With Marshall in his bedroom, Grace found herself alone. It was one of the rare moments in the last week when she could claim such a thing. Ellie was at work and her parents had gone to the hotel. She was surprised to find she enjoyed the solitude. The last ten years had been spent in isolation. Twenty hours of every day spent in her prison cell. She got to know herself well in that time. For many years, she longed to be back with her family and friends; but now that she was here, she craved the privacy she had wanted so badly to escape. Her years in medical school, and the many books she’d read in prison, told her this was merely a habitual response to a new environment. It was normal to retreat to the solace of isolation because it was all she had known for the last many years. In time, it would pass. But today she craved the solitude. Marshall’s comments had stirred fear in her gut, something only a free woman would feel. At Bordelais, her future was invisible, so she never sensed the worry that was hidden in the spent years of her life.
She walked to her bedroom and closed the door. From the top drawer of her dresser, she pulled out her love lock, which held Julian’s name below her own. She held the heavy, vintage lock in her palm and stared at their names. A strange sense of loss had found her in the past week. The ghost of Julian Crist, a bizarrely comforting presence during her incarceration—and a thing that Grace hated and blamed during various spans in the last decade—was softening only to the man she once loved.
She placed the lock on the desk and opened Ellie’s laptop. With no Internet access during her time in jail, suddenly all the information she had ever wanted was at her fingertips. Facebook was still a new medium when Grace went to prison,and she hadn’t been an active user. But she understood the website’s ability to track people down. She logged into Ellie’s profile and typedAllison Harborinto the search area. Grace scrolled through a few profiles before she found her. Julian’s ex was now a pediatrician in New Jersey, married with two kids, and with a hyphenated last name. She was different from what Grace remembered. Heavier and less attractive than the image Grace had kept in her mind during her time in prison. A nauseous feeling stirred in her stomach at the thought that this plain-looking woman had nearly stolen Julian from her. Grace spent thirty minutes looking at pictures of Allison Harbor and her family. Then, she logged out of Ellie’s Facebook account, and pulled up the Internet search engine.
She typedJulian Cristinto the browser and was inundated with thousands of options. The first few pages of results pertained toThe Girl of Sugar Beach.Grace read through them, but she was more interested in the stories from just after Julian was killed, before Sidney Ryan’s documentary had brought him back from the dead. Arrested two days after Julian’s death, Grace had never gotten the chance to read many details about the case—only what her negligent defense team presented to her and the articles Marshall had sent.
She searched the Internet for nearly an hour without pause, sucking up the information like she was reading a riveting novel. She found no stories that made the connection. She turned finally from the computer and walked to the bedroom door, quietly engaging the lock. Knowing Ellie would soon be home, Grace hurried back to the computer. The antique love lock sat on the desk. She stared again at Julian’s name, knowing that another had once taken his place. Her fingers moved over the keyboard as she typed the name into the search engine:H-E-N-R-Y A-N-D-E-RS-O-N.
CHAPTER 47
Wednesday, July 19, 2017
THIS MORNING’S ESCAPADES WOULD BE ON HER OWN DIME. SIDNEYdidn’t dare expense any of it toThe Girl of Sugar Beachbudget. The documentary was a cash cow pulling in millions in advertising revenue, and Graham and the rest of the lot wouldn’t bat an eyelash if Sidney told them she needed to fly back to St. Lucia for some last-minute footage, let alone expense some mileage and a lunch meeting. Dollars, however, were not what concerned her. Sidney wanted to keep the suits in the dark about the recent developments. The less they knew about Henry Anderson, the better. At least until she understood what, exactly, it all meant.
She stood in the lobby of Alcove Manor Rehabilitation Center, having just finished hearing Gus Morelli’s story and his startling theory of how Julian Crist and Henry Anderson might be connected. She held the phone to her ear and listened to the voice mail.
“Sid, production was down asking for the cuts for episode eight again, which obviously aren’t ready because you haven’t been in the studio for two days. The shit is hitting the fan!Graham Cromwell’s having a heart attack, and our entire staff is hiding in their offices to avoid him. Where the hell are you? Call me back. Or better yet, get in here.”
Sidney tapped her phone and ended the voice mail. In her mind’s eye, she could see Leslie at her desk, biting her nails and running a hand through her hair. Sidney knew she should call, but lying had never been her strong suit. And she was particularly bad at fabricating stories to her friends. Within a minute of starting the discussion, Leslie would know the documentary that had America on the edge of its seat was about to crash and burn in spectacular fashion. And once Leslie knew this, corporate would know it, because the only person worse than Sidney at lying was Leslie Martin.
Standing in the lobby, Sidney punched the numbers into her phone. It was the third time this morning she had called the number. This time, a woman answered.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Anderson?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Sidney Ryan. I wanted to ask you a few questions about your son.”
“David?”
“No, ma’am.” Sidney hesitated. “This is regarding Henry.”
There was a long pause.
“Henry passed away years ago, Ms. Ryan.”
“I know that. It’s the reason I’m calling.”
* * *
Betty Anderson lived in Saratoga Springs, New York, a three-hour drive from Manhattan. Sidney arrived just after two o’clock. A pleasant neighborhood with tree-lined streets—red maple and sycamore—Sidney found the home easily. She rang the doorbell and a moment later Henry Anderson’s mother answered. Frail and gaunt, Betty Anderson looked older than her sixty-seven years. Cloud-white hair was cutshort, framing a face that sagged with wrinkles. Heavy, hooded lids nearly shut her eyes, and only the constant effort of her pinched forehead kept the world visible.
“Mrs. Anderson? I’m Sidney Ryan.”
“You came all the way from the city?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Is this about your television show?”
“It is.”
Betty Anderson pushed open the front door. “Come on in.”
Sidney walked into the foyer and followed Betty into a living room, where they each sat, Betty on the edge of a love seat and Sidney adjacent to her on a side chair.
