To Pamela Record, a kind and generous member of my online book group on Facebook. Pam has worked tirelessly for years—without even being asked—to make well over one thousand bookmarks for other book group members, which we’ve distributed in the Brenda Novak Book Boxes (a subscription box service that contains an autographed copy of the book we are reading that month along with other fun, reader-related goodies). Pam also buys at least one copy of each new book I publish to contribute to the small lending library in her community—again, she’s always thinking of others. She’s one of the many wonderful people who make Brenda Novak’s Book Group so special, and I’m not only grateful to her, I feel blessed to call her a friend.
Chapter One
Red Onion State Prison, near Pound, VA
April 16
It’d been fifteen years since Lucy Sinclair last saw her father. She’d sat at his trial, as shocked and horrified by all that’d been revealed as anyone else. There were those in the gallery who’d lost a loved one and felt profound grief and anger. Her heart broke for them. But she received no sympathy as they showed graphic pictures of her father’s victims. That three-month stretch, from the time the police had knocked on the door to the moment her father had been sentenced to life in prison, had felt like she’d been catapulted into The Twilight Zone. Except it was real. At seventeen, she was going through something that most of humanity would never experience.
As she’d sat there alone, hoping and praying that, like he’d told her, none of what she was hearing was true, the other residents of North Hampton Beach, Virginia, where she and her father had been living for four years—the longest they’d stayed in any one place—had watched her suspiciously, simply because she was related to him. Some believed she had helped him cover up his heinous crimes. She knew that from the attacks she’d received on social media—before she’d pulled down her accounts. After he was arrested, the trailer they’d been renting had been vandalized.
But she’d had absolutely no idea he’d done anything wrong. She’d admired her father. Unlike her mother, he’d stayed, he’d continued to take care of her, and she’d believed he would stand by her forever. Their relationship had seemed perfectly normal.
The memory of his trial always brought a lump to her throat. In spite of everything, she’d missed him terribly. That wasn’t something she could admit to anyone else, though. She hated to admit it even to herself. Maybe she wouldn’t have felt his loss quite so acutely if she’d had any siblings or other family—people to love and support her in his absence. But she didn’t. And once he’d gone to prison, she’d cut off all contact—changed her last name to something she saw on a gas station sign to break that connection—and soldiered on alone, rambling around the United States in a beat-up old van she’d purchased with what little money she could scrape together by selling his tools and their furniture. While other girls went to college, she’d anesthetized herself with drugs and made what gas and grocery money she could playing poker—something she was surprisingly good at, so good that she’d eventually landed in Vegas and it was how she made her living to this day. She’d never gotten a degree, and other than a few restaurant jobs, she’d never had a boss, a 401K or a regular paycheck.
She clasped her hands to keep them from shaking while she sat on the small, cracked vinyl stool and waited for prison staff to bring Mick from his cell to the other side of the thick Plexiglas. She’d never been inside a prison before, had never felt so ill at ease, except at his trial.
She almost got up and left—several times. It was a beautiful spring day outside, perfect weather. The life she’d painstakingly built was out there, as well, two thousand miles away. But she’d come because she hadn’t been able to forget something he’d said. She’d purposely disregarded it once she realized he had to be a shameless liar, and yet . . . his words troubled her late at night when she couldn’t keep the more painful memories locked in the deeper recesses of her mind.
She was finally clean, stable and strong. If she was ever going to do this, now was the time. Or so she’d thought. She didn’t feel very strong at the moment. She felt like the little girl who’d craved her daddy’s love and acceptance and had believed he’d hung the moon.
Down the row, people used telephones to talk with their loved ones. Their voices bounced off the ceilings and walls of the cavernous space, creating a resounding hum. One woman, who had a young child on her lap, wept as she clutched the dirty receiver to her ear. Lucy couldn’t see the face of the inmate she was speaking to, but she assumed it was the woman’s husband and the child’s father. She wondered what he’d done. Cooked and sold meth? Robbed a bank? Embezzled money from his employer?
Chances were it wasn’t as bad as what Mick McBride had done.
A steel-gray door opened at the far side of the room where the prisoners were brought in, and she braced for how it might feel to see her father for the first time after so long. Once again, she had the impulse to run and never look back. Proving what’d happened to Aurora Clark shouldn’t be her fight. She was probably being foolish, thinking she had to establish the truth, once and for all.
But . . . if she didn’t, who would?
Besides, after traveling all the way from Las Vegas to Virginia, she meant to get what she’d come for. She was probably worried about nothing, but if she could determine that, the peace of mind would be worth it.
Digging her fingernails into her palms, she watched as her father shuffled toward her, his once handsome face lined and weathered, his thick black hair, which he’d always styled like his idol—Elvis Presley—now gray and buzzed close to the scalp.
He fixed his dark eyes on her as he sat. He seemed stoic, unemotional. And yet his hands trembled as he adjusted his manacles to lift the phone.
It took a moment for her to follow. She’d been instantly transported back to the night she’d been watching TV in her room while he was, as manager and handyman of the park, supposed to be taking care of the people who rented spaces—or having a beer at the local bar—but must’ve been breaking into the Matteos’ trailer.
What he’d done to the old couple turned her stomach. That was fifteen years ago, but she still had trouble believing he could kill two such kind and defenseless people.
Swallowing the bile rising in her throat, she lifted the handset.
He didn’t bother with hello. “You look good.”
He didn’t. He looked old and tired, a mere shell of the man he used to be.
She tucked her thick dark hair—so much like his once was—behind her ears. “Thank you,” she said woodenly.
He had to be wondering what’d prompted this visit. But he didn’t ask. “You married?”
“No.”
“Seeing anyone?”
“No.”
“That surprises me.”
“Why would it surprise you?”
“Beautiful girl like you . . .”
“I have trouble trusting men.” Unable to resist, she added sarcastically, “I wonder why that would be the case.”
He didn’t have the grace to even look ashamed. If he could do what he’d done—he probably wasn’t. That was the thing that set him apart, what put him in an entirely different class of people. “So . . . you’re planning to go through life alone?”
She’d had relationships here and there and one broken engagement back in her drug days. She was certainly glad she hadn’t married Dean. Last she’d heard, he was still using. “Not exactly. I’m just hoping to fix what’s wrong with me first.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“I’ve had some counseling. Maybe I’ll continue.”
He chuckled without mirth. “Waste of time.”
“Maybe for you. I feel like it’s helped me—to a point.”
“Then I’m glad to hear it. Whatever works, right? Do you have any kids?”
“No.”
“That’s unfortunate. You always wanted a family.”
“It’s not too late.”
He didn’t say it, but it was probably getting close. “Where are you living these days?”
“Vegas.”
He rocked back. “Why Vegas?”
“I’m a professional poker player.”
He blinked several times. “You work for one of the casinos?”
“No, I play in one,” she clarified. “That’s how I make my living.” She could’ve lied and invented something else. She often did, simply because people assumed she must be a reprobate—in the Calvinistic sense—to make her living in such a fashion. Just the mention of poker conjured up dated images of late nights and smoky rooms filled with intoxicated, bleary-eyed players willing to risk their last penny, even though their children depended on the money. But professional players had to be patient, sharp and clearheaded or they wouldn’t be able to make a living for long.
Her father’s scraggly eyebrows slid toward his hairline. “No kidding. You win a lot?”
“Of money? Sometimes.” Because she was a woman, and younger, the other players tended to underestimate her. Or they got distracted coming on to her. She loved nothing more than to sit at a table full of older men who believed themselves to be better players than she was. That almost always worked in her favor. “There are also the endorsement deals, which can add up.”
“You must be really good if you have a sponsor.”
“I hold my own.”
“I remember teaching you the game,” her father said. “At least I left you with one skill.”
He’d taught her a lot of things. The parents of her friends had thought it a bit odd that she was introducing poker to her playmates in the fifth grade. Her upbringing certainly wasn’t conventional. But her father had always taken care of her and done what he could, considering his own background. He’d grown up in the foster care system and hadn’t kept in contact with the many families he’d lived with. He’d struggled with depression and with no extended family to rely on, they’d rambled around, which meant he hadn’t been the best provider. She’d been embarrassed and a little ashamed to have friends over, especially that last year as the richest summer boy started to show some interest in her.
But she remembered many times when her father had put her needs before his own. That engendered loyalty—and trust, which was why she’d never seen what was coming, and why she’d been torn in two ever since DNA evidence had connected him to the deaths of the old couple who’d lived in their trailer park. A separate jury had convicted him of a third murder involving a girl her age—someone she’d also known; someone who’d once been a friend—but on far less reliable evidence.
“You weren’t a bad father,” she admitted, which had to be the greatest irony in the world. She still couldn’t understand how a man could be two such opposite things. But he’d never hurt her. If he was going to kill someone, she would’ve thought he’d go after her mother. From what he’d said over the years, Billie had given him a million reasons to hate her. Her mother had let them both down in so many ways.
His forehead creased, and he shifted on the stool as if he didn’t know how to take the compliment. These days, he had to be far more accustomed to being reviled. Maybe he’d shut off all his emotions and what she’d said made him more uncomfortable than if she’d told him the opposite. “I thought . . .” He cleared his throat. “I thought I’d seen the last of you.”
“You told me never to contact you,” she reminded him.
“I thought that was what would be best for you—best for both of us. So . . . what brings you here? Must be important for you to have come so far.”
A million questions swirled in her mind. But she knew he couldn’t answer the ones that tortured her most. She’d already asked him why he’d done what he’d done—during the trial when her belief in his protestations of innocence began to crumble. He’d simply hung his head and said he couldn’t remember doing it.
“You told me something fifteen years ago,” she said, “something that’s bothered me ever since.”
“I’m sure there are many things that bother you about me,” he said wryly.
She wasn’t going to deny it. “This one had to do with Aurora Clark.”
“What about her?”
Aurora had been the most popular girl in high school. Born to wealthy parents who owned two art museums and a wine store in town, she’d also been interested in Ford Wagner, whom Lucy had been dating at the time. The fact that Lucy had disliked Aurora—for her aggressive pursuit of Ford and many other reasons—made it look as though he’d killed Aurora for her sake . . .
Maybe that was why this was so important to her. She was out to prove it wasn’t true as much as anything else. It couldn’t be true. She’d only ever mentioned Aurora to him as a “mean girl.” Unless . . . had he overheard her on the phone? Picked up on more town gossip than she’d imagined? “You said they could try all they wanted to come up with evidence linking you to her case, but they wouldn’t find any.”
“Because I didn’t kill her,” he said simply.
He stated it as if she could take it for what it was worth—and somehow seemed credible. Could she believe him, though? All the self-help gurus she’d followed on YouTube over the years would tell her she couldn’t. Before that fateful summer, there hadn’t been a murder in North Hampton Beach since forever. Then, suddenly, three bodies showed up within weeks of each other. What were the chances that there’d be two active killers at almost the same time?
Very small. Lucy understood that. She played poker for a living, calculated the odds on everything.
And yet . . . There were always outliers. Odds only predicted what was most likely true.
“You killed Tony and Lucinda.” Even she could hear the petulant accusation in her voice. “Why should I believe you about Aurora?”
He seemed world-weary when he answered. “You are the only thing I’ve ever cared about in my entire life, Lucy. But what I did created a permanent divide between us. Are you going to feel the way you once did about me if I killed one less person?” He chuckled humorlessly. “No. And I’m not going to torment myself by wanting it.” He jerked his head to indicate their surroundings. “You stay in here long enough, you grow numb. I told you when they took me away that I never wanted to see you again, and I meant it. I couldn’t face the pain and disappointment in your eyes. That was the real punishment. But now that you’re here . . .” He sighed. “I’m telling you the truth.”
There was so much in his statement that hurt—that he honestly had, and maybe still did, care about her, that he knew better than to even hope she could ever love him back, that by taking other people’s lives he’d essentially given up his own.
Flinching against those emotional daggers, she told herself to focus on the information instead. “If you didn’t do it, who did?”
He met and held her gaze. “Hell if I know. But someone’s getting away with murder. Maybe you care about that,” he said and hung up the receiver, signaling the end of the conversation.
Chapter Two
May 21
Virginia
Ford Wagner stood on the beach, facing the sea, and closed his eyes as he drew the salt air into his lungs. God, he’d missed this place. He’d spent all his childhood summers in North Hampton Beach—had such magical memories of the warm sand shifting beneath his feet, the icy surf rippling over his body, the melodic sound of the ice cream truck as it made its daily rounds and the sight of an egg-yolk sun peeking up over the horizon when he was so eager to hit the beach sleep was no longer an option.
As he’d grown older, there’d been parties and bonfires to attend, not to mention losing his virginity to the much older girl staying in the house next door. He even got his driver’s license while he was here, after learning to drive in the Jeep his parents had given him for his sixteenth birthday.
Those were the days . . . But so much had changed. First, there were the murders that’d taken place between his junior and senior years in high school. They’d stolen the innocence of this small community, cast a pall over everything—and freaked his mother out so much she refused to come back.
Then, just before he’d graduated from Brown University with his MBA, his parents had gone through a bitter divorce and his father had married a woman who was half his age. After spending eight turbulent years with her and having two more boys—a second family—he’d had a heart attack and died in January. Now his widow was contesting the will, attempting to get more money. And not just a little. She was going after the bulk of the estate—something he couldn’t even mention to his mother. Sara was so bitter about everything that’d happened, it would just send her back into therapy. And he couldn’t expect his brother, older by two years, to help carry the load. Houston was an alcoholic who’d be on the streets if not for the paycheck he received from Wagner Business Solutions for doing absolutely nothing and Sara letting him live with her. Ford had to run the family business, as well as fight the parasite attempting to attach herself to the family fortune—while going through a divorce himself.
The perfect, healthy, happy family he’d once had was now shattered and broken, and his soon-to-be ex-wife was pregnant, which absolutely terrified him. He’d always looked forward to having kids, but this was not how he wanted to start a family. Now he was facing a custody battle with a woman who’d proven herself to be so vengeful he suspected she’d quit taking her birth control pills on purpose.
When he opened his eyes, he felt as though he could see the pieces of his former life drifting in the ocean like debris after a shipwreck.
“Ford, is that you?”
He turned to find an old friend walking toward him—someone he hadn’t seen for years—a Frisbee in one hand, an empty leash in the other and a Labrador retriever trailing behind, sniffing at a pile of seaweed. “Chet! How are you, man? I had no idea you’d be here.”
“I still come every summer. My sisters are too busy with kids in various sports, but as the baby of the family, I’m not involved in all of that quite yet. My wife and I use the house, and I get a few paintings done while I’m not in school teaching art classes. Then my folks, sisters and their families join us for a couple of weeks in August.”
“Where do you teach?”
“I’m in Baltimore these days, at a community college.”
“That’s great.” The last time he’d seen Chet Anthony was when they’d planned an Atlantic City meetup—together with a few other guys—during college. They’d all lived in different places and gone to different universities, so the only thing they’d had in common was summers in North Hampton Beach and that they came from mostly wealthy families, which was probably why, despite promises that it’d never happen, they’d drifted apart.
“I enjoy it—but would like to become successful enough with my own painting to do it full-time.”
“What kind of painting do you do?”
“Mostly I paint birds—in acrylics.”
“It’ll happen.”
“I hope so. It’s good to see you again. What brings you back after so long?”
Ford was searching for the peace and happiness he’d once known in this place. But he wasn’t about to admit that. His mother would be furious. She wouldn’t want anyone to know they had problems; she was all about keeping up appearances. “We’ve been renting out the house for so long it needs to be repaired and updated. So I’m taking a few months off to make that happen.” He was actually supposed to get it ready for sale. Since his mother and brother never used it anymore, they were pressing him, as the trustee of his father’s estate, to liquidate. They wanted the money. He might have to give his soon-to-be ex a portion of the proceeds, too, and Paris, his father’s widow. But he didn’t want the locals to know what he was planning to do until he pounded in the For Sale sign, mostly because he didn’t want to deal with their reaction. And he couldn’t face parting with the house that held his best memories. He wasn’t even going to allow himself to think about putting it on the market until the summer was over.
The dog was wandering too far. “Eddie!” Chet called and whistled to bring him back before saying, “Heard about your father, dude. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. Came as a shock. He was always so active. We thought he was perfectly healthy.”
“From what I heard, his new wife kept him busy.”
That was a euphemistic way of acknowledging the embarrassing relationship. Ford was shocked his father could be stupid enough to be fooled by someone like Paris. Just looking at the two of them together gave the impression she was a gold digger, and that was exactly what she’d turned out to be. “She’s not an easy person to deal with.”
“Spoiled?”
“Selfish, too. And she’s the mother of my two half brothers, so I’m unlikely to ever get her completely out of my life.”
“That’s rough. I wanted to attend the funeral, but Kira was days away from giving birth to Kenzie.”
A warm wind, coming off the water, ruffled their hair and clothes. “So you’re married and have a baby now?”
He smiled like a besotted fool. “Yeah. And both are pretty amazing.”
“Congratulations!”
“You’ll have to come by. I’d love for you to meet them.”
“I’ll do that. I’m sorry I haven’t kept in touch. Life has . . . gotten away from me.”
“No worries. It’s not all your fault. It’s been overwhelming for me, too. How’s your mother?”
Not the same. That was the thing. Sara was once a warm, fun-loving, well-adjusted woman. But the divorce seemed to have damaged her irreparably. Now she was anxiety riddled; only her psych meds kept her going. “Fine,” he lied.
“And Houston?”
Houston had been a burnout since high school. Most people assumed he’d never amount to much. And that was proving to be true. “The same.”
Chet once again called his dog to his side. “How long are you in town?”
“The entire summer.” He’d never needed three months to himself more . . .
“Really? Who’s taking care of the business while you’re gone?”
“My next in command.”
“You must trust him a great deal.”
“It’s a her, and I do. I’ll be working remotely while I renovate the house. But I can’t imagine Renee will need me too often. She’s been around forever, and sales typically slow down in the summer.”
“Wow, man, you’re running the whole freaking empire already. I always knew it would be you and not Houston.”
He ignored the Houston part. His brother benefited from what their father had built almost as much as he did, but he was the one doing all the work so things wouldn’t fall apart. The inequity of it sometimes bothered him. He kept telling himself to be grateful he was capable of following in his father’s footsteps, but he felt Houston could do more to help than he did. Instead, he’d become a burden, and that had created even more contention in Ford’s marriage. “Selling software to businesses isn’t an empire.”
“From what I’ve heard, you’ve made vast improvements to something that was already the best on the market. Wagner Business Solutions does data warehousing, right?”
He dug his toes deeper in the sand. He was still wearing the khaki shorts and golf shirt he’d arrived in. He’d been so eager to set foot on the beach he’d dropped his luggage as soon as he entered the house, kicked off his shoes and padded down the stairs off the deck. “Among other data-driven things.”
“Why would you take time off to renovate a house?”
Because he needed to do something different, something therapeutic, and for him that included working with his hands. By the end of each day, he planned to be too exhausted to think. “I’m looking forward to the challenge.”
“Have you ever been involved in construction?”
“No. But it isn’t rocket science. I’ll figure it out.”
Chet clicked his tongue. “If anyone can do it, you can.”
“And if I can’t, I’ll just hire a sub.”
“Some of the faces around here have changed. Let me give you my number. If you need help, I should be able to steer you to the right person—if I can’t lend a hand myself.”
“I appreciate that.”
They exchanged contact information. Then Chet called his dog one final time, put him on a leash and lifted a hand to wave. “We’ll figure out a date to have you over for dinner,” he said as he started to walk away.
“I appreciate that. It’s nice to run into a friendly face.”
“I might’ve given you the wrong impression. You should still know quite a few people. The old guard never seems to change.” Chet retraced the steps he’d just taken in anticipation of leaving, a serious expression on his face. “Matter of fact, I was just at the barber’s, where I heard that Lucy is back for the summer.”
“You mean . . . Lucy McBride? The one whose father . . .”
Chet’s mouth twisted. “Killed that old couple? And Aurora? Yes.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Nope. Only she goes by Sinclair now.”
“So she’s married . . .”
“According to the Clarks, she isn’t.”
“How would they know?” he asked.
Chet shrugged. “You got me. She’s rented the Smoot cottage—where that spinster librarian lived?”
“Lived? What happened to Ms. Smoot? Don’t tell me she passed away—”
“No, she’s in a home these days. Fell and broke her hip, so Dahlia’s taking care of the place while her aunt recuperates.”
He remembered Dahlia. She hadn’t hung out with his group, either, but he’d seen her around quite a bit. “And she rented it to Lucy?”
“Now you’re catching on. Aurora Clark’s parents are furious about it.”
Ford could see why, but . . . He scratched his neck. He thought of Lucy every now and then—more often than he wanted to—and felt bad for how he and the rest of the community had treated her. At the time, everyone had been so shocked and horrified they could think only of their own loss and anger. No one had been looking out for the daughter Mick McBride would leave behind when he went to prison, even though she was only seventeen at the time.
That seemed pretty harsh now. He’d wondered over the years how she’d gotten by on her own, what she’d been doing and how she’d turned out. She’d been smart. Savvy. He knew that from the time he’d spent with her. Had she gone to college? “What’s she been doing since she left?” he asked.
“No idea,” Chet replied. “I don’t think she stayed in touch with anyone.”
That didn’t come as any surprise. “Then . . . what in the world would bring her back?”
“That’s what we’d all like to know.”
“When will she be here?”
“I’m assuming the first of the month. That would make the most sense for rental purposes.”
The Smoot property was a small bungalow set off by itself, just down from his place. “Then I guess we’ll soon find out,” he said.
When Ford reached his family’s summer house, only half a mile or so from where he’d run into Chet, he didn’t stop and go inside as he would’ve done had he not learned that Lucy Sinclair was coming to town. Curiosity compelled him to continue walking and, when an inlet cut off the beach, take a small trail through the scrub grass to the Smoot cottage.
Although it was much smaller and didn’t have a view of the ocean like Coastal Comfort—the name his mother had given their house—the Smoot cottage offered privacy. He could see why Lucy might want to stay there as opposed to somewhere in town. It was out of the way of the locals, and most of the tourists wouldn’t even know about it, let alone wander this far from the public beach and the quaint restaurants and shops they frequented.
The trailer park she’d once called home was off the beaten path, too, he remembered, except it was on the other side of town. He could understand why she might not want to be close to that, either. He could only imagine the terrible memories seeing it would bring back. He’d never forget the day the police showed up to search her trailer. Ford had taken Lucy out several times by then—they’d actually become a couple—and she’d texted him immediately, terrified and confused.
She’d needed a friend. But he’d put her off, told her he couldn’t come over.
Looking back, he cringed at his response, especially because he’d never followed up like he’d promised. Instead, he’d distanced himself the way his parents demanded. They’d insisted she was trash, bad news, not worth his time. They’d said she had to have realized her father was a violent man who’d done something unforgivable, and not coming forward was just as bad as participating in those crimes herself.
He’d known they were stretching for something to hold against her. Judging by the stricken look on Lucy’s face during the trial, which was held in Montross only twenty-five minutes away, she’d had no clue.
Still, he’d allowed his parents to persuade him, and the fact that everyone else turned on her, too, convinced him they must be right. Kids were heavily influenced by their peers; he’d been afraid standing by her would make him a pariah. It wasn’t as if he’d been with her for months or years. If he’d known her better, maybe he would’ve reacted differently.
At least, that was what he’d told himself since. But he knew in his heart that what he’d done had hurt her—so much that she had to hate him.
He’d hate him if he were her . . .
The place looked dark and closed up, and the garden was overrun with weeds. It’d obviously been untended for a while. He remembered seeing the little free library old lady Smoot had put up next to her mailbox when he was just a kid and wondered if she’d ever be able to come home.
He walked around front. Sure enough, there was no car parked in the drive. But according to what Chet had told him, there soon would be. What did Lucy hope to accomplish here?
There had to be some motivation because, for her, returning to North Hampton Beach would be like bleeding in shark-infested waters.
He was just pivoting to head back when a car turned in. He’d been caught nosing around, which felt awkward, but it would only make matters worse if he skulked off as if he’d been doing something wrong. It was much smarter to wait and say hello to whoever was behind the wheel. At least then he could play off his visit.
Dahlia, Sharon Smoot’s niece, climbed out as soon as the engine went off. With her distinctive red hair and myriad freckles covering her face and arms, he recognized her immediately, despite the years that’d passed since he’d last seen her.
“Well, if it isn’t Ford Wagner, the boy everyone wanted to be—or be with!” she said, grinning from ear to ear.
“What are you up to these days?” he asked.
“Causing trouble, as usual.” She opened the back door of her SUV and hauled out a laundry basket full of sheets and towels. “What about you?”
“Just working for a living.”
“Well, what you consider a living and what I consider a living are probably two different things,” she said with a cackle.
“It’s good to see you again.” He walked over to carry the basket for her. “How’s your aunt?”
“Old, which makes it hard for her to mend. She’s been in a convalescent home in Richmond for months.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Looking confused, she relinquished the basket into his hands. “So . . . you walked over to visit my aunt? I didn’t realize you knew her that well.”
“I don’t. I just got into town and was on the beach when I ran into Chet, who told me you rented this place to Lucy Sinclair—who’s actually Lucy McBride. That true?”
With a grimace, she grabbed her purse from the front seat and slammed the door. “Don’t tell me you’re going to start in on me, too. I’ve taken so much grief over that. Everyone who comes to the bar where I work bitches at me for it. But I didn’t know Lucy Sinclair was Lucy McBride
until I’d already admitted the cottage was still available. It took me a few moments to realize there was something familiar about her and ask if it was her.”
“And she admitted it was?”
“Seemed a little hesitant, which made me feel bad. She was obviously worried I wouldn’t rent to her if she told me the truth. And yet she was always nice to me when she lived here. So I’m not going to discriminate. Besides, my aunt needs the income to offset some of her medical bills and, as far as I’m concerned, Lucy hasn’t done anything wrong.”
He arched one eyebrow. “The Clark family would disagree with you.”
She shot him a sheepish expression. “I know. I remember that summer, too, and I feel bad for what happened to Aurora. She wasn’t the nicest person—not to me, anyway—but she didn’t deserve to die.” She dug around in her purse, came up with a set of keys and started for the front door. “Still, who am I to tell Lucy McBride that she can’t come back here?”
“I’m not suggesting you should’ve done that. I’m just wondering if you know why she’s coming.”
She unlocked the door and swung it wide before waving him inside ahead of her. “Nope. Didn’t tell me. And I didn’t want to pry. I’m just going to freshen the place and hope she doesn’t cause any trouble while she’s here.”
He glanced back at her as she followed him in. “I think the Clarks are more likely to cause trouble than she is.”
“They’d better not. She’s not the one who killed Aurora.”
“So they’re no longer claiming Mick did it for her benefit?”
The level of light in the room dimmed as she closed the door. “To get rid of her romantic rival? So that she’d have no competition for you?”
He didn’t want to be the reason anyone had died. He could only imagine how much worse it would be for Lucy to be accused, even if it was only via gossip, of having a girl killed over normal teenage drama. “They were claiming something like that,” he mumbled.
She took the basket and put it on the floor of the living room. “Aurora thought you were too good for a poor girl living in a trailer park. She complained about Lucy to her friends and family all the time. I bet that’s where it’s coming from.”
“Probably.” He remembered Aurora showing up at his house late one night, smelling of alcohol and being a little too eager to climb into his bed. Fortunately, he’d been so caught up in Lucy he hadn’t been interested—or he would’ve felt even worse about her death. “You’re saying they’ve stuck by it ever since?”
“Really seem to believe it,” she said. “I warned Lucy that they still live in town, and it might not be pleasant for her here, but . . .”
“But . . .” he prompted.
She sighed as she rested her hands on her hips and looked around at the dusty interior. She obviously had her work cut out for her. “Lucy’s either brave or stupid, because she wanted to rent this place, anyway.”
“So . . . when’s she coming?”
“Lease starts first of June. But I told her it’s sitting empty, so she can come whenever she wants.”
“And what’d she say to that?”
“She just thanked me—politely—and left it there.”
He didn’t need this complication. He’d come here to escape. But in a way he was glad. Maybe he’d have the chance to apologize and make up for what he’d done—or hadn’t done—so he could really leave the past in the past. “Do you have her number?”
Dahlia’s eyes narrowed. “I do. Why?”
“I’d like to have it—so I can check on her now and then while she’s here.”
“Check on her? Last I heard, you were married. As a landlord, I’m not sure I can give out that kind of personal information, anyway.”
“I’m divorced—or soon will be. But this isn’t about that. I feel I should’ve done more for her back then and would like to be able to look out for her now, from a distance,” he clarified. “I won’t bother her other than to make sure she isn’t harassed.”
Dahlia studied him for several seconds. “Okay, I believe you,” she relented and got out her phone.
Chapter Three
He had Lucy McBride’s—Sinclair’s—phone number, which felt strange after so many years. Ford had been excited about her once, could still remember how beautiful she was with all that thick, curly dark hair tumbling down her back, her big, liquid brown eyes and her smooth, golden skin. When she wasn’t in a simple bikini at the beach, she’d almost always worn the same pair of cutoffs that hung loosely on her hips with a scooped-neck tee and a pair of flip-flops, and never bothered with makeup. Since all the other girls were highlighting their hair, getting their nails done, tanning for hours each day and buying expensive clothes, makeup and jewelry, she’d stood out. She didn’t seem to care all that much about her appearance, and yet, the more he’d looked at her, the more he’d thought she was the prettiest one of all.
She hadn’t been part of the group of friends he’d hung out with, though, so it hadn’t been easy to get to know her. He was among the rich summer folk, staying in multimillion dollar vacation homes with a view of the ocean, and she was a year-rounder who lived in a trailer park and worked at the hot dog stand by the beach to help her father pay the bills. The first time he’d seen her, he’d been with his buddies, sitting on towels to protect them from the hot sand, enjoying some shaved ice after tossing around a football, and she’d been playing in the surf with the three-legged mutt she’d called Trip she’d adopted from a shelter because no one else wanted him.
He remembered being mesmerized by the fact that she didn’t care whether or not they were watching her—didn’t care if anyone was. When her dog came hobbling over, she’d followed to drag him away, and from the start she’d seemed refreshingly wholesome and unpretentious—real in a world where everything else seemed staged. She’d come as a relief to him. His mother, and the other girls he’d known, were so concerned with the trivialities of life.
Of course, all that natural, God-given beauty made Lucy even more appealing. He wondered what she looked like now.
After spending the evening on the back deck with a glass of whiskey, staring out at the foaming waves washing up the beach under a full moon, he’d slept in the master bedroom and had breakfast in town, where he ran into several people who welcomed him back. He also heard Lucy’s name again, so he knew word was spreading fast and that the community wouldn’t be quite as welcoming to her.
He was tempted to warn her. Now that he had her number, he could text her. But Dahlia had already alerted her. She knew what she’d be facing here . . .
Before returning to Coastal Comfort, he drove past Shady Lane Trailer Park. The community had purchased the mobile home where the Matteos had lived, yanked it out and burned it to ashes. Then they’d put a statue in its place honoring the three people who’d been murdered in North Hampton Beach. Lucy’s old trailer was gone, too—replaced by a tiny park with a single bench. His parents had contributed to make these changes. So had the Clarks, of course, and many others.
He remembered his folks talking about the project, but they’d been back in Bethesda, Maryland, by the time it was finished.
He turned off his engine and got out so he could read the plaque on the bronze angel.
Did Lucy know about the memorial? How would she feel when she saw it? And what about the park bench that’d replaced the home she’d once shared with her father?
Nothing that summer could’ve been easy on her. That was what he kept coming back to—that and the fact that he hadn’t made it any easier.
When he returned home, he had a slew of work emails waiting for him. That would probably be the case most days. He’d have to wade through them and check to see if Renee needed him before he tackled any construction work.
But after he’d finished with his regular job, he wasn’t in a hurry to start on the house. Although the place was a little the worse for wear—it could
use new flooring, window coverings and paint—he enjoyed being surrounded by the familiar. Fortunately, the service that’d managed the property had kept up with some of the bigger items. The roof and HVAC system had been replaced over the last few years. So had the deck.
He figured he’d have time to update the hot water heater and deal with the cosmetic stuff. He’d come here mostly to have a chance to heal from his coming divorce. He hoped he’d be able to do that. But he couldn’t stop thinking about Lucy . . .
Would she wait until the first of the month to move in? Or would she come in the next few days?
Maybe she was already in town, had shown up this morning, and the community just didn’t know it yet.
As soon as he got off the computer, he went out for a walk and veered around to the Smoot cottage on the way back. It looked quiet and dark, like it had yesterday. He assumed Dahlia had finished with the inside, but she’d done nothing to tame the weeds or make the outside presentable. He didn’t get the impression she was even planning on doing that . . .
He told himself the outside didn’t matter. But coming back here had to be so daunting for Lucy that he wanted to do something to make it easier—something that wouldn’t be attributed to him but just might make it feel a bit more welcoming. And if she didn’t move in until she was technically supposed to, which was still several days away, he’d have time.
After circling the house and assessing the flower beds, the broken gate and the overgrown hedges, he made a list of tools and plants he’d need. Then he jogged back to his own house and got his car to head to the closest nursery.
June 1
Las Vegas
Dahlia had said she could move in early, but Lucy had needed time to make all the arrangements. Even if she could’ve come earlier, she probably wouldn’t have. She’d spent fifteen years trying to distance herself from that terrible summer when her life fell apart. She still couldn’t believe she was reversing that decision and going back.
But if he didn’t kill Aurora, then someone else did, and that person should be held accountable. It wasn’t like she could just call the police and tell them they needed to reopen the investigation into Aurora’s murder. If she did, they’d probably laugh at her.
The death of the Matteos had broken her heart. Lucinda used to bake the best chocolate chip cookies, and Tony always had a smile and a kind word for her. That her father could harm them was unthinkable. But it was Aurora’s murder that’d affected her the most, because she’d been blamed, in an indirect way. So maybe she wanted to redeem herself, too—to prove she hadn’t been involved at all.
She had to sit on the lid of her suitcase so she could zip it shut—she’d definitely overpacked—but if she was going to be gone the whole summer, she’d need all the stuff she was bringing.
Once she had it closed, she checked her watch. Her Uber would be arriving any moment. Then she’d be off.
With a sigh, she wandered around the condo she’d purchased with cash from her poker winnings. It was a decent place, one in which she felt secure and far from the girl she used to be in North Hampton Beach. That would all change by the end of the day, but at least this haven would be here waiting for her.
If things got too bad, she could always return early.
Ford had worked at the Smoot cottage for four days. What’d started out as a simple cleanup job had turned into an all-out effort to make the cottage as appealing as it could be. Other than purchasing some basic supplies and plants, he hadn’t spent a lot of money. It didn’t make sense to spend too much on someone else’s property. But he’d invested plenty of sweat equity and was so pleased with the results that he kept going back to do just a little more and a little more after that until he was damn proud of how it had turned out.
He didn’t know anything about landscaping when he’d started and yet the place was now as appealing as the ones he’d found on Instagram and used as inspiration. As a matter of fact, he wished he could be present when Lucy arrived so he could witness her reaction. He thought she was going to love it. Who wouldn’t?
There were a few things he wished he could go over with her, to make sure that what he’d planted would survive if he couldn’t manage the watering and such. He didn’t want to freak her out by coming onto the
property again and again, especially when he knew she’d probably rather not see him, not after how it had gone the last time he’d seen her.
He’d never forget stopping by the trailer after the trial was over. He’d felt bad that with her father in prison for life, she was suddenly on her own, cast adrift at seventeen with no family to help support her—and he felt guilty for walking away from her as soon as the police arrested her father—so he’d gone over to see how he could help.
He’d found her selling all the furniture they owned, wrestling what she could outside and taping a piece of paper on each item with the price, but she’d acted as if he was absolutely invisible, as if he wasn’t standing right in front of her. If he blocked her, she’d simply move on to something else. She wouldn’t respond to him even when he’d said he wanted to give her some money to help with the move. So then he’d tried to buy something, but she wouldn’t even look at him let alone take his money.
In the end, he’d left five hundred dollars on the counter—which she returned the next day by leaving it on the seat of his Jeep.
He winced as he recalled how he’d felt when he found the money. He’d known how badly she needed it, so he’d gone back over to try to get her to take it. But the trailer held only the remnants of her life in North Hampton Beach—what she hadn’t been able to sell. She was gone, and he hadn’t heard from her since.
As far as he knew, no one had.
Until now.
Again, he wondered why she was coming back. She had to be a glutton for punishment. Or was she out for revenge against the people here who should’ve been kinder but were so shocked and frantic over her father’s crimes they couldn’t help punishing her—to some extent, anyway—along with him?
His phone went off. Setting the lawn edger he’d just used against the side of the house, he dug his cell out of his pocket—and cursed when he saw that it was his soon-to-be ex. Christina had changed so much since the day he met her. He still wondered how he’d been so easily duped. Yes, she was a beautiful woman, but he’d always considered himself smarter than to be fooled by a pretty face.
Well, she was a lot more than a pretty face. It was her poise, her quick wit, her gregarious nature and her adventurous spirit that’d drawn him in. It wasn’t until they were married that he encountered her darker side. She soon became so demanding there wasn’t any way to satisfy her. She’d make her expectations clear, he’d do his best to meet them, thinking that was the only way to find peace, and then she’d just raise her expectations again. In the end, it’d felt like she was devouring his very soul.
He considered ignoring the call. He needed to finish gathering his tools so he could get off the property in case Lucy arrived. Let Christina scream at his voice mail. Then he could text her back, thus avoiding what was sure to be an emotionally charged conversation—because they all were.
Except she didn’t leave a message. She just kept calling him.
Steeling himself against the anger and irritation that welled up, he hit the Talk button. “’Lo?”
“Whoa! You answered?” she said.
Ignoring the accusation in her voice, he cut right to the point. “What can I do for you, Christina?”
“I heard you’re in North Hampton Beach . . .”
Someone at the company must’ve told her. She used to work for Wagner Business Solutions—that was where they’d met. But she’d alienated so many people over the years, he was surprised she still had a friend there who would speak to her. “And that’s of interest to you because . . .”
“You’ve told me a lot about that place.”
He still didn’t get it. “And?”
“God, you’ve gotten prickly!”
“We’re in the middle of a divorce,” he reminded her. “People who divorce usually aren’t on the best of terms.”
“That doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”
“Friends?” he echoed.
“Look, I’ll be having your baby in seven months. Do you really want to give up on our relationship? Our biggest problem was all the time you had to devote to your work and your family. You never knew where to draw the line.”
That hadn’t been their biggest problem; it had only been one of them. And he’d been willing to compromise, as much as he could. But every time he took a step in the direction she wanted, she pushed him to take another. If he wasn’t free 24/7 to be at her beck and call, she wouldn’t be happy. “I still have the same job,” he said blandly.
“But you’re taking the summer off, right? Why don’t I come join you and . . . and we can try to rebuild what we once had—for the sake of our child?”
For the sake of our child . . . Everything she said was manipulative. She knew refusing a plea like that would make him feel terrible.
But he wasn’t going to make that mistake again. When he’d agreed to reconcile on two other occasions, it hadn’t worked. She’d already proved she wasn’t willing to put forth the effort necessary to change anything. She wanted him to be the one to please her, but that would require sacrificing his own judgment in favor of hers in every instance—becoming a mindless drone who believed only what she told him to believe and did only what she told him to do. What she wanted was control of everything, her way every time, and that was the one thing he couldn’t give her.
Closing his eyes, he chuckled mirthlessly while he imagined the summer with Christina in town. There was no way he wanted any memory of her attached to this place.
And even if he didn’t feel that protective of North Hampton Beach, reconciling with her would be like getting back into a car with a drunk driver who was already careening out of control. It would be one hell of a ride—and then they’d crash, and he’d have even more healing and rebuilding to do.
“I wish I could do that, but I can’t.” He’d lost too much of himself already.
His reply met with silence. Displeased silence. Stubborn silence. At this point, he knew the conversation would go one of two ways. She would either start screaming that he was solely responsible for the failure of their marriage, or she’d try to convince him to come back to her. She never listened to what anyone said, never accepted a reality she didn’t like—she always had to push for more. And because she was carrying his baby, she had incredible leverage over him. She knew how important it was to him that he be part of his child’s life, knew this would enable her to retain a certain amount of control.
“Don’t you remember what it was like in the beginning?” she asked, cajolingly. “It could be that good again.”
Except it couldn’t be. That was an illusion. A lyric from a Taylor Swift song came to mind—something about a nightmare being dressed as a daydream. “That ship has sailed, Christina. We’re no good together. We just need to figure out a way to move on with mutual respect and kindness.”
“You don’t think I’ve shown you the proper respect?” she snapped.
When she got angry, she didn’t show anyone respect. She could be absolutely ruthless one minute only to shrug it off the next. That she didn’t already know that about herself stunned him. But she was the least self-aware person he’d ever met, always blamed the other party for provoking her instead of taking responsibility for the cruel things she said and did.
“I’m talking about the future,” he clarified. “Let’s move forward with a renewed commitment to kindness—for the sake of our child,” he added, turning her own words back on her.
“That isn’t what our child needs. He needs both a mother and a father.”
“You don’t know it’s a ‘he.’” And a “he” wouldn’t tempt him back any more than a “she,” so she was throwing out another hook that wasn’t going to snag him. He’d love a child of either gender.
“I have a feeling it is.”
“Well, you’re mistaken if you think I have a strong preference.”
“You’re not interested in trying to make our marriage work either way?”
“It can’t work! We’ve already tried,” he said, and considering how long he’d suffered over the breakup, he was relieved to find he was truly done this time. He’d had enough.
“Fine,” she snapped. “Then I’ll just tell our child his father didn’t give a shit about him.”
“Christina—” he said, but she disconnected.
He sighed as he slid his phone back into his pocket. No wonder he’d enjoyed cleaning up the yard around the Smoot cottage. It was something he could fix. Nothing else in his life seemed to fall into that category.
The sound of a car turning into the drive caught his attention, and he quickly ducked behind a thick bush. He’d lingered too long. Now, if he didn’t want to be seen, he had to stay out of sight.
Was it Lucy? Or Dahlia, coming to see if Lucy had arrived and was getting settled in?
When the engine shut off and he heard a door open, he couldn’t help trying to peer through the leaves—and could immediately tell it wasn’t
Dahlia. This woman was taller, thinner and had the same long, curly black hair he remembered Lucy having. She’d waited until the first of the month to move in, but she was here now.
She was in the driveway, and he didn’t have the best vantage point, so he couldn’t see her face clearly. The glimpses of her he did catch told him only that she was dressed in a white T-shirt, faded jeans and a pair of sneakers.
Her style hadn’t changed much. She still looked as if she preferred comfortable, casual clothing. But then . . . she’d been traveling. What he saw might not mean much.
He waited while she stood looking at the house. He was hoping to catch a glimpse of a smile—but the most he got was a look of cautious trepidation. Then she reached back in the car for several bags of groceries before jogging up the stairs to the porch.
He couldn’t see her after that, but he heard the spring of the screen door as she held it while trying to get inside. It took her so long he was tempted to see what the problem was.
She finally got in, at which point he was going to slip back over to Coastal Comfort, but she must’ve set the groceries on the counter and turned around right away, because she came back for her purse and a backpack.
He waited until she’d taken that inside, too. Then he grabbed his edger, because it was close, and left his other tools where they lay, figuring he could slip over and grab them after dark or when she went to town for something. He wanted to get away while he could do it cleanly. Her first moments here had to be hard enough; he didn’t want to make them any worse.
As he started down the dirt path leading to the beach, he couldn’t help turning back to look, with some satisfaction, at the landscaping he’d put in place. It was picture-perfect—unlike everything else.
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