He shakes his head. “We’ve just begun—” he starts to say.
I cut him off, asking instead, “How were they killed?”
“We don’t know that yet. The medical examiner will have to determine a cause of death, but as soon as she does, we will let you know.”
“And Reese?” I ask, clearing my throat, fighting tears. “Where is she?”
“Reese?” he asks, with a slight headshake. “I’m sorry, I—”
“My niece. Is she—” I start to ask, interrupting, but the words get away from me and I can’t finish my question.Dead.Is she dead? Of course she’s dead, because if she wasn’t, then she would be here too, with Wyatt. While Wyatt slept, someone came into the cottage and killed the three of them. Miraculously, he’s the only one who survived.
But the detective’s response is unexpected. “There wasn’t anyone else in the cottage. We only found the two deceased and him.”
“I... I don’t understand,” I say, feeling a tightness spread through my chest. “She has to be there. Did you check all the rooms, the closets?”
“We searched the entire cottage. There was no one else there.”
“That can’t be right. She must be there.”
My first thought is that they’re incompetent, that they’ve somehow missed Reese in their search. I get angry. But he insists, “No, ma’am. It was only the two deceased and him,” lifting his chin to Wyatt.
I feel my body temperature rise. I’m hot all of a sudden, sweating under my arms and near my groin, feeling claustrophobic in my robe, wondering what’s worse, if Reese is dead or if whoever killed Emily and Nolan took her, and if so, what unimaginable things they’re doing to her. My stomach roils, a sour taste in my mouth.
I think how last night, while we were asleep, someone came into their cottage and killed Emily and Nolan and took Reese. Elliott and I had the bedroom window open last night. There is no air-conditioning in the cottage. Though the temperatures drop into the fifties overnight, Elliott runs warm. The fresh air these last few nights has been a blessing. When we left home, it was something like ninety degrees with air quality alerts and unmerciful humidity. As a result, I’ve relished the crisp, earthy, pine-infused air slipping into the room with us at night, curling around us like fog. I can’t remember ever sleeping as well as I have these last few nights, despite the fact that the resort has aged since Elliott was here five years ago and isn’t as charming as he remembered. When we got here, he felt guilty for even recommending it; I told him it was fine and that we weren’t expecting the Four Seasons.
Last night, there was a cross breeze coming in through the open windows. I wrapped myself in the patchwork quilt, pressing up close to Elliott to absorb the heat off his body, which he thought was me coming on to him and I had to tell him no—while gently pushing his hands away—not with Cass and Mae awake just twenty feet away. Unhappily he obeyed, wrapping his arms around me instead, and we fell asleep like that. I woke up at three in the morning to check on the girls, finding them asleep with the TV on, though now I wonder if I woke up all on my own or if something woke me.
“How old is your niece?”
“Seventeen. Her name is Reese. Reese Crane.”
He asks if I have a picture of her, and I find one on my phone, taken just a day or so ago of her standing on the deck beside Cass, with her hand on Cass’s shoulder, her skin natural and makeup-free. She wore an oversize tee that day, which came down to her upper thigh, her legs beneath it bare, her hair air-dried so that it was tousled and wavy. Cass adores her cousin, but Reese blows hot and cold in her affection toward Cass, though when she pays attention to her, I can visibly see Cass’s self-worth increase.
He barely gives it a glance. “And the deceased—”
“Please stop calling them that,” I say, interrupting, my words so sharp he does a double take.
“Pardon?”
“The deceased.They have names, you know? They’re Nolan and Emily Crane.”
He glances to the other side of the room to see if anyone heard me, which they did, because the other officers look up. Wyatt does too. Detective Evans turns back, his ego hurt. He gives me a hard smile and says, if only to placate me, “I’m sorry, ma’am. You’re right. Of course they do. Mr. and Mrs. Crane then, they’re Reese’s parents?”
“Yes.”
“How did they get along?” Detective Evans asks then, inthe same casual manner of someone asking what kind of pizza they like.
“Excuse me?” I ask, his question—and its implication—making it suddenly hard to breathe.
“I asked, how did they get along?” he says, as if I didn’t hear him the first time. I don’t answer right away because I can’t, because it’s too horrible for words, thinking of the carnage next door and of Reese somehow being responsible for it, which is what he’s suggesting.
“You think Reese did something to hurt them?” I ask, shaking my head and feeling defensive. “No.No.That’s not possible. That’s not what happened. Someone has Reese. SomeonetookReese,” I insist.
But even as I say it, I think of last night, before Elliott and I said goodbye and left to come back home to our own cottage for the night. Reese was upset with Emily, which wasn’t unusual, because it seemed like Reese was always upset with Emily. I didn’t know why she was mad last night, because it could have been something as simple as the way Emily looked at her or a comment Emily made about Reese’s clothes or hair that set her off.
But I remember Reese’s vitriolic words as she stomped up the wooden steps, slamming a bedroom door so forcibly the whole cottage shook, an awkward silence sweeping over the rest of us before Elliott patted my knee and suggested we leave.
I hate you. I wish you’d die.
