IF SHE HADN’T been so exhausted by the red-eye from San Francisco to JFK, Rowan’s psychic shields wouldn’t have been down when Chloë met her at the train station in Poughkeepsie.
One minute she was stepping out of the station, juggling her bags and breathing in the crisp autumn air, and the next she was being swept up in a fierce hug.
“Oh God, Rowan, thank you for coming.”
Normally she would never pry, never try to sense something personal without permission, but Chloë had caught her off guard. Rowan slammed the lid on her sixth sense and returned the hug.
“Of course. Anything for you. You said it’s about Bryson?”
“Yes. God. I couldn’t talk about it on the phone. Not here, either. Let’s get your bags into the car.”
Under other circumstances, Rowan would have been delighted to see Chloë. It had been nearly a year since they’d seen each other, when they’d been bridesmaids at the wedding of Amanda, the third member of their college suite. That celebration had taken place six months after Chloë had married David and moved to Duchess County, New York.
Rowan had been skeptical when Chloë first enthused about her new paramour. David was twenty years older than Chloë, a divorcé with a teenage son, and decidedly wealthy. Chloë wasn’t the type to be swept off her feet by money, and Rowan couldn’t quite understand what the attraction was; plus she and Amanda worried that David was merely looking for a trophy wife or a permanent nanny for his son.
At Amanda’s wedding, though, Rowan had had to admit that she’d never seen Chloë happier. David had set up a sculpting studio for her and she was preparing for her first big show. They were obviously in love, always holding hands and exchanging kisses, both enthusiastic about trying to create a half-sibling for sixteen-year-old Bryson.
But now, sitting in the car on the way from the station, Rowan saw a huge change brought on by the strain of recent events. Pasty-skinned and hollow-eyed, Chloë looked as though she hadn’t slept in days, which she probably hadn’t. Was it possible to lose weight so quickly? Rowan wondered, looking at Chloë’s hands as she deftly turned the steering wheel of her gleaming silver Saab turbo. The extravagant diamond-and-emerald engagement ring seemed to be sliding around on her thin finger.
“Thank you for coming, Rowan,” Chloë said again. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me.”
“You know I’ll always be there for you,” Rowan said. “Just tell me what I can do.”
Chloë flashed her a wan smile. “Just moral support right now, love. And a little stability in a world gone mad.”
Then, as if granted a sudden surge of energy, she wrapped her fingers around Rowan’s wrist, her grip as tight and as desperate as her hug had been. “I need you,” she said, “to use your powers and find out if he really did kill someone.”
“Isn’t it a little early for drinks?” Rowan asked.
She’d indulged in a nap, needing to be at her best for what she guessed she had to do soon. Still, it was only early afternoon. The housekeeper had put together a seafood salad and left out crusty rolls, lettuce, and tomato, as well as apple crisp and fresh whipped cream, but they’d only nibbled. Chloë said she wasn’t ready to talk just yet.
Now she was, with, apparently fortification.
“Yes,” Chloë said. “But we’ll need it. Scotch, still?”
The bar was behind the sofa, so Rowan murmured a response rather than nodding. She slipped off her shoes and tights, and stretched her bare feet towards the fire, her fuchsia-lacquered toenails shimmering in the light of the flames. From hidden speakers, Celtic New Age mood music provided a soothing backdrop.
The room’s décor wasn’t what she would have expected of Chloë, but she knew that Chloë had been loath to make major changes when she moved in, not wanting to disrupt David’s or Bryson’s home too much. Still, Rowan could see some touches that were definitely her friend’s: the Waterhouse “Siren” print on the wall, the Salomé statue on the mantle.
Chloë handed her a cut-crystal glass of single-malt Talisker—just a finger—and settled on the burgundy leather sofa next to her with a white wine spritzer. And they finally talked about what had happened.
“A group of men gang-raped a girl and left her to die.” Chloë said it all in a rush, as if needing to get it out before something choked her. She gulped at her drink and set down the glass. “The next morning, they all confessed. Only they weren’t men—they were high school boys. Including Bryson.”
She did crumble into tears then, and Rowan held her, murmuring words of strength and smelling the expensive shampoo in Chloë’s silky hair. What must it be like, Rowan wondered, to have your son confess to rape? For Chloë had adopted Bryson and by all her accounts adored him, as he did her.
Chloë’s sobs subsided. “I know things like this have happened before: upstanding, hard-working kids who nobody thought could do any wrong. Or the parents are too high-and-mighty to accept that their child could have done such a thing, or even if he did he must be protected at all costs.” She shook her head. “I know I sound like one of those.” Her red-rimmed eyes pleaded with Rowan. “But I swear, I do know Bryson! I do know he would never rape somebody! I mean, he’s absolutely sick over what’s happened.”
“There is such a thing as mob mentality,” Rowan said slowly, carefully. “Caught up in the heat of the moment, egged on by your peers…”
Chloë scraped back her blond hair. The short, classic cut was a far cry from the pink-and-blue spikes she had favored in college. “I know,” she admitted, her voice tiny. She raised her glass to her mouth again, and Rowan did the same, feeling the burning of the Scotch chase its way down her chest. “But…it’s the same thing with all the boys. I know them—maybe not well, but they’ve all been friends for years, and I do know their parents. They all seem…horrified—sickened, even—at what’s happened. At what they’ve—they’ve—”
“At what they’ve done?” Rowan finished.
Her friend shook her head again, her green eyes suddenly stubborn. “At what they’ve confessed to doing,” she rephrased firmly. “That’s the strangest part, don’t you see? They’ve confessed to raping this girl, but so far, none of the physical evidence incriminates them. In fact, so far it absolves each and every one of them.”
“How so?”
“Nothing found at the scene links the boys to even being there. Not hair, nor clothing scraps, nothing. None of the boys had any unusual scratches or bruises that would indicate a struggle. Only one of them physically seemed to have, ah…” Chloë glanced towards the fire, obviously searching for the right word. “…seems to have been sexually active the night before, and as near as the doctor who examined him can tell, he wasn’t…active with anyone else.”
“Got it,” Rowan murmured.
“Obviously, they could have showered afterwards, so that fact in and of itself doesn’t say much,” Chloë continued. “Meanwhile, none of the boys had ever shown a propensity towards anger or violence. Yes, two of them are on the football team, but nothing beyond just playing the game. Two of them have girlfriends, and both girls have gone on record saying the boys had never been abusive or rough with them.”
Rowan let the last of her Scotch trickle down her throat. “What about alcohol or drugs? They can change a person, make them do things they normally wouldn’t do.”
“All the boys tested clean. Again, it was the next morning, and some or all of the effects could have worn off by then. I’ll be honest with you, Rowan,” Chloë said, looking at her. “Bryson does drink a little. I know he’s underage, and we try to confine it to the home. We’re trying to teach him that moderation is good, that alcohol can be part of the larger social milieu, and that getting plastered shouldn’t be the end result.”
“Hey, you won’t get any criticism from me,” Rowan replied. “You and I had to learn that the hard college way.”
“We did let it rip a few times, didn’t we?” Chloë agreed with a ghost of a smile.
“With varying results,” Rowan said dryly. “I think we survived, though, and lived to enjoy another day. I’d love to take a wine-tasting course someday.”
“If you have any questions, ask David. I’m honestly trying to get my head around everything in the wine cellar, but it’s a slow process. On that note, would you like another Scotch?”
Rowan considered. “Sure, one more. Just another finger. I can get it.”
“No, I’ll do it. You’re the guest.” Chloë took Rowan’s glass before she could protest.
Rowan folded her arms over the back of the sofa and rested her chin on them, watching Chloë at the bar. Her friend moved with a quick, precise, almost brittle rhythm, dropping ice cubes into the glass with silver tongs.
“I’m not sure if there’s a polite way to ask this, but are you sure you should have another?” she asked.
An ice cube clattered on the sideboard and bounced onto the carpet.
Without turning, Chloë said, very quietly, “What do you mean?”
“I mean…in your condition.”
Chloë finished fixing the drinks without speaking, although Rowan noticed that she’d changed her own selection to unadulterated sparkling water. Only after she came back around the sofa and gave Rowan her drink did she ask, “How long have you known?”
Not “how did you know?” Chloë was one of the few people who was privy to the knowledge of Rowan’s ability.
“Since I hugged you at the station. I’m sorry, Chloë—I really didn’t mean to pry. I was so tired that I let myself slip. The second I realized it, I shut it down.”
Chloë took a deep breath. “It’s okay, sweetie. I was planning on telling you, anyway. I’m barely three months along, and because of the miscarriage in May, I’m wary about announcing it too soon. David knows, of course, but we haven’t told Bryson just yet. And now, with this other horrible mess…”
“I hope the stress won’t cause problems with the baby,” Rowan said, worried.
“So far, everything’s okay,” Chloë said. “I’m meditating every day, and drinking some herb tea that’s supposed to help with relaxation. My doctor is wonderful for finding safe ways for me to deal with the stress, without resorting to drugs. Although he made it clear the occasional glass of wine is better than stress.” She paused, biting her lip. “Could you…when you hugged me, could you tell if everything was okay?”
“I didn’t sense anything wrong—although I wasn’t looking for anything, and as soon as I realized you were pregnant, I backed off, because it was too personal. But no, nothing obvious leapt out at me. I could try again, if you’d like, but I don’t know if I can actually suss out that sort of thing. Healing was Amanda’s forte, not mine.”
Chloë hesitated, and Rowan could tell she was trying to decide. Finally, Chloë said, “No, that’s all right. If you didn’t sense anything, then it’s probably fine.”
Rowan put her hand over Chloë’s, sending some comforting energy and strength. Chloë closed her eyes, accepting the help. When they finished, she still looked wan, but re-invigorated.
“Thanks,” Chloë said, smiling. “That felt good.”
“I’m glad I could help.”
Chloë’s expression changed; now she looked intense again, and she gripped both of Rowan’s hands. Her sculptor’s fingers were long, supple, but cold and thin. “I’m not asking too much, am I? Asking you to help figure out what happened that night?”
“No, you’re not.” Rowan said, closing her eyes for a moment. “You wouldn’t have asked me unless it was crucial. And I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to help.”
“Thank you,” Chloë whispered.
Rowan opened her eyes. “The thing is, I’m not entirely sure how I can help. I can’t do anything that might interfere with the police investigation, and the only kid I’ll definitely be able to talk to is Bryson—the other parents aren’t going to appreciate some stranger bothering their kids.”
“I’ve thought about it a bit,” Chloë said. “First of all, the sheriff is a friend of the family’s—hell, he’s a friend of every family around here. He doesn’t want to believe the boys did it, and although he’s doing his job, I know he’s going to be happier if it’s proven that the boys didn’t do it.
“The same goes for the other parents. I’m not sure if they’ll all agree, but I’m pretty sure a couple of them will go along with it, if they think it might help prove their sons’ innocence.”
“I’m willing to do whatever I can, provided it’s not breaking the law—too much,” Rowan said.
Chloë smiled briefly. “Of course.”
“Did you tell the sheriff about my ability?” Rowan asked.
“You said it would be okay, so I did.”
“And?”
“He’s skeptical. I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you about it tomorrow.”
Rowan sighed. “I can’t say I’m looking forward to that, but if it’ll help you and Bryson, it’s worth it. Now, are you up to talking about the situation some more, or do you need a break?”
A burned-through log collapsed in the fireplace, sending a flurry of sparks up the chimney and the scent of burnt pine into the room.
Chloë shook her head. “Now that we’re talking about it, I’d like to get it all out.”
Rowan listened as her friend explained that the boys had been released on bail to the recognizance of their parents. The bail had been set at a moderate rate, she said, although Rowan realized it was actually quite high. High, at least, for those not of an upper-crust, upper-class background. David Waltham’s family had invested in computers before computers were big, Rowan knew, but the money they’d invested had been old, family money. They’d already been well-off, and much the same was true of the other families in the community.
The four boys were confined to their homes unless accompanied by a parent or other adult authorized by the court. A tutor had been hired to continue their education so that they didn’t fall behind in school, and all of them were regularly seeing a psychiatrist.
“That was part of the court arrangement, but we all would have insisted on it anyway,” Chloë said. She picked up a baby pumpkin from the artistic autumn arrangement on the end table, and turned it over in her hands. “I just don’t understand it, Rowan. If they didn’t do it, why would they confess to it? Even the psychiatrist says their profiles don’t fit that of a rapist or murderer. They’re all completely torn up about this—shocked, upset.”
“Repentant?” Rowan suggested.
“No.” Chloë put the gourd down. “That’s just it, Rowan. Like I said, they’re absolutely horrified by it. But they don’t seem remorseful. Oh, it’s so hard to explain. Their reactions seem to be more like ‘How could anybody do such a terrible thing?’ rather than ‘I did it, and I’m sorry’.”
“I don’t know enough about psychology to comment on that one,” Rowan said. “I’m sure the psychiatrist will make some headway there. Let’s go back to the facts. So far, there’s no physical evidence that puts them at the scene. What about witnesses? Did anyone see the crime? Do the boys have alibis for where they were supposed to be at the time?”
“Yes, that. Forensics placed the incident between 10:30 and 11:00 p.m. It was a school night, so all the boys should have been home or nearby. James was at Karl’s, watching TV. Karl’s father heard the TV on, but was in another part of the house and he can’t swear they were home the whole time. Manny was at the gym swimming laps that evening, and the staff there said he left when the gym closed at 10:00. He said he then bicycled home as usual. No one remembers seeing him outside.”
When Chloë didn’t continue, Rowan prompted, “And Bryson?”
The gourd was in Chloë’s hands again, turning over and over.
“David was away on a business trip that night,” she said finally. “After dinner I went out to my studio—it’s a converted guest house in the back—to work on some pieces for my show. Oh, I haven’t told you about that. I will later. Anyway, I came down with a blinding headache all of a sudden, so I came back inside and decided to go to bed. Bryson was in his room, studying, I suppose. I called through the door that I was going to bed, and he commented that it was still early. I told him I wasn’t feeling well, and he asked if there was anything he could do. I said no, and he said he hoped I felt better, and goodnight.
“There’s a clock at the end of the hall, and I was looking straight as it while I was talking to Bryson. It was 10:45 p.m. There’s no way he could have been gone and come back by that time, or that he could have left immediately afterwards and gotten to the woods in time.
“He was home, Rowan. I swear to you, he was home.”
END OF PREVIEW
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