it, so she just stirred it around her plate.

“I wish I could say I’ll stay in touch,” he said. “But my marriage will never work if I don’t let go.”

“I understand.”

“I’ll continue to pay Friedman for as long as you need him, though. He can let me know when he’s done all he can.”

She put down her fork and picked up her coffee mug. “Okay.”

While she sat at the table, pretending to eat, he went into the bedroom and packed. He came out a few minutes later, dragging his suitcase. “I figure it’ll be harder if we draw this out, so I’m just going to go.”

She nodded. “I—” She cleared her throat. “I wish you every happiness. Sincerely.”

Dropping his head, he stood silent for several seconds as he stared at his feet. Then he muttered something like “son of a bitch” and walked out.

Lucy sat like a statue, listening as he started the Land Rover and backed out of the drive. His engine dimmed as he drove away. Then silence fell and stretched for . . . she didn’t know how long.

Eventually, she got up, leaving her food where it was, and crawled back into bed.

29

She had to rally, get back on her feet. Lucy had been telling herself that for four days—the exact length of time Ford had been gone. But if the police wouldn’t respect anything she found regarding the murders, wouldn’t so much as look at it, what was the point? She’d been crazy to think she’d be able to make a difference here. She was just one person, and she didn’t have any power—certainly not enough to overcome all the forces against her. And letting herself fall in love with Ford again had been so foolish.

She kept checking her phone, hoping he’d call or text her—if only to check in. But she knew he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He’d gone back to Christina, had to be true to her—and he would be, despite anything he might want.

Lucy hoped going back to his former life would be worth it to him; she also hoped that his child would one day realize he’d made an incredible sacrifice—one that’d cost her a great deal, too. But, of course, that was just her broken heart talking. Ford’s son or daughter would never know, and that was how it should be.

She finally managed to get out of bed, but it took great effort. She dressed—something else to be proud of. Then she walked to the beach. Taken together, those three things were far more than she’d been able to accomplish since Ford had walked out the door. She thought she was going to be able to bounce back. But as she stood there, staring out at the roiling waves, what she saw was Ford laughing as they wrestled in the water, swam or shared their body heat while he held her in his arms.

Turning, she glanced back at Coastal Comfort and thought she saw someone standing on the deck looking back at her. Her heart leaped in her chest—but then she realized it wasn’t Ford. It was Houston. For some reason, he was still in town. Maybe he was gloating.

He’d won, and he knew it.

The next day, a knock on the door woke Lucy. It shouldn’t have; it was nearly two in the afternoon and most people had been up for hours. But she’d received a message from Friedman after she got back from the beach yesterday, indicating that he hadn’t been able to get a hit via CODIS so he still didn’t have any idea whose DNA was discovered in the sink at the Matteos’. His news, together with that sighting of Houston, had sent her back to bed.

She hadn’t eaten much in the past few days, but she didn’t seem to be hungry. All she wanted to do was sleep—although she woke up every now and then and cried until she fell asleep again. She told herself she was being a big baby. She had no doubt that was true. But it was hard to care. Suddenly, she didn’t care about anything.

Missy would be horrified, she thought distantly as she roused herself. If Missy knew, she’d probably take time off work to come to North Hampton Beach and drag Lucy out of bed, make her start living again. Lucy’d had to do that for Missy when her mother died, but—

The knock came again, loud enough to be heard over the fan churning in the corner of the room. Was Missy at the door? Had she traveled all the way from Vegas?

Lucy forced herself to get out of bed, then had to steady herself by putting one hand to the wall. She hadn’t checked her phone since she’d gotten Friedman’s message yesterday afternoon—had given up hope of hearing from Ford—but there were a few, possibly several, texts from Missy she hadn’t answered since Ford left. Her friend could easily be worried about her.

Whoever was at the door didn’t seem to be going away. He or she knocked again and again—determined, insistent enough to force Lucy to action.

Lucy took one look in the mirror and groaned when she saw her wild hair, which hadn’t been washed recently, and the lines on her face from being pressed into the pillow. Maybe she should ignore whoever it was, regardless.

Except . . . if it was Missy, she couldn’t. Missy would just keep knocking or find a way to get in, which wouldn’t be hard with all the windows open.

But if it was someone else . . .

She didn’t want to talk to anyone else.

Lucy almost allowed herself to fall back onto the bed. But a niggle of curiosity made her change her mind.

Shoving the hair out of her face, she straightened her wrinkled tank top and pulled on the shorts she’d left on the rug before trudging to the door. “Who is it?” she called out when she got there.

“Dahlia.”

Her landlord. She glanced behind her to assess the state of the house. But since Ford left, she hadn’t been in the kitchen or living room to make much of a mess. It was probably fine to let her in.

Mustering what she could of her resolve—she felt so weak it took an effort just to move—she opened the door. “Hey.”

Dahlia wrinkled her nose at the sight of her. “It’s that bad, huh?”

Lucy wiped the sweat already beading on her upper lip. “I—I haven’t been feeling well. I must’ve picked up a bug or something.”

“Or something,” she said emphatically. “When I heard Houston laughing with Kevin Claxton a few days ago while I was working at the bar, saying something about Ford going back to DC and leaving you on your own—and how that meant you wouldn’t get anywhere—I had a feeling you might not be in the best headspace.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, making an attempt to untangle her hair with her fingers. “I expected Ford to leave. Eventually,” she added.

Dahlia gestured at the yard. “Lucy, a man doesn’t do all this—to a place he doesn’t even own—for just anyone.”

Tears suddenly moistened Lucy’s eyes. She cursed herself for being unable to hide her pain. The emotion embarrassed her, but there was no hiding it. All she could do was try to blink them back.

A compassionate smile curved Dahlia’s lips. “He cares about you.”

“He cares about his wife and baby,” she said. “As he should.”

Dahlia lifted the brown paper sack she was carrying. “He called me a few days ago, asked me to get this for you.”

Lucy took it and peered inside. “Why would I want an empty beer can?”

“Because it’s not just an empty beer can. Reggie came into the bar last night.” She made a face. “He comes in far too often.”

Lucy felt her eyes widen as she looked up from the sack. “He drank this beer?”

“He did. Then he left the can, but instead of throwing it away, I saved it for you.”

The can should contain Reggie’s DNA, Lucy realized, which meant she could have Friedman test the blood found in the sink of the Matteos’ trailer against this sample. “Thank you,” she said, feeling more relief than had in days. “I—I really appreciate it.”

Dahlia leaned closer and spoke conspiratorially. “You’re going to be okay, Lucy. You’ve scaled much bigger mountains than this one.”

“Thank you.”

“I hope it makes a difference,” she said and left.

Lucy watched as she climbed into her car and drove off. Then she closed the door and peered into the sack again. Dahlia was right. She couldn’t give up. She had to keep fighting—and she was going to start by getting this can in the mail to Friedman.

Lucy had showered, carefully wrapped the beer can and taken it to the post office, eaten and then cleaned the kitchen. The sun was going down as she sat at the dining table in front of her computer, but she was feeling better, more like herself. She just couldn’t think about Ford, not without a terrible wave of sadness washing over her.

Doggedly pushing him out of her mind whenever he came into it, she tried to concentrate on what she’d been reading. When she’d called Friedman to tell him she’d be mailing him a can that should contain Reggie Burton’s DNA, he’d assured her he’d get it tested. When she’d said she wasn’t convinced it would help even if the samples matched, given the fact that her father’s DNA had been found under Tony Matteo’s fingernails, he’d mentioned that he’d been looking into something called “transfer” DNA. He referenced studies that’d been done in which two people shook hands before one of them handled a knife, then the knife was tested for DNA. In 85 percent of the cases, they found DNA from the person who’d never touched it. And in 20 percent, they found more DNA from the person who hadn’t touched it than from the person who had!

The challenge they faced with the Matteo case, Friedman had explained, was that her father’s DNA had been found under Tony’s fingernails, making it look as though the two men had been up close and personal—as they would’ve been if Tony had tried to ward off an attack. Also, Mick couldn’t prove he hadn’t been in the trailer that night. In a lot of cases where transfer DNA pointed to the wrong person, something else—a cell phone, for example—could be used to refute the DNA findings by placing the suspect miles and miles away. Mick’s phone had placed him in the area—not surprising since they’d lived only a stone’s throw away from the Matteos, but also not proof that he hadn’t been the one to harm them.

It was the fact that the police had found such a tiny amount of DNA under Tony’s fingernails—just a trace—that’d gotten Friedman thinking about transfer DNA. He told Lucy not to get too excited, said it was a long shot, but if they could find a credible transfer mechanism and the source of the blood DNA, they might be able to get the Innocence Project, or another organization like it, to take up her father’s case.

The fact that she wouldn’t have to rely on Chief Claxton to act on anything they found made a huge difference on the way Lucy felt. Because he’d been so resistant, so unwilling to even listen to her—or Ford—she’d lost hope.

But if she didn’t need Claxton to listen . . .

The more she read about transfer DNA, the more convinced she became that it was, indeed, a possibility. There were several cases where transfer DNA had pointed police in the wrong direction. So what could her father have touched that Tony Matteo had also touched before he died?

After reading about a case in which a homeless man’s DNA was found at a crime scene involving a wealthy man who was murdered ten miles away, Lucy got even more excited. The homeless man’s DNA was under the victim’s fingernails, and yet he’d spent the night in a hospital, couldn’t have murdered the victim. It turned out that the suspect had been picked up by the same paramedics who’d responded to the homicide victim an hour later—and used the same equipment, including the finger clamp that checked heartrate. The article claimed that transfer DNA was challenging DNA as the “gold standard” when it came to evidence.

“What could both men have touched?” she asked herself as she checked her inbox. In their recent phone call, she’d asked Friedman to email her the crime scene photos so she could examine them for possibilities. At seventeen, she’d tried hard not to look at the pictures presented in court. But now, she wanted to see exactly what’d been in the Matteos’ trailer that night.

Sure enough, Friedman’s email was waiting for her. After taking a long, bolstering breath, she clicked on the attachment and nearly vomited when she saw the people she’d loved sprawled out and covered in blood on the floor. She hated whoever had done this to them—including her father, if it was him. But she no longer believed it was. She had to find the real killer for their sakes as well as his.

Studying the first picture, she shifted her gaze beyond Tony’s body and scanned what she could see of the rest of the room. Whoever had broken in and killed the Matteos had meant to rob them—but when everything went badly, the perpetrator had panicked and run out empty-handed. Or so the CA had posited in court. After learning about the baseball card collection that’d come into Reggie’s possession, however, Lucy believed something had been taken. Reggie had stolen the collection that Tony had meant for her.

Other than the mess, there was nothing unusual she could see, nothing in the picture that might’ve transferred her father’s DNA to Tony. The same went for the second, third and fourth pictures. She looked through all of them and couldn’t find anything.

In case she’d been focusing on the wrong things, she started over.

Again, there was nothing in picture number one. Nothing in picture two. Nothing in picture three.

As she grew more and more discouraged, she started to believe she’d forced herself to go through this painful exercise for nothing. But then her eyes landed on something so small and insignificant she’d missed it before. There was a pair of fingernail clippers on the small table near Tony’s recliner—and seeing them suddenly evoked a memory. Only a few days before Tony was killed, he’d asked her to go to the store to get him a pair of clippers. But she hadn’t had time.

So she’d run home and grabbed her father’s.

The police had not come by. And Ford had left town. Chet could not believe how fortunate he was. It seemed no one at NHBPD was taking Lucy and her claims seriously. Also, the investigator Ford had hired had never come to visit the area and didn’t seem to be playing much of a role. He probably wouldn’t now that Ford was out of the picture. It seemed the summer would play out just as it had the past week, with no new developments. Lucy would leave at the end of August, and that would be that.

Chet regretted telling Kira about the boat and the texts Stephanie Beaumont had received from Aurora now that he realized he hadn’t needed to. She’d been unusually reserved ever since. Occasionally, he’d catch her watching him with a worried expression, as if she was wondering whether she really knew him. In those moments, when he looked up and caught her eye, she’d smile, but there was something about her that made him uneasy.

It was nothing to be concerned about, he told himself. Things would slowly go back to normal, day by day, as they fell into the same old summer routine and enjoyed each other and their child. They were happy; there was nothing to come between them now. But he was glad that he and Kira continued to visit North Hampton Beach. It was important he’d been here this summer in particular. Being part of the community had allowed him to stay informed so he could continue to safeguard the secret that, if it got out, would ruin his life and shock everyone who knew him.

He was in his studio painting while Kira was out in the garden. She had Kenzie in a backpack carrier, and Eddie was with her, too, sniffing the trees and marking the yard. Chet was so relieved to have everything returning to normal that it was hard to do anything more than sit and stare out the window at the gorgeous blue sky, lush green trees and what he could see of the river through the leaves. He also liked admiring his beautiful wife as she carried Kenzie about the tomato plants she’d put in when they first arrived, weeding and checking for pests.

She was such a kind and peaceful soul. She wouldn’t give him any trouble. Even if she suspected there was more to the story than he was telling her, she’d stick with him for Kenzie’s sake, and that would give him the chance to prove, once again, that he was the good guy she thought he was.

His phone was nearby. Setting his paintbrush aside, he picked it up and texted Ford:

I hear you’ve left NHB. I’m sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye.

Something came up, Ford responded. But it was great to see you while I was there.

He considered saying, “I know you’re worried about Lucy. I’ll look out for her, and if your investigator finds something he needs me to follow up on, I’d be happy to help.” That way, Ford might keep him abreast of the investigation—if it was ongoing. But since Chet hadn’t been very supportive of Lucy so far, he was afraid such an approach would be too obvious a change.

He was still deliberating when he glanced out the window again and saw something that caused his heart to slam against his chest. Eddie had somehow managed to dig up the stuff he’d buried that terrible night everything had gone so wrong with Aurora. The dog had her wallet in his teeth and was bounding over to Kira with it.

Was he really seeing what he thought he saw? What, in God’s name, had caused Eddie to dig in that particular spot, especially after so long? He wasn’t the kind of dog who did much digging; Chet had never dreamed something like this could happen. He’d buried that stuff so long ago it’d never even crossed his mind.

Struck with horror, he was absolutely immobilized as he watched his wife open it and remove Aurora’s ID. He knew exactly what she was thinking as if he could hear her thoughts. “What’s this?”

The second she realized, it’d be too late. But it all happened so fast. Too fast. He saw her fall to the ground and barely catch herself before landing on Kenzie, who started to cry. Then she pressed a hand to her chest as if she was having trouble breathing—so was he—and braced Kenzie and herself with one arm as she twisted her head to look up at the window of his studio.

Although she probably couldn’t see anything more than the sun glinting off the glass, it felt as if their eyes met—his filled with guilt and terror and hers wide with accusation and betrayal.

Belatedly, his panic-stricken mind urged him to get to her as fast as possible. He wanted to run out there and reassure her, to tell her he had no idea how that stuff had come to be buried in the yard of the home where he’d spent most of his summers. But he’d also have to contend with what she already knew about the boat and those texts, which—taken all together—wouldn’t be easy to overcome.

Still, he was determined to try. He had to try. But it felt like he could only run in slow motion. His legs were rubbery and so unwieldy he stumbled and fell down the last few stairs, banging his knee into the hardwood floor as he landed and sending a sharp pain up his thigh.

It took a moment to overcome the shock of it, but he managed to come to his feet and limp through the dining room. But by the time he reached the door going out to the patio, he was hyperventilating. He grabbed hold of the handle and jerked, only to find it was locked. Kira used the mudroom off the kitchen to go in and out. That would be open. But he’d stupidly chosen the closest door, which meant he had to take the time to remove the stick securing the slider even after he’d unlocked it.

By the time he managed to get the damn door open, he was so eager to get outside he nearly tumbled into the yard. This time, he managed to catch himself, but his hip glanced off the sharp corner of the barbecue shelf, which caused a burning sensation.

Ignoring that, too, he ran for the open yard and the garden beyond. He had to get to her. To explain. To stop her from knowing.

But it was too late. Even with Kenzie on her back, his strong, athletic wife had managed to get out of the yard. She’d dropped her phone on the way, evidence of her panic, but she’d taken Aurora’s wallet. Only Eddie came back to him when he called out. The dog had Aurora’s bra in his mouth and was wagging his tail excitedly as if he’d done a good thing for his master.

“Oh, my God,” Chet muttered, clutching at his chest as that dirty scrap of fabric brought back memories he could no longer hold at bay. “Oh, my God. My life’s over.”

Part of him insisted that it wasn’t too late, that it couldn’t be. Kira loved him. She’d understand, help him.

Trying to overcome his physiological reaction so he could both move and think, he started to go after her. But by the time he made it through the side gate, which she’d left hanging open in her haste, he couldn’t tell where she’d gone. Either she was hiding, or she’d disappeared inside a neighbor’s house.

“Kira? It’s not what you think!” he yelled. But there was no answer and no movement around him, except for a car that rolled leisurely by as if the world wasn’t falling apart and Eddie, who’d dropped Aurora’s bra on the grass and was jumping up on him, too focused on trying to get his attention to follow her.

Lucy hadn’t been able to reach Friedman, but she’d left him a message and was waiting for him to call back. She was so shocked by what she’d seen in that crime scene photo and what it signified, and so anxious to talk to him, she was once again up on her feet, pacing across the living room. But thanks to the unusually hot summer, it was quickly growing stifling inside the house, especially as the afternoon wore on. Being agitated didn’t help.

Unable to bear the heat any longer, she took her phone and headed out the back door to run down the path to the beach.

The air coming off the ocean was almost always cooler, and that proved true today. Drawing a deep breath, she tilted her head back as the breeze washed over her moist skin. She wished she could dive into the waves. But she wasn’t about to risk missing Friedman’s call. She was certain she now knew how her father’s DNA had come to be under Tony Matteo’s fingernails. At seventeen, when her father had been charged with the murders, she hadn’t made the connection, hadn’t even thought of those clippers. She was fairly certain the concept of “transfer DNA” hadn’t existed back then. Certainly, it hadn’t come up in court. From what she could remember, the fact that DNA evidence could lead to false convictions hadn’t been well-known.

Her poor father! He didn’t commit the Matteo murders. He didn’t strangle Aurora, either—wasn’t even by the river that night. His greatest sin was being an alcoholic, and someone who wasn’t considered important in the community, which made him easy to blame. No one in North Hampton Beach really knew him because he didn’t allow people to get close, and no one respected him, so no one cared.

If the DNA in the sink matched Reggie’s, Lucy felt they’d have the real culprit. Aggressive and prone to violence, he had a history of breaking the law. And yet he was the one still walking around North Hampton Beach while her father rotted in prison. Everyone had abandoned Mick, including her. She’d had to let go to survive, had barely made it through that terrible time herself. That her father had cut her off because he thought it would be the best thing for her brought tears to her eyes. He’d pushed her away from him so he wouldn’t drag her down with him—so she’d have a better chance of establishing a fulfilling future. That proved he’d loved her, and he’d deserved to have others love him.

She started down the path that would lead her back to the house feeling terrible that she hadn’t stood by him. But she was older and stronger now—had finally beaten the uncertainty that’d held her back—and was determined to get him released.

She was about to step onto the back porch when Chief Claxton came around the corner, startling her. “There you are,” he said. “I knocked, but no one answered even though your car’s in the drive. I thought you might be back here.”

He was the chief of police, but Lucy didn’t know if she could fully trust him. Just in case, she stopped several feet away. “Is everything okay?” she asked, tentatively.

“I just came by to apologize.”

She felt her eyebrows slide up. This certainly wasn’t like him. “For . . .”

“For not listening and being more open-minded about some of the things you’ve been trying to tell me. Kira Anthony has come forward with compelling evidence that suggests her husband, Chet, is the one who killed Aurora Clark.”

Visions of what Aurora’s last night must’ve been like caused Lucy to sink onto the porch step. She would’ve trusted Chet enough to leave the party with him herself. Chet had been totally infatuated with Aurora. Lucy had said as much to Ford; she’d said that violent crimes were often perpetrated by someone who felt passionate about his or her victim. But how could Chet do such a thing? At that age? And how could he let someone else take the blame?

“That must’ve been very difficult for Kira.”

“The hardest thing she’s ever had to do, I’m sure.”

The fact that she’d had the strength and integrity made Lucy eternally grateful. “I hate what it’s going to cost her.”

“She said she had no choice. She couldn’t continue to live with a man who was hiding such a dark secret. She said it would’ve destroyed her, made her feel complicit. She also said she owed it to Kenzie to get them both out right away.”

“So Chet’s already in custody?”

“Not yet. But we’re looking for him.”

“He’s on the run?”

He scowled. “We don’t know that. We just haven’t been able to pick him up yet. He wasn’t at home.”

“Where’s Kira?”

“She’s at the house with a couple of officers, packing up. She’s planning to take Kenzie and Eddie home to her parents in Baltimore, where they’ll stay until she’s ready to face rebuilding her life without Chet.”

Lucy didn’t envy her the next few years. Yet another life had been destroyed because of that long-ago summer. “So what will this mean for my father?”

“In what regard?”

The question was rather disingenuous; he had to know what she was referring to. “This will overturn his conviction, right?”

“For Aurora’s murder, yes. But he’ll still spend the rest of his life in prison, Lucy. He killed the Matteos. I know you don’t want to believe that, but nothing has changed there. The evidence still points to him.”

Lifting her chin, she stood once more. “That’s what you said about Aurora.”

“I did. I realize that and I’m here to admit I was wrong. But the Matteos are different. There’s solid DNA evidence in their case.”

“DNA that got where it was because of a pair of fingernail clippers I lent Tony that belonged to my father.”

“You’ve never said that before.”

“It’s the first time I’ve ever taken a close look at the crime scene photos. The investigator Ford hired sent them to me, and once I saw them up close, was able to really study them, I realized.”

His face turned so stony it could’ve been chiseled out of granite. He certainly didn’t want her to prove that his department had been wrong about both of the most important cases they’d ever investigated. That would be quite a dismal track record. “Enough, Lucy!”

“It’s not enough,” she said. “Reggie Burton killed the Matteos. It wasn’t my father.”

“You got lucky! A dog dug up key evidence. The same thing won’t happen twice.”

She’d established what she’d hoped to establish when she came here. The truth of Aurora’s murder had come out, clearing her own name along with her father’s. No doubt Claxton had expected her to be satisfied. “You never know,” she said, thinking of the beer can she’d sent Friedman.

Her phone rang; she looked down to see that the investigator was finally calling her back. “I have to take this,” she said and thanked him for coming before opening the screen door.

30

Ford stood at the window of the penthouse apartment Christina had insisted they buy when they got married. He’d thought he’d hate living in such a sterile, ostentatious place. She’d had to use quite a bit of emotional blackmail to get him to do it. But he liked the neutral colors, floor-to-ceiling glass and clean, contemporary lines. The amenities were nice, too. Still, it was the view that made the incredible expense worth it. The sight of Washington DC below him, lights twinkling in the darkness, helped calm him when he got angry or frustrated—or sad. Today, he’d been all three. A few hours ago, Friedman had told him about Chet. He’d said Chet had tried to escape prosecution, but the police had picked him up just before he could fly out of Richmond for South America.

Ford shook his head, still grappling with the knowledge that one of his good friends had committed murder. He didn’t want to believe it. But there was no other way to explain what Eddie had dug up in the Anthony yard. Chet could claim it must’ve been someone else who’d buried Aurora’s bra, shirt, wallet, and sandals, but that wasn’t very believable. Friedman was guessing the police would find saliva and/or semen evidence on her clothes that would prove otherwise. That was probably why he’d tried to flee, Friedman said. He knew the game was up.

Aurora’s face appeared in Ford’s mind. He hadn’t been interested in her romantically, but he still felt bad for what Chet had done to her. Given the opportunity, she probably would’ve grown into a decent adult. She’d deserved to have the chance, but Chet had robbed her of it.

Ford thought about Lucy and how this had to be affecting her. To know her father was innocent, at least of strangling Aurora—a young woman her own age and someone she knew—had to bring her some relief. After all, she’d tried to tell everyone that her father hadn’t murdered Aurora. Darren had confirmed it. But no one would believe them, even the police. Especially the police.

At the very least, Chet’s arrest removed the stigma, the assumption that she’d contributed to Aurora’s death in some way.

Ford wished he could be in North Hampton Beach to share her excitement and celebrate the truth, hard as that truth was for him in other respects.

He wondered how Patti and Nelson were faring. They had to be devastated all over again—and feeling a little sheepish. They should feel sheepish, he thought, after the way they’d treated Lucy. Lucy had never done anything to Aurora. As a matter of fact, it was Aurora who’d wronged Lucy by calling him and coming on to him when he already had a girlfriend.

He checked his phone. It was too late to call Kira now, but he’d asked one of the friends he and Chet used to hang out with, who’d remained in closer touch with Chet over the years, to get him contact information. He wanted to offer her some financial assistance over the next few months, if she needed it. She was as much a victim in all of this as anyone.

Fortunately, she’d had the presence of mind to get away from Chet as soon as she realized the truth. Ford hated to think Chet would harm the woman he loved, but someone as desperate as he must’ve been in that moment . . .

It was better if she didn’t take anything for granted.

Seeing that he’d received her number as requested, he sent a quick thanks in return and was just sliding his phone in his pocket, planning to call her first thing in the morning, when he heard a creak behind him and knew Christina had come into the room. She’d gone to bed at least an hour ago; he hadn’t expected to hear from her until morning. Since he’d returned, they hadn’t been sharing a bed. They didn’t even share a bedroom. He’d told her he wanted to ease into the relationship, take it slow and make sure it was going to work this time. But the truth had more to do with the fact that he didn’t want to be with anyone except Lucy and needed time to get over her—if he could.

“Ford?”

The French bulldog he’d given her came trotting over to him as he turned to face her. “Something wrong?” he asked, bending to pet Mo.

“With me? No. I’m worried about you.”

That would be a first, he thought, but immediately chided himself. He couldn’t be cynical if he was going to make this work. Christina had been so tractable since he’d returned, so sweet. She was behaving like she had while they were dating. She was smart, always on her best behavior when she had to be.

Once again trying to silence that inner critic, he cleared his throat as he stood. “You’re the one who needs your rest. Why are you worried about me?”

“You’ve been up, rambling around most nights since you returned from North Hampton Beach.”

“I’m dealing with a lot of issues with my father’s estate and the woman he left behind. You know that.” Those issues weren’t currently the burden they’d been. Although he’d have to resolve them over time, it was more that he wasn’t eager to share what was going on in North Hampton Beach. He didn’t want to mention anything that had to do with Lucy, was afraid Christina would be able to tell how much he’d rather be with her—and that couldn’t be healthy for their relationship.

She walked over and took his hand before leaning her head on his shoulder. “So it’s not the woman Houston told me about?”

Ford felt himself go cold. Houston had been talking to Christina? Why now? They’d never really liked each other. “I didn’t realize you and Houston were friendly again.”

“He’s my brother-in-law, Ford. He asked me if I wanted to go to North Hampton Beach with him, but then we decided it’d be better for you to come back here before you made a rash decision—just because you were mad at me—and hurt everyone.”

What he was doing in North Hampton Beach had been anything but rash. It’d felt like he’d gone home, that being with Lucy was where he was supposed to be. Except that couldn’t be right. He had a marriage to save for the sake of their baby. But it was the “we” in her statement that stood out. “I’m touched that you both care so much about me,” he said.

He knew she’d heard the sarcasm in his voice when she pulled away. “Are you saying we don’t?”

When he didn’t respond, she must’ve realized he was willing to leave the conversation just as it was rather than try to placate her, as she expected. Normally, she would’ve gotten mad and left the room. Tonight, she sidled up to him again. “Come to bed, babe. Let me give you a massage. I can tell you’re so wound up.”

He knew what would happen if she coaxed him into her bed. She’d been trying to get him to have sex with her since he got home. She’d been so insistent about it, so suggestive at every turn, he assumed that was how she believed she could truly get him back. Or at least to where he’d been before, when he was trying to please her, hoping for the best and magnifying any crumb of kindness so he wouldn’t be quite so unhappy.

But he didn’t have that in him anymore. It was simply gone. All that was left was duty. He hoped to change that, but he certainly wasn’t there yet. “Not tonight,” he said. “You need to sleep. It’s important for the baby. I’ve been reading up on preeclampsia. It can be dangerous.”

“A lot of women do just fine with it,” she said. “They can have sex and everything.”

There it was. A stronger hint in case he’d missed the earlier ones. “I wouldn’t want to take the chance, just in case,” he told her. “Maybe after we’ve visited the doctor together, and I learn a bit more about her concerns and how we can keep you and the baby safe, things will be different.”

“Well, a blow job certainly wouldn’t hurt me,” she said with a laugh.

That wasn’t something she’d been willing to do, not since they were dating. But he still couldn’t summon the interest. “I just found out a friend of mine murdered a girl I used to know, Christina. Maybe another night.”

“You’re talking about those murders your mother once told me about in North Hampton Beach?”

He nodded.

“That’s terrible!” she exclaimed.

“It is,” he said. The most recent revelations hurt even more people, some who hadn’t been involved before. But he was happy for Lucy.

Over the next week, Lucy felt as though a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She hadn’t yet heard back from her father, but she smiled every time she imagined him opening her letter. After being accused of such a terrible crime, nothing could feel better than being cleared of any wrongdoing, even if it was only for one of the murders. She hoped she’d be able to prove that he hadn’t killed the Matteos, either—although she hadn’t promised him that. She didn’t want to get his hopes up, just in case.

While she was waiting to hear from Friedman on Reggie’s DNA, she was trying to move on without Ford. It helped that news of Chet’s involvement in Aurora’s murder was spreading fast. Now everyone knew—or soon would—that she hadn’t had anything to do with it. That alone was worth what it’d cost her in angst, money and lost work to come here.

On Tuesday, she felt light as air as she went out to do a little shopping. She wanted to send a gift to Missy, so she was looking for something she felt her friend would like and found herself smiling the whole time. She could finally hold her head high in this community again. The fact that the police had gotten it wrong where Aurora was concerned had to at least make the people of North Hampton Beach feel they shouldn’t have treated her so badly. Some still looked askance at her. They were probably thinking it didn’t matter if her father didn’t kill Aurora if he’d killed the Matteos. But she was growing more and more confident the truth would come out in that case, too. It was just a matter of time.

As she passed the restaurant where Ford had taken her, she paused, feeling a certain melancholy. She still missed him, probably always would. But she was going to press on. She’d battled so much; nothing was going to get her down.

She was just taking a picture of a cute skirt she thought Missy would like, so she could text it to her, when she heard someone say her name.

She looked up. Patti Clark was in the store, standing at her elbow.

Instantly nervous, Lucy put the skirt back on the rounder. “Hello.”

Patti began fidgeting with the strap of her purse. “I’m sorry for . . . for following you in here,” she said. “When I saw you on the sidewalk, I . . . Well, I told myself to quit being such a coward. I owe you an apology—”

When her voice broke, Lucy lifted one hand in the classic stop position. “It’s okay. You don’t owe me anything. I understand how you felt and why you did what you did, and I don’t hold anything against you. I promise. I actually wanted to make you a casserole the other day and would have, except . . .”

“Except you were afraid such a gesture wouldn’t be welcomed,” she finished.

“I, um, didn’t want to intrude at a difficult time,” she said, stating the truth more euphemistically.

Patti studied her for several seconds. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

Lucy smiled. “No problem. I’ll go ahead and make one and . . . and drop it by once you’ve had a chance to recover.”

“I’m actually doing better than you might expect,” she said. “It helps to know what happened—know without having to convince myself I’m right in spite of unreliable testimony and the lack of evidence. We don’t have that problem this time around. The clarity helps. Nelson feels better about it, too.”

“I’m so glad.”

She smiled. “I can see why Ford is drawn to you. You’re just as beautiful inside as you are out,” she said and wove through the racks of clothes to reach the door.

A ding sounded as she left, but Lucy didn’t move. She wasn’t sure she’d ever received a better compliment—one that did more to heal what had been broken inside of her.

The shopkeeper caught her eye and, embarrassed, she turned back to her shopping.

She wound up buying the skirt without even asking Missy, as a surprise, and drove back to the cottage. She planned to work in the yard. She couldn’t bear to let everything Ford had done go to ruin. It was her only way of feeling close to him. But just before she got there, her phone rang and Friedman’s name appeared on her screen. “Finally!” she said aloud and pulled over so she could give him her full attention. “Hello?”

“Lucy, I’m afraid I have some bad news,” he said.

The air rushed out of her lungs as if someone had slugged her. Bad news? No . . .

“The DNA in the sink doesn’t match Reggie Burton’s,” he said.

“But—but he was in the trailer park that night,” she heard herself stutter.

“That may be true, but there’s nothing to indicate he killed Tony and Lucinda Matteo.”

Closing her eyes, she let her head fall back on the headrest. She’d been so sure it would all soon be over, that her father would be able to get his life back. “If the DNA in the sink isn’t in CODIS, and it doesn’t match Reggie, how do we find who was in the trailer that night?” she asked despairingly.

“I’m not convinced we can,” he replied. “I’m sorry.”

Lucy drove home at a much slower speed than she’d been traveling before. Another car honked and whipped around her, but she didn’t care. She’d been so hopeful—and now she was completely deflated. It had to be Reggie, she kept telling herself. Everything pointed to him.

But that kind of thinking was how her father had wound up in prison. She, of all people, knew how dangerous it could be.

When she arrived at the cottage, she got out, gathered the sack that contained Missy’s skirt and went to the mailbox, where she found a letter from her father waiting for her.

She’d wanted to be able to give him even better news, but now . . .

With a sigh, she carried the mail inside, where she opened it—and began to weep when she saw that he’d written only two words: Thank you.

He was already managing on very little sleep, but it was another late night for Ford. The call he’d received from Lester Friedman had been surreal, unbelievable—except, when he really thought about it, it became believable. That was the problem. It was more that he didn’t want to accept it. The DNA under Tony Matteo’s nails, which Friedman now believed had come from some clippers Lucy had lent him of her father’s, had led to the wrong suspect. Could the DNA in the sink lead to the wrong person, too?

He dearly hoped so. But he didn’t see how. His brother would’ve had no reason to be in the Shady Lane Mobile Home Park, let alone the old couple’s trailer.

Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose as the conversation he’d had with Friedman once again ran through his mind.

Wait, explain that again?

When I couldn’t get a hit on CODIS, I turned to the large genealogical sites, the ones that don’t require a warrant, hoping to get a familial hit.

You were looking for members of the killer’s family.

Yes. I was searching for DNA similar to that of the perpetrator, hoping to find one or more people who were related to him I could use as a starting point. Then I was hoping to narrow the field by using other logic—who in the family lived or was visiting the area, who might’ve had reason to be in the Matteo trailer, etc.

And I’m a relative to whoever left their DNA in that drain?

That was what the investigator had said, but here Ford remembered sinking onto the couch because his knees had buckled.

It leads to someone in your immediate family, someone with 50 percent of your father’s DNA.

Ford remembered giving his father the DNA test that’d put his genetic information in the databank for Christmas one year. John had wanted to find a brother who’d run away when they were teenagers and never turned up again. That attempt hadn’t yielded any results—the family assumed he was no longer living—but it was certainly revealing something significant now. A 50 percent match meant the DNA belonged to one of John’s children, and he had only two. That meant it had to be Houston, who’d been running around raising hell at that age—not as bad as Reggie Burton but almost. The only difference was that their parents had the money to bail Houston out of every scrape he got into.

The TV was still on in Christina’s room. Ford had been so blown away by what he’d learned that he’d barely spoken to her all evening, and she’d finally given up trying to engage him, taken Mo and gone off to entertain herself. But she must’ve known something was wrong because she kept coming out to check on him. “Don’t tell me you’re going to do this to yourself again tonight,” she’d said several minutes ago.

He’d told her he’d be getting to bed soon, and she’d once again picked up Mo and gone back to her room. He wasn’t going to tell her he was dealing with an entirely new problem, one he could never have seen coming. But at least in some ways, this piece of the puzzle seemed to fit, and that was what frightened him. Now Ford understood why Houston had never wanted to go back to North Hampton Beach—and why he’d finally returned this summer, determined to get Ford to reconcile with Christina, even though he’d never liked her. Houston hadn’t wanted Ford to remain with Lucy, hadn’t wanted him in North Hampton Beach. He couldn’t allow Ford to continue digging in the past because he’d been hiding a secret as big as Chet’s.

The question was why would Houston break into that trailer? And why would he harm those old people?

The TV snapped off. Since Christina generally set a timer, she was probably asleep or she would’ve added more time. Thinking he didn’t have to worry about her coming out to check on him again brought a measure of relief. He was finally ready to talk to his brother, to give Houston the chance to explain. He owed him that much. But he’d been loath to alert Christina to what he’d learned. He knew she’d freak out, claim that being around his brother had put her in danger or something like that—something that would make it all about her. Until he decided what to do with the situation, he wasn’t going to tell anyone. Friedman hadn’t even shared his findings with Lucy. Ford was the one paying his bill, so Ford was the only one he’d told.

Ford had always wished his brother would straighten out his life, become productive, reliable, fully functional. But with a skeleton in his closet like this one, Ford could see why he hadn’t—although he didn’t know which came first, the chicken or the egg. If not for what’d happened at the Matteos’, maybe Houston would’ve straightened up eventually—although a normal person couldn’t do what’d been done to them, so maybe not.

He winced at the vision that popped into his head and immediately shoved it out.

After waiting another ten minutes, just to let Christina sink even deeper into sleep, he went into one of the spare bedrooms on the other side of the apartment, closed the door, sat at the desk and called his brother.

“Yo, Ford.” Houston’s voice suggested he was fully awake, but that didn’t surprise Ford. He was often up late. “You still mad at me, bro? Or are you finally calling to apologize?”

Ford dropped his head in his hands. “Did you do it?” he asked.

The line when silent.

“Houston?” Ford prompted.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“I’m talking about what happened to the Matteos. I’m talking about the blood in their sink containing your DNA.”

The resulting silence was absolutely deafening, which made the sick feeling Ford had been battling ever since Friedman’s call even worse. “Please don’t lie to me,” he said. “The DNA proves it.” It wasn’t quite that clear-cut. They hadn’t actually tested Houston’s DNA, so this was a bit of a bluff. But they’d gotten DNA that was darn close, and Ford knew he hadn’t done it.

“The DNA proves Mick McBride did it,” Houston said, but his voice wasn’t nearly as strident as it should’ve been.

“You let an innocent man go to prison!” Ford said. “That’s like taking another life!”

Again, his brother didn’t respond immediately. Eventually, he said, “You provided my DNA for testing?”

“Not yet, but Dad gave his DNA to that genealogical site, remember? That’s what made it easy to trace the DNA in that sink to you.”

“Like they did with the Golden State Killer.”

There was a fatalistic tone to his voice. “Yes.”

He swore. “I was afraid that would happen one day.”

Was that an admission? “Why, Houston?” Ford asked. “You had everything. You didn’t need to steal from anyone. And you sure as hell didn’t need to hurt people who couldn’t even fight back.”

“It wasn’t me, man! It was Kevin!”

Ford shoved the chair back as he came to his feet. “What’d you say?”

“I said it was Claxton! We were hanging out, bored and looking for some fun, and he told me about this really cool baseball card collection his father had been shown when he went over to unplug the Matteos’ sink. Kevin’s always been crazy about baseball. He wanted to get those cards, said they weren’t doing that old man any good.”

Kevin was the son of a plumber, hadn’t enjoyed the same affluence Ford and Houston had. He’d been a talented athlete, though, and that had put him in good stead with the popular crowd. “He was already a police officer by then!” Ford said in amazement.

“He’d just gotten on the force, but he said it’d be so easy to get that collection—we could just walk in and take it. He said he’d been keeping an eye on the old couple’s trailer and knew they were out of town. I just went with him, Ford. I had nothing else to do with what happened, I swear!”

Ford gripped his phone that much tighter. “Then why was your blood in the sink?”

“Because I tried to intervene! When the old folks walked out of the back end of the trailer, surprising us, Kevin went off on them. I tried to stop him, but he pushed me so hard I fell, and the corner of the table took a chunk out of my arm. I just wanted to get the hell out of there, but Kevin wouldn’t stop hitting those poor people with the hammer we took out of their own shed to help us break in. He just kept yelling that they’d seen his face. His father would find out, he’d lose his job, everything. It happened so fast. All I did was wash off my arm, grab a paper towel and run out of there. He did the rest, I swear.”

Ford sank back into the seat and propped his head up with a fist to his forehead, staring down at nothing but wood grain on the desktop. “Why didn’t you say something? Why would you ever let another man take the fall? My girlfriend’s father?”

“Because you don’t narc on a friend, man. And I didn’t want to get into trouble! I mean . . . I certainly thought about it. I wanted to come forward, but Kevin said I’d be prosecuted right along with him even though I didn’t do it. He said he’d make sure of it. Then Mick McBride strangled that girl—or I thought he did—so it wasn’t as if an innocent man would be going to prison. It felt like we had an out for a night that shouldn’t have happened to begin with.”

“So you have heard that it wasn’t Mick McBride who killed Aurora.”

“Just recently. But it’s been so long since the murders now. What happened happened, Ford. That dude wasn’t up to much anyway!”

“Are you saying you’ve accomplished more?”

“You arrogant ass!” he said.

“I’m just finally speaking the truth instead of praising you for nothing like Mom does.” Suddenly he remembered the fact that Houston had been hanging out with Claxton again. “You came to North Hampton Beach to make sure I didn’t discover your dirty little secret, didn’t you? You and Kevin Claxton have been doing everything you can to keep the truth from coming out. He’s the one who broke into the cottage, because he was trying to scare Lucy away.”

“I don’t know. It’s not like he’d admit that to me. All I can tell you is that I didn’t hurt anyone,” Houston insisted. “I didn’t steal anything, either. I just went with him that night. That’s it. And when everything went wrong, I ran out of there.”

“You didn’t stop him, and you didn’t get help.”

“I tried to stop him. That’s how I got hurt! And I was nineteen, Ford. I didn’t know what to do.”

“So you protected a murderer? How did Reggie get hold of that baseball card collection?”

A tortured sigh came through the phone. “Kevin told me he threw it in the dumpster behind the school. He wasn’t even sure why he took it after what happened. He’d come there to get it, so he just grabbed it when he left. That’s what he said. He told me he didn’t want it all to be for nothing. But then he realized he couldn’t hang on to it, and he couldn’t sell it, either—couldn’t do anything that might lead back to him. So he threw it away, and I don’t know what happened to it from there.”

Someone must’ve found it and traded it to Reggie for a set of tires.

Ford rubbed his temples. He believed Houston wasn’t the one who’d harmed those people. He even believed it hadn’t been Houston’s idea to break in. Houston was lazy and weak and did some stupid things, but he’d never been angry or violent.

Still, he’d been there, part of the whole mess . . .

“Shit,” Ford muttered. He held the key to Mick McBride’s release—to what Lucy wanted more than anything else in the world—but to get it for her he’d have to give up his brother.

31

Lucy called Lester Friedman almost every day of the following week with a different idea each time on how they might be able to track down a match for the DNA that’d been found in the Matteos’ sink. She’d told him she wanted to get a sample from all the people who’d lived in the trailer park at the time, if she could find them. Chances were good it was someone who’d lived there; that was how the perpetrator had known about the baseball card collection and that the Matteos were supposed to be out of town.

He’d convinced her that would be too overwhelming and impractical, and she’d need to get their consent or try to come up with a legal way to obtain their DNA without it. He told her that she could go to months and months of work, maybe years—and so could he—with nothing to show for it in the end.

After that, she’d begged him to approach the Innocence Project even without a DNA match for the blood that’d been found in the sink, said they might have other ideas about how to prove it wasn’t her father. And he told her there was no way they’d take on a case like her father’s when there were so many other cases, cases with much better chances of a favorable resolution, waiting in their queue.

That was when she began to realize that he seemed to be less committed than he once was. He didn’t tell her Ford had stopped paying him, but that had to be the reason. It was the only thing that explained his polite resistance to everything she suggested and the fact that he seemed to have stopped working.

Ford was abandoning her again, even in this regard, she realized, despite having promised her he wouldn’t.

I love you. I will always love you.

She’d clung to those words since he’d left, held them close to her heart to help carry her through. But he didn’t know what love was. She was so angry at herself for believing him, for trusting him again. How many times did a person have to let her down?

When Friedman stopped accepting her calls the following week, she knew he wasn’t going to help anymore. She left a voice mail telling him she’d start paying him herself if he’d recommit to the case. But he never returned that message, either. So she wrote letters to the commonwealth attorney who’d prosecuted her father, complaining that she couldn’t get Kevin Claxton to listen to her but she had “compelling evidence” to suggest it wasn’t her father who’d killed the Matteos. She also wrote the Innocence Project directly and any organization she could determine did similar work, hoping to find someone, anyone, who might help her.

The following weekend she was still waiting to see if her efforts would generate any response when she went back to visit her father. She told him what she’d realized about the nail clippers and apologized. She regretted that she’d never thought of them before. She also told him how hard she was trying to get the attention of the right people, someone who could assist her in finding a match for that mystery DNA. She was so frustrated and upset, and felt so helpless by the time their meeting came to an end. But when he stood, he pressed his palm to the glass as if he wished he could touch her and smiled. “Nothing could be better than having you back in my life. If that’s all I get, it’s enough,” he said before they led him away.

Lucy was wondering if she could convince Friedman to send her a copy of her father’s police file. He hadn’t even come to town, had done no in-person interviews. Maybe there were people who remembered something they hadn’t said back then that he’d missed. She could interview them herself, she was thinking, when she got a text.

It was Ford, but she didn’t dare read what he’d sent. Not only was she driving, she was afraid of how badly it would upset her. She didn’t want to let him hurt her again, had to start protecting herself. Was he telling her he couldn’t continue paying Friedman? That his wife wouldn’t allow it?

She could see why that would put him in a bad situation, and she knew, if that was the case, she was wrong to hold it against him. It had never been his responsibility in the first place. It was just that she missed his support, and she wanted to believe he loved her enough to stand by what he’d said this time around.

It was an hour later when she pulled into Richmond and decided to have dinner at Abilene’s Southern Cuisine. Abilene’s was more expensive than the restaurants she generally frequented, unless she’d just had a big poker win and decided to splurge, but she wanted someplace quiet and relaxing to read and digest whatever Ford had sent. She figured it must be important. This was the only time he’d broken his own rule about not continuing to communicate with her.

She settled into a booth in the far corner and ordered a glass of wine before finally pulling her phone out of her purse and reading his message. Then she felt her jaw drop.

I wanted you to know before it hit the papers. Kevin Claxton was arrested for the murder of Tony and Lucinda Matteo this morning.

She blinked and read what he’d sent again.

I don’t understand, she wrote back.

When the paper comes out tomorrow, you will. I’ve hired an attorney to do what he can for my brother—I’m hoping if he provides testimony against Kevin, the CA will go easy on him—and to see that your father is released as soon as possible.

She knew he was trying to keep their contact to a minimum. Considering how they felt about each other, it was the only way he could be true to Christina. But she couldn’t help writing back:

You can’t tell me anything else? What does your brother have to do with it?

The DNA in that sink was Houston’s. He didn’t kill anyone, but he was there that night. I’m sorry I couldn’t share this with you sooner. I’ve been working through quite a few things on this end.

Friedman knew, she realized. That was why he’d backed away from her. He’d known for a couple of weeks. Since Ford was the one paying him, he’d told Ford and then pulled away from her because he didn’t know how Ford would react to the news—or even what he might do with it.

The waitress approached. “Are you ready to order?” she asked with a solicitous smile.

“I’m afraid I’m going to need a few more minutes,” Lucy replied. She hadn’t even picked up the menu. She couldn’t think about anything except what she’d just learned, was still absorbing what it would all mean. After fifteen years in prison as a wrongfully accused man, her father would be released. He’d have the chance to build a better life, and she’d be part of it. He’d have to come live with her in Las Vegas until he could figure out a path forward, she decided, but she didn’t mind. He was her only family, and after so many years, she had him back.

The waitress returned a few minutes later, and she ordered macadamia-encrusted Chilean sea bass. But she didn’t go home after she’d eaten. She drove right back to Pound so she could see her father again first thing in the morning and give him the good news.

It turned out that getting someone out of prison was neither easy nor immediate. Three weeks passed before Lucy received word that she could pick up her father, and it would’ve been much longer had Ford not hired an attorney to wade through the paperwork.

But it happened. That in itself was a miracle, something she would never have believed was possible even a few months ago. As she stood next to her truck in the parking lot of Red Onion State Prison and saw her father walking toward her, she wondered if he was as overwhelmed as she was—with gratitude, relief, hope and fear of the future, since everything had changed so radically. She was no longer a young woman living with him. He was no longer in charge. She was an adult with a place of her own and would be the one looking after him, for a while at least. The state would compensate him for his wrongful imprisonment—at fifty-five thousand dollars a year—which would help until he could get a job and get out on his own. But still, they both had a lot of adjustments to make.

Whatever the future held, they’d work through it, she promised herself.

She’d offered to leave North Hampton Beach and take him back to Vegas so he wouldn’t have to return to the community where everything had gone so wrong. She’d been afraid the memories would be too difficult for him. But he’d said he wanted to see it again, to use the cottage while they had it to enjoy the sea. And when he’d put it like that, she could understand why. Vegas had its good points, but there was nothing quite as cathartic as watching the sun rise over the ocean. She thought it might help him heal and recover and slowly get back to the business of living a regular life. It would also give them some time to get to know each other again before she was back at work and among her regular friends. Fortunately, Dahlia had been happy to extend the lease.

“How do you feel?” she asked when he reached her.

He squinted as he looked up at the clear blue sky. Then he rubbed his hands over his face. “I feel like I’ve been granted a second chance.” His chest lifted as he drew a deep breath. “I can promise you this . . .”

“What?” she prompted as his eyes met hers.

“I’ll never drink another drop of alcohol again in my life.”

“We can get you into A.A. to help you stay away from it, get you a sponsor.”

He nodded. “If I’m ever tempted, that’s exactly what I’ll do.”

She got behind the wheel while he climbed into the passenger seat. “Can you believe we have self-driving cars now?” she asked.

He looked as horrified as he was surprised. “This thing drives itself?”

She chuckled. “No, but my Tesla in Vegas does.”

“I’ll be damned,” he said and shook his head.

The next week, Lucy learned what it meant to be on the receiving end of Southern hospitality. Anna brought over a casserole to welcome her father back to North Hampton Beach, which gave Lucy the opportunity to thank her for being honest about her brother. She admitted it’d been difficult—that Reggie had punched a hole in her wall and her mother had refused to speak to her for several weeks—but all was well that ended well she’d said with a laugh. Part of Lucy wished she could stay in North Hampton Beach. She really liked Anna, believed they could be good friends. She didn’t think she’d ever like Reggie, however, but she didn’t have to. He no longer impacted her life in any way.

The very next day, Patti and Nelson brought over some corn bread, fried chicken, mashed potatoes and collard greens with pecan pie for dessert. They included a sweet note telling Mick how sorry they were about his wrongful imprisonment. They even came in and visited for a while and apologized for how harshly they’d treated him.

In the days that followed, more food and good wishes arrived—from Dahlia, Stephanie and even Mrs. Zampino.

Mick was reserved but polite whenever they had company. Obviously, he was even more uncomfortable around people than he’d been before he’d gone to prison, but he enjoyed the food they brought, and she couldn’t help but think their welcome made him feel more at home overall.

They spent a lot of time on the beach. Sometimes they’d swim. Sometimes they’d just sit and dig their toes in the sand while looking out at the great expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. Lucy tried to stay abreast of what was happening to Ford’s brother and Kevin Claxton, both of whom had been arrested, but after the initial reports, several days would go by without any news. She’d heard that the wheels of justice turned slowly, but at least they were finally moving in the right direction.

One Friday afternoon, only a few days before they were supposed to leave for Vegas, when her father had gone back to the house to shower, Lucy remained on the beach alone. They’d decided to have dinner in town for a change. He hadn’t had a blue crab sandwich in fifteen years, and after settling in for a few weeks, he was finally feeling bold enough to be seen out in public, which showed a marked improvement in his sense of security.

Lucy planned to follow him to the cottage soon, but she wanted a minute to herself. This beach would always remind her of Ford. She missed him so terribly—and was so grateful to him for hiring Friedman and being willing to come forward with the DNA match Friedman found, even though it led to his own brother. As much as she hated the fact that she couldn’t be the woman he loved—the only woman in his life—she respected him. He hadn’t always made the best decisions. He’d hurt her deeply when they were young. But he’d made so many hard choices this summer that showed her the kind of man he’d turned out to be.

She was afraid she’d never find anyone who could compare to him. But at least she and her father were able to put their lives back together, were able to finally escape the terrible travesty of injustice that’d cost them both so dearly. That fresh start was so deeply freeing, so healing, that she was determined to be happy even without Ford.

She watched a distant ship on the horizon for a few moments, which made her think about how big the world really was. Then she forced herself to get up. Now that her father was interested in going out, she didn’t want to make him wait too long.

But as she turned, she saw someone walking toward her and thought her mind had to be lying, that wishful thinking was causing her to imagine things, because it looked like Ford. Only when she forced herself to turn away and start toward the cottage and she heard her name, did she realize it was Ford.

Her heart began to race even as she cautioned herself that this had to be an incidental meeting. He was probably in town to do what he could for his brother. She’d been surprised she hadn’t heard he was here.

Holding her breath, she stayed where she was, waiting for him to come closer. She expected him to stop several feet away, maybe nod his head and speak politely. But the look on his face was so hopeful and so transparently emotional that she was once again confused.

And he didn’t stop. He jogged the last several feet, swept her into his arms and buried his face in her neck. “God, I’ve missed you,” he murmured.

She wanted to allow her arms to close around him, too, but she couldn’t trust this. She didn’t understand it. Pressing her hands to his chest, she pushed him back. “What’s happening?”

“I’m going to marry you,” he said. “That’s what’s happening.”

Lucy couldn’t find the words to respond. Was this a cruel joke? “How?” she managed to ask.

“I just need you to say yes,” he replied with a broad smile. “Well, I also need to get divorced first, but that shouldn’t take too long. I’ll give Christina almost anything she wants if she’ll just let me go.”

Stunned, she asked, “What about the baby?”

He sobered. “There never was a baby, Lucy. It was all a lie.”

She pressed a hand to her chest. “How’d you find out?”

“Once I learned that she and Houston had been in contact, I knew something was up. They never really liked each other. I admit I occasionally wondered if Christina had gotten pregnant on purpose to force me back to her, but I never dreamed she’d make up the whole thing! I mean . . . while I was here, she sent me a recording of the heartbeat of our baby! But her newfound friendship—or, rather, alliance—with my brother seemed strange. So did what I was finding out about preeclampsia. When I went online, I learned it typically doesn’t become a problem until later in a pregnancy. There’s the very rare case when it happens this early, but that, and knowing Christina generally, made me even more suspicious. So I insisted we go to the doctor together, but she kept putting me off—and trying to get me into bed. She needed me to really get her pregnant, or she’d have to say she miscarried or something. Fortunately, I was too in love with you to be with her in that way again—and that was what saved me.”

Lucy grabbed his hands. “She admitted it?”

“She didn’t have any choice. I finally demanded we call her doctor together. When she wouldn’t agree to do even that, I realized she’d fabricated the whole thing. So I checked her computer and found where she’d downloaded the audio file of a fetus’s heartbeat from the internet.” He grimaced. “It’s sickening that anyone could go to such lengths . . .”

“You must be furious. And devastated.”

“I’m furious but not devastated. I’m relieved,” he said with a carefree smile. “Our marriage probably wouldn’t have worked out, anyway. What she did just made it easy.”

“I can’t . . . I can’t believe this,” Lucy said. “What about your brother?”

“He’s probably going to serve some time—maybe three to five years—but not nearly as much as Kevin Claxton.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know,” he said, “and that just makes me love you all the more. I need you in my life, Lucy. Will you marry me?”

Speechless, Lucy stared up at him.

“This is where you answer,” he said with a laugh.

“You’re seriously proposing right now?”

“I know it’s crazy fast and might not be the most romantic approach. I’ll make it up to you. But I need to know I can count on it. I’m not going to risk anything coming between us ever again.”

She felt a smile spread across her face. She’d never experienced such a sense of pure joy. “Yes, of course,” she said. “It’s the only thing that makes sense since I’ve never loved anyone as much as I do you.”

Epilogue

One year later . . .

When Ford saw his mother standing on the deck, looking out at the sea, he left the other guests at the party and went to stand next to her. “That’s quite a view, isn’t it?”

“Gorgeous,” she agreed.

“Are you starting to have second thoughts about selling your interest in this place to me?” he asked. According to the trust, she was supposed to get a portion of the sale proceeds, but she’d agreed to let him buy her out at market prices.

“No. Coastal Comfort is where you belong,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so happy. And Houston needed his interest in this place to pay his legal fees. At least I still get to come visit.” She lifted the champagne flute she held in one hand and clinked it against his. “I’m glad you’re keeping it. I’m also glad Paris didn’t get her filthy paws on it.”

His father’s widow had driven a hard bargain, but he’d managed to work out a settlement with her that they could all live with.

He jerked his head in the general direction of Lucy, who was in the living room holding her own champagne flute, talking to her friend, Missy, who’d come out from Las Vegas, and her father, who’d extended the lease on the Smoot cottage because he, too, wanted to remain in North Hampton Beach—close to them. “Lucy and I both love it here,” Ford told his mother. “We’ll have to get a place in the city soon, of course, so I can be closer to the office. But we should be able to spend most of our summers here.”

“Has she sold her condo in Vegas yet?”

Christina had gotten the DC apartment in the divorce, so he hadn’t needed to sell that. He didn’t mind seeing the apartment go, but it had been hard to give up Mo. Fortunately, the dog seemed happier with her than he’d been. “Not yet. We just put it on the market last week.”

The wind stirred his mother’s hair; she lifted a hand to keep it out of her face. “Are you sure she won’t regret leaving her poker playing days behind?”

“She might play an online game now and then. But she’s ready for a change, something new. She wants to go to school and earn a degree in finance.”

“Finance?” Sara said. “I’d be terrible at that.”

“I know,” he said drily.

When she shot him a dirty look, they both laughed.

“Lucy’s also interested in art history,” he said. “Maybe she’ll go for that instead. I want her to have the chance to do all the things she never got to do when she was younger.”

“You spoil that woman,” she said, but the smile on her face indicated she knew it was because of how much he loved her, and she was happy for him.

“She spoils me, too,” he responded with a shrug.

His mother took a sip of her champagne. “This has been a nice party. Even the Clarks showed up. And calling it an engagement party was a lot more tasteful than telling everyone we’re celebrating the fact that your divorce is now final. Thank you for that.”

He laughed again. “Have you talked to Houston lately?”

“I write or go see him every week. You?”

Ironically, Houston was incarcerated at Red Onion Prison, where Mick had served time. “I’m not quite that diligent, but I’m staying in touch.”

“If he behaves himself, it won’t be long until he gets out.”

It would probably be five years, but it’d be a lot longer for Claxton, who’d gotten life without parole—so he’d never get out—and Chet, who’d gotten fifty years but had to serve a minimum of thirty.

“Have you and Lucy set a date?” she asked.

“We’re thinking sometime in May. I don’t want to wait too long because I have the perfect wedding present for her.”

His mother’s eyebrows slid up. “What’s that?”

“I managed to track down the baseball card collection Tony Matteo wanted her to have. It cost me a pretty penny, but I know it’ll mean more to her than jewelry or anything else.”

“How’d you manage to find that?” she asked in surprise.

“Lester Friedman has to be about the best investigator in the world.”

“He must be,” she agreed.

The door opened, and Lucy stepped out with a bottle of champagne. “Would either of you like a little more?”

His mother held out her glass, and Lucy topped it off. “Kira and Kenzie are about to leave,” she murmured to him. “I wanted to let you know so you could say goodbye.”

“I’m glad you did,” he said and took Lucy’s hand as they went back inside.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, taking a moment to check in with her before they could encounter another one of their guests. “Are you having a good time?”

She stopped walking and turned to slip her arms around his neck. “It’s been a wonderful party. But it doesn’t take a party or anything else to make me happy. You know that. I’m content just to be with you,” she said, and he buried his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of the woman he loved—and nearly lost.

“Things could’ve gone so differently,” he said. “That I get to spend the rest of my life with you, after all, makes me feel like the luckiest man in the world.”

* * * * *

About the Author

New York Times bestselling author BRENDA NOVAK has written more than sixty novels and has won the National Readers’ Choice, Booksellers’ Best and other awards. She is a mother of five and married to the love of her life.

Praise for the novels of Brenda Novak

“Filled with mystery and drama, coupled with themes of family ties and secrets. This page-turner will not disappoint.”

—Booklist on The Seaside Library

“The Bookstore on the Beach is a page-turner with a deep heart. You’ll cheer for these admirable, complicated women. You’ll be breathless (and smiling) when you read the surprising end. (Don’t peek!)”

—Nancy Thayer, New York Times bestselling author of Girls of Summer

“Novak handles difficult topics with sensitivity, making for a heart-tugging romance. Readers are sure to be sucked in.”

—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on The Bookstore on the Beach

“The prose is fast-paced and exciting making this a breathless page-turner with the conclusion proving no problems are too difficult to solve.”

—New York Journal of Books on The Bookstore on the Beach

“This heartwarming story of sisters who bond as adults is sure to please the many fans of Novak as well as those who enjoy books by Susan Mallery and Debbie Macomber.”

—Library Journal on One Perfect Summer

“I adore everything Brenda Novak writes. Her books are compelling, emotional, tender stories about people I would love to know in real life.”

—RaeAnne Thayne, New York Times bestselling author

“Heartwarming, life-affirming, page-turning . . . I can always count on Novak to make me weep, laugh and fall in love!”

—Jill Shalvis, New York Times bestselling author

“Brenda Novak is always a joy to read.”

—Debbie Macomber, #1 New York Times bestselling author

Also by Brenda Novak

The Banned Books Club

The Messy Life of Jane Tanner

The Talk of Coyote Canyon

Talulah’s Back in Town

Tourist Season

Summer on the Island

Keep Me Warm at Christmas

When I Found You

The Bookstore on the Beach

A California Christmas

One Perfect Summer

Christmas in Silver Springs

Unforgettable You

Before We Were Strangers

Right Where We Belong

Until You Loved Me

No One but You

Finding Our Forever

The Secrets She Kept

A Winter Wedding

The Secret Sister

This Heart of Mine

The Heart of Christmas

Come Home to Me

Take Me Home for Christmas

Home to Whiskey Creek

When Summer Comes

When Snow Falls

When Lightning Strikes

In Close

In Seconds

Inside

Killer Heat

Body Heat

White Heat

The Perfect Murder

The Perfect Liar

The Perfect Couple

Watch Me

Stop Me

Trust Me

Dead Right

Dead Giveaway

Dead Silence

Cold Feet

Taking the Heat

Every Waking Moment

For a full list of Brenda’s books, visit www.brendanovak.com.

Look for Brenda Novak’s next novel,

available soon from MIRA.

Copyright

ISBN-13: 9780369763822

The Summer That Changed Everything

Copyright © 2025 by Brenda Novak, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission.

Without limiting the author’s and publisher’s exclusive rights, any unauthorized use of this publication to train generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies is expressly prohibited.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

For questions and comments about the quality of this book, please contact us at CustomerService@Harlequin.com.

TM is a trademark of Harlequin Enterprises ULC.

Cover Images: Adobe Stock and iStock

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