NINETY-FIVE

HOURS later, Mike and I were on those dark and dangerous roads again, but I took some comfort in my nonna’s old saying. Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light.

I was lucky in that regard. Michael Ryan Francis Quinn was much more than a friend.

Good thing, too, because the road back to Long Island was horrendously longer than usual. Multiple accidents on the expressway turned a two-and-a-half-hour drive into a four-hour ordeal, and the autumn sun was well below the horizon by the time we reached the rural lane leading to the Brewsters’ Sandcastle estate.

While stuck in traffic, I told Mike my plan. It was a desperate scheme that involved breaking in just like we had at the Mews, but through a kitchen window instead of a back door. I’d spotted that partially open window the last time I’d crept around the property in the dark—not something I was looking forward to doing again.

“Heads up,” Mike said. “Sandcastle is just around the next bend.”

“Mike! Look there!”

I pointed out a pickup truck parked on the shoulder of the road. Mike slowed as we drove by, and I read the Ernest Landscaping logo on the door.

“Who landscapes at night?” I asked.

“Did you see anyone around the truck?”

“No.”

“Then maybe the truck broke down, and Ernest is looking to have it towed. Unless he was one of Owen’s Grunting Men and is inside the mansion right now.”

“It’s possible,” I said, “although when you and I spoke to Ernest Belling, I didn’t have one of my woozy memory reactions to him. And if he was involved, wouldn’t Owen have opened the gates for him? Why would he want that truck parked on the road for all to see?”

“You might be right, Clare. But you could be wrong. Keep an eye out for Belling—and if he tries anything, use the Taser I gave you.”

A moment later, we arrived at the tall wrought iron gates of the mansion.

“I can see lights through the trees,” I said. “It looks like Owen Wimmer, Esquire, is at home.”

Following my plan, I ducked under the dashboard while Quinn buzzed the intercom. A minute later, Owen’s reedy voice answered.

“May I help you?”

“It’s Detective Quinn. I have several follow-up questions about those letters you showed me.”

“I’ve already turned copies of all pertinent correspondence over to your department.”

“I know,” Quinn said. “But I have new information.”

“Very well, come in.”

The gates to Sandcastle opened.

“It’s your plan, Clare, so stick to it. He’ll disarm the security system to let me in. I’ll distract him with BS, maybe get him back to that study again. You’re going to sneak around back and climb through the kitchen window—”

“If it’s still open.”

“Are you sure Annette is locked up where you say she is?”

“I’d bet my life on it. Which, if you think about it, I kind of am.”

Mike cut the engine. “Good luck,” he whispered.

“And you be careful. Owen’s plan is desperate, even crazy. Maybe he’s crazy, too.”