But she knew better now, in her forties, than she had at eighteen. That even though pain and suffering were her lot in life, she had control over her actions. She wouldn’t repeat the mistakes of the past. A judge would not be so understanding this time.
But Lisa also couldn’t ignore the truth: if Gwen were gone, everything would be better.
Lisa squeezed her eyes and imagined herself and Aimee at Gwen’s funeral. The grieving friends, holding hands, leaning on each other for support. They would find succor in each other over their mutual loss. It would cement their friendship even more. Lisa would become Aimee’sfavorite personagain. After all, Aimee would turn to her whenever she wanted to remember Gwen. Lisa frowned. That could get exhausting. Having to pretend indefinitely that she was devastated that Gwen had died. She was sure to slip; a crack in her façade would show eventually. Besides, she didn’t want to mourn Gwen. No, the more she thought about it, the more she realized Gwen dying would be a disaster for her. The whole neighborhood would glorify her; she’d become a saint in death. It would be nauseating. Knowing the women in her neighborhood, they would probably start some kind of charity in her name. She would never escape Gwen then.
She rolled over on her side to face the window that she had cracked to let the cold Vermont air whisper in.
No, killing Gwen was out of the question.
There had to be another way to destroy her.
8
NOW
Aimee grips the wheel of the truck and stares straight ahead, determined to keep her emotions from showing on her face and freaking Noa out. The traffic is light on River Road as she passes over the Beltway and continues toward Potomac, where Cathy lives. After she drops Noa, she needs to oversee the installation of the blueberry bushes, and then she can circle back and see what Gwen needs. Her friend’s entire world has just been upended and Aimee wants to be there for her, the way she wishes someone had been there for her when her mother died. As for Scott, she knows he will be able to explain what she saw on the video. She didn’t hear him leave or return, for that matter. Where could he have gone?
There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation, she tells herself.
“Mom, there, turn!” Noa points at the entrance to the driveway. Aimee slows and turns. She was caught up in her thoughts and almost missed it. Cathy’s old farmhouse, with a wraparound porch, has somehow survived being torn down and replaced by the fairy-tale mansions all around it. It sits on about two acres, and there’s even an old barn off to the side that looks like it could use a good renovating. There used to be several horse farms in Potomac, and Aimee wonders what kind of farm this once was.
As soon as the truck comes to a stop, Noa rushes out and runs to the front porch.
Cathy comes to the door and opens it wide. “Come on in.” Noa runs inside, gives Cathy a quick hug, and then runs off, Aimee guesses, to find the kittens.
“I am so sorry to impose on you like this,” Aimee says, wishing she could leave without chatting. But she doesn’t want to be rude. Cathy has been very generous to allow Noa to come over.
“No imposition at all.” Cathy starts walking to the kitchen. “Coffee?” she calls over her shoulder. “I just made a fresh pot.”
Cathy’s house is a mix of heirloom quality antiques and bohemian touches. A framed old map of Block Island hangs next to an abstract watercolor. Aimee follows her to the large, airy kitchen, where Cathy is puttering around. Her long silver hair is wound in a neat bun at her neck, and she wears an oyster-gray top with a darker gray long skirt. She’s very chic for an older woman, Aimee thinks, and then admonishes herself for her assumptions about aging women. She wonders, as she sometimes does when she’s around women this age, what her own mother would be like now. She died when Aimee was in high school, not even forty-five years old. Would she be a chic sixtysomething like Cathy? Or would she be like her stepmom, Deb, practical in her sweatpants, turtlenecks, and Crocs?
Cathy hands her a cup of coffee.
“Thank you,” Aimee says, taking it. “But I can’t stay long. I don’t want to be late for an installation, and this has been a crazy morning.”
Cathy’s face creases with concern. “Oh dear, is everything all right?”
“Not really.” Aimee brings the mug to her mouth and inhales. She notices a slight tremble in her hands. So much for keeping her emotions in check until later. “A friend of mine, her husband was found dead.”
Cathy sucks in her breath, places a hand on her chest, right over a large green jade pendant. “My goodness. How awful. What happened?” She steps back, pulls out a stool from under the counter, and pats it.That’s the former teacher in her, Aimee thinks. Her ability to connect right away. And like a good pupil, Aimee takes aseat. She sends Tim a quick text telling him she’s on her way but running late, and tells Cathy what she knows. It feels good to have someone to talk to. “I’m still just processing the whole thing. It’s so awful. The police think…” Her voice trails off. Why is she being so cagey? Is it because saying it aloud makes it true?
“They think what?” Cathy cocks her head.
“They’re treating it as a murder investigation.” She fidgets with a small wooden bowl in front of her, filled with stone hearts. She pulls out a pink quartz one and worries it with her hand.
“How awful for you. And your friend.” Cathy’s gaze falls to a framed photo next to the bowl of hearts. In it, a young woman holds the hand of a little boy who grins at the camera. “That’s me and my boy. I lost him when he was young.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you had a son.”
“That was taken a long time ago. He was only three.”
“He was very cute.”
She presses her lips tight. “He was a wonderful boy. The light of my life. He would be about your age now. I think that’s one of the reasons I enjoy having Noa come visit. He was my only child, and when I lost him, well…” She gives Aimee a sad smile. “I’ll never know the joys of grandchildren.”
“But you had your students.”
Cathy smiles. “True. I do so love having little people about.”
