On a whim, Kate opened the lock screen and punched in the simple 1-2-3-4-5-6, and shockingly, it unlocked. It figured Caitlyn wouldn’t have set her own pin.

  Dozens of texts appeared on the screen, from Alex, from Jane Rocheford. She saw her own, asking Caitlyn to call.

  There were almost as many voicemail messages. Kate scrolled through the list, and Hank’s number caught her eye. It was left on the same day Caitlyn had visited Anna’s. Kate hit play and listened:

  “Tom will pick you up tomorrow at ten for the appointment.”

  Kate hit the button to play the message again. And again. And again.

  What appointment? Caitlyn had been upset at Anna’s, drunk and crying. And she was pregnant.

  If this was about the pregnancy, then Hank lied to her. He’d known. Caitlyn must have told him. How far would Hank have gone to make sure Caitlyn didn’t have that baby?

  She had no proof of anything. The message didn’t really say anything. But why would Tom be picking Caitlyn up? And for what kind of appointment?

  Kate put the phone down on the floor next to her, her hands shaking. Caitlyn left the rehab center and went to Anna’s after Hank left this message. And then she disappeared into the night; no one saw her again. Except the person who killed her.

  Hank had her phone.

  Why hadn’t he gotten rid of it? It would be easy enough to do.

  Her thoughts were pinballing all over the place and landed in one place: she’d turned on the phone, which meant that anyone—the police, Pawlik?—who might want to locate this phone would be able to track it. Her fingers found the power button and shut it down again.

  She sat on the floor of the closet and debated what to do. Put the phone back where she found it? Put it in her own hiding place? Toss it in a dumpster? Destroy it?

  Using a safety pin, Kate removed the phone’s SIM card. She turned the little computer chip over and over in her palm. And then she slipped the phone itself back into its hiding place in the carryall.

  In Hank’s den, she found a small padded envelope with the other office supplies she’d had access to when she was his assistant. Putting the SIM card into a white letter envelope, she stuck it inside the bigger one and filled out the address on the front.

  Hank might be back tonight—or he might not be. Kate glanced around at the mess she’d made in the closet, in the bedroom. Leaving everything as it was, she walked through the penthouse and grabbed her bag from where she’d dropped it on the living room sofa, tucking the padded envelope inside. She didn’t want to stay in the penthouse. She didn’t want to be alone with Hank, in case he came back. She had to sort out her thoughts, figure out what she wanted to do.

  She rode down in the elevator and spotted the bodyguard in the lobby. He wasn’t supposed to engage, but he would follow her. She tried not to focus on that as she approached the desk.

  “Can you post this for me?” she asked the concierge in a low voice so as not to be overheard, a twenty-dollar bill on top of the envelope she took from her bag. She stood in such a way so the bodyguard, at a distance, might not be able to see the transaction.

  The concierge smiled. “I’ll keep an eye on that for you,” he said cheerily, his eyes flickering over her right shoulder as he slid the envelope underneath a pile of newspapers on his desk. “Have a nice evening.”

  She gave him a smile. The doorman opened the door for her, stepping aside as she moved past him with a nod.

  Kate quickly moved along the sidewalk, acutely aware that the bodyguard was following her. She also knew, however, that he wouldn’t get too close. When she reached the subway stop, she scurried down the stairs and to the turnstile. She pulled her phone out of her bag and tapped it to the turnstile’s screen. She hurried through to the subway platform, looking around behind her, but she didn’t see the bodyguard. Kate checked her watch, but she didn’t have to wait too long before the train rumbled toward her on the track. The doors opened, and she stepped inside the air-conditioned car. She found a vacant seat, so she sat, staring out at the platform as the doors closed.

  That was when she saw the bodyguard standing outside, a puzzled look on his face. Before she could stop herself, she lifted her hand in a wave and then he was gone.

  * * *

  Kate still wasn’t certain that she wasn’t being followed. She might have left that bodyguard back at the station, but it didn’t mean Hank hadn’t hired more than one. She took the train to Times Square and made her way through the maze until she was aboveground again, her eyes darting around, suspicious of everyone and anyone. The sidewalk was thick with pedestrians, and she weaved her way around them, letting the city with its scents and sounds envelop her. The penthouse had felt claustrophobic, but here she could breathe again, clear her head.

  She thought about checking into a hotel, but she really only wanted to go home, to her apartment, where she was surrounded by everything that comforted her. Hank would be able to find her—it wouldn’t be hard for him to guess where she’d gone—but if he showed up, at least she’d have the home-turf advantage.

  The cab dropped her in front of her building. She was climbing the stairs when her phone rang.

  She fished it out of her bag and stared at Hank’s name as she let herself into her apartment. No doubt he’d received the report that she’d left and lost the bodyguard. When she got inside, she put the phone on the island. He could talk to her voicemail.

  Kate took a wineglass out of the cupboard. She had a bottle of white in the fridge. She shouldn’t drink without something to eat, so she found some crackers and settled in on her couch. She felt numb, the wine further anesthetizing her. She didn’t want to think about Hank, how happy she’d been until a few days ago, how her future seemed as though it had so much promise. So she drank and nibbled her crackers, staring at the pictures of her parents and her travels, thinking about how much she missed them and wanted to ask their advice. The sky outside faded to dark, streetlights splashing against her walls, not unlike the paintings at the penthouse. She finished the bottle of wine and stumbled to the bedroom, stripping down and pulling an oversized T-shirt over herself before falling into bed.

  The sound of shattering glass startled her awake.

  44 ANNA

  Anna wasn’t used to first-class travel. Even when she ran her family’s company, she flew coach and took public transportation. The private jet to the island and car that picked them up at the small airport belonged in another world, one she hadn’t lived in long enough to make it part of her everyday life. Maril, on the other hand, was nonplussed. She, of course, was used to traveling this way.

  Anna wasn’t happy—not at all—about leaving her house. She felt as though she were abandoning Joan. She could imagine her saying, “You really want to trust the police to find me? You should know better than that.” But she’d been outnumbered. Everyone—including Kate—thought that staying would not be safe.

  “It won’t do Joan any good if something happens to you, too,” Kate had argued. Anna could tell Kate wasn’t happy, either, because she had to go back to the city with Hank and there was trouble in paradise. Anna suspected Kate was having second thoughts about marrying him. Hank certainly wasn’t doing much to change her mind, either, although Anna had noticed the new diamond necklace around Kate’s neck that she kept fiddling with.

  Spending time with Kate had been interesting on a lot of levels. They both knew what the rules were, and despite their differences, they had a bond. Joan would never completely understand. Not really. She could walk away at any time, but Anna and Kate would forever be Hank Tudor’s wives. They’d shared so much in the past few days. An odd relationship: one wife, one ex-wife.

  Hank certainly couldn’t be happy about that, which was probably why Kate had been whisked off to the Central Park West penthouse and she found herself on Martha’s Vineyard.

  Anna kept checking her phone, anxious that she’d miss a call from Joan. Or from Pawlik, telling her they’d found Joan.

  She couldn’t let herself believe that anything had happened to her wife. That Joan wouldn’t come home to her. She had to have hope—or she wouldn’t be able to go on.

  Joan should have been sitting next to her. She would have relished this, “an adventure,” she would have called it, if she hadn’t been the reason for the banishment to Martha’s Vineyard. Joan had a curiosity and an animosity about Hank. She didn’t like the way he “took advantage” of Anna, but at the same time, she followed all the news about him. She’d taken some pleasure in the stock sell-off after Caitlyn’s body was discovered, said it was his “comeuppance.” Anna hadn’t liked that but kept her mouth shut. She’d had a lot of practice and it was second nature to her now.

  What would Joan say, to see her with Maril and the children, no allies to speak of? Her wife would say something caustic, urging Anna to stand up for herself and not allow Hank to tell her what to do. But if Joan were here, Anna wouldn’t have been sent away at all.

  Where was Will Stafford? Anna had had no reason to suspect him of anything except loyalty. She shivered, thinking of how many nights she was alone with him on her nocturnal walks. Joan was the one who found him, who hired him, but now that Anna thought about it, she didn’t really know anything about him except his military service. She’d told Pawlik everything Joan told her about Will, but as she did, she realized he’d never volunteered any information and she hadn’t asked. She’d always figured he didn’t want to talk about what happened in Afghanistan. Now she found herself wondering if he’d even been there at all. But why would Joan lie? The question brought her back to one that had been hammering at her ever since Hank admitted hiring a private investigator: Why had Joan lied about having children?

  She didn’t like having doubts about her wife, but they crept into her head and wouldn’t budge.

  The Vineyard house was fairly modest, as Hank’s houses went. It was similar to the one in Greenwich, with gray clapboard siding and white gingerbread trim, but it was larger. While some of the typical island houses were a little too frilly for Anna’s taste, Hank’s house had an elegance about it. Anna, Maril, and the children climbed out of the car—no gate, but Anna suspected the security cameras were capturing everything that was happening on the secluded property. If they were working. Hank had been especially apologetic about his “glitchy” cameras at the Greenwich house, said heads would roll because they still weren’t working properly even after Caitlyn’s body had been discovered.

  They were herded in through the kitchen, and Anna was immediately taken by the six-burner, stainless steel gas range with a colorful Italian tile mosaic backsplash. The rest of the kitchen was equally as tasteful, with a porcelain farmer’s sink and a quartz countertop that looked like marble. She thought about her own kitchen, now a little worn around the edges, and wondered if, once Joan returned and they were back home, they could do some updating.

  Maril didn’t give her much time to ruminate, however, as she led them up a back stairwell to the second floor. No one said a word, not even Ted, who was usually not prone to keeping quiet. Lizzie took everything in with those large gray eyes of hers, missing nothing. Maril, who knew her way around this house, assigned bedrooms. The one chosen for Anna had wallpaper with tiny pink-and-blue flowers, and the bed was covered with a large white goose-down comforter.

  “Nan redecorated the house. She didn’t like the way it was when my parents were married,” Maril said, finally breaking the silence after Lizzie had been deposited in her room and was out of earshot. “Daddy never changed it after that.”

  “What about Jeanne?”

  “He never brought her here.”

  So there had been no wives in this house since Nan.

  Hank must have had someone open the house, air it out, before they left, because there was no sign of dust or dirt. It was impeccably clean, as though it had been expecting them.

  As Maril went to check on Lizzie and Ted down the hall, Anna ran her fingers along the bedcovers and the edge of the carved wooden dresser. An oval mirror set in a gold frame hung over it. Anna peered at her own face, wondering about Nan Tudor and if there were answers about her here among the ghosts.

  The window was open, a soft, warm breeze kissing her cheeks. The ocean spread out beyond the house. A couple of sailboats moved across the water.

  Tom Cromwell appeared in the doorway. He’d escorted them from Greenwich, but he’d spent the time rifling through papers in his briefcase, stabbing messages on his phone. Distracted.

  “You’ve never been out here, have you?” he asked.

  Tom knew very well that she’d never been to the Vineyard house, and she resented him pretending otherwise. But she forced a smile and said, “No, I haven’t. It’s beautiful.”

  He reached over then and touched her arm. Instinctively, she recoiled.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Anna,” he said in a soft tone she’d never heard before. “I lost my wife. I know how it feels.”

  And for a moment, Tom Cromwell seemed human, but as his words settled, she took a deep breath, tears springing into her eyes. “Your wife is dead. Joan is—isn’t—”

  “I know,” he said, still in that unfamiliar tone. “We’ll find her.”

  “I’d like to be alone right now,” Anna said firmly, channeling Joan.

  Tom narrowed his eyes at her, as though debating whether she should be left alone, and then said, “Certainly,” and stepped backward out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

  Anna sat on the bed and waited a few minutes. She pulled her bag up onto the bed and unzipped it, feeling underneath the clothes, her fingers finally touching the hard surface of the tablet.

  She and Joan shared it for inn business: guests, vendors, housekeeping staff, chefs they hired for special events, landscaping. It was all here. Pawlik had taken it for a short time but returned it, saying there was nothing of interest, nothing that could lead them to Joan’s whereabouts.

  Maybe not. But holding it and scrolling through the files and spreadsheets was somehow soothing. It made her feel close to Joan, wherever she was. It felt normal at a time when nothing was normal. It gave her hope that Joan was alive somewhere and would return and they could resume their lives.

  She opened a few of the spreadsheets with information about their past guests. Joan had been meticulous with recording their likes and dislikes—and her impressions of them. Some were difficult, demanding. Some were relaxed and delightful company. Anna remembered all of them—and how she and Joan had gossiped over glasses of wine after they’d left.

  Except one.

  Anna frowned as she tried to recall this particular guest. But the name John Dudley didn’t ring a bell. According to the date on the file, he stayed at the inn two years ago, not long after Joan became a part of her life and the inn. Curious, she opened the spreadsheet.

  The only thing on it was a phone number.

  Before she could think about it, Anna picked up her phone and punched in the number.

  It went straight to voicemail.

  Hi, it’s Will. You know what to do.

  45 ANNA

  It wasn’t Will’s phone number, at least not the one she had. But it was his voice. Unmistakably.

  Anna fumbled with her phone. She’d put Pawlik’s number in her contacts, and she found his name and hit CALL.

  “Is everything all right?” Pawlik didn’t bother with greetings and pleasantries.

  “I, um, might’ve found something, but I don’t know what it means.” Anna told him about “John Dudley” and the phone number.

  “Let me look into this. Give me the number.”

  She did. “I didn’t leave a message. I was too stunned, honestly, to think of it. Should I call back?”

  “No,” Pawlik said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “He’ll know I called, though, right? He’ll have a missed call. He knows my number.” Anna felt a small panic attack rising.

  “He doesn’t know where you are,” Pawlik said, his smooth baritone calming her. He hesitated a second, then added, “We haven’t been able to find anything on Stafford. It’s like he doesn’t exist. But let me look into this other name. It seems he could have been using an alias with you.”

  “Do you think he did something to Joan?” Anna asked.

  “We can’t speculate right now,” Pawlik said, although Anna could hear in his tone that he was doing just that. “Did you find anything else in that tablet that we may have missed? Any more about this Dudley?”

  “Nothing else,” Anna admitted. “I can take another look through it, if you think it might help.”

  “It might. That would be helpful.” Again he hesitated, before saying, “You said you found this in your tablet that you shared with Ms. Carey?”

  “Yes, in the spreadsheet of guests we’ve had the last two years.”

  “Does anyone else besides you and your wife have access to it?”

  Anna understood what he was asking. If she and Joan shared the tablet, then one of them would have entered the information—and it wasn’t her. “No one else has the password,” she said. She didn’t like what that could mean. Joan had hired Will, brought him in early on, vouching for his skills, his background.

  “I’ll take care of this,” she’d assured Anna, who didn’t know the first thing about hiring a security team.

  There must be a good explanation. Although what that might be, Anna had no idea. By putting “John Dudley” into the spreadsheet, what did Joan know about him that she hadn’t shared with her? And why wouldn’t she share it?

  “There’s no news about Joan?” She didn’t want to ask but had to—even though if there was any news, she was sure he would have called her already.

  “Nothing, I’m sorry.”

  At least they hadn’t found her body—or any other evidence that would point to Joan being harmed in any way. Thank goodness for small favors. It meant Joan could still come home to her.

 

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