She’s throwing me a line, trying to draw me into our usual humor. But for once, I can’t meet her there. I was already on shaky ground before I learned my best friend had purchased the home of the woman who killed her husband. Now, the cumulative weight sits heavy on my shoulders. I need a minute.
“You check upstairs,” I suggest, forcing a smile. “I’m going to see if there are any relics of the occult in the kitchen.”
“Suit yourself,” she says as we part ways in the abandoned house like neither of us has ever seen a horror movie. I can hear her footsteps fading upstairs.
Walking around the first level, though, I realize it’s not empty. Not completely. It looks like most of the furniture was picked over and hauled off in some chaotic fire sale. I walk through a cavernous space that must have been a drawing room at some point. A sole table lamp is left on the floor amid scraps of packing paper. Deeper into the house, the dining room is empty, and even the chandelier has been taken. A few wires sprouting out of the ceiling and a discolored ring of paint where the light was once mounted are the only signs it had ever been there.
As I wind my way through room after room, wondering what the hell Nora’s going to do with all this square footage when she’s living here all alone, I find a pocket door at the end of a hallway and slide it open.
Holy. Shit.
My breath is jagged, stuck in the center of my chest, as I take in the room. Unlike the rest of the house, which is littered with moving debris, dust, and untouched cobwebs, this room looks like it’s been cleaned—however haphazardly. There’s anabandoned bottle of wine and a pair of plastic cups on one of the built-in shelves. The cups are the sturdy kind people collect from weddings or golf tournaments, and they bear the Interlachen logo. There’s a lacy black bra on the floor.
But what makes my hands start to shake is the window seat.
I open my phone and pull up Gemma’s Instagram, holding the photo from her grid against the mirror image that’s right in front of me. The ornate carvings of the wood-framed space are identical to those in the picture I had studied and stared at until it became a blur of pixels. The only thing missing is Gemma. The caption taunts me. “When he catches you in the perfect light…”
A low-pitched whine builds in my ear. I want to believe I’m wrong. But she was here last week. That’s her bra. And her wine. This is the window seat from her post where she found “the perfect light.”
Who the fuck did she meet here? And how did she get in? Why is her stuff here and not in her fucking apartment?
And then a smaller, more reticent part of me wonders:Does Beau know the answers to any of these questions?
As much as I hate myself for wondering, the thought is too big, too loud, to force back as it claws its way to the forefront of my mind.
Acting on impulse, I snap a photo of the window seat and then race to grab the cups, wine bottle, and bra, stashing them in my tote bag. Then, I pull the cardigan at the bottom of the tote up and over the cups and bottle, to obscure them from view. And as soon as I’ve done it, a sinking regret engulfs me.
What the fuck did I just do? Why am I holding more possible evidence?
If any of this gets dusted for fingerprints, it could help us find Gemma’s killer. The next thought comes quickly and unbidden:But what if Beau killed Gemma? An affair gone too far? An accident gone horribly wrong?
That’s crazy. Impossible.
“Este?” Nora’s voice carries from the other side of the house. “You have to see this wine cellar.”
I move to find her, but my steps are slow, my thoughts heavy.The stolen evidence in my bag thumps against my hip. A dull, insistent reminder that I’ve crossed another line.
I should have left the bra and wine bottle alone. That would have been a smart move. The safe move. But it’s too late for that. Now every piece of evidence from that room has my fingerprints on it, too.
Not to mention the jar of tees in my closet and the bloody pocket square in my purse. I’m fast becoming the unofficial curator of a Gemma Klein library of clues.
If Beau has anything to do with this, I’m carrying around enough evidence to be considered an accomplice.
—
“Kyle J tomorrow?” Nora suggests after we’ve toured the grounds. Thoughts of the window seat churn in my stomach, but I let her believe the idea of HIIT is the reason I pretend to vomit on my sandals.
“Yoga or I riot,” I say.
She laughs and then looks back at the house.
“Do I need to be worried you bought the Hall House?” I ask.
“No,” Nora assures me. “It’s just a house. The history of this place is actually kind of fascinating. I’m getting the original plans from the city, and then, I am going to do a full restoration. I’ll hit every antique shop from here to Maine until it’s restored to its original glory.”
“And you’re sure?” I ask.
Nora looks at me. “You don’t have to worry. I promise.”
