She moves away. I find the closest aluminum can through the lens and squeeze the trigger. But I don’t squeeze. I pull, and the kick knocks me over into the grass, and Ginger starts to bark, and Freya has her hands over her face, and I panic that I somehow shot her until I realize she’s laughing, and the aluminum can is exactly where it was before. I rip the headphones from my ears. “That was awesome!”
Freya removes the spent casing, loads the rifle, and stands behind me again.
This time, I’m gentler with the trigger and more prepared for the kick. I miss the target, but at least I don’t sprawl across the ground.
“We’ll make a rifleman out of you before the end of the day,” Freya says.
Ever since Gilcrest told me my mother had died, I’ve felt numb, helpless, unable to process the death or any of its aftermath. Maybe I’ve felt that way my entire life, as I’ve tried to understand events from my childhood I can’t remember and yet shape my whole existence. Now I don’t know if it’s that Freya cared enough to come find me, or that I found out about my mother’s secret love, or that Seton risked her career to keep me from incriminating myself, or simply that I’m getting off on firing a rifle, but something in me has awoken. I want the truth, the entire truth, about my father, about my mother’s death—all of it.
And I want to tell my story.
I lay my phone on the stone wall. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?” I ask.
Freya takes a moment to answer. “You’re back,” she says.
“I’m back,” I say.
“Thanks for asking this time. Go ahead.”
I hit record and mark the time and location. “Your boyfriend accused me of killing my mother,” I say.
“Duncan’s not my boyfriend.”
“Do you spend most nights together?”
“Except when I’m pissed off at him.”
“Then I know two things for sure: Duncan Gilcrest is your boyfriend, and I didn’t kill my mother, no matter what he believes.”
Freya loads the chamber and fires off a round. Another aluminum can flies off its post. “Let’s figure out who did,” she says.
“How?” I ask.
“Examine the evidence: motive, means, and opportunity. That’s where Gina Shock would start. We’ll divide and conquer. Tomorrow, I’ll swing by Hadley’s place to see what she can tell me. It’ll be good to catch up with an old friend.”
“And I’ll start with Andrea Haviland,” I say. “I’ve barely seen her since she got out of the hospital.”
Mrs. Haviland took her boat to Burkehaven for a reason that morning, and it’s time to find out why.
We leave the shooting range and return to Freya’s truck, where I say goodbye before walking the rest of the way to Idlewood. There, Reid swims across the cove, while Hadley and Paul sit on the Adirondack chairs drinking gin and tonics.
“Where have you been?” Paul asks.
“Out and about,” I say.
“It’s good to have you here,” Hadley says.
When Reid finishes his swim, we make our way up to the house and turn on music while we cook dinner as if nothing’s changed, even if everything has. Tonight Hadley’s in charge, and she’s concocted a complicated Afghani dish of pumpkin and homemade pasta that keeps us busy as the sun sets and darkness descends. After dinner, we play Hearts on the back porch. Later, Hadley and Paul head into the night toward their respective homes. As I lay in bed, I wonder what secretsthey reveal on their walk. Soon Reid slips out of the house and drives away, like he did the night before the fire.
Everyone’s a suspect until eliminated.
That’s what Gilcrest said to me while I lay under my car the day before my mother’s memorial service. Paul. Reid. Hadley. Any of them could have murdered my mother. I’ll find out who committed the crime. I’ll ask the questions that need to be asked. I’ll find the truth and tell my mother’s story. No matter the consequences.
When I wake in the morning, I change into my running gear and head into the hills. It’s not until I’ve passed the shooting range and reached the summit overlooking the lake that I realize I slept without dreaming.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The bells over the door at the Landing ring as I walk into the café. “Is Mrs. Haviland around?” I ask Blancy, who works the espresso machine.
