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She looked for a letter or postcard every day. She searched for her mother’s face in movie posters and television shows. Her father kept telling her to forget about Shaina, that she was gone for good. But Blaire couldn’t believe that she would leave her behind forever. Maybe she was just waiting until she made it big before coming back for her. After a year had passed with no word from her mother, Blaire started to worry. Something must have happened to her. She’d begged her father to take her to California to look for her, but he just shook his head, a sad look on his face. He told Blaire that her mother was alive.
She’d looked at her father in shock. “You know where she is?”
It took him a moment to answer. “I don’t. I only know that she’s cashing her alimony check every month.”
Blaire was too young to wonder why he kept paying the bills after they were divorced. Instead, she blamed him, told herself that he was lying and deliberately keeping them apart. Soon her mother would come for her, or if Hollywood wasn’t what she thought it would be, maybe she’d even come home again.
So when her father told her he’d decided to marry Enid, Blaire had run to her room and locked the door. She’d told him she would refuse to eat, sleep, or talk to him ever again if he went through with it. There was no way insipid Enid Turner was going to move into her house and tell her what to do. No way she was going to take Blaire’s father away from her. How could he even look at Enid after being married to her mother? Shaina was vibrant and exciting. Enid was ordinary and boring. But nonetheless, a month later, they were married in the local Methodist church, with Blaire a grudging witness.
They quickly converted the den, where Blaire’s friends used to come and watch TV or throw some darts, into a craft room for Enid. Enid painted it pink, and then she hung her “artwork,” a collection of paint-by-numbers dog breeds, all over the walls, while Blaire’s games and toys went down to the basement.
The first night after the room conversion, once Enid and her father had fallen asleep, Blaire had crept into her former den. Grabbing a Magic Marker from the dresser, she’d drawn eyeglasses on the cocker spaniel, a mustache on the golden retriever, and a cigar in the mouth of the black lab. Soon, she’d been doubled over with silent laughter, her body shaking as she held it in.
The next morning, Enid’s cries brought Blaire into the room. Her eyes were red and puffy.
“Why did you do this?” Enid asked, looking wounded.
Blaire widened her eyes innocently. “I didn’t. Maybe you sleepwalk.”
“Of course I don’t. I know you did this. You’ve made it quite clear that you don’t want me here.”
Blaire stuck her chin out. “I bet you did it, just so you could blame it on me.”
“Listen to me, Blaire. You may have your father bamboozled, but not me. You don’t have to like me, but I won’t tolerate disrespect or lying. Do you understand?”
Blaire said nothing, and the two stared at each other. Finally, Enid said, “Go on. Get out of here.”
Any time anything happened after that, Enid had blamed Blaire. Her father’s devotion transferred from Blaire to his new wife; he had done nothing to defend his daughter, and it wasn’t long before she hated going home and did anything she could to avoid it. It turned out to be a blessing that they had sent her away—living with Enid for over a year had been more than enough for Blaire. She went home for the summer after eighth grade, but in her second year at Mayfield, Lily had invited Blaire to spend the summer with them at their beach house in Bethany, Delaware. She was sure that her father wouldn’t allow it, but Lily made one phone call and it was all arranged.
Blaire fell in love with the house the first time she saw it—the cedar-shingle dwelling had white decks and porches that stood out against the dark wood, as did the pure-white trim of the large paned doors and windows. It was so different from the boring colonial she’d grown up in, where the rooms were dull rectangles and all the furniture matched. The beach house was filled with breezy white-walled rooms, and big windows that looked directly at the ocean. Soft floral sofas and chairs were strategically placed so the view could be enjoyed while still sitting in cozy groups. But the most intoxicating things were the sound of the crashing waves and the air that smelled of the sea as it floated through the open windows. She’d never seen such an amazing house.
Kate had taken her hand and led her upstairs. There were five bedrooms, and Kate’s, a large room next to the master, was painted a pale sea green. French doors led to a small balcony overlooking the beach. All the linens were white—the canopy over the bed, curtains, chair cushions—except for the comforter, which was a bright pink with mermaids embroidered all over it. The walls were decorated with mermaid pictures, and mermaid figurines lined one of the bookshelves. Kate’s name was even spelled out above her bed in sparkling blue sea glass. Kate had everything—two parents who gave her whatever she wanted, including this beach house. Suddenly Blaire couldn’t breathe, the loneliness and emptiness of her life closing in on her like a vise.
“Your room is great,” she’d managed to say.
Kate shrugged. “It’s okay. I mean, I’m getting a little old for the mermaids. I’ve been asking my mom to get me a new comforter, but she keeps forgetting.”
Blaire was stunned. Kate had all this at her fingertips, and she was complaining about a stupid bedspread? Before she could say anything, Kate grabbed her hand.
“You haven’t seen yours yet.” Kate’s eyes had shone with excitement.
“Mine?”
“Come on.” She’d pulled Blaire to the room across from hers and pointed to the name above the bed—it read “Blaire” in glittering sea glass.
Blaire hadn’t been able to speak, hadn’t known what to think or how to feel. No one had ever done anything so generous and kind for her before.
“Do you like it? My mother came down last week and took care of it.”
She’d run over to the window and pushed the curtain aside, a wave of disappointment settling over her. Of course it wouldn’t have an ocean view—it was across from Kate’s room, so it faced the front. She hid her disappointment and gave Kate a forced smile. “I love it.”
“I’m glad. Course, we’ll probably both sleep in the same room anyhow, so we can talk all night.”
And she had been right. They’d taken turns in each other’s rooms, lying there in the dark, spilling all their secrets. Blaire hadn’t really needed her own room, but Lily, wise woman that she was, had known that having it would make all the difference to her. Blaire spent every following summer with them at the beach—until the summer of Kate and Simon’s wedding. She wondered if they still had the beach house, if Kate carried on the tradition with Annabelle.
Selby stood up and pecked Kate on the cheek.
“I guess I’ll go now. Remember—whatever you need, I’m here for you.” Selby grabbed her handbag. Blaire recognized the Fendi floral design. The cheerful flowers didn’t suit Selby’s personality at all, Blaire thought. She’d have pegged Selby as more of a Traviata fan, decidedly in black or dark green, holding it over her arm like the Queen.
“I’ll walk you out,” Kate said. She looked at Blaire. “Do you mind staying with Annabelle a sec?”
“Love to,” Blaire answered, and then turned to Annabelle. “Would you like me to finish your story?”
The little girl nodded and handed her The Giving Tree.
“It’s one of my favorites,” Blaire said. They sat together at the table, and she began to read. Annabelle had one arm around Sunny the unicorn. She was an adorable child, with big brown eyes and a beautiful smile. She had a sweetness to her that reminded Blaire of Lily. What a shame that Lily wouldn’t see her grow up.
“Auntie Blaire, read!” Annabelle demanded.
“Sorry, sweetie.”
Selby came rushing back into the room with a frown on her face. “I don’t know what’s going on, but something is very wrong.”
“What are you talking about?” Blaire asked as she readjusted Annabelle in her lap.
“The police came to the door with a package,” Selby said. “They’re with Kate and Simon.” She crossed her arms in front of her. “I’d stay, but I have a massage booked.”
“You don’t want to miss that,” Blaire said.
Selby glared at her. “Maybe I should cancel it. I’m Kate’s best friend. She needs me.”
Why couldn’t Selby give it a rest? They weren’t in high school any longer. Blaire felt herself getting angry but took a deep breath, determined not to say anything she’d regret. She gently twisted a lock of Annabelle’s hair around her finger and continued to stare at Selby, then said in a neutral voice, “I’m here. Go to your appointment. Kate will be fine.”
Selby’s face turned red. “Why did you come back? Didn’t you cause enough trouble before her wedding?”
Was she serious? Their friend’s mother had just been murdered, and all she could do was dredge up the past? Blaire let her anger bubble to the surface. Moving Annabelle from her lap, she got up and stood close to Selby, whispering so Annabelle couldn’t hear.
“What’s the matter with you? Lily is dead, and Kate needs all the support she can get. This isn’t the time for your petty insecurities.”
Obviously flustered, Selby opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
“Maybe it’s time for you to go,” Blaire said. “You clearly need to let out some of that tension.”
Glaring at her, Selby grabbed her purse and stomped away.
7
Kate tapped on her husband’s office door, which was slightly ajar. “Simon, the detective needs to speak with us.”
Simon looked up from his computer and ran a hand through his hair as she walked in with the detective. “What is it? Have they arrested someone?”
“No, sir,” Anderson replied from behind Kate. “But a box has been delivered.”
“From where?” Simon’s tone was impatient. “What’s in it?”
Anderson entered the study as Kate eyed the package with dread. She put a hand on her belly, the all-too-familiar churning in her stomach making her dizzy. She wanted to run from the room before they even opened it.
“Please,” Simon said. “Sit down.”
Anderson set the box squarely on Simon’s desk, and Kate noticed that its packing tape had been sliced through. “I’ve already seen what’s inside. But I want you both to take a look.”
“Yes, of course,” Simon said, rising out of his seat.
“Just look, don’t touch it, please,” the detective instructed.
As he removed the top, Kate let out a gasp, stepping back in revulsion, her hand over her mouth. Three small black birds in a row—pierced by a metal skewer, all with their throats slit.
“What kind of sick bastard is doing this?” Simon roared, pushing the box toward Detective Anderson.
“These birds were most likely purchased from a pet store, just as the mice were,” Anderson said. “They’re parakeets, but they’ve been spray-painted black.”
Kate felt the blood pulsing in her neck and shrank back. Her whole body shook as terror turned to rage, exploding inside her. She looked at Anderson. “Why didn’t you warn us? To deliberately shock us? To see what our reactions would be?” Something else suddenly dawned on her. “Do you think we’re hiding something from you?”
There was no regret in Anderson’s eyes, only suspicion. “It’s procedure,” he said evenly. “Do you have any idea who might be doing this?”
“Of course not.”
He replaced the box lid, took a plastic sleeve from his folder, and handed it to Kate. “This was on top of the birds.” Inside the plastic was a sheet of plain white paper, with the same typeface as the other note.
Sing a song of sixpence
a pocket full of rye
3 little blackbirds
simply had to die
When the box is opened
The birds no longer sing
Wasn't that a pretty gift
For someone to bring?
“These morbid nursery rhymes,” Kate whispered. She handed it to Simon, the words reverberating in her mind in a singsong. She doubled over, a wave of dizziness making her lean on the desk in front of her.
Detective Anderson took the note back and put it in his bag. “The killer obviously wants to taunt you. Based on my experience, I would say this is most likely someone you know, though maybe not someone you know well. Someone on the periphery of your life.”
“Why do you think that?” Kate asked.
“We know it wasn’t a robbery. No valuables were taken. Your father verified that the only thing missing was the bracelet your mother always wore. If someone had broken in to rob the house, they would have taken much more.”
Kate considered this. “So you think someone deliberately targeted her to …”
Before he could answer, Simon interrupted. “Where are you with the investigation? Are you closing in on any suspects?”
“We’re looking at everyone right now.”
Simon sighed loudly. “I’d appreciate a little more detail. For instance, a short list of suspects. People’s alibis. That sort of thing.” He, Kate, and Harrison, as well as their household employees, had provided detailed alibis to the police in the days immediately following the murder.
“Mr. English. We’re not in the habit of sharing the details of our investigation, because it can compromise our work. I assure you, we’re being very thorough.”
A silence hung in the room until Detective Anderson finally broke it. “Again, if there’s anything else you can tell me, now’s the time.”
Kate turned to Simon for some kind of assurance, but his face, white and stricken, told her he was as filled with panic as she was.
“Were you able to trace the text my wife received?” he asked.
Anderson shook his head. “No, we need to do it in real time. But if they send another one, we’ll be able to. I’ve also contacted the FBI behavioral unit. I’m going to fill out the paperwork to see if they can take a look at some of this. It could be a long wait, but we’ll see.”
Together, they walked to the front door. Detective Anderson pursed his lips again, shaking his head. “I know you’re frightened. We’re doing everything possible to protect you and your family, but please, be on guard too. Are you sure you can’t think of anything out of the ordinary that’s happened recently? Any hang-up calls? Any strangers who’ve approached you for directions or asked you for something seemingly insignificant? Anything odd at the hospital, Dr. English, or your firm, Mr. English?”
Kate thought about it for a minute but came up blank. She shook her head.
“I can’t think of anything either,” Simon said.
“Well, please get in touch if you do. Anything. I’d rather have extraneous information than miss something crucial.”
“Of course,” Kate and Simon said in unison. Suddenly drained, she leaned against him.
Before Anderson left, Blaire walked into the hallway with a crying Annabelle. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Annabelle wants her mom.”
As Kate reached out to take her daughter, Anderson extended his hand to Blaire. “I’m Detective Anderson. And you are?”
“This is one of my oldest friends, Blaire Barrington,” Kate said. “She came in from New York for the funeral.”
“Would you mind answering a few questions for me?” Anderson asked Blaire.
“Certainly.”
Simon piped in. “You can use my office.”
Blaire followed Anderson back to Simon’s office.
Kate looked at Simon. “I’m really scared,” she whispered. “Who could be doing this?”
Before he could answer, his phone rang. He held up a finger and looked at the screen. “Sorry, gotta take this.”
Kate felt her back go up at his offhanded dismissal. She watched angrily as he walked back down the hall. Taking a deep breath, she took Annabelle back to the kitchen, where Hilda was putting together a snack for her.
“Would you mind taking Annabelle into the playroom?”
“I want you, Mommy.”
“I’ll come in soon, sweetie. I just need to talk to Aunt Blaire for a minute. How about a chocolate bar? Special treat for being a good girl.” Kate winced as the words left her mouth, but sometimes bribery was the only way.
Annabelle was still pouting, but she nodded and took Hilda’s hand.
Ten minutes later Blaire was back.
“What did Anderson want to know?” Kate asked.
“He was just verifying my whereabouts the night Lily was killed. I gave him the number of my doorman and the names of my neighbors. He also asked if you and Simon seemed happy.”
Kate raised her eyebrows. She wondered briefly if Blaire had mentioned her feelings about Simon to Anderson.
“I told him we hadn’t been in touch for a while, so I didn’t know. I’m sure he’s just looking at every angle. But what happened before? You looked like you’d just seen a ghost when I came into the hall,” Blaire said gently.
Kate dropped into a chair, worn out by the stress. “I guess Selby left a while ago?”
“Yeah. She didn’t want to be late for her massage. Is everything okay?” The concern was evident in Blaire’s voice.
Kate took a minute to think. Could she tell Blaire what was going on? There’d been a time when she wouldn’t have hesitated. When they were young, Kate had no secrets from her. Before Blaire, Kate’s confidante had been her diary. Bad moods and problems were frowned upon in her home, when she was growing up. Or at least they were kept hidden. Whenever Kate was upset, Lily had always comforted her—at least in Lily’s own way. After a hug and some kind words, she never failed to remind Kate of how incredibly fortunate she was, that she should be thankful for all she had, that complaining or getting upset at her small problems was a sign of ingratitude. When Blaire came along, things had changed. Blaire had told Kate about her absent mother, indifferent father, and hated stepmother. She shared her insecurities and anxieties, and slowly, slowly, Kate opened up too. She had felt like a bird being set free from its cage, grateful to finally have someone tell her it was all right to be sad or angry or however else she felt for as long as she felt. It would be such a relief to confide in her, to let it all out. It took only a few seconds for her to decide to ignore Anderson’s order of secrecy and plunge ahead. “Not a ghost,” she finally said, “but something equally terrifying. A message from the killer.”
Blaire’s eyes widened in surprise. “Lily’s killer contacted you?”
From there, it came out in a rush. The threatening text the night of the funeral, the mice in her bathroom sink.
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