Tonight will be three days since I missed the blackmailer’s deadline. Three more days of looking over my shoulder.
The police haven’t released Stan’s body—or his “remains,” as they call them.
Sometimes I truly believe I’m a grieving widow. I forget my role in his ending. I forget I wanted him gone. It sounds crazy, but I miss the good in him, the hard worker, the pragmatist who could solve any problem—except the ones he created.
I want to bury him and have a grave to visit. It also might help the kids mourn.
It’s Gloria’s day off. I’m in the kitchen, cooking, although that’s too grand a term. I’m sliding a tinfoil-wrapped slab of salmon, bought pre-marinated from the deli, into the oven. I’ll make a salad. Zoe’s at the table, drawing a princess. The twins are upstairs, doing their homework. At least I hope so.
When the doorbell rings, I jump and slam the oven door shut. Zoe looks up. “Who’s that?” she asks me.
“I don’t know.” My first thought is the police, come to arrest me.
What would happen to the kids? Would they be taken into care? Family’s not an option. Stan’s parents are dead. His sister, an accountant, lives in London and is proudly childless. He and his brothers weren’t talking. Even if my mom weren’t so frail, she’s shown zero interest in my offspring. I wouldn’t trust her. I might get Jo to stay, to act as guardian, unless she’s arrested with me.
I wipe my hands on a tea towel. It can’t be the police. They don’t know my gate code. Surely they wouldn’t creep around on the rocks. “I’ll be right back,” I tell Zoe.
There’s a peephole in the door. Squinting through it yields a fish-eye view of Jo. Her head is big, her body tapered. She raises a fist and raps loudly.
I unlatch the chain and swing the door wide.
Jo tumbles in, Ruby behind her. Jo’s pale and wild-eyed.
I slam the door and lock it fast, as if more bad luck could follow.
“Ruby,” I say with forced brightness, “Zoe’s in the kitchen. Why don’t you both go up to her room?” I look at Jo. “You’ll stay for dinner?”
She doesn’t respond. It’s like she didn’t hear me. She’s already striding down the hall.
Zoe’s happy to take Ruby upstairs. They ascend the staircase hand in hand, straight off a Hallmark card.
I follow Jo to the kitchen.
“Wine?” I ask, reaching for the red I’m drinking. No response. She’s staring out the window. I pour her a glass.
From the fridge, I grab a bag of mixed greens, two cucumbers, and a vine of tomatoes. I start to wash the tomatoes. They’re some heirloom kind, smaller and lumpy. Imperfection now costs more.
“Jo?” I say. “What’s happened?”
She turns from the window and sets her bag on the counter.
“Look,” she says. She pulls a piece of paper from her bag and shows me.
you fail to pay again you lose zoe and/or ruby.
The tomato falls from my hand. It thuds into the sink. I stare at it. Bright red and heart-shaped. My heart. Zoe’s my heart, my baby.
I tip forward, over the sink, feeling sick. You lose bets and keys. You lose weight and sleep. You don’t lose your children. The thought’s a tightening noose.
“It was in Ruby’s bedroom!” says Jo. “Under her fucking teddy!”
My mouth opens and shuts. Finally, I manage to take a breath. “How did they get in?” I whisper.
Jo starts pacing the length of my counter before she snaps back, “My spare key’s missing from under the plant pot.”
The faucet’s still running.
“They must have watched us!” says Jo. “They know Ruby’s name!” Her voice is shrill. “Is it that creep, Ryan?” Her red eyes are staring at me.
I grip the counter. The note’s like the others, plain office paper, red block letters. No clues. Nothing. Just rising panic.
I twist off the faucet. Could someone really have entered Ruby’s bedroom in broad daylight? When this thought sneaks in, I sway, wondering what my brain is suggesting. That Jo planted the note? That’s absurd. Look at her! I’ve never seen her looking so frantic.
Jo keeps pacing. “What do we do?” she snarls. “He was in Ruby’s bedroom!”
A noise makes me turn. Chad’s in the doorway.
Jo leaps forward and swipes the note off the counter. She jams it back in her book bag.
Chad frowns, then smiles. “Hi, Jo.” He doesn’t seem to notice her lack of response. He’s changed from his school clothes into jeans and a blue sweater. It brings out his eyes, makes his skin still more golden. He’s barefoot. “Mom, can Gemma come over, after dinner?”
I respond on autopilot: “No. It’s a school night.”
Owen would scowl. Chad’s smile widens. “She won’t stay late.” He sniffs, appreciatively, buttering me up. “That smells great. What’s for dinner? I’m starving.”
I realize he’s right. The kitchen has filled with the smell of baked salmon and ginger. I love this dish, yet now it turns my stomach.
“Fish. It’s almost ready. And yes, fine. Invite Gemma.” I lack the energy to fight him.
Chad looks from me to Jo. He must have noticed our tension. Jo’s eyes are bugged out, and her neck’s rigid. I doubt I look much better.
My son rubs his chin, suddenly watchful. “Is everything okay?”
I take a deep breath. I haven’t discussed this with Jo. She might get mad. Yet it feels worth a try. We have nothing. Less than nothing. And someone’s threatening our daughters.
“I’ve been getting threats ever since Dad . . . that night. And now Jo got one.”
Chad looks at Jo. He has his dad’s height but my face: dark blue eyes; straight, fine nose; high cheekbones. “Threats?” He frowns my way. “What does that mean?”
I don’t look at Jo. I don’t need to. I can feel her fury.
“Notes,” I say. “Asking for money.”
Chad squints. “What?” His tone suggests I’m joking.
“Blackmail notes, threatening to go to the police and say I’m to blame for Dad’s murder.” The words stick in my throat. “That I killed him.”
He blinks. “But . . . but you didn’t.”
“But I’m a suspect.”
My son slowly nods.
“Look,” I say. “You don’t need to worry about this. I just—” I study the picture windows. “You haven’t seen anyone lurking around, have you? Anyone suspicious?” The windows are big black squares. From outside, looking in, we’d be players on a lit stage. Players in a family drama. I forgot to draw the curtains.
I cross the room and yank them shut. Window after window. This room is a fish tank. What were we thinking with those renovations? How smug we were, convinced of our safety, sure no one was watching. Should I hire a security guard? The alarm system might not be enough. Chad hasn’t moved. I refocus on my son. “Have you noticed anything off lately?”
For a second he looks like Owen, his face twisted in an incredulous scoff. I get it. Everything’s off. His dad’s been murdered. We’re all suspects.
Chad shrugs. His face smooths out. Chad could enter politics. He’s remarkably good at appearing unruffled. “Uh, no. Nothing.” He opens a cupboard to retrieve a glass and walks to the fridge. After pouring some milk, he turns back to me: “Have you told the police?” he asks.
I hesitate. I can feel Jo’s displeasure, a new note over her panic. If I were innocent, I’d go to the cops. Surely Chad will wonder. I shouldn’t have mentioned this. “No,” I say. “I’m afraid it’ll stoke their suspicions.” I look at Jo, pleading.
“Your mom’s right,” she tells Chad. “The police seem increasingly hostile.”
My son takes a swig of milk. “Maybe it’s some crazy person who heard about Dad on the news.” He rubs his smooth forehead.
“Maybe,” says Jo, “although they know details about your family. And mine. They left a note in my apartment.”
From the way she’s watching him, I know she’s searching for clues. Jo’s not convinced my boys aren’t behind this blackmail scheme. I’m not stupid. I know that. I know her.
Chad’s forehead furrows. Even Jo must see his confusion. “That’s crazy,” he says. “I haven’t seen anything.” His nose wrinkles. “Do you smell something burning?”
As soon as he says it, I do. The salmon!
I lunge for the oven and click it off. When I lower the door, black smoke roils out.
I slam the door shut and stand, head in hands. This feels like the final straw, proof I’m a failure as a woman and a mother. I can’t even feed my kids. It’s not just the smoke that makes my eyes water.
Chad sets his empty glass on the counter. “Want me to order pizza?”
I inhale and nod, trying to keep my voice steady. “Yes, please.”
As Chad goes off to call, Jo catches my eye. “What the fuck?” she whispers. “Why did you tell him? What if he tells his girlfriend, huh? And she tells her gossipy mother?”
I rub my sore eyes. For all I know, Gemma’s behind the notes. I recall the slim, dark figure at Myers Point. They got into a big car, some sort of SUV. The Costins have one.
Even as I think it, a voice in my head scoffs: Everyone in the Oaks drives an SUV—as if climate change will only affect people who don’t bring their own cups to Starbucks. Still, it could have been Gemma. Was Chad in the car? My brain slams this thought shut. It could have been Gemma, but there’s no way it was Chad. He would not blackmail his own mother.
I glare at Jo. “Chad won’t tell Gemma! Don’t worry.”
She rolls her eyes. “Jesus, Dana, things are bad enough already!”
I’m about to snap back when Chad reappears. If he notices our tension, he pretends not to. “I got two pepperonis, one veggie, and a four-cheese. All extra-larges.”
I ignore Jo’s simmering fury and fake a smile. “Wow! That’s a lot of pizza! Chad, could you help me make a salad?”
He hesitates, then relents. “Sure.” Maybe he’s trying to stay on my good side so I’ll be more likely to let Gemma stay later. Or maybe he’s giving me a break, having realized Jo and I have unfinished business.
“Thanks,” I say. “Jo? Let’s go into the dining room.” Without waiting for her answer, I head toward it. She follows.
The room’s still and formal. It’s got a long, polished oak table and twelve high-backed chairs. We rarely use it. It was decorated to impress Stan’s clients. Three large handblown glass orbs hang over the table. When lit, they glow an eerie blue.
I shut the door.
We don’t sit. We’re too wound up.
Jo walks to the back wall. She stops before a pale canvas in a thin silver frame. The painting’s mostly white, crisscrossed with swaths of beige. There’s one red dot, a bit misshapen. Like my heirloom tomatoes.
She clicks on the angled spotlight. The painting flares to life. It’s the Gustav Cleggs. I walk up beside her. We stare at the canvas. The red dot pulses.
I’ve never looked at this painting, not really. To call it white is unfair. It’s white like a forest’s green, every leaf different. And the beige. There’s sand and camel. Caramel. Gold. Sunlight. But it’s the dot that gets me. It’s like a heart, not a love heart but a real one: the kind that beats in a fetus on an ultrasound screen. It’s magic. How can a red dot seem fragile and vital?
Focused on the painting, I fail to realize Jo’s crying silently, her shoulders shuddering.
“Jo?” I say, aghast. All anger leaves me. She doesn’t suspect my boys, not really. She’s just scared. We both are.
“It was such a shock,” she rasps. “That note. In Ruby’s bedroom.” Her voice shakes. “My God. What if she’d been there?” She swipes under her glasses.
I imagine a stranger in Zoe’s room. Jo’s right to be petrified. And livid.
Right now, the girls are upstairs. Safe. At least we think so.
I think of the last note, the one before this, stating things would get worse. That was true. “I’m so sorry.”
Jo cleans her glasses on her shirt. Her face is pinched. “They got into my house! Anything could have happened. Anything.” She replaces her glasses. “Whoever’s behind this is dangerous. We’ve been in denial.”
I nod. She’s right, but what can we do? We don’t even know who we’re fighting.
“This painting,” says Jo. She rubs under her nose and nods at the canvas. “One of Cleggs’s sold in June for three point two million.” I blink. “He’s been discovered,” she continues. “Posthumously. The poor guy died broke. He was gay, Black, and bipolar.” She squints at the canvas. “What did Stan pay for it?”
“Dunno. But way less than that. Typical Stan.” He had an eye for a bargain.
We both stare at the canvas, unappreciated for so long. My throat’s dry. “You think I should sell it and pay the blackmailer?” My voice sounds secondhand, passed down from some older, hard-living woman.
Jo grasps her hair. “Fuck, I don’t know.” Her anger’s passed. She looks spent. Shoulders sagging, she turns her back on the Cleggs. “I’m scared for Ruby. Scared to go home. Scared to let her out of my sight.”
I hang my head. It’s all my fault. “You can stay here,” I say.
“I know. And we will. But we can’t stay forever.”
I nod. If Ralph Isles is right, that’s not even an option. I once thought this house was mine. Forever, like my marriage. Once upon a time, both seemed rock solid.
I stare at the Cleggs painting, its red dot pulses.
Like Jo, I might soon be in some cruddy rental. Stan’s will won’t be read until after his funeral, after the coroner has released her findings. Until then, Stan’s lawyer, who I thought was our lawyer, won’t discuss his estate, except to say that things look “messy.”
Despite hours of searching, I have yet to find any evidence of other assets. No secret offshore bank accounts, safety deposit boxes, stock certificates, or property deeds. Nothing. I know they exist. Stan might risk a lot but not everything, not financially. There’s money—surely a fortune by most people’s standards—tucked away somewhere.
I refocus on the Cleggs. Would the housekeeper notice if it vanished?
“I’m going to sell it,” I tell Jo. “I’m not sure if I’ll pay the blackmailer, but it’d be better to have cash than this painting.” This thought cheers me. At least I have options.
Jo nods, drawn and unsmiling. She turns back toward the canvas. “You know what?” she says. “It’s weird, but the more I look at it, the more I like it. Maybe Stan’s taste wasn’t that bad.”
“The rest are still shit,” I say. “Especially the gumballs.”
Jo tilts her chin toward the Cleggs. “Does the housekeeper know what it’s worth?”
“I doubt it.” I didn’t, until Jo told me.
She chews the inside of her cheek. “If the cops find out, you’ll have to explain what you did with the money.”
My resolve wavers.
Jo spins my way. While her mouth’s grim, her eyes have that spark. She licks her lips. “Do you have any oil paints?”
Despite myself, I smile. When you’re friends long enough, you become like an old married couple. Without her spelling it out, I know what she’s thinking. “Owen has some,” I say. “In the garage.” God, Jo’s brilliant.
She eyes the Cleggs. “Any canvases?”
“Yeah, but I’m not sure about the size.”
She nods. “Can you get a tape measure?”
I retreat to the kitchen to find one in the junk drawer.
“Here,” I say, rejoining Jo. I toss it to her.
“Thanks.” She unfurls it and starts to measure.
Watching her, I’m relieved. Even if we’re doing the wrong thing, at least we’re doing something. It feels better than just waiting and hoping.
Jo looks up: “Can you paint it? You’re more artistic.”
I almost laugh again but nod. Owen’s the artist in our family, but I can hardly ask him. Forgery is a felony. Something to add to my rap sheet. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll do it first thing in the morning.”
The doorbell rings. We both freeze.
I hold my breath, waiting, until the smell of cheese hits me. Chad must have buzzed them in. My mouth fills with saliva. When did I last eat? Maybe breakfast.
“Don’t worry,” I say, relieved. “It’s just the pizza.”
* * *
Since I couldn’t sleep, I got up to paint.
At 5:30 a.m., I’m sitting on the floor, drinking coffee. It’s still dark. These days, it doesn’t get light until after seven.
The dining room’s dark but for the spotlight on the Cleggs painting.
To clear the odor of fresh paint, I’ve got the windows wide open. It’s freezing. I’m wearing a jacket. While this room doesn’t face the sea, I can hear the ocean. I swear the red dot’s pulsing to the waves’ rhythm.
Some other noise rouses me: footsteps coming up from downstairs. I twist to listen. “Jo?” I call cautiously. The footsteps pad closer.
“Dana?” She sounds worried.
I get up and open the dining room door. “I’m in here.”
The hall’s dark. Jo’s clad in her flannel pajamas. “I heard you were up,” she says. Her eyes dart around the room. “What are you doing?”
“I couldn’t sleep. I did the painting.” I point to my canvas, on the floor. I switch on the overhead light.
In the bright light, Jo looks even worse than she did last night. The rings beneath her eyes could be branded. She walks toward the two paintings. I follow.
“Did you get any sleep?” I ask.
“Not much.” She sits down and stares up at the Cleggs, then down at my copy.
I settle beside her. “I called the dealer. He offered three million flat.”
Jo frowns at me, then nods. “He’s ripping you off. The one that sold in June was smaller. And this one’s nicer.”
I shrug. Now that I’ve really looked at this Cleggs, I’m sorry to sell it. And sorry to be the kind of person who only appreciates stuff when it’s gone. “Now’s hardly the time to quibble,” I say. “And maybe I can buy it back when I find Stan’s money.”
“If,” she says darkly.
I take a gulp of coffee. “I’m trying to stay positive,” I say, studying my canvas.
I did a decent job—beige scuffs in all the right places, red spot fine in terms of size and color. Yet my canvas inexplicably lacks soul. Why is there a spark in Cleggs’s work but not in my copy?
I recall Stan’s lifeless body. My throat constricts. I turn to Jo and nod at my canvas. “What do you think?”
“It’ll do, Dana.”
I nod. It will do. A few days back, I’d have sworn the Cleggs was just white with some swipes of beige and a glob of scarlet. I’ll switch the paintings before Gloria gets in. She won’t notice. Nor will the kids or anyone who’s ever dined here. Would Stan have noticed? I doubt it.
An expert, on the other hand, would pick out my forgery in a heartbeat. Were this painting to be repossessed, I’d face unpleasant questions I should fear but don’t. There are too many bridges to cross before that one, all of them rickety and precariously perched above sharks and piranhas.
Jo gets up and approaches my painting.
“It’s still wet,” I warn.
She looks up and down, between my work and the Cleggs. She turns with a tired smile. “You did a good job, Dana. You’re ahead of your time. A misunderstood genius. I read it in the New York Times.”
I smile too. “Then it must be true.”