I reach for my mug but don’t even have the energy to bring it to my lips. Instead, I lean forward, resting my forehead flat on the table. Within seconds, sleep ambushes me.
When I wake, it’s with a start and a rush of dread. The bright light confuses me, and it takes me a moment to realize that I’m not in bed, I’m in the kitchen, and there’s muffled noise coming from the front of the house—voices, feet shuffling, doors shutting. Ginger and Bella have already jumped from their beds and are scratching on the door to the dining room. I glance at the kitchen clock. It’s 10:14.
“Just a second,” I tell them. Still half asleep, I rise from my seat and swing open the dining room door.
Everyone’s back now. Not only Gabe, Ash, Nick, and Hannah, but also Marcus and Keira, coming in right behind them and crowding the hall. There’s a stranger there, too, a tall and dark-haired man who looks to be in his forties. My heart freezes. Adetective. But when I see him speak to Ash, and they look friendly, I realize it must be the attorney from Princeton.
Wendy and Blake emerge into the hall from the direction of the den, their attention clearly roused by all the noise, too.
“Okay, everyone,” Ash calls out. “Grab something to drink if you want, and then let’s regroup in five minutes or less in the living room. Paul only has a few minutes to spare.”
Gabe seems to be looking at everyone but me. When he finally swivels his head in my direction, he briefly meets my gaze and then his eyes dart away. I feel sick with worry, not only about how his interview with the detectives went but also our ugly exchange in the foyer.
While he follows his father and the lawyer into the living room, everyone else swarms into the dining room, migrating toward the sideboard and somberly pouring themselves drinks and/or fixing a small plate of food. Blake indulges in another brandy.
I pour two glasses of sparkling water, noting that Nick’s not far from me, as is Hannah. I don’t favor her with so much as a glance, but I see the outline of her body out of the corner of my eye. Her confident, picture-perfect posture is missing in action tonight. She’s probably thinking that this issooonot what she signed up for. Or perhaps she’s concerned that with police nosing into everyone’s backgrounds, they might unearth unsavory details about hers.
As we all congregate as instructed in the living room, I hand one of the water glasses to Gabe, who accepts it with a dull “thank you,” and take a seat next to him on the couch.
“The handoff went fine with Amanda, by the way,” I tell him.
“Yeah,” he says coldly. “I spoke to her.”
Ash, who’s been huddled at the card table with the attorney, rises to address us. His face is haggard, and he’s uncharacteristically disheveled, the sleeves of his wrinkled shirtrolled up to his elbows, but there’s a determination about him now, like someone who’s gotten past the shock of a shipwreck and has resolved to build a raft from the pieces left behind.
“I know everyone’s exhausted and eager to be in bed,” he says, “but I feel it’s essential for us to hear from Paul Mizel, the attorney who will be guiding us through this hell.”
“Good evening, everyone,” Paul says. “Thank you for your time.”
He’s debonair looking and even at this hour well turned out in a crisp white shirt, tailored blazer, and tan slacks. But there’s a hint of the street fighter in his flinty brown eyes, I’m relieved to see.
“I know this isn’t an easy time,” he says, “and I’m going to do everything possible to help you through it. I’ve already had the chance to check in with Nick, and I’ll debrief soon with each of you individually about your interview with the state police. But since it’s late, and we need everyone to be fresh over the next days, why don’t I give you a brief overview now, and touch base with you tomorrow. Sound good?”
We all nod without enthusiasm.
“Unfortunately, tomorrow’s going to be another tough day,” he continues. “The police will be back, searching the property. We’ve given them permission to do so, but not, let me stress, to enter the house or any of the outbuildings. I suggest doing your best to avoid contact with them, and under no circumstances should you answer any questions. If any of them asks you a question, you can just politely say they should speak to me first. That goes for any requests from the media as well. Frankly, I’m surprised they’re not here yet, but they’ll turn up soon enough. Do you have any questions?”
“I have one,” Marcus says. “What about going back to the city at some point? Are we allowed to leave?”
Mizel cocks his head a little to one side. “They aren’t actually requiring that you remain here, but I’d advise staying put for as long as feasible,” he says. “For starters, we want to present a united front. And since the police will surely have additional questions as the investigation proceeds, you might end up having to rush back here if you leave now.”
Marcus nods, and I see Keira bite her lip. There are no other questions, so Ash announces he wants to let Paul get on the road, and the lawyer departs with a promise to speak to us early tomorrow.
“A couple more things,” Ash says after we have the room to ourselves. “For starters, I’m postponing the burial for a few days. This isn’t the time for it. Also, we do have four extra bedrooms in the house, besides the one Marcus and Keira are using, so if any of you would feel more comfortable sleeping here, you’re more than welcome. It seems impossible to believe that the sick monster who killed Jillian will show up on the property again, but there are no guarantees.”
So that’s the official Keaton stance on the matter: that a psychopathic, probably random killer is to blame for Jillian’s death.
Looking grim as gravestones, the family members rise and disperse. Gabe nearly dashes out of the room, but I catch up with him in the hall.
“Do you want to stay here, in the house?” I ask quietly.
“No, we’ll be okay in the cottage,” he says, his tone still aloof. “There are decent locks on the doors.”
I take a moment to tell Ash that I’ve given Bonnie the nextday off and then, after shoving leftover food from the sidebar into the fridge, I start with Gabe down the path to the cottage, neither of us saying a word. Though the sky is overcast, the rain never came, I realize. As soon as we’re inside the cottage, with the door locked and the lights on, I turn to Gabe.
“Honey, you have to believe me,” I say. “I wasn’t accusing you of anything earlier. I’d never think you could hurt Jillian. That’s absurd.”
“Maybe not Jillian. But you acted like I was dancing on my mother’s grave.”
