CHAPTER TEN

Robert still isn’t home.

I glance at the clock in my bedroom, watching the seconds tick by. It’s nearly midnight now, the staff long abed.

Detective Pierce left hours ago, but his visit has haunted me. I keep hearing his voice in my head, keep seeing the suspicion in his gaze. I’m ashamed to admit that it’s lingered longer than I’d like.

What if I’m wrong?

I would swear on my life that my husband is a good man. After all, what is the institution of marriage if not that very thing—pledging before God to live out the rest of your days with one person, putting your future hopes, dreams in their hands?

But what if I’m wrong?

I walk over to the window, staring at the grounds below. When Robert and Michael designed the house, they situated our bedrooms on the backside of the house so that the view from our windows looks out over the coral patio and the lawn and sea beyond. The moon is full tonight, the light reflecting off the water.

I hate these nights when I’m by myself, Robert traveling for business or off making deals. It feels so empty out here, our closest neighbor miles away. It’s easy for the darkness and silence to creep in, to feel like no one would notice if I disappeared. It’s easy to wonder if we made the right choice coming here, if we would have been happier tucked away in our life in New York. Should I have voiced my concerns to Robert more insistently? And would he have listened?

Why didn’t Robert tell me that he fought with Lenora Watson? And what would they have to fight over?

It’s possible the witness was confused. There were so many men in evening dress at the party. Perhaps they simply mistook Robert for someone else.

The wind begins to kick up outside, a whooshing sound rattling the windows. The peacocks protest, their screeching something I’ve yet to grow used to.

I glance out the window. Some of the lamps on the back patio are illuminated, casting long shadows down on the ground. The palm trees sway back and forth, the wind knocking the enormous fronds about, the play of light and movement making it appear as though dark shadow monsters walk the grounds of Marbrisa.

I shake the fanciful thought away, stepping back from the glass pane, turning toward the clock again.

Next, I’ll see ghosts walking the halls.

Silly.

But if Detective Pierce is correct, and Lenora Watson’s death wasn’t an accident, then a killer was here at Marbrisa. Did someone push her into the water? Or did they simply see her fall and fail to help? Did they walk up behind her and put their hands around her neck or grab her waist and shove? If Detective Pierce is right and someone murdered her, then what will they do to get away with it?

And if the police do find a lead from the necklace I sketched for them, will I be in a killer’s crosshairs?

I switch on the lamp on my nightstand, bathing the room in light.

The house feels slightly less ominous now without shadows in the room.

The clock chimes midnight.

What’s keeping Robert?

My mind races with all the things that could be going wrong—a car accident on his way home, some other malady befalling him without me knowing it.

A creak sounds in the house.

Then a thud.

The sound of footsteps up the stairs.

I walk to my bedroom door, heart pounding.

I tug on the knob, opening it.

Robert stands in the hallway outside our bedrooms.

“Where were you?”

There’s more accusation in my voice than I’d like, but it’s built up with each accumulated minute, each hour that has ticked by.

“You’re still up?” he asks, his eyes widening in surprise.

“I couldn’t sleep. I was waiting for you.”

I never wanted to be a jealous wife, to make Robert feel as though I was a jailer of sorts, but Detective Pierce’s recriminations run through my mind on a loop I can’t escape, and suddenly, this evening’s late arrival strikes me a bit differently.

Where has he been and who has he been with?

“If I’d known you were waiting, I would have come home earlier.”

Robert walks toward me and puts his arms around me, and for a moment, I allow myself to relax into the familiar curve of his embrace.

He smells of gin and cigar smoke.

I wait for the scent of a woman’s perfume to hit me, search his collar for the telltale cliché of lipstick on his shirt, but when I pull back and study him, he’s still just my Robert.

“Where were you?” I whisper, burrowing my head into the curve of his shoulder, threading my fingers through the thick head of hair at the base of his neck.

“I had lunch with some developers. They wanted to show me some properties, and after that we grabbed some dinner up by Miami Beach.” He sighs, releasing me. “I didn’t mean for it to go so late, but it’s a good opportunity, and some of those guys are talkers. I left as soon as I could without being rude. They were still going strong when I departed.”

It’s a plausible story, certainly, and still, I can’t shake the questions Detective Pierce asked me.

“Where did you go for dinner?”

“A cute little restaurant with the best stone crabs you’ve ever eaten. I’ll take you there this weekend. You can wear that new red dress you bought. We’ll put the top down on the car. I think you’d like the restaurant—and the stone crabs. Good pie, too.

“I’m sorry it’s so late. I know things have been difficult since the party, and I didn’t mean to worry you. Next time, I’ll make it back at a reasonable hour. Promise.” He smiles. “It wasn’t nearly as much fun as it would have been if you were with me. You should have come.”

You didn’t invite me.

“Detective Pierce stopped by again,” I announce.

“Why?”

“He wanted to ask me about the necklace Lenora Watson was wearing the night she drowned.”

“Damn it. This is what I was afraid of when he started poking around. I don’t want him bothering you with this. You’ve been through enough. Tomorrow, I’m going to go down to the station and have a talk with them.”

“No, don’t. Please.”

“Why not? He’s becoming a nuisance. The poor woman drowned. Why does he insist on dragging this out?”

“He seems to think you were involved.”

“Excuse me?”

“He thinks you were having an affair with Lenora Watson.”

“How dare he. Now he’s gone too far. With what proof?”

“As far as I can tell, he doesn’t seem to have much.”

“Of course not. Because it never happened. He’s digging, then. Fine. If he wants to waste his time on a fool’s errand, that’s his business, but I won’t have him upsetting you in the process. There’s enough speculation about us down here without him adding fuel to the fire.”

“I’m scared,” I admit. “He seemed insistent. I don’t think he’s going to let this go.”

“I’ll handle it. Don’t worry. None of this is going to touch you.”

Robert leans forward, taking me into his arms once more. His lips find mine, and all the doubts leave my mind.

---

My hands tremble as I drive down Cutler Road, unfamiliar behind the wheel of Robert’s roadster.

I’ve never been one for automobiles, my husband teasing me that I was born for another time, that if I had my way I’d be driven in a horse-drawn carriage everywhere I went. He isn’t wrong.

I know how to drive; Robert himself taught me over several lazy afternoons in Newport, his patience abundant even if I never took to it with the same enthusiasm he did. I’d rather not fold my body into a tiny machine, hurtling at ungodly speeds on roads filled with alligators and potholes. Life is risky enough without engaging in such folly.

Cars are few and far between on this stretch of road, and I pray the roadster doesn’t give me any trouble, that I’m able to make it back to Marbrisa before it’s dark.

Ever since Detective Pierce’s visit two days ago, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Lenora Watson. I’d always intended to pay my respects to her family, but it was all too easy for me to put it off until now. I’m embarrassed by how long it’s been. As far as I know, Robert hasn’t made this drive north, and our silence feels particularly egregious considering the woman died at our home.

And if I’m being completely honest with myself—there’s a possibility that I’m here for less than charitable reasons. Surely, if Lenora was involved with someone like Detective Pierce suspected, then her family would know about it.

I went through our guest list for the party until I found someone who knew of Lenora’s family and was able to give me directions to where Lenora’s next of kin live. It’s miles away from Marbrisa, but it isn’t the geography as much as the stark contrast in the grandeur of the estate compared to my surroundings now that makes the distance seem so vast.

I can’t help but feel that I’m validating Detective Pierce’s position by going to see the family, and I wonder if this is what he wanted all along, further entangling me in this situation.

It’s not that I doubt Robert; it’s just that there’s something about this entire business that’s gnawing at me, and I can’t shake it loose.

I head north, outside the environs I’ve come to know, following the turns described to me.

I slam on the brakes.

An enormous alligator lies in the middle of the road, the sun beating down on its back.

I hesitate for a moment, peering over the windshield to get a better look at the animal. From this vantage point, it’s hard to tell if the beast is asleep or dead, its body unmoving.

I’ve heard about the alligators ever since we moved here, their ability to consume small animals and then some; horror-inducing, but I’ve never seen one this close.

Its body is all hard ridges and angles, and I suppose there are some who might find something beautiful in its appearance, but I certainly wouldn’t share their enthusiasm. It quite frankly terrifies me.

The beast twitches, its tail undulating in the dirt.

Not dead.

His head swivels, and he stares balefully at me, as though reproaching me for invading his natural habitat.

He can have it.

Please don’t come any closer.

For a moment, I think he’s going to do just that—charge the car. He certainly looks as though he’s considering it, and while the roadster may have the size advantage, the magnitude of damage an animal that massive can do to Robert’s prized car isn’t to be taken lightly.

The last thing I want is to be stranded out here.

I offer another prayer to the heavens.

His tail swishes again.

I wait patiently as the alligator decides that he wishes to continue his forward progress, shuddering as his body slithers by.

Once he’s blessedly gone, I follow a dirt road east, the path cut out by grooves set forth by others that have trodden this path before me. The foliage is thick with mangroves on either side, the roadway narrow and winding in some places. The roadster is heavy beneath my hands, awkwardly navigating the twists and turns. I wince as the tire hits a hole in the road, the car jerking about. Driving was difficult enough on Cutler Road, but here I’m beginning to wish I had just parked and walked.

The space is barely wide enough for one vehicle, and I pray no one else is coming in the opposite direction.

An oath escapes my lips as I swerve to avoid a chicken scurrying across the road.

There’s a break in the landscape, a house coming into view ahead.

I can smell the salt air, the faint scent of fish not altogether unpleasant.

Lenora Watson’s mother lives in a little A-frame near the water. Despite the small size, the outside is painted in a bright white that looks fresh, the grass patchy, but clearly someone has spent some time pulling weeds, working with the natural landscape—the enormous tree roots bisecting the lawn—to make the property look as neat as possible.

There’s a mango tree in the front yard, ripe-looking fruit hanging down from the branches.

I park the roadster and turn off the engine.

For a moment, I sit in the car, studying the house, wondering why on earth I thought it was a good idea to come. There were quite a few moments along the drive when I considered turning around and heading back to Marbrisa, and faced with the prospect of seeing Lenora Watson’s family, I can’t help but regret that I didn’t. It’s entirely possible that my arrival here will be far from welcome, that they’ll blame me since she died at my home.

The front door opens, and a woman in a white housedress steps out from the screened-in porch.

It’s too late to turn back now.

“Can I help you?” she calls out.

I exit the roadster on slightly shaky legs, my nerves getting the best of me now that I am here. I close the car door behind me, smoothing my skirt down with damp palms.

Loud barking fills the air, and before I can ascertain the direction that it’s coming from, an enormous black dog the size of a small pony bounds toward me.

I grab the car handle, ready to leap back inside, when the dog suddenly stops in front of me, its tail wagging, looking up expectantly toward me.

“He’s friendly,” the woman says. “Just excited for company.”

She calls the dog to her, and he turns immediately, my presence forgotten.

The woman climbs down the steps, the dog at her side.

I take a deep breath, recognition dawning.

Her hair is the same beautiful dark auburn color as Lenora’s, but hers has gone silver in strands. Her face is her daughter’s, echoing the glimpses I had at the party. She looks to be about my age.

It’s a shock for a moment to see her and realize that we’ve likely lived the same number of years on this earth, and if life had turned out differently, I might have had a child Lenora’s age.

“I came to pay my respects. I’m so very sorry for your loss. My name is Anna. Anna Barnes.”

Her shoulders seem to sag as I say the words, as though she is constantly being forced to relive one of the most horrible moments of her life. If she recognizes my name, she doesn’t give any indication.

“Were you friends with my Lenora?” she asks, her voice breaking slightly over her daughter’s name.

I swallow, more than a little uncomfortable with the quiet grief on display before me. It feels intensely personal to see Lenora’s mother like this. I wanted her to know that her daughter’s death was being marked, to honor her loss, but now I worry that all I’m doing is stirring up emotions I can’t fathom.

“No, I never had the pleasure of meeting her. Not officially, at least. I saw her at a party.”

“And you came all the way out here to pay your condolences?”

I hesitate. “She was at my home when the accident happened. I felt—responsible, somewhat.”

Her eyes widen. “You live at that big house on Biscayne Bay?”

“Yes. I wanted—I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for what happened to her.”

“I told her. Not to go messing with rich folk like that.”

“I—”

“No offense,” she adds, “but her place wasn’t there. She always had big dreams, but she never understood that some things weren’t possible. That there aren’t happy endings for people like us.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, realizing how hollow the words sound, that for all the good intentions I had, I never should have come here. Truth be told, I came here to assuage my own guilt and get answers to questions I shouldn’t even have. But seeing Lenora’s family’s grief up close, I feel like a vulture of sorts, preying on the carrion of their loss.

“When the police came and told me what had happened to her—” Her voice breaks off, her gaze carrying to some unseen point in the horizon. “I worried about her. Constantly. I didn’t like that job she had. I worried that working in that hotel, being around all those flashy things, she’d lose sight of what was important, what mattered. That she’d be reaching for things she’d never have.

“Do you have children?” she asks me.

I shake my head.

“Lenora was my last child,” she says. “I lost a son in the war, and now, well . . . You worry about your kids. Constantly. From the first moment when they come into this world, you listen to their cries, trying to read their moods, attempting to understand what they need. And then they’re walking, running all around the place, and you worry about them falling and hurting themselves, and then they grow older and it’s like there’s a whole other kind of worry, a whole other kind of hurt you must be afraid of.”

Being a mother sounds quite terrifying.

“Did she seem happy?” she asks me. “The night she died?”

I try to remember that moment as best I can, wanting to honor this woman’s loss with as much truth and kindness as I can muster.

“She did. She seemed—” I search for the right word, trying to understand what it was about Lenora Watson that captured my attention in a sea of people, even for a moment. “She was vibrant. So full of life. I could tell that even from a distance.”

She smiles sadly. “Yes. She was like that. She had a knack for people. They wanted to talk to her. She had a way of making them laugh. She was funny, Lord, she was funny. Not in a mean way, not like she was making fun of you, but like she thought life was a big adventure, and she was out to make the most of it. She was too big for this place.”

She glances around, shaking her head, slightly dazed like whatever she’s seeing isn’t the property around us, but something else, some secret, private memory I’ll never be privy to, a history that haunts her now.

Shame fills me.

“The police think it might not have been an accident,” she says, as though she’s testing the theory out and hasn’t quite decided how she feels about it.

To lose your child in an accident must be heartbreaking, but to lose them in a violent, intentional manner seems unfathomably cruel.

“They told me the same,” I admit, waiting to see if she says anything about Robert, if Detective Pierce went so far as to suggest to her family that he was involved with Lenora.

“I can’t imagine why anyone would want to hurt her. I worried about her, yes, but murder? I can’t see something like that happening to Lenora. If you had known her—she was a lovely girl.”

Tears fill her eyes.

“It’s a terrible thing,” I reply, because what else is there to say? I yearn to give her some form of reassurance; I came here searching for answers that I’m never going to find.

“If you need anything, anything at all, you can always visit me at Marbrisa.”

“Thank you.”

I can tell she says it more out of politeness than anything else, no intention of taking me up on my offer.

I walk back to the car, turning in time to see the screen door slap closed.

A lump forms in my throat as I drive away from Lenora’s home. There’s a pressure building in my chest, a tightness in my lungs. I take a deep breath, then another, trying to steady myself, my fingers trembling on the steering wheel.

“Damn it,” I whisper.

I pull the roadster over onto the shoulder of the road.

Tears well in my eyes, spilling down my cheeks.

I don’t know exactly what I’m crying for—for Lenora Watson, the tragedy of a life cut short, a mother’s grief, or another emotion I can’t quite put a finger on, a sense of melancholy and dread that settles over my shoulders like a mantle I can’t shake.