Murder House

55

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” I say as I walk along the side of the road down Ocean Drive toward the Atlantic, the wind calm and the sun beating down on us.

“Roger that,” says Ricketts, my rookie companion.

“I’m a dead-ender,” I tell her. “You know what that is?”

“I think so. Your career’s hit a wall?”

“Roger that.” Without realizing it, I find that my stride has slowed as I near the end of the road, as I approach 7 Ocean Drive.

“Point being, I’ve got nothing to lose,” I explain. “Chief’s going to stick me in one dead end after another until I quit. So I figure I might as well solve a crime or two in my free time. But you, Ricketts? You’ve got a whole career ahead of you.”

Ricketts is wearing a Red Sox T-shirt with running shorts and Nikes. She has the same build as me, lean and hard, but she gets it from genetics, not from working out like I do. “Dad always said I had an attitude problem.”

“The Red Sox shirt being one example,” I note.

I feel my heartbeat escalate, a banging drum against my chest. My breathing tightens up as well.

“Are you okay, Murphy?”

I stop and take a breath. Something about this damn house, every time I get close to it. Like my nightmares, only while awake. Put claustrophobia and panic in a bowl and stir for two minutes.

“I’m fine. Let’s go.” I trudge forward on shaky legs, not eager to share my sob story of scary dreams and panic attacks with the rookie.

“Why are we going to the house?” she asks me, a welcome question, allowing me to focus on the case, and not on this feeling overcoming me.

“The hooker, Brittany Halsted,” I say. “He stuck a corkscrew so far inside her it almost came out the other side. Sally Pfiester, that backpacker? He used some kind of spear and drove it almost all the way through her midsection, right?”

“And somehow managed to drain all the blood out of her body,” Ricketts says. “By the time they found her on an East Hampton beach, she was white as a bedsheet.”

“Right. And last year, the other prostitute, Bonnie Stamos — impaled on a tree stump. And then my uncle Lang...”

I can’t bring myself to finish the sentence, but she gets it. The killer drove a heated poker through Lang’s kidney and into the kitchen floor.

“He likes to do more than just cut them,” says Ricketts. “He likes to stick it in deep. You think maybe this is a sexual thing with him?”

We stop at the grand wrought-iron gates of 7 Ocean Drive. All at once, it’s like the temperature has been turned up, the loss of breath, the pressure on my chest. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

“Jesus, Murphy, are you having a heart attack or something?”

Something. I shake it off, slide between the gates, and look back at her through the bars. “Nobody invited us here,” I say. “And we’re cops.”

“Right,” she says.

“As in, we’re not supposed to do this.”

“Roger that.”

“You can turn back now, Ricketts.”

“I could.”

“You should turn back now.”

“I probably should.” She slips through the small space between the gates, joining me on the other side. “But I’m not. I’m going where you’re going. Tell me why we’re at the Murder House.”

I nod, take another breath, and move up the driveway until it curves off toward the carriage house up the hill. At that point, I take the stone path that, after a healthy hike, will lead to the front door of this grandiose monstrosity of a house.

“This place always gives me the creeps,” says Ricketts. “It’s like a multiheaded monster. All the different-color limestone, the different rooflines, all those gargoyles and ornamental spears pointed up at the sky.”

“Yeah, it’s a real fun place.” I divert from the stone path onto the enormous expanse of grass before the slope upward toward the mansion. I stop at the stone fountain with the monument bearing the family crest and inscription. “This is why we’re here,” I say.

“Because of a fountain?”

I point at the small stone tablet, the crest featuring the bird with the hooked beak and long tail feather, the circle of tiny daggers surrounding it. “That,” I say. “That fucking bird.”

She doesn’t get the context. She doesn’t know that this miserable little winged creature has been haunting my dreams.

“Looks like an ordinary bird,” she says, moving closer. “An ugly one. But it looks harmless. Why would you have a little bird like this on your family crest? You’d think it would be a falcon or an eagle or some scary, majestic bird.”

I’ve spent the last two days researching that animal, trying to identify it among hundreds of species of birds in a catalog. When I matched it up, some things started to make more sense.

“It’s a shrike,” I say. “A small bird, yes. No large talons, no great wingspan. Not what you’d think of as a bird of prey. You’re right, it looks harmless. But guess how it kills its food?”

Ricketts looks upward, thinking. “I’m going to use my powers of deductive reasoning and say... it spears them somehow.”

“Close,” I say. “It impales them.”

She draws back. “Really?”

“Really. It scoops up insects, rodents, whatever, and carries them to the nearest sharp point — a thorn, the spikes of a barbed-wire fence, whatever it can find — and shish-kebabs them. Then it tears at them with that hooked beak.”

Ricketts slowly nods. “Most of our victims suffered some version of impalement.”

I wag my finger at that monument, the crest and the shrike. “This isn’t a coincidence. Our psychopath has a real hard-on for this family, maybe for this house,” I say. “So I want you to find out everything you can about 7 Ocean Drive. And this note under the crest — Cecilia, O Cecilia / Life was death disguised — find out what that means, too.”

“I will,” she says, not hiding her excitement. “Right away.”

“Great. Now it’s time for you to go home, Ricketts.”

“Why? What are you gonna do?”

I nod toward the house. “I’m going inside.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No.” I shake my head. “Walking into the yard is one thing. Breaking into the house is another. I don’t want to be responsible for you.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Get lost — that’s an order,” I say. “Besides, you have a lot of work to do.”

56

I hold my breath and push open the front door. When I walk in, I immediately feel a weight pressing down on me, my movements slowing, an impossible wave of heat spreading through me.

Fight through it. You have work to do. So do it!

I stagger forward, feeling disoriented, light-headed, as if drugged.

So, so hot, like a fireplace inside my chest.

The dramatic Old Testament frescoes on the ceiling. The gold-framed portraits of men in formal eighteenth-century dress, mocking me.

Feeling my oxygen depleting, taking shallow breaths and keeping my chin up, my wits about me, as the childish cackling and taunting echo through my ears.

Please, don’t make me go there

Please, don’t do this

I wanna go home

The anteroom angling sideways, the lighting in front of me spotty, but I’m not turning back, there’s got to be something here and I’m going to find it—

Into the foyer, the staircase to the second floor before me, a parlor of some kind to my right, antique furniture and custom molding and chandeliers, an ornate fireplace. I turn toward the parlor but can’t move toward it, as if a gravitational pull is drawing me in the opposite direction, and suddenly I’m staggering to my left instead, nearly losing my balance—

The dining room. Elaborate carvings on the walls, tall windows with fancy trim, a chandelier hanging over a pentagonal oak table with high-backed chairs. I reach for one of the chairs and grip it as if holding on for my life.

“I can’t do this,” I whisper, the childish taunts still banging between my ears, drowning out even my own voice. I need to be here, but I can’t be here.

I push myself off the chair and start across the dining room, headed toward what must be the kitchen, my nerves scattered about, my vision unfocused, oxygen coming as if I’m taking breaths through a straw.

I draw my sidearm, for no reason that makes sense.

Get out of here

Stay and investigate

My legs finally give out, and I fall to my knees as if in prayer.

Let me go

Don’t make me do this

Someone please help me

Let me out of here

I put my hand on the windowsill for support, push myself up with my free hand, my Glock held forward with the other hand, trembling.

Then I look down.

On the windowsill, jagged letters carved into the wood.

Black spots before my eyes, my body turning, my legs like gelatin, moving in slow motion, like my feet are wading through thick sand, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe—

The ornate patterned tile floor, then my hand on the door, pushing it, pushing it, why won’t it — then turning the handle and pulling, fresh air on my face, sunlight—

I take a deep, greedy breath of fresh air and slam the door behind me.

I fall to a knee on the porch and gather myself. I don’t know what just happened, why it always happens, why I’m having these dreams, why it all seems to be getting worse, and suddenly tears are falling off my cheeks, my body is trembling uncontrollably, my breath seizing, and I don’t understand any of this, I don’t know why something inside me seems to be breaking and I don’t know how to stop it.

I only know one thing I didn’t know before.

“They were here,” I say to nobody.

Dede Paris and Annie Church were in this house.

57

The motorcycle takes a left off the turnpike onto the gravel drive, and I keep driving north, but the first chance I get, I turn left into a side street, do a quick U-turn, and head south. I pull into the parking lot a few minutes later, my car bouncing over the uneven gravel.

When I push the door open and walk into Tasty’s, Noah Walker is at a corner table, just getting started on a beer. He’s halfway to raising the bottle to his lips when he sees me. I see the hunky, clean-cut owner, Justin Rivers, behind the counter. He gives me a soldier’s salute — kind of dorky; he’s a looker but sort of a nerd — and I nod back.

“If it isn’t Bridgehampton’s finest,” Noah says, taking a swig as I approach. He wears the grunge look well — T-shirt, cargo shorts, and sandals. Since his hair was cut tight while he was at Sing Sing, he looks less like Matthew McConaughey and more like a muscle-head weight lifter. A thick vein runs along his rippled biceps as he lowers the beer bottle to the table.

Not that I’m looking at his rippled biceps.

I stand near his table in the near-empty shack of a restaurant, hands on my hips. “Y’know something, Walker, I can’t decide if you’re the smartest criminal I’ve ever met, or a guy with a lot of really bad luck.”

He sets down the bottle and finishes his swallow. “Good evening to you, too, Detective.”

I look around the place. Only two other customers this time of night, past the dinner rush, and they’re at the other end of the shack.

I drop two photographs on the table, next to his beer. “You know those women?”

Noah looks at the photos casually at first, then with what looks to me like a glint of recognition in his eyes, and he lifts the photos, peering at them. His eyes drift off them, like he’s recalling something. After a long moment, he looks at me.

“Why?”

“It’s a simple question, Noah. If you have nothing to hide, why shouldn’t matter.”

“They look familiar, but I don’t know why.” He drops the photos back on the table. “Okay?”

“You’ve worked for years at 7 Ocean Drive,” I say.

He shakes his head, bemused. “That house again? Yeah, I think everyone in the world knows by now that I did work on that house.”

“Those two girls,” I say, “were staying in that house in 2007. They went missing afterward. They were Yale undergrads who came to the Hamptons and were never seen again. Nobody was even looking for them in Bridgehampton, and definitely not in that house. But now we know they were there. So that’s two couples who stayed in that house, two couples dead—”

“So now you’re accusing me of that, too?” He gets up from his chair, kicking it back violently. “You know something, Detective? I can’t figure you out, either. First you ruin my life by lying on the witness stand and sending me to prison. Then you tell the judge I was framed, and I start to think you might be a human being. And now you’re back accusing me of everything that’s ever happened in this town. I mean, I can’t even have dinner...”

I narrow my eyes, appraising him. The same read as always — I’m not getting killer from his vibe. I’m not sure what I’m getting.

He keeps his eyes on me, challenging me, a twinkle of a dare in his eyes. The smell of his sweat coming off him.

“There’s a lot of coincidences involving you, Noah.” I back away from the table. “But for now, I’ll leave you to your dinner.”

The other diners in the restaurant, getting a good eyeful, return to their meals as I pass them. I wave to Justin on my way out.

“Hey,” Noah says as I’m ready to push through the door.

I turn, and he’s walking up to me.

He looks me over, works his unshaven jaw.

Heat across my chest.

“Lemme ask you something,” he says. “You’re an experienced cop, right? You’ve stared down all sorts of bad people, cold-blooded killers?”

“I’ve seen my share.”

“Do I really seem like a killer to you?” He opens his arms, as if to give me a clear view. The thick scarring on his palms, from the crucifixion at Sing Sing.

That’s been my problem all along. Even when certain evidence points to him, when the facts line up against him — every time I look him in the eye, I just don’t see it. There is anger behind his eyes, and he’s lived rough, no doubt. But is there rage? The capacity for horrific sadism? That mental switch that flips on and allows him to turn into a monster?

I tell him the truth.

I say, “I’m not sure.”

58

Midnight. The temperature fallen to the low fifties, the wind coming hard off the ocean, less than a mile to the south, carrying some hint of the rain that just stopped an hour ago, with me unprepared in my short sleeves. I left the bar in a fog, not drunk exactly, not on alcohol at least, my emotions swirling, my thoughts consumed by the murders, by Uncle Lang, by my shipwreck of a life, and somehow instead of driving home I found myself at the cemetery on Main Street.

The lighting from the street is dim, casting the cemetery in almost complete darkness. I can’t even read the tombstone, but I know it, of course, by heart.

LANGDON TRAVIS JAMES, it reads. HE KEPT US SAFE. That’s what he told Chloe he wanted said about him, when it was all over, that he devoted his life to protecting people. And he did. Sure, he cut some corners with the Ocean Drive murders, but he thought Noah was his guy — he thought he was framing a killer whom he otherwise couldn’t catch. Wrong methods, but right reasons.

And I, of all people, exposed him. I didn’t have a choice. I hope he knows that. Aunt Chloe promised me that he does, wherever he is now. Aunt Chloe, whose blank tombstone rests next to Lang’s. He bought these tombstones early in their marriage, Chloe said, so they’d be together forever.

He was broken when she left him. She surely had her reasons, but he lost the love of his life. He was never the same person again. My mother was never the same after my father and Ryan died in that car accident, either. Losing your soul mate, by death or divorce — is it better than never having one in the first place? Better to have loved and lost, as they say, than never to have loved at all?

I drop to my haunches, suddenly exhausted. Chloe’s right. I have to leave this place. It’s doing something to me. But that means I’ll have to give up being a cop. Nobody will give me another chance. The job’s my love, probably the only one I’ll ever have. But I’ll have to leave. I don’t think I can survive many more of these night terrors, these panic attacks or whatever they are.

But first things first.

“I’m not leaving,” I say to Lang’s stone, “until I figure out who killed you.”

The winds die down.

A noise. A shuffling movement.

I get to my feet and spin around. I look south into darkness, my eyes not fully adjusted.

A beam of light, twenty yards away, a small yellow circle on the ground.

I draw my sidearm.

“Who’s there?” I call out.

The light swings in my direction until it passes across my face, then returning to me, blinding me.

“Town police!” I call out, shutting my eyes.

The light on my face disappears. I open my eyes, unable to see much of anything from the overload to my retinas; I squint and drop low.

“Identify yourself!” I yell.

I hear something, feet adjusting in wet grass, think maybe I see a figure moving. The flashlight beam has disappeared, nothing but spotty darkness. I break into a run, the gun at my side, my eyes still off-kilter after the blinding light, dodging tombstones as best I can. As I race farther south, some faint light off the side street helps me navigate.

The figure up ahead, in a full-out sprint.

“Stop! Town police!”

I pick up my pace, feeling like I’m closing the gap, a faint mist hitting my face, but it’s not far from the street, and then the woods, plenty of places to hide. I’m running full-speed, but I’m running out of time.

I fire a round into the earth, the gunshot’s echo piercing, and the sloshing sound of feet running on wet grass suddenly stops.

“Don’t move! Town police!”

I shuffle forward, both hands on the gun trained ahead of me, though I can’t really make out the figure yet. “Hands out where I can see them!” I order, as if I could possibly see them.

As I get closer and my eyes readjust, I make him. He has turned to face me. His arms are extended upward.

A mousy face, hair jutting out from beneath a baseball cap flipped backward.

“Who are you?” I ask, but I think I know the answer.

“Who are you?” he says.

“Detective Murphy, STPD. Tell me who you are, and don’t move!”

“Aiden Willis.”

I shuffle toward him, closing the gap, less than ten yards away. The wind picks a lousy time to kick back up, carrying mist and some stray leaves.

“You in the habit of running from cops, Aiden?”

“I didn’t know you were a cop.”

“I announced myself.” Moving closer still. Gun still held high. Adrenaline still pumping.

“So? How do I know it’s true?”

A fair point, I guess. This time of night, in a cemetery.

“Where’s that flashlight?” I ask.

“In my hand.”

“Shine it under your chin,” I say. “And move slowly, Aiden. Don’t make a cop with a gun nervous.”

He complies. The light goes on, and there he is, illuminated by a haunting, ghost-story-around-the-campfire light under his face, those raccoon eyes that constantly flitter about.

“What are you doing here, Aiden?” Moving closer, under five yards now.

“What are you doin’ here?”

“Hey, pal, you wanna stop asking me the same question I ask you?”

“I work here.”

True enough, that. Isaac told me he did maintenance here.

“You’re working at midnight, are you?”

“It rained. We got an open site for burial tomorrow. Sometimes the rain messes it up. I’m just checkin’.”

“Who’s getting buried?”

“How should I know?”

I feel my adrenaline decelerating. “You scared the shit out of me,” I say.

“You scared the shit out of me.”

What’s with this guy repeating everything I say? But I have no basis to detain him, and now that my heart has stopped racing, and the wind’s finding its way under my shirt and licking my sweat-covered face and neck — I’m reminded how freaking cold it is out here.

“I remember you now,” he mumbles, or at least that’s what I think he said.

“What?”

Did he say he remembers me?

He double-blinks. “Can I go now?”

I let out a breath. “Yeah.”

The light goes off under Aiden’s face.

Bathing him in darkness again.

59

Let me out

Bam-bam-bam

Let me out

Bam-bam-bam

I can’t see can’t breathe

Darkness, then penetrating light from above, a shadow blocking it

A face coming into focus, backlit by blinding yellow

A boy, long hair, a hand

Don’t touch me, please don’t touch—

I lurch forward in bed, sucking in air, my heartbeat rattling.

The same nightmare, but different.

Closed in, dark, let me out, suffocating—

But a boy. This time, a boy.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to re-create it, to make out a face, but it’s like trying to grasp vapor in your hand. You can’t pull back a dream from the netherworld of the subconscious.

It comes when it wants to, and it vanishes at will.

I climb out from under the covers, wipe thick sweat off my forehead, splash cold water on my face in the bathroom. A quarter to five. Slept for four hours.

I throw on a shirt and shorts, lace up my New Balance shoes, and hit the pavement for ten miles.

The Hamptons, at their most charming at sunrise, the tranquil bays and deserted beaches and open roads, the smell of recent rain. I run over sand and grass and asphalt, working out the kinks, exorcising the night demons.

Later, I’m in my car, heading toward the school, my thrilling assignment. I dial information on my cell phone and get the number for the church.

“Presbyterian church.” An elderly woman’s cheery voice.

“Hi,” I say, “I was wondering if you could tell me if there’s a burial today.”

“Today? Hold on, sweetie.” Muffled conversation in the background. “Today? No, ma’am. We don’t have any burials scheduled for the rest of this week. What’s the name of the deceased?”

No burials today. Aiden Willis lied to me.

“I must have the wrong cemetery, my apologies. Thank you very much.”

Why would Aiden lie about his reason for being at the cemetery last night?

My cell phone buzzes in my hand. It’s from the substation.

“Murphy,” I say.

“Detective, it’s Margaret at the substation. Chief Marks wants to see you.”

“I’m on my way to my assignment,” I say.

“He said right now.”

I blow out air.

“He didn’t say it very nicely, either,” she adds in a quieter voice.

60

I turn my car around and drive to the substation. What assignment is Chief Marks going to give me now — school crossing guard?

By the time I enter his office, I’ve worked up a little attitude. How much worse can it get for me here?

Isaac takes his time reading a report, making me wait — purposeful, a show of authority — and starts talking to me without looking up. “Detective Murphy,” he says, “why are you asking people at the school about the Halloween BB gun shooting from seventeen years ago?”

I should have seen this coming. “I’m trying to figure out more about Noah Walker,” I say. “Who he hung around with. Who helped him shoot all those kids.”

“Helped him shoot those kids?” The chief drops his report. “Nobody helped Walker shoot those kids. He did it all by himself.”

I shake my head. “There was a second shooter.”

“No, there wasn’t. I was there. I was the same age as Noah. Same school.”

I’m well aware of that fact, Isaac.

“The angles of the shots fired,” I say. “And why was Noah just sitting on a bench by the school, waiting to get caught?”

“Are you kidding me? Because he’s a psychopath, Murphy. The kind that could slaughter a family and then sit next to you on a bus and engage in polite conversation. He had no remorse, no guilt, no sense that he’d even done anything wrong.” He leans forward in his chair. “And why are we even having this conversation? Why are you looking into this?”

“Because if Noah didn’t kill those people at 7 Ocean Drive, or my uncle, then someone sure made it look like he did.”

“Someone set him up... and someone set him up seventeen years ago, the school shooting, too? You’re actually trying to tie those two things together?”

I shrug. “Call it a hunch. But yeah. This is a really small town. It’s possible. Look, I’m doing the assignment you gave me. I’m doing this other stuff on my free time.”

“I don’t want you doing it on any time,” he says. “No more questions about a second shooter. No more investigations into 7 Ocean Drive or your uncle. Can I be any clearer?”

“No, you’re very clear, Chief,” I reply. “In fact, I’d like to compliment you on how clear you’re being, Chief. May I be excused, Chief?”

Isaac stares me down, his tongue rolling inside his cheek. He gets out of his seat and comes around the desk. I stand, too, so we’re face-to-face.

“Let’s go off the record,” he says.

“Let’s.”

“Nothing leaves this room.”

“Agreed.”

“What is this fascination with Noah Walker?”

“I don’t have a fas—”

“You want to fuck him, don’t you?”

I draw back. “What did you just say?”

Isaac throws up a hand in disgust. “Always the same with that guy. A juvenile fucking delinquent since the day I met him, but every girl in school fantasized about him. The kid’s never been anything but bad. Believe me, I know him a lot better than you, Murphy. Don’t be fooled by the movie-star good looks. That guy’s nothing but a bad seed.”

For a moment, I’m speechless. Isaac’s chest is heaving, his cheeks crimson. It’s like we’re replaying middle school here.

“Did he steal your girlfriend or something, Isaac?”

His eyes flare. He drives a finger into my chest. “Noah Walker killed those people at 7 Ocean Drive and Noah Walker killed your uncle. Noah Walker shot up that school all by himself. You will stop trying to prove otherwise. You will stop right now, or I’m pulling your badge.”

I hold my breath, willing myself to calm down. “You’re pathetic,” I say. “I mean, since we’re off the record.”

He nods, grins at me, coffee breath and stained teeth. “You think you’re untouchable, but you’re not. I’m going to run you out of here sooner or later.”

“Yeah? Good.” I turn and head for the door.

“Oh, and Murphy? Since we’re off the record?” He takes a breath and composes himself. “I thought your uncle was a worthless prick.”

61

The man who thinks of himself as Holden is getting restless. No, it’s not summer yet, but this March has been one of the warmest on record — is that close enough?

Maybe. For right now, he’ll enjoy the sights and sounds at Tasty’s. So many people to choose from, men and women both. He’ll have to make a list and plan this out. He’s good at planning them.

Hell, look at last summer, the summer of 2011. Four victims! In one summer, he doubled what he’d done up until then. Zach and Melanie, that hooker named Bonnie, and the good ol’ police chief. The police chief!

And is he in prison?

Nope, he sure isn’t. How’s that for smart? You kill the chief of police and nobody can lay a glove on you.

His eyes wander beyond the crowded restaurant to the window, where he recognizes someone getting out of a car in the parking lot.

Detective Jenna Murphy, the sexy redhead detective. Blue jacket over a white blouse, tight-fitting jeans, low heels.

She thinks she’s smart. She thinks she’s smarter than everyone.

But she’s not that smart.

If she’s so smart, why doesn’t she remember me?

From all those years ago.

It might be fun to remind her one of these days.

62

Officer Ricketts and I are out of luck when we enter Tasty’s for lunch — no open tables. We take seats at the counter, with its view of the kitchen, where cooks in aprons and white hats are chopping and broiling and frying, reading orders off slips of paper clipped above them. The smells of garlic and tomato sauce and fried food fill the air.

Aiden Willis is sitting alone at a middle table, always that cap turned backward, the strawlike hair jutting out, those beady, meandering eyes. He’s reading something while he eats fried fish out of a paper tray. Time will come, I’ll ask him how that “burial” went yesterday, to see if he’ll keep lying about it, but I don’t want to tip my hand yet.

We both order scallops. Ricketts orders one of those iced-tea drinks served in those giant, colorful cans; ice water for me.

Over my shoulder, I see Chief Isaac Marks, wearing a bib and dipping lobster into butter sauce. Another table for one. He must see me, but after our words yesterday, there isn’t much left to say.

“Careful,” I tell Ricketts. “Chief’s sitting over there. Let’s not be too obvious.”

She leans into me. “How ’bout I just talk quietly, then? I won’t pull out my notes.” She taps her head. “It’s all up here, anyway.”

It’s pretty loud in here, so that would probably work.

“Give me the Reader’s Digest,” I say.

She takes a deep breath. A waiter serves us our drinks, mine in a plastic cup. “The Reader’s Digest,” she says, “is cree-py.”

A ripple of boisterous laughter behind us. I turn back and see a group of guys — construction workers, a testosterone fest — in the corner.

One of them: Noah Walker. T-shirt stretched tight over his chest, dirty jeans, work boots.

I feel my temperature rise and pull my shirt off my suddenly sticky chest.

Something about that guy. I can’t deny it. Can’t understand it, either.

I have my back to the crowd, but when I’m turned toward Ricketts, I have a good sight line to both Noah and Aiden Willis. Isaac is behind me.

Three men, all about the same age, all at Bridgehampton School.

Ricketts says, “The house at 7 Ocean Drive was built by a Dutch settler named Winston Dahlquist in the late 1700s. He had, like, this massive potato farm on Long Island and was crazy rich. He had a wife, Cecilia, and one son.”

Cecilia, O Cecilia / Life was death disguised.

“Cecilia died in 1813. They said she jumped out of her bedroom window. She landed on the spiked fence.”

“She... landed on it?”

“Oh, yeah, they found her impaled on the fence, twenty feet off the ground. Her body was almost cut in half. But the author of the book I read on this — she had someone diagram everything, the angles, the distances. She concluded that if Cecilia had jumped from her bedroom, she would’ve landed several yards short of the fence.”

“So the wife was pushed.”

Ricketts nods.

“Tell me about the son,” I say.

“His name was Holden. Holden Dahlquist.”

Noah’s eyes break away from his conversation and catch mine. He does a double take; then he fixes on me, his expression easing, his eyes narrowing.

“Holden was basically insane,” she says. “Erratic. Violent. Couldn’t be in school. The author of the book thinks Holden’s the one who killed Cecilia. He would’ve been seventeen at the time.”

“He killed his mother.” I nod along, casually, like she’s telling me about a new pair of heels she bought.

“Apparently, after Cecilia died, Winston was never the same. As time went on, Winston started going batty, too. He wrote in a letter — I remember this — he wrote, ‘I hesitate to declare what is more alarming, the extent to which my son is beginning to resemble a wild animal, or the extent to which I am beginning to resemble him.’”

Aiden Willis stands up and fishes in his pocket for money, drops it on the table. Under his arm is a paperback — Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men.

A little deeper reading than I might have expected from our Aiden.

“Apparently, after Cecilia’s death, a string of murders and disappearances began,” Ricketts continues. “Over two dozen people died over the next twenty years.”

I turn back to Ricketts. “Tell me about the victims.”

“They were hookers or immigrants. They’d go missing in the summer and then they’d be found dead with some kind of hole in their body, usually a through-and-through.”

“Impaled,” I say, my heartbeat responding.

“Yeah. Always some kind of spear or cutting instrument. And sometimes with all the blood drained out of their bodies.”

“Jesus.” I draw back. “And they never put this on Winston? Or his kid, Holden?”

My eye catches Aiden Willis, stuffing his hands in his pockets, checking me out with a sidelong glance on his way out, the paperback still tucked under his arm.

Then I look back at Noah, who’s watching me while he drinks a bottle of beer, still with his friends at the table.

Then Noah’s expression changes, goes cold, hard, and his eyes move away from mine to...

...Isaac, approaching him, the entire table freezing up. Isaac, with that cop bravado, saying something to Noah that elicits a frown, and I see something in Noah’s eyes that makes me think there’s going to be violence between them. But then Isaac moves along, heading toward the exit, catching my eye as well, smirking at me.

“They never charged either Winston or Holden,” says Ricketts. “Legend has it, Winston had the local constable in his pocket. He was one of the wealthiest people on Long Island.”

I watch Isaac leave and think over what Ricketts has told me. “He chose prostitutes and immigrants,” I say. “Drifters. People—”

“—who wouldn’t be missed. Yeah, there’s a saying attributed to Winston. I think I have this right: ‘A peasant, any peasant will do, and better still a stranger. Whosoever shall not be missed is welcome in my chamber.’”

Our scallops arrive, with a delicious buttery aroma, but I’ve lost my appetite.

“Sounds like a fun family,” I say.

“Oh, but it gets better,” Ricketts says, trying to keep her voice down. “Every generation left a single son, each of them named Holden. Holden Junior, Holden the Third, etc., all the way to Holden the Sixth. All of them suffering some mental illness, most of them suspected of violence. One of them killed his wife. Several committed suicide.”

“Where’s the most recent Holden?” I ask.

Ricketts spears a scallop with her fork.

“In the ground,” she says. “The last Holden died almost twenty years ago, without any children.”

63

I check my sidearm for ammunition and holster it.

My head is buzzing after spending hours poring over a copy of the book that Ricketts used for her research, Winston’s Heirs: A Haunted House in the Hamptons, chronicling the Dahlquists from the time when Winston came to Long Island in the late 1700s until recent years, the many generations of Holdens.

The original Holden, who these days would have been in an institution for the criminally insane, who may have murdered as many as two dozen women.

Holden Junior, who had three kids of whom only one survived, the only boy.

Holden III, who decapitated his wife on their fifth anniversary before jumping out of the same bedroom window from which Cecilia fell.

Holden IV, who went through four wives and a lot of booze before hanging himself at age fifty-two.

Holden V, who married and divorced three times and overdosed on a combination of amphetamines and alcohol, just days after four vacationers were stabbed to death on the beach not fifty yards from his home at 7 Ocean Drive.

And Holden VI, described by his mother as a “simpleton with violent tendencies and the empathy of a rattlesnake, but other than that a dear boy.” Known for his philanthropy publicly, but suspected of multiple rapes and assaults, none of which ever stuck. Holden was found dead in his bedroom in 1994; he slashed his own throat and tossed the knife out the window before dying, thus ending the ignominious reign of the Dahlquist clan.

My sidearm in place, I leave the house, a chill in the midnight air.

I start up my car and put it into gear. The roads are all but empty at this hour, in late March, before the summer vacationers have begun to arrive.

A gray pall hangs over the lonely streets.

I kill the headlights as I approach and let my foot off the gas. I pull my car over on Main Street and kill the engine. I’ll walk the rest of the way. One hand on my sidearm. The other clutching my Maglite.

I approach the cemetery from the west. The air is thick, promising rain, but none has yet fallen. As I get closer, the street lighting dims considerably, leaving the cemetery in sleepy black.

This time, I’m more prepared. A sweater instead of short sleeves. Running shoes, not flats. A flashlight.

I pass through the gate quietly and drop down low in the grass among the tombstones. It may take a while, if it happens at all. But just to be sure, I’m not signaling my presence.

The wind kicks up off the ocean, making me wish I’d worn a second layer. Standing still, crouched down, it’s not easy to stay warm. My eyes begin to adjust to the darkness, but the effect isn’t helpful — it’s still too dark to see much of anything, but now the darkness is filled with dancing shadows and fleeting movements.

Keep it together, Murphy.

The sleep deprivation doesn’t help. My eyes feel heavy these days, my movements lumbering, my brain fueled by adrenaline but unfocused, sloppy.

A noise. Something soft but persistent. At first, I think it’s wind rustling through the trees, but it stays consistent when the breeze ebbs, grows stronger as it draws closer.

Footfalls. Someone walking over the soft earth, heading toward the cemetery.

But no flashlight beam. Nothing illuminating his path.

I steel myself but don’t dare move. I can’t see anything in the blackness, but the sound is unmistakable now — someone walking into the cemetery.

He’s walking in pitch dark without the aid of a flashlight, and without hesitation. He knows exactly where he’s going.

Knows it by heart.

And then the footsteps stop.

I look up but can’t see anything. Close enough for me to hear, too far away for me to see. Maybe a hood — a sweatshirt with a hood—

A beam of light pops on. Startling me — I almost fall backward in my crouch.

I try to gauge his location from the flashlight beam. But then the light disappears, almost as quickly as it appeared.

Darkness again, and silence. What is—

A new sound. Spray of some kind, a thin stream of liquid slapping against stone.

Sounds like...

No, I decide. Couldn’t be.

64

I stay fixed in my position until the sound stops; then the footsteps begin again, but now moving away from me. He’s leaving the cemetery, same way he came, disappearing into the void of black.

Should I accost him? I’m assuming it’s Aiden Willis, as before, but I can’t see shit out here. And if I confront him, I might be giving up an advantage.

No. Better I let him leave and try to figure out what he does here at night.

I wait until I can’t hear him anymore, then wait another ten minutes for good measure. I keep my eyes focused on where I saw that momentary flashlight beam, trying to use it as a beacon to guide me in the pitch dark.

Once I’m ready to move, I shine my Maglite at that destination point and start walking toward it. It’s not perfect, but it should get me where I’m going. Especially if that sound was what I think it was.

Something big up ahead. Something tall. The cemetery has all kinds of tombstones, large and elaborate, small and simple, many variations in between. This one is of the big-and-fancy variety. I run the light over the monument until I hit the name.

A large stone monument bearing that same family crest with the bird, the shrike. The whole plot surrounded by an iron bar, no more than three feet off the ground, supported by small stone pillars.

My heart skips a beat. I move closer, sweep the beam of light around.

Three tombstones at the monument’s base: Winston, Cecilia, Holden. The first Dahlquists. Then, just below them, five more tombstones, presumably for the successive generations of Dahlquists, all males named Holden.

I shine my light over each Holden tombstone, the earliest ones in not nearly as good shape as the more recent ones. Finally, I hit the last generation — Holden VI, buried here since 1994.

There it is.

I bend down to get a closer look at the tombstone. Fresh liquid splattered all over it. I don’t dare taste it, but I lower my face close enough to confirm with my nose what I thought I heard with my ears.

Urine.

Whoever crept into this cemetery just took a piss all over Holden VI’s grave.

Good thing I looked up Aiden’s address.

Maybe it’s time to pay him a visit.

65

I kill the headlights so Aiden won’t see my car approaching his house. But he might hear it bouncing over the bumpy, unforgiving roads just north of Main Street.

His house is obscured by trees until I reach his driveway. I pass it and pull the car over on the sloping shoulder of the road.

Only a quarter mile away, last summer, the prostitute, Bonnie Stamos, was found impaled on that tree stump.

The house is dark as I walk up the driveway. It’s a dilapidated shingled ranch that almost sags at its sides, a beater Chevy parked in the driveway. I step up onto a cracked concrete porch and can’t find a doorbell.

I open the screen door, which is on the verge of falling off, and bang my fist on the door.

“Open up, Aiden. Town police!”

Nothing at first. I bang again. Announce my office once more.

Nothing.

He couldn’t have beaten me here by much. Fifteen minutes, tops.

No way he’s asleep.

It was Aiden I saw, wasn’t it?

“Open up, Aiden!” I pound on the door until my fist hurts.

I check my watch. Half past midnight.

Either he’s not home or he’s ignoring me.

Either way, I’m out of luck. It’s not like I can kick in the door. I don’t have probable cause or anything close to it.

But nothing says I can’t check the back of the house.

No outdoor lighting on the house, the property surrounded by trees that block any neighboring light, so I use my Maglite to move around the narrow side of the house.

The backyard is equally dark and tree lined. A bicycle lies in the grass. No back porch or patio.

Something moving—

A squirrel or some small animal, sprinting through my beam of light.

I take a breath. Shine the light on the house.

A window well, into the basement. I shine my light inside. Just enough room for me to fit in there.

The window’s been unlatched, pulled inward.

I squat down. The window’s filthy. I wipe the muck with the sleeve of my sweater, but the light combines with the smears to block any view, like high beams in fog.

I push on the window to open it farther, as far as it will go, to a sixty-degree angle inward.

A noise in the woods behind me, something moving across fallen branches and dead leaves. I shine my light over the woods.

Dry grass moving gently with the breeze. Long, naked trees like skeletons waving at me.

An animal, probably.

The open window gives me, maybe, an inch or two of space. I shine my light directly into the basement and peek inside.

Looking right at me is a woman, sitting in a chair.

66

I jump at the sight, fall against the back of the window well. Shine the light through the crack in the window again, make sure I actually saw what I think I saw.

The small circle of light, cutting through the darkness, searching for her—

There.

The woman, seated in a chair, wearing an old-fashioned shawl over her shoulders, her hair pulled back tightly in a bun, her hands resting quietly in her lap. A relaxed expression on her face. Her mouth closed. Her eyes glazed, immobile.

“Town police!” I call out, just to be sure. “Ma’am, can you hear me? Ma’am, are you okay?”

My pulse in overdrive, I draw back, brace my hands against the window well, raise my leg into kicking position.

Wait. Something about that...

I lean back in, shine the light once more, find her again.

No movement. Her eyes don’t respond to the light. She’s dead.

I move the light slowly, probing as best I can the quality of her skin. Hard to do from a distance, with a flashlight.

But little decomposition.

Actually, no sign of decomp. None. Her skin looks flawless, even...

Inhuman.

I look around her. Next to the rocking chair in which she’s seated is a—

“Oh, Jesus—”

My hand jerks, and the beam of light shoots to the ceiling. Hands shaking, I sweep the light through the darkness again, past the woman—

A man. Wearing some kind of coat, tweed. Hair greased back. A thin face, eyes open and vacant. Sitting on a love seat, legs crossed.

Same deal with the glossy skin, the immobile eyes, unresponsive to light.

Not dead people. Not people at all.

Wax figures.

I exhale with the realization. I was two seconds away from kicking in this window to rescue a couple of wax mannequins.

I keep the light moving.

An area rug on the floor. A battered coffee table with a vase and flowers — fresh flowers, not fake.

Against the wall, a faux fireplace — something painted on the wall, complete with logs and a spirited flame.

A television set. I can only see its back, but a soft, flickering glow emanates from it, the only occasional illumination in this basement, other than my flashlight.

A picture over the fake fireplace. A blown-up photograph.

Aiden as a boy, that scarecrow hair and scrawny face, next to a woman.

“What the hell?” I say, repositioning my feet on the bed of rocks.

Which is why I don’t hear the footsteps, approaching me from behind on the soft grass.

But I do hear the pump action of a shotgun.

67

“Don’t move!” a voice calls out.

Startled, I lose my flashlight on the rocks, bathing myself in a little circle of light inside the window well. I turn my head for a look back, but it’s no use. I’m below him and lit up; he’s above me in the dark.

“I said don’t move! Put up your hands!”

If I raise my hands right now, squatted down as I am, I’ll probably fall over.

“I’m with—”

“Hands up or I shoot!”

“Listen to me, I’m a po—”

“Now!”

“Okay, okay. Easy.” I do my best, like a tightrope walker struggling for balance, rising from my crouch and bringing my hands out, leaving my Maglite on the floor of rocks. I’m half turned toward him, so he can see my profile, but I can’t see him.

“I’m a cop,” I say. “Southampton Town Po—”

“Who sent ya?”

“I’m a cop.”

“Whatchoo doin’ here? What right you got?”

I take a breath. “Aiden—”

“Don’t move!”

“I’m not moving. I’m not moving.”

Aiden’s breath, raspy and heavy.

“Mr. Willis, I just identified myself as a police officer. You don’t want to be pointing a shotgun at a cop, do you?”

He doesn’t answer.

“The correct answer,” I say, “is no, you don’t. You know me, Aiden. I’m Detective Jenna Murphy. You saw me the other night at the cemetery.”

At which time, I note, the roles were reversed — I had a gun trained on him. Turns out, it’s more fun when you’re the one holding the weapon.

“Put the gun down, Aiden. I’m not telling you again.”

He moves around so he’s behind me again, my six o’clock.

“You come ta kill me,” he says.

“No, Aiden. I’m a cop. I’m—”

“You comin’ ta kill me! You been followin’ me. You think cuz—”

“No, Aiden.”

“Why’d ya have to come back? Ya shouldn’ta come back—”

“Aiden!” I crank up the volume this time, trying to gain the upper hand. “Aiden, I’m a cop. You know me. Now, I’m going to climb out of this window well and you’re going to put down that shotgun.”

I move slowly, putting my hands on the top of the aluminum well.

“I’ll shoot.” He shuffles backward as he speaks, feet rustling in the grass.

“No, you won’t.” I jump and use my arms to push myself onto the grass.

“Don’t you move!”

I show my palms, though he probably can’t make me out very well.

“Now put down that damn shotgun,” I say. I rise to my feet.

I get a little bit of a bead on him, an outline, the hair sticking out, the shotgun in his hand.

“Self-defense,” he says, raising the shotgun.

I lose my breath, brace myself, consider my options. If I go for my sidearm, it’s a long shot. If I dive, I’m unlikely to miss the wide blast from his gun. Something out of a movie — drop and roll and come up shooting?

“You were at the cemetery tonight,” I say.

“No, I wasn’t.”

I’m calculating how well Aiden can see me now, standing as I am on solid ground in the darkness. Hoping he can’t see very well.

“You sure about that?” I put my hands on my hips, as if demanding an answer.

My right hand sliding down to my sidearm.

My fingers fitting into the grooves of the grip.

“Why did you take a piss on the Dahlquist grave, Aiden?”

“I didn’t. You’re just makin’ excuses so you can come here and kill me.”

My finger caressing the trigger.

If I draw my weapon, one of us dies.

“Aiden, drop the weapon,” I say.

“No.” One leg moves back, like he’s bracing himself for a shot. “You’re gonna kill me,” he says.

Maybe both of us die.

“No, Aiden—”

And then we both hear it, footsteps to the west. The beam of a flashlight, coming into the backyard.

“Aiden Willis, put down that goddamn gun.”

The chief’s voice. Isaac.

68

Isaac Swaggers into his office and stands behind his desk. He crosses his arms and leans against the wall, next to the American flag and the flag of the Town of Southampton, blue and maize with a pilgrim in the center. He stares at me for a long time in his police jacket, a sweater underneath and blue jeans.

I’ve been here a good half hour, stewing in my juices, after Isaac ordered me to the substation.

“Is Aiden in lockup?” I ask.

His eyes narrow. “Aiden’s probably in bed now, fast asleep.”

“You didn’t arrest him?”

He stares back at me, his eyes shiny with venom. “Are you carrying?”

Am I carrying? “Yeah, I’m carrying.”

“Hand over your piece.”

“Why?”

Isaac lets out a heavy breath. “Detective, your commanding officer has ordered you to surrender your weapon.”

I blink. Something flutters through my chest.

I reach for my sidearm.

“Slowly,” he says.

“Isaac, what the fuck?” I set my Glock, grip first, on his desk.

He picks up the gun, ejects the magazine, catches it in his hand. “You been drinking, Murphy?”

“No. I haven’t. What’s the chief of police doing out on patrol past midnight?” I ask. “And why are we letting Aiden Willis walk when he was about to shoot me?”

He plays with his goatee, stares at me, almost amused. Having the upper hand is fun for him.

“The better question, Murphy, is what the fuck were you doing?”

Not such a good question for me, though. He told me to stay away from the Ocean Drive murders, my uncle’s murder, anything other than safety issues at Bridgehampton School. So there’s no answer remotely resembling the truth that will exonerate me.

I give him most of the cemetery story, only I make it seem like I was simply visiting Uncle Lang’s grave, not lying in wait for Aiden.

“You actually saw Aiden take a piss on a tombstone?”

Well, no, I didn’t — couldn’t make out the actual act; couldn’t even make out that it was Aiden. But I’m not going to admit that.

“So I went to his house to ask him about it. And yeah, I looked around his place when he didn’t answer. There are no lights outside, so I used my Maglite. I just walked the perimeter, Isaac.”

He watches me closely. “You were shining a light into his basement?”

“Yeah, and you wanna know what I found?”

“What does Aiden Willis’s basement have to do with him taking a piss on a grave? I mean, assuming he even did that, like you claim. You figured, what, you’d find evidence to support a public urination charge by searching his basement? No. You’re up to something else.”

I pause. But he has me. What possible bullshit story could I conjure up?

And besides, I shouldn’t have to bullshit. I’m a cop, investigating a series of murders. When did that become a wrong thing? When did following up on a hunch, just to see where it led, become a capital offense?

“It was the Dahlquist grave,” I say. “The family that owned the house where Melanie and Zach were—”

“No. No.” He shakes his head presumptively, like he’s had enough.

“Some strange shit is going on in this town,” I say, trying to salvage the conversation. “And there’s something about Aiden—”

“Aiden Willis couldn’t spell his own name if you gave him all the letters,” says Isaac. “And he couldn’t hurt a june bug with a sledgehammer. I’ve known that kid my whole life. That boy is harmless.”

“He pulled a gun on me tonight, Isaac.”

“Yeah, and you know what? He had every goddamn right to. A prowler on his property, sneaking into his basement? Landowner’s got that right.”

“I announced my office.”

“And maybe he didn’t believe you. What’s he supposed to think, Murphy? Lucky for us, Aiden’s a reasonable man. He’s going to let this be water under the bridge.”

“Bullshit,” I say, getting my Irish up, getting to my feet. “He knows me. Even if he didn’t at first. I identified myself. Yeah, okay, maybe at first, I can’t blame him. But he knows me, Isaac. I told him who I was and I posed no threat to him at all. And he was still going to shoot me. You’re gonna let him walk?”

“Hell, yes, I am. A cop of mine, without anything close to probable cause, is looking into a private citizen’s basement window? That’s a lawsuit right there. The department doesn’t need another black eye courtesy of you.”

I shake my head. “I can’t believe this.”

“You’re behaving in an erratic, irrational manner, Detective Murphy.”

My blood goes cold. Magic words, those. The police union’s collective bargaining agreement allows the chief to strip a cop whose behavior is “erratic or irrational.”

A hint of a smile on Isaac’s face. Oh, he’s been waiting for this moment.

“Just hear me out first, Isaac, I’m beg—”

“Detective, turn over your badge.”

“Isaac, no—”

“You’re suspended indefinitely,” he says. “I’m stripping you of your police powers. You’re no longer a cop. You come back tomorrow, I’ll give you thirty minutes to clean out your desk.”

He leans over his desk, his eyes boring into mine, a snarl across his mouth.

“Now get the fuck out of my police station.”

69

The Dive Bar’s liquor license cuts off the service of alcohol at two in the morning. That means they have to stop pouring when the little hand hits two, and they can’t let in any new customers.

It doesn’t mean they can’t hand over a bottle to me at 1:55 a.m. and then watch me drink it for an hour, as they close down the place, turn out most of the lights, turn over the chairs and put them on top of the tables, and mop the floors and wipe down the counters.

The good news for me is that I’m a regular, so I get this special treatment from Jerry, the bartender and owner.

The bad news, I suppose, is that I’m a regular.

“I don’t like to speak ill of my fellow man,” Jerry says to me as he sprays the counter. “But I never much liked Isaac. Worst thing that ever happened to him was getting that badge. Give a guy with an inferiority complex some power and watch out.”

I look over at him, my eyes heavy and slow, almost dreamy. Almost as if, an hour ago, I didn’t lose the only thing that mattered to me in this world. Almost like that.

“Fuck Isaac.” My tongue thick, numb. All of me feeling numb.

“Okay, three a.m.,” Jerry says. “I’m gonna turn into a pumpkin.” He lifts the bottle of Jim Beam, three-quarters empty. “I’ll hold on to the rest for you, Murph. Your private stash. Let me give you a ride home.”

I surrender the bottle but shake my head.

“You can’t drive, Murph.”

“Not gonna drive. I’ll walk. Pick up... pick up my car tomorrow.” I step off the barstool gingerly, get my balance. “Not like I’ll have anything else to do.”

“Let me give you a ride, Jenna. C’mon.”

“I’m good. I’m good.”

The walk will do me good. Or so I think. I’m about a half hour from here, and the cool air helps clear out some of the fog. My hand brushes against my side for my piece, which of course I had to surrender. Because I’m no longer a cop.

I’m no longer a cop. It still hasn’t sunk in.

I’m dizzy and unfocused, my emotions careening wildly from utter despair to bitterness to hot rage, grabbing at clues that don’t add up, like I’m trying to put together a puzzle that’s missing half the pieces.

The start of a massive headache is pressing against my forehead, between my eyes.

By the time I approach my street, the inside of my head is screaming at me. But the blood is flowing again, and much of the alcohol’s effect is waning.

All except the emotional part. With the numbness wearing off, all that’s left is my fear of what’s to come, a life without a badge.

And sleep, which will end as it always does, with a breathless nightmare.

I rent the bottom floor of a two-flat, all of four rooms inside — living room with tiny kitchenette, bathroom, and bedroom. Always planned to buy a place once I “settled in,” but I never really settled in, did I? I never got around to making anything about my apartment feel like a real home, nor did I buy an actual home.

Probably for the best, now.

When I approach the apartment, I see something underneath the porch light. A figure. A man?

I draw closer, feel my hand, by instinct, sweep my side for a gun that isn’t there.

A man, sitting up, resting against the outside wall.

“Noah?” I say.

70

When I take my first step onto the porch, Noah Walker stirs. He was sleeping.

“Oh, yeah.” He pushes himself up, shakes out the cobwebs. Sweatshirt, jeans, sandals.

“Why are you here?”

“Waiting for you,” he says.

“Same question,” I say, “second time.”

“I wanted to tell you something.”

“So tell me.”

He nods. “I remember now,” he says. “Those girls.”

“Dede and Annie.”

“I saw them. I remember them now. They were at the house, 7 Ocean Drive. I think they were squatting there. I was doing some work. I think... patching the lower flat roof. I’m pretty sure it was them. It was five or six years ago, so I’m not positive. They seemed like nice girls. If something happened to them, and I can help...”

So that’s confirmation. I was pretty sure they’d been staying there — hard to imagine the initials AC and DP scratched on the windowsill were a coincidence — but it’s nice to know for sure.

He looks up at me. He didn’t have to tell me any of that. His lawyer, in fact, would have told him to keep his mouth shut.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” I say. “Go home.”

He steps in front of me. “It does matter. You’re asking because you think it’s connected. Whoever it was who killed those girls might have killed Melanie.”

Melanie. Right. He had a relationship with her.

“I loved her. Yeah, she broke up with me and it hurt. And I moved on. But you don’t stop caring about someone.” He takes a long breath, looks out in the distance. “Y’know, after she died — you guys arrested me right away, and all of a sudden I’m on trial for my life. I never had a chance to... I don’t know.”

To grieve. To mourn her loss.

“And then Paige’s suicide...”

I didn’t even know about that. The woman he was with after Melanie.

“That happened after I went to prison,” he says. He slowly nods, gains some steam. “Whoever killed Melanie — in my mind? He’s responsible for Paige, too. And a lot of other people, it sounds like. Like those two girls. And your uncle.”

This is not the time for me to be thinking about that. The fog may have cleared from my head, but my emotions are on the verge of bursting. It’s over for me here in Bridgehampton. Over. I didn’t solve the cases, and I’ll never be a sworn officer again.

“Let me help you,” he says. “Let me help you find him.”

“I’m not a cop anymore,” I say. “I’ve lost my badge. I lost everything,” I add, for some reason — whiskey-induced self-pity.

“You didn’t lose as much as me. And you don’t see me running.”

I look at him. Still standing tall, after what he’s been through. Wrongly accused of a crime — yes, I believe that in my gut — crucified at Sing Sing by white supremacists he refused to join; losing two women he loved; and still being harassed by our police force. And here he is, volunteering for duty. If it were me, I’d have run from this town as soon as I left prison.

No, you wouldn’t have. You’re too stubborn.

Just like Noah.

That shield that has stood between us, suddenly gone.

I start to say something but don’t. Everything swimming through me now, all the regret and anger and yearning, that familiar heat filling my body whenever I see him, but none of the typical restraints, all washed away by the alcohol and emotion, and I don’t know if I’m going to burst into tears or—

Or—

“I can help you,” Noah says. “I’m not as dumb as I look.”

“I’m not a cop anymore.”

He shrugs.

“Then what do we have to lose?” he says.

71

“The key to all this,” says Noah, “is someone who’s been dead for twenty years?”

“Eighteen,” I say. “And yes.”

We’re walking the next morning along Main Street, the sun blistering overhead. I skipped my morning run and pounded aspirin and water to ward off my hangover. The adrenaline helps, too. Funny that I feel almost reborn after the pep talk Noah gave me last night — that losing my badge actually has the effect of motivating me to work harder.

That’s the thing: I may have lost my official authority, not to mention my gun, but I have gained some freedom — now Isaac can’t prevent me from asking questions and probing where I wish.

I’d just better be careful. Because without said authority, and without said gun, there are limits to how far I can push things.

Noah follows me into the cemetery, all the way up to the Dahlquist plot.

“A family of violent, mentally deranged, suicidal men named Holden,” I say. “The first Holden killed, like, twenty or thirty women.”

“According to that book.” Noah read most of the book after I gave it to him last night. He must not have slept at all. The dark circles under his eyes attest to that fact. “It may not be true.”

“Doesn’t matter if it’s true. All that matters is that he believes it.”

“Who?”

“Our suspect,” I say. “Our killer.”

Noah looks at the plot, the large memorial, then back at me. “He’s mimicking what the first Holden did a couple hundred years ago? He has some kind of obsession with the family or something?”

“Very good,” I say. “You’re smarter than you look.”

“Well, dagnabbit, Ms. Murphy — that makes me happier’n a puppy with two peters. I been a-hankerin’ for your say-so—”

“All right, enough.”

“Yes’m, I’m as pleased as a goat in a briar patch, I am.”

I shake my head. “If it’s okay with you, can we get back to the point now?”

Noah looks pleased enough with himself, but he turns it off and gets serious again. “Okay, so this guy has a thing for the Dahlquist family. Okay, I get that. But you said this is about the last Holden. The guy who died twenty years ago.”

“Eighteen.”

“Okay, whatever, eighteen — you’re talking about Holden the Sixth.”

“Right. Holden the Sixth.”

“The guy who died without any heirs,” says Noah. “The guy who said — let me find this.” He reaches into his satchel and pulls out the book, opens to a page he has dog-eared. “The guy who said, ‘The greatest gift I can bequeath mankind is to avoid procreation at all costs.’”

“Yes, that guy.”

“The guy who killed himself by downing two fifths of Jack Daniel’s, popping some pills, then slitting his own throat and tossing the knife out the window.”

“Yes, that guy,” I agree.

“The guy who was suspected of raping and assaulting a bunch of women, but the charges never stuck.”

“Yes, that guy.”

“The guy who, as far as we know, never committed a single murder.”

“Yes, that guy.”

“Not one murder that we know of.”

“Correct,” I say. “That guy.”

Noah closes the book. “It all starts with that guy? He had no children, he committed no murders. I mean, he was a bad guy — he raped women, they think — but the guy running around right now isn’t raping anybody. He’s killing them in violent ways.”

I smirk at him.

“Am I missing something?” Noah asks.

“I think you are,” I say. “Our killer is mimicking what the original Holden did. And he’s pretty damn good at it. But the question is why.”

Noah stares at me, then shrugs. “I have no idea.”

“I think he feels a sort of obligation,” I say. “He thinks it’s his destiny.”

Noah opens his hands. “But... why would it be his destiny—”

His jaw drops.

I smile at him.

“Oh,” says Noah. “You think?”

“I do,” I say. “I think, no matter how much he didn’t want to, Holden the Sixth left behind a son. A son who wants to restart the family tradition.”

72

I leave Noah at the cemetery with a research assignment and continue walking up to the turnpike. It’s a little before eleven, so Tasty’s is probably not even open for business yet, which is how I prefer it. Because I’m not here for the delicious scallops.

The gravel parking lot is almost empty when I walk up to the door. It’s open, so I push through and enter the restaurant. In the back, chefs and servers are busy preparing for the lunch rush, boiling and steaming and chopping, wiping down counters, filling out the chalkboard with today’s selections, shouting to one another in English and Spanish. The smells of garlic and butter make me reconsider whether I’m here for business only.

Seated in the dining area, alone, is Justin Rivers, wearing a flannel shirt that he fills out very well, thank you very much, and blue jeans. He’s got a pencil poised over a section of newspaper — a crossword puzzle.

Must be nice, being the owner, relaxing while the employees bust a move to get the diner open.

He glances up at me with those boy-next-door looks and smiles widely.

“Detective!”

It’s like a punch in the stomach. But I don’t correct him. I’m not going to lie if he asks, but if he wants to think I’m still a cop, all the better.

“Hi, Justin. How’re you doing?”

“Great, great.” He looks down at his watch.

“I’m not here for lunch,” I say. “I was hoping to speak with you a moment.”

“With me? Okay.” He stands up. “You wanna...”

“Maybe we could step outside?”

“Sure. I’ll be right back,” he calls out to his staff, though nobody seems to notice.

He follows me outside and faces me, beaming, clean-cut and handsome.

“Good to see you,” he says. The million-dollar smile, the hair swept to one side, the broad shoulders.

“Um — thanks. You too. Listen, I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”

“Oh, you mean, official stuff?” His face dropping a bit, like he’s disappointed.

I nod. “If that’s okay. Did you think there was some... other reason?”

“Oh, uh.” His face turns red. “Now I’m embarrassed. Oh, I feel stupid.”

It sometimes takes me a while, but I get there. He thought I was going to ask him out.

“A guy can hope,” he says.

Now we’re both embarrassed.

“Oh, Justin, I’m sort of — I mean it’s not that I wouldn’t—”

He raises his hands. “No explanation required. My fault. My fault totally. God, this is embarrassing.” All the blood has reached his face at this point. “Go right ahead and ask, Detective.” He nods for emphasis.

“Okay,” I say, hoping that if I get down to business, both of us will feel less awkward. “Melanie Phillips. Your waitress.”

“Sure.” The mention of her name is enough to sober him up. “Great kid. Everyone loved her.”

“Well, I’m wondering if anyone seemed to take an interest in her while she worked here.”

He looks at the sky, thinks it over. I’m tempted to prompt him with a name, but I want to see if he comes up with it himself.

“Well, I mean, she was very pretty, so lots of guys would stare and stuff. But, like, obsess over her?”

“Yes, obsess.”

He runs his hand over his mouth. “Mmm... nah, not really. I mean, she and Noah had that breakup, like everybody knows.”

Noah. Not the name I was looking for, but since he mentioned it, I might as well see where that goes.

“What did you think about Noah for a suspect?”

“Me? Oh, jeez, I’m no cop. I always liked Noah, tell you the truth.”

“I noticed he still eats here, since he’s been out.”

“Yeah, sure. We get a lot of blue-collar types. Probably because we’re cheap.”

“But... I assume if you thought he did harm to Melanie—”

“Oh, right.”

“—you wouldn’t let him back in.”

“Definitely. I never thought Noah would do something like that. He always seemed like a good guy.”

“Okay.” I scribble a note in my little pad. “Change of subject. What can you tell me about Aiden Willis?”

“Aiden?” He smiles, shakes his head. “Well, he’s a good guy. He’s one of a kind, but a good guy.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“I mean, he’s... unusual, I guess. I don’t know. Maybe we all are. Good man, though. Good man.”

This guy’s Mr. Sunshine. Never speaks ill of his fellow man, as my favorite bartender would say.

“You said he was unusual.”

“Well, I mean — he comes in alone. Sits there and reads some book. Doesn’t talk much. Comes in for beers at night sometimes but pretty much keeps to himself. Grew up here. Went to Bridgehampton School. I think Noah did, too.”

“What about you?” I ask.

“Me? I grew up in Sag Harbor. Not far.”

“You didn’t go to school with Aiden and Noah?”

“No, I went to Lanier Academy in East Hampton.”

Oh, a private school. A rich kid. I was hoping to talk to someone who went to school with Aiden and Noah.

“You didn’t know them growing up?”

“Aiden and Noah? Nope. Hey, Aiden’s not some kind of suspect, is he?”

I give a noncommittal shrug. “Just basic questions, at this point.”

“I mean, he’s kinda odd, but not like that. Odd, but in a funny way, not scary.”

That seems to be the prevailing sentiment. I don’t remember laughing last night, when he had a shotgun aimed at my head.

“Well, anyway,” says Justin, “Aiden didn’t kill Melanie.”

I snap my focus off my pad to him. “How could you know that?”

“Because he was with me, here,” says Justin. “We have a liquor license until two a.m. I was pouring, and Aiden closed down the place with me.”

I feel some air deflate from my lungs. “You’re sure? You’re positive you have those dates lined up? It was a long time ago.”

“I’m positive,” he says. “The next day, Melanie missed work. We were calling her cell phone, even sent someone over to her condo. Then the cops showed up and told us she was killed the night before at the house on Ocean Drive. They asked me who was here that night. I gave them a list. It wasn’t that hard. It was just me and Aiden.”

I scribble a note, trying to hide my disappointment.

My biggest lead has just swirled down the drain.

73

Officer Ricketts, still in patrol uniform, shakes her head as we look out over the Atlantic Ocean. “I still can’t believe they did this to you, Murphy.”

“You should take my advice and stay away from me.”

Ricketts nods and looks over at me, looking younger than her age, her cropped blond hair just long enough to show a hint of curl on the ends. “I’m not so good at taking advice,” she says.

“If Isaac ever knew—”

“I’d be fired. I get it.”

We are quiet. The sky is darkening and the ocean is reacting in kind. A storm on the way.

“We’re supposed to catch the bad guys,” Ricketts says. “The day I’m not supposed to do that is the day I look for another job.”

I like this girl. She’s way more poised and mature than I was as a rookie. And just as stubborn.

I look at her. “Are you sure?”

“Don’t ask me that again, Murphy. Just tell me what you need.”

“The last Holden was suspected in a number of rapes, right?”

“That’s what the book said.”

“So let’s see if we can find out if anyone filed a criminal charge. Someone must have. Maybe one of his victims got pregnant.”

“Okay. What else?”

I shrug. “That’s it.”

“That’s not it,” Ricketts says. “We should see what else may have been going on back then, in the early nineties. Missing-persons reports, unsolved murders. The last time you had me do that, I only went back ten years. Now I’ll go back to the early nineties.”

“To what end?” I ask.

“Who knows? Let’s just do it. See what shakes loose.”

I let out a long breath. “Ricketts, you’re going to make a good detective someday.”

“If I don’t get fired first.”

I take her hand. “That can’t happen. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you got canned for helping me.”

She waves me off. “I just want you back on the force. We solve this thing, maybe I’ll have my mentor back.”

“Let’s not get too optimistic.”

She looks at me. “You know what you need, Murphy? If I may be so bold.”

“Shoot. Be bold.”

“You need to get laid.”

I let out a laugh. It feels good.

“I was thinking Justin,” she says.

I hem and haw. “Yeah, I mean, he’s...”

“He’s really cute. And I saw the way he was looking at you.”

I’ve already told Ricketts about my conversation with Justin today, the substantive part. Now I tell her the personal part.

“He actually said ‘A guy can hope’?” She pushes my shoulder. “What do you need, a written invitation?”

“Yeah, I know.” I let out a low moan. “Honestly, I mean — he’s a really nice guy, but I don’t know.”

“What, he’s too nice?”

I sigh. “Something like that.”

“You like the bad boys, don’t you? The guys with an edge? The dangerous types?”

“That’s my curse.”

“Murphy.” She puts her hands on my shoulders. “He’s a super-nice guy. He runs a diner with incredible food and he could double the prices and still fill the place, but he doesn’t. I mean, c’mon. He’s hot and he’s sweet and he has a crush on you. You’re gonna pass on that guy because he’s too nice?”

I just... I just can’t see it.

“I don’t have time for romance,” I say. “I have too much to do.”

“I didn’t say romance. I said sex. Just have dinner one time with the guy and then fuck his lights out. And then, of course, tell me all about it.”

“The dinner or the sex?”

“Both.”

I shake my head. I just...

“You know what you are? You’re afraid to be happy,” she says.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

She hits me on the arm. “I’ll get you that research,” she says.

“Hey, Ricketts?” I call out to her as she’s halfway up the beach. “I don’t even know your first name.”

She smiles. “It’s Lauren.”

“Well, thanks, Lauren. Seriously. Thank you.”

She nods back at me. “One more piece of advice?” she says. “Get some sleep. You look like crap.”

74

Two in the morning. The promise of a violent storm no longer just a promise. The windows rattling from the wind and rain, the sky a deep purple.

Pages and pages of notes, all over my desk, pinned up on the wall. I take a sip of wine and arch my back, roll my neck. My head aching, my eyelids heavy.

The answer has to be here. There has to be something. Just keep shaking trees and something will come loose. Keep connecting different dots and you’ll find it.

You’re getting closer.

Just keep telling myself that.

I’m getting closer...

Getting closer...

Closer...

Let me out

Bam-bam-bam

Let me out

Bam-bam-bam

I can’t see can’t breathe

Darkness, then penetrating light from above, a shadow blocking it

A face coming into focus, backlit by blinding yellow

A boy, long hair, a hand

Don’t touch me, please don’t touch

Get away, please don’t hurt me

I wanna go home

My head snaps upward, my hands shooting out across the desk, sweeping off papers, knocking the wineglass to the floor with a hollow clink. I take a long breath and shake out the cobwebs.

The boy. The long hair. The hand reaching for me into the darkness.

And the face. This time, I saw his face.

A face I’ve seen before.

The boy in my nightmare is Aiden Willis.

75

Noah Walker pulls his Harley up to the curb outside Jenna Murphy’s apartment. The streets are still slick from the heavy downpour last night. His sandals squish in the grass on his way up to the door.

He raps on the door and waits, adjusting the satchel over his shoulder.

When the door opens, he sees the face of a ghost.

Jenna’s hair is matted and unkempt, her face drawn and pale, her eyes deep-set and dark. A black Yankees T-shirt and men’s boxers are all she’s wearing.

She squints in the sunlight, doesn’t make eye contact with Noah. “You sure about Aiden?” she says as she turns back into her apartment.

“Good morning to you, too.” He wishes he’d brought coffee. She looks like she could use some.

The main room of the apartment looks more like an office than residential quarters. Papers everywhere — on the desk perched in the corner, covering the floor, lining the walls. Newspaper clippings, copies of police files scribbled over with notes in Magic Marker, Post-its haphazardly stuck everywhere. Organized in columns for the various victims, Annie Church and Dede Paris, Brittany Halsted, Sally Pfiester, Melanie and Zach, Bonnie Stamos — and Chief Langdon James, her uncle.

“You sure about Aiden?” she asks again, pacing the room, disappearing into her bedroom and coming out again.

“Am I sure Aiden’s not a killer? Yes, I’m sure. Why?”

She shakes her head absently, still pacing. “I’ve been having these... nightmares. Ever since I came here.”

“What kind of nightmares?”

She throws up her hands. “Like I’m trapped. Enclosed. Pleading to get out. And there’s someone above me, a boy, reaching down for me, going to hurt me. And I’m begging, Please, let me go, don’t hurt me, that kind of thing.”

That explains the sleep deprivation he’s noticed since he met her. She must have had a doozy of a nightmare last night, because it looks like she didn’t sleep much at all.

“Last night, Aiden showed up in the dream.”

“Aiden was the boy?” Noah nods. “That’s because you have Aiden on the brain, Murphy. You think there’s some meaning to your dream? Like, you’re assuming the role of one of the victims? Or you’re... seeing the future or something?”

“How the hell should I know?” She’s still pacing; then she stops and puts her hands on the wall. “Sorry. I don’t know. I... there’s probably no meaning to it. I don’t know. It’s just...”

It’s just making you crazy, he thinks.

She turns and looks at Noah, sizes him up, narrows her eyes.

“What?” he asks.

“The BB gun shooting at the school,” she says. “Back when you were a kid.”

“Oh, come on, Murphy.”

“I’m shaking trees,” she says.

“You’re what?”

“Tell me.” She walks toward him, then stops short, her hands on her hips. She could practically fall over. “Someone did it with you. A second shooter. And then set you up to take the fall. And you let him get away with it. Some kind of... code with you. Never rat out your friends or something.”

Noah looks down, pinches the bridge of his nose. All these years, all the investigation that took place back when it happened — everyone was sure it was Noah and Noah alone. Nobody ever questioned that. Any evidence to the contrary was swept aside, and the unanimous conclusion was that Noah shot all those kids on the playground, all by his lonesome self.

Not until sixteen, almost seventeen years later, when Detective Jenna Murphy from Manhattan came along and patched together a couple of interviews and some dry reports and reached a different conclusion.

“If you’re right,” he says, “and I live by the code that you don’t rat out your friends, why would I rat them out now?”

She works her jaw, her deep-set eyes burrowing into him.

“What’s it matter, Murphy? It doesn’t have anything to do with—”

“You were set up,” she says. “You were set up for Melanie’s and Zach’s murders. You were set up for the murder in the woods, the hooker, Bonnie Stamos. You were set up for my uncle’s—”

Her voice falters. Her whole body is trembling now.

She clears her throat hard, like an engine struggling to start. “And you were set up to take the fall with the BB gun shooting.”

Noah shakes his head. What happened in that school yard doesn’t have anything to do with the murders. It was close to seventeen years ago now. She doesn’t need to know this.

“This guy is smart,” she says. “He’s careful. He might be deranged, he might be schizophrenic or a psychopath, but he does not make mistakes. He handed you to us as a suspect. Shit, I almost shot you myself, I was so sure you were guilty.”

That’s true. Something he’ll never forget, when she broke into his house after her uncle was attacked.

“Look, I’m grasping at straws, I’m looking for anything I can,” she says. “You said you wanted to help. You gave me this bullshit pep talk about—”

“I do want to help.” Noah slings his bag off his shoulder. “You didn’t even ask me why I’m here. Remember the research assignment you gave me?”

Jenna’s eyes move to the satchel.

“You found something,” she says.

76

“It’s not much,” Noah tells me, opening his satchel. “I searched all the public records. Turns out I knew one of the clerks there, someone who grew up down the street from me. She helped.”

He removes a manila folder from his bag. “Holden the Sixth was part of three lawsuits in Suffolk County that we know of,” he says.

“Anything on paternity?” I ask.

“No, but my friend at the clerk’s office said, a lot of times, paternity lawsuits are filed under seal. She said that means the—”

“The names are redacted from the lawsuit,” I say. “Kept out of the public domain. So it’s possible there was a paternity suit, but we wouldn’t know it.”

“Yeah. I made copies of the three lawsuits I did find. They aren’t criminal cases. They’re civil. One is a property dispute and one is a defamation suit, whatever that means, and the last one is a lawsuit for assault and battery brought by a neighbor, some guy who said Holden punched him at a party.”

He hands me copies of the three civil complaints. He’s no lawyer, and neither am I, though a cop knows a thing or two about the legal system.

“Nobody claiming rape, nobody claiming paternity,” I say. “So we don’t know anything.”

“We know one thing.” Noah takes the papers and flips through each of them to a particular page.

He hands them to me. Each of these lawsuits has a sheet attached to the front of it, with the names of the attorneys representing the plaintiff and defendant.

“We know the name of Holden’s lawyer,” Noah says.

77

The waiter opens the bottle of wine and hands the cork to Justin, who defers to me. The waiter pours an inch of Pinot into my glass and I swirl it, sniff it, taste it, and nod my approval.

“Cheers,” says Justin, looking very nice in a white shirt with an open collar, and a blue sport coat. We clink our glasses.

It’s a nice place near the intersection of Main Street and the turnpike — not very far, really, from Justin’s own restaurant, Tasty’s. But this is more than a slight step up from his diner — dark oak and caramel leather, dim lighting, people dressed as formally as it gets in the Hamptons.

“What made you change your mind?” he asks me.

I shrug. “My friend told me I should have dinner with you.”

That, and I’ve gone about seventy-two hours straight obsessing about the case. A little battery recharging may be in order.

“Well, I’m glad.” He takes a drink of the wine. “Hey, this is good.”

“It is good.” If I saw the price correctly on the menu, this bottle was over two hundred dollars, a 2011 Pinot from the Russian River Valley. All I know about wine is what I learned from Matty, who would always line up the year it was bottled with the vintage and location to find the “perfect” bottle to pair with our meal.

“I gotta say, I don’t know anything about wine,” says Justin. “I’m the kind of guy who picks based on the label.” He laughs at himself.

“Me too.”

An awkward silence follows. He seems a little nervous. Not so adept at small talk, that’s for sure. But that part, I like. I’ve had enough of the smooth talkers.

Still, with two people who aren’t good at chatter, there is a palpable sense of relief when the appetizers arrive — chilled zucchini soup for me, burrata with peaches for him.

“So what brought you to the Hamptons?” he asks.

I stop on that one. “I thought everyone knew about that,” I say.

“Well, I remember the trial,” he says. “Some trouble you had with the NYPD. But I always figure, there’s two sides to every story. I mean, if you want.”

An initial buzz is kicking in from the wine, maybe loosening me up a little.

“I was working undercover,” I say. “Going after meth dealers. High up on the chain. I got close to the top guy.”

“How’d you do that? Get close to him.” He settles his elbows on the table.

“I slept with him,” I say. “I became his girlfriend.”

“Wow.” He leans back. “Wow.”

“Yeah, it was pretty intense. Only way to do it, though. These guys are wired tight. They don’t trust anybody. But when it comes to sex, they don’t use their brains so much.”

“That’s — that’s pretty — wow.”

“So anyway,” I say, “I came to find out that some of the people helping the boss were cops. There was a whole ring set up. The cops were running protection for the dealers. So I sent that information back to headquarters. I reported it. I made a big mistake, though.”

“What?”

“I didn’t report it to IAD. Internal Affairs.”

“Who’d you report it to?”

“My boss, my lieutenant.”

“Why was that a mistake?”

I gesture with my wineglass, take a sip. “Two days later, totally out of the blue, three cops are suddenly claiming that I skimmed off the top of a drug raid before I went undercover.”

“Skimmed off the...”

“They said I stole money and drugs from drug dealers. That I arrested them and only turned in some of the money and some of the drugs — kept the rest for myself.”

“That kind of thing happens?”

“It happens if you’re a dirty cop,” I say. “The drug dealers aren’t going to complain, right? If you’re busted, would you rather be busted with a thousand grams of cocaine and a hundred thousand dollars, or with ten grams and ten thousand bucks? Either way, you’re not getting any of it back. But you get a lesser sentence this way. It’s a pretty classic shakedown. If you’re a dirty cop.”

He nods slowly.

“Which I am not,” I say. “I touched a nerve in the department, I told the wrong person, and they wanted to silence me. So they trumped up these charges and gave me a choice — resign or go to prison.”

We don’t speak for a while. I drain my first glass of the Pinot. Easy, Murphy. Don’t let the emotions bubble to the surface.

“Do you regret it?” he asks.

I let out air. “Do I regret not staying and fighting for my job? Every single day.”

“But it was three cops against one,” he says.

I nod. “That’s what Lang said. He said I couldn’t beat those odds. He said, ‘Get out while you still have your badge, come work for me.’ So I did.”

“Well, I’m glad you did. Hope you like it here.”

I shrug. “I won’t be here much longer,” I say. “I’m just staying until I figure out who killed my uncle.”

His smile loses a few degrees of wattage. It seems he might have had some ideas about me. I figured I should let him know, up front, that I’m not in his long-term plans.

For the main course, I have scallops with sweet corn and shishito peppers. They are absolutely delicious — but really no better than the ones at Tasty’s.

“They get their seafood from the same place we do,” Justin says.

“Really? You guys and this restaurant?”

“Yeah,” he says, cocking his head, surprised at my surprise.

I put down my fork. “Your food is as good as this place’s,” I say. “But you can’t be operating Tasty’s at a profit with the prices you’re charging.”

“Who said I was operating at a profit?” He smiles and takes the last sip of his wine. He calls over the waiter and orders a second bottle.

“Okay, so what’s your angle?” I ask. “This whole man-of-the-people thing about not raising prices for ten years.”

“Angle? Why does there have to be an angle?”

I look him over. Good looks, private schools growing up, an expensive dinner tonight, a restaurant that loses money...

“I’m no saint,” he says. “We come close to breaking even some years. It’s... fun to have a place where everyone comes and enjoys themselves. It’s fun for me, too.”

“There’s gotta be something wrong with you,” I say. “Are you sure you’re not a serial killer or something?”

“I never said I wasn’t.” He smiles and wipes his mouth with his napkin. “You’ve been a cop too long, Jenna. You only see bad people. There are lots of good people in the world, too.”

Maybe he’s right. Maybe not everyone in this world has an angle. Maybe I’ve been so closed off in the cocoon of crime and punishment that I’ve lost sight of some things. Maybe losing my badge is a good thing.

Maybe there’s hope for me yet.

78

“I’ll walk you to the door,” Justin says, pulling his Jaguar up to the curb. It’s a nice ride, this car.

Nice dinner. Nice car. Nice guy.

“This was fun,” he says as he steps up onto the porch.

My cell phone vibrates in my purse.

I stand at my door, fishing for my keys.

“So listen.” Justin claps his hands together. “I had a great time. I had a... great time. It was a...”

“Great time?” I rise up on my toes and kiss him softly on the lips. He responds, but awkwardly, his hand touching my arm, unsure whether he should open his mouth.

Shy and clumsy.

“It was fun for me, too,” I say as we draw back. His face has lost a bit of color.

Very shy.

“Call me,” I say.

He nods, then cocks his head. “Why would I call you?”

I draw back. “Oh, I mean, if you want to... have dinner again.”

“We already had dinner. Why would we do it again?”

I stare at him, at a loss for words.

“Gotcha.” He breaks into laughter. “You should see the look on your face.”

Score one for him. He did get me. A little corny... but he got me.

“I will call you, Jenna. For sure.”

He pauses, like he’s thinking about another kiss, but he steps off the porch and heads to his car, whistling. I don’t know very many people who whistle. I don’t know anybody who whistles.

Snap assessment: nice guy, but not a lot of sparks.

Then again, that’s always been my problem. I look for chemistry right away and if I don’t feel it, I walk. Maybe that can develop over time. Maybe if I just let someone in... someone really nice...

Someone without an angle...

Justin drives away with a brief toot of his horn.

Yeah, I don’t know... maybe...

I walk inside my tornado of an apartment and fish my cell phone out of my purse.

The call was from Lauren Ricketts. I punch her up and she answers on the second ring.

“Murphy,” she says.

“Ricketts. What’s up?”

Suddenly my enjoyable Saturday night with Justin is over, and I’m slipping back into the darkness, the quagmire, slogging through evidence and driving myself crazy.

“I finished going through criminal complaints and missing-persons reports,” she says. “I went back to the eighties and got through the mid-nineties.”

“And?” I say, my heartbeat kicking up. “Did you find any criminal complaints?”

“No. Nobody ever filed a criminal charge against Holden the Sixth.”

“Shit.” I really thought that was promising. “And what about unsolveds or missing-persons bulletins?”

“No unsolveds that look interesting, not from that time period.”

“And no missing-persons reports that looked interesting?”

“Just one from 1994,” she says. “I guess it would go under the category of interesting. I wish you’d prepared me for it.”

“Prepared you for what?” I ask. “Who was the missing person?”

A pause on the other end of the line.

“You don’t know?” she asks.

“Ricketts, just freakin’ tell me,” I say. “Who went missing?”

Another pause. As if she’s debating. As if she’s thrown for a loss. And then, finally, she speaks.

She says, “You did, Murphy. You were the missing person.”

79

Sunday night, 7 p.m. The sun almost completely fallen now, a blanket of darkness, the air mild and pleasant.

April Fools’ Day, which feels appropriate. I was a fool ever to have returned to this place.

I pull my car into Uncle Langdon’s driveway just as Aunt Chloe is locking the house up. Some final boxes to remove, some papers to sign, before the sale of the house goes through this month.

“I was so glad you called,” she says. “We could grab a quick bite...”

She has a big smile on her face, until she gets a look at mine.

I stop short in front of her, no hug, no nothing.

“What happened to me here in 1994?” I ask. “When I was eight years old.”

Her face falls. Her mouth works, but no words come out.

“I asked Lang why my family stopped coming to the Hamptons when I was a kid,” I say. “He never told me. ‘A story for another time,’ he said. And then I asked you, and you said, ‘If you don’t know, I don’t know.’ Whatever that cryptic bullshit is supposed to mean.”

“It means just what I said.” Chloe looks me over. “I don’t know what happened. Nobody knows. Apparently, not even you.”

“I saw a missing-persons report, Chloe. From July of 1994. It ended seven hours after it began.”

Chloe slowly nods. “That’s right. ‘Seven hours of hell,’ your mother called it. You went missing. You were playing down the street, just right down this street. And then you were gone. Nobody could find you.” She places a hand at the base of her throat. “It still gives me a sickening feeling when I remember it. We looked everywhere. Lang had the entire Southampton Town Police Department searching for you. Your mother and I searched for you. Your father and Ryan searched for you. Everyone searched for you.”

“And then?”

“And then... we found you.” Her eyes shine with brimming tears. “Seven hours later. We found you on the beach. You were just... sitting there, looking peacefully out at the ocean.”

I roll my hand impatiently, like I want her to continue.

“I don’t know what else to tell you,” she says. “You wouldn’t tell us anything. Lang said you were in shock. We took you to the hospital and they checked you out. Nobody had... done anything... or hurt you—”

“No evidence of any assault,” I say, “sexual or otherwise.”

“No, nothing like that,” she says. “Just this.”

She takes my hand, turns it over, palm up, and traces the small scar on my hand, about an inch long.

“You had that cut on your hand.”

“That’s how I got that cut?” I look at Chloe. “Mom always said I got it chopping a tomato when I was little.”

Chloe nods. “Sometimes we tell our children little white lies to protect them,” she says. “Anyway, your family left the island that day and never came back to the Hamptons. They asked you about it for a while afterward. Days, weeks. But you wouldn’t talk about it. Or couldn’t. And then... life went on. Finally, they just dropped it. The nightmare with a happy ending.”

I don’t remember any of this. Or at least, I thought I didn’t remember.

“I was at the beach the whole time?”

Chloe looks at me like she’s unsure of the answer.

“For God’s sake, Chloe, speak.”

She breathes out. “No. That’s the thing. The spot where they found you — I had personally looked there with your mother. It was one of the first places we checked. I’m sure of it. You weren’t there at first.”

“So I wasn’t at the beach, and then seven hours later, I was.”

She nods.

“But you don’t know where I was for those seven hours.”

She shakes her head, her expression grim. “Seven hours of hell.”

I look over her shoulder at Lang’s house, now empty, soon to be sold to a young couple with a baby. A new life in a new town. New memories, new dreams.

“Get in the car,” I say.

“Jenna—”

“Get in the car, Chloe.”

“Why?”

“You’re going to show me.”

The drive doesn’t take long. She directs me, but I’m beyond being surprised at this point. There are any number of roads that lead to the sweeping beach, but I know which one before she says it.

I drive down Ocean Drive and park in the parking lot and make her get out and walk onto the beach until she shows me the exact spot where I was found.

“Right here,” she says. “I’ll never forget the sound your mother made when she saw you sitting here.”

Those nightmares — they aren’t random spooky dreams. They aren’t some glimpse into the future. They aren’t telepathic visions of other victims’ experiences.

They’re my memories. Repressed memories.

I look out over the ocean, then turn my back to it, looking north.

Looking at the second house from the end, looming over the coastline. The house at 7 Ocean Drive. The Gothic facade, the spears aimed at the sky.

The memories, the flashbacks are at their most intense when I’m inside that house. Paralyzing panic attacks, every time I set foot inside that mansion.

That’s where I was for seven hours, when I was a little girl.

I was inside the Murder House.

80

My car bumps violently over the rough road, sending my head banging against the roof. I stop on the shoulder, not wanting to pull into his driveway — not wanting to announce myself in advance.

I remember you now, he said to me when I accosted him at the cemetery.

I find his driveway, walk up to the front porch, and reach the door.

“Open up, Aiden!” Pounding the door so hard that my knuckles start to bleed.

Nothing.

You shouldn’t have come back, he said to me when he caught me looking into his basement.

My chest heaving, my emotions skittering about, I move to the window closest to the front door and look inside.

The window is open, a screen letting in fresh air. I lean in, kick the screen off, push it into the house, and get one leg and my body through the window.

Just as Aiden is rushing past me, panic on his face.

He cries out in surprise and tries to avoid me, but I grab hold of his arm, getting a poor grip, enough to spin him slightly before he wrests his arm free. I’m off balance, my back leg just coming through the open window, and I fall to the floor as he continues to run.

“What did you do to me?” I shout as I get to my feet and race after him.

He reaches a door — looks like a bedroom door — and opens it and closes it quickly. I reach it a moment later, just as I hear the click of the dead bolt.

I pound on the door.

“What did you do to me? What did you do to me when I was a little girl?”

Punching the door like it’s his face, the blood from my knuckles smeared across the white wood.

I rear back and give the door a kick. An interior door, not as substantial as an outside door. And it’s been a while, but once upon a time when I was training, I had a pretty good kick.

I kick at the doorknob and the adjacent wood. After three furious blows, it splinters, and then my foot breaks through. I reach inside and unlock the dead bolt and the button on the knob.

He could have anything inside there. He could have the shotgun. He could have a knife. Nothing I’ve done so far is smart, fueled as I am by insatiable rage — but I charge through, anyway.

A dark room, but fresh air sweeping in.

The window, open.

He escaped out the back window.

I climb through the window and run into the backyard, into a vacuum of blackness.

He’s gone. This is his home turf. He probably knows every nook and cranny of those woods behind his house. He’s long gone.

The darkness, suddenly interrupted by colored, flashing lights.

A car engine, tires crunching over gravel.

A patrol car, pulling into Aiden’s driveway.

I move to the side of the house and peek around to the front. I hear a car door open and close. I hear footsteps, but not coming my way. Moving into the house.

I place myself flat against the house, not moving an inch. The only sound the gentle swaying of the trees in the wind.

Then a light comes on in the bedroom, where I just came from. I hear the footsteps inside.

A head pops out of the window, looking outside. I hold my breath.

It’s our beloved chief of police, Isaac Marks, illuminated by the light of the room. He’s only twenty feet or so away from me, but I’m bathed in darkness and far to his right — I don’t think he can make me.

“Shit,” he says into the darkness.

A noise; then I hear beeps. He’s dialing a cell phone.

“You okay?” Isaac says. “Where are you? No, she’s gone. I don’t know, do you? She said what? Okay. Don’t worry about her. I’ll take care of her. I said I’ll take care of this. You gotta relax. Listen to me...”

His voice fading as he leaves the room, as he moves into the interior of the house.

81

After waiting over an hour in Aiden’s backyard, I head back to my car. Aiden’s not coming back, and Isaac left long ago.

My car is tucked away on the shoulder of the road down the street. Did Isaac spot it? I don’t see an ambush awaiting me. No doubt there’s an APB out, possibly a warrant for my arrest.

I don’t know what Isaac has planned. I don’t know what he meant when he told Aiden he would “take care” of me.

And I’m not anxious to find out.

I have to get my car out of sight. I have to get myself out of sight.

I pull my car into his driveway and ring the doorbell. Nobody likes unannounced visitors at midnight.

“Who’s there?” he calls through the door.

“It’s Murphy.”

When he opens the door, Noah Walker is wearing an undershirt and sweat pants. He’s clutching a hand towel, his face still dripping with water.

As always — that heat across my chest.

There. That’s the difference. That’s the spark. That’s what’s missing with Justin.

No time for that now, Murphy.

“You okay?” Noah asks.

“No,” I say. “I can’t go home. The police are looking for me.”

“The pol— Well, come in.” He moves out of the way to let me in. “So what happened?” he asks.

“I broke into Aiden’s house,” I say. “I know it was him.”

“What, that dream again?” Noah closes the door and locks it.

“He did something to me,” I say. “A long time ago. Back in ninety-four. The dream is a flashback, Noah. It’s a memory. I saw the police report myself.”

“Then why wasn’t Aiden arrested or—”

“Aiden’s not in the report. I didn’t tell anybody anything. I couldn’t. But now I know.”

“Look, Aiden’s a strange bird,” he says, “but he’s a sweet kid.”

“That’s what everyone says. That’s what everyone says.” I grip my hair as if I’m going to yank it out at the roots, feeling a buzz of nervous energy. “What happened to me was in 1994,” I say. “And in 1995, there was the school shooting. I know Aiden was involved in the first of those. Was he involved in the second?”

Noah’s head drops. “Murphy—”

“Tell me, Noah. Tell me what happened in that school yard.”

“Let me make you some coffee or—”

“Fuck coffee,” I spit. “I don’t give a shit about some stupid code or promise you made seventeen years ago. People we care about have died. More will die. Was Aiden a part of that school shooting or wasn’t he?”

Flustered, Noah puts his hands on his head. Looking off in the distance. Probably pondering the importance of a promise made, or maybe just reliving what happened back then.

Finally, he drops his arms, clears his throat.

“I always met Aiden by that bench before school,” he says. “Back then, people used to pick on him. I tried to help him out. So we’d meet at that bench and walk into school together.”

I suck in a breath. Aiden. I knew it.

“So that day, I sat on the bench, listening to music on my headphones. Then all of a sudden, a gym teacher, Coach Cooper, is running up to me and telling me I have to come with him, I’m in big trouble.”

I stare at him, waiting for more.

“You didn’t participate?” I ask. “You had nothing do with the school shooting?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t even know it was happening. I was on the other side of the school, down the road, blasting music in my ears.”

I step closer to him. “What about the rifle they found in the bushes behind you?”

“Don’t know anything about it. Never saw it.”

“And — what did Aiden say to you afterward?”

“Nothing.” Noah raises his hands. “I was suspended for the rest of the year. I didn’t see Aiden for months. When I did — I mean, what was there to say? I don’t rat people out. And it’s not like I knew Aiden had something to do with it. I still don’t know that. I just know I didn’t.”

I start pacing. “Reports said the shooter — the one they saw, over by the woods — was wearing a Spider-Man costume. Just like you were.”

“Yeah.”

“Did Aiden know you were going to wear a Spider-Man costume to school?”

Noah thinks about that. “Probably. Yeah, he probably did.”

“And it never occurred to you that Aiden set you up?”

“It crossed my mind. But I didn’t know. And I’m not a rat.”

I bring a hand to my forehead, push my hair off my face.

“The second shooter,” I mumble.

“Yeah, you keep going on about that,” says Noah. “You’re sure two people did this?”

I nod. “That’s the only way it could’ve happened. So if you didn’t do it...”

“Then someone else helped Aiden,” says Noah.

And after tonight, I think I know who. I think I know who was working with Aiden, who’s been working with him all along.

The man who was in Noah’s house with my uncle when Lang planted the incriminating evidence to frame Noah.

The man who always seems to show up conveniently to rush to Aiden’s rescue.

The man who demanded that I stop investigating the school shooting, my uncle’s murder, all of it.

The man who told Aiden tonight, I’ll take care of this.

“I have to go,” I say.

“No, don’t.” Noah puts a hand on my shoulder. “You said yourself, you can’t go home.”

“I can’t stay here.”

“You could, actually,” he says, his voice quieter.

I look at him, his eyes peering directly into mine.

He puts his hand on my face and moves in for a kiss.

Like a surge of electricity through my body. Realizing that I’ve always wanted this. His hands in my hair, my hand cupped around his neck, letting myself surrender—

“No,” I say, breaking away. “I have to go. They’ll look for me here. It might not be the first place Isaac looks, but he’ll get here eventually.”

“So let him.”

“Why?” I gather myself, fix my hair. “So we both get in trouble?”

He concedes that. “Where will you go?”

I don’t know. Hotel, not an option — no cash to my name, and using a credit card would be the same as handing the address to Isaac. Ricketts’s house, negative. Uncle Lang’s house, nope, I already gave back my keys.

Someone I can trust, but close by, so I don’t have to drive the streets very long.

“Justin,” I say.

“Justin... Rivers? The guy who owns Tasty’s?”

I nod, suddenly feeling awkward admitting that to someone I just kissed.

“I... didn’t know,” says Noah, taking a step back.

“No, it’s not like that,” I say. “I mean, we went on one date.”

Noah’s eyes trail away. “Okay. I understand. He’s a nice guy.”

“Hey,” I say, and when he looks back at me, I grab his shirt and draw him in and kiss him hard.

Then I pull away and leave his house.

82

I pull my car into the lot at Tasty’s Diner and park around the back, out of sight. There’s only one other car in the lot, Justin’s Jaguar. I walk in and find him behind the bar, reading something on his laptop.

I admit — one of the reasons I came here tonight was the small chance that I might run into Aiden Willis, who apparently spends a lot of nights at Tasty’s drinking. But no luck. Justin is here alone.

“Hey there,” he says when he looks up, not unhappy to see me.

“Slow night?” I ask.

“It picks up in the summer,” he says. He looks me over. “You doing okay?”

I take a long breath.

“You must not be,” he says, coming around the counter, walking up to me, unsure of how close to get, whether to touch me — the whole awkward thing again.

I give him the short version of my lovely evening, that in the course of investigating my uncle’s murder, I may have bent the law tonight and found myself on the wrong end of an arrest warrant.

“I don’t know for a fact that I’m wanted for questioning,” I say. “Or that an arrest warrant was issued. But my guess is they’re looking for me.”

“You need a place to stay,” he says. “You can’t go home.”

“Well...”

“That’s no problem. You can stay at my place. I have plenty of room.”

“If you’re sure it’s not a bother,” I say. “Technically, you wouldn’t be harboring a fugitive. But you might want to give this some thought.”

He thinks about it for a moment. “I’ve always wanted to harbor a fugitive.”

I laugh, in spite of the circumstances.

He looks at the clock on the wall. It’s half past one in the morning. “Let’s go,” he says. “Nobody’s coming at this point.”

We take our own cars. I follow him into East Hampton, checking my mirrors at all times, feeling very conspicuous out here on Main Street at this hour.

But I don’t see any patrol cars.

Justin has a house by the ocean, a beautiful two-story cedar A-frame. I park my car next to his in the garage and he lowers the door, shielding my car from any inquisitive law enforcement.

Inside, he leads me to a family room. What a place. Clean and spacious and updated. He directs me to a couch that’s more comfortable than my bed, perched next to a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking a large backyard.

I sink into the couch, exhausted. Next to me, on a side table, are two framed photographs of Justin as a child. The first with his mother and father, at a Yankees game. Justin must have been, what, four or five? All of them wearing Yankees caps, smiling for the camera. Justin looking like a miniature version of his father.

The second, just the boy and his mother, when Justin is older, probably ten or so, on the beach, the Atlantic Ocean as a backdrop.

“Nice family,” I say.

“Yeah.” Justin nods at the photographs. “That’s the last photo I have of my father. He died two days later. Crazy, right?”

“Gosh, I’m sorry,” I say. “How did he die? Not to pry.”

“No, that’s okay.” He waves me off. “He had a brain aneurysm. Healthy as a horse, worked out regularly. Then all of a sudden, he dropped dead. He just dropped.”

“I’m... so sorry.”

“Yeah.” Justin puts his hands on his hips. “The truth? I don’t even remember him. I was only four. That’s why I keep the photograph around.” He waves his hand around the room. “And that’s how I have money. A healthy life insurance policy.”

“Sure.”

He works his jaw. “I’d give it all back to have a father.” He claps his hands, shakes himself free of the memory. “Now, Miss Murphy, have you eaten?”

“Have I — oh, listen, that’s not—”

“Did you eat, ma’am? It’s a simple yes-or-no question.”

I chuckle again. “No.”

He nods in the direction of his kitchen. “I have cold cuts and some cheese and crackers. Maybe even some fruit. I’d like some myself.”

“That sounds great,” I concede.

He starts to leave but turns and spins. “And what are we drinking? I can’t tell if you need coffee or wine.”

I look at him.

“Wine,” we say together.

He returns first with two glasses of Chardonnay. “Cheers,” he says. “Our second date.”

I realize my hands are shaking as I clink glasses with him.

“You’re trembling,” he says. He puts his hand on my free one. “You’re safe here, Jenna. Just relax.”

I nod and take a sip. It’s on the sweeter side, but alcohol feels good right now, a little numbing of the anxiety.

“I’ll get the snacks.” He pops off the couch and heads into the kitchen.

Justin’s right. Isaac would never look for me here. I’m safe for tonight.

But so much to do. I have to reach out to Ricketts to see what my status is. I need to find out more about Holden VI. I have his lawyer’s name, but—

No. Justin’s right about that, too. I have to slow down. If I don’t get some sleep, I’m going to fall apart.

I look over the room. Picture windows on two sides. Expensive leather furniture. A big-screen TV mounted on one wall. An oak bookcase lining another wall.

A nice, handsome, rich guy. Yeah, run away from this one, Murphy. You wouldn’t want to be happy and comfortable, would you?

“You look more relaxed now,” he says. He’s carrying a tray of cheese and salami, some sliced tomatoes and grapes, a small fancy knife, the Chardonnay bottle tucked under one arm.

He sets it all down and sits next to me on the couch.

“Now eat,” he says. “And drink. And be merry.”

I pick a couple of grapes off the bunch and pop them in my mouth.

“You’re spoiling me,” I say. “I show up unannounced, with the cops on my tail, and you spoil me.”

When he doesn’t respond right away, I turn to him. He’s watching me.

“Maybe I like spoiling you,” he says, touching my hair.

Is this guy for real? Are there actually guys like this out there? In that other world, I mean, the one Justin mentioned, where people are truly decent and honest?

And handsome, too.

He leans into me slowly, giving me the chance to decide, and I lean into him as well. This kiss is better than last time, less inhibited, more natural, each of us more at ease.

He pulls back. “You can stay here as long as you need to,” he says. “You’re safe here.”

And then we both hear it, footsteps from a distance.

From behind us, outside.

And then a piercing smash, as something — or someone — comes crashing through the picture window.

83

Shards of glass everywhere, something hard striking my head, and Justin and I are thrown from the couch as another body sails into us.

All three of us hit the hardwood floor.

Darkness.

Chaos and shouting and thumping and grunting and smashing.

Darkness.

I open my eyes, my head reeling, my vision blurred.

Justin and...

Aiden.

Struggling on the floor. Aiden on top, with the knife raised. Justin grabbing his arm to hold him off.

Telling myself to move, begging my arms and legs to work, the room angled sideways, spinning—

Move.

I lunge forward, both hands aiming for the knife. The knife, the most important thing, disarm the suspect, disable the weapon.

All my body weight, plowing into Aiden, both hands gripping his wrist, sending Aiden and me over Justin to the floor. I hit the floor again, hard, colorful bursts dancing around my eyes.

But I have the knife.

Behind me, the shuffling of feet. With everything I can muster, I manage to crane my neck around.

Just as Aiden Willis is climbing up on the couch and jumping out through the window, the same way he came.

Justin moans. Blood coming from his forehead, his breathing shallow.

Around us, chaos. A piece of lawn furniture, the one that helped Aiden break through the window, the one that smacked me in the temple, lying by the bookcase. The glass table overturned. Food everywhere. Broken glass littering the couch and floor.

And blood. Justin’s blood. And mine, some of which is spilling into my eyes right now from the head wound.

“Are you... okay?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, short of breath. He props himself up on his elbows. Several cuts across his cheeks and forehead from the glass. Nothing too serious, nothing life-threatening. “How about you?”

“Were you cut?” I crawl toward him. “By the knife, I mean.”

He shakes his head. He looks about as stunned as I am. “What the hell just happened?”

The wind gusting through the open, shattered window.

“We have to call the police,” I say, just now catching my breath.

“But...” Justin forces himself to sit up, grimacing. “If there’s a warrant for your arrest, you can’t be—”

“It doesn’t matter. We have to report this.”

He reaches over and grabs my hand. I squeeze back. After a moment, we help each other to our feet. He brings me close, hugging me, our chests heaving, our hearts pounding in tandem.

“I’m... so sorry, Justin,” I say into his chest. “I brought this to you. I never should have come here.”

“No, no.” He cradles my head with his hand. “I want you here.”

“I think... you just saved my life,” I say.

“I’m just glad you’re okay. And here I told you... you were safe.”

I close my eyes and nestle in the comfort of his arms.

I was safe. Or at least, I should have been safe. How did Aiden even know I was here? I wasn’t followed in my car. I checked the rearview mirror the whole time for patrol cars. The streets were deserted. Nobody followed me by car.

So how did Aiden know?

Nobody knew I was coming here.

Then my eyes pop open.

A chill courses through me.

One person knew.

84

The East Hampton Town Police respond to Justin’s call. I know some members of that force from working on the multijurisdictional drug task force, but I don’t know any of the ones who arrive at the scene. It’s clear the officers know who I am when I give them my name, thanks to the Noah Walker trial. They are respectful and courteous as they scribble their notes and take photographs and scan the living room and backyard for evidence.

I sit quietly for hours, letting them do their work, waiting for one of them to inform me that there’s a warrant outstanding for my arrest, or an APB, from the STPD. But it doesn’t happen. No handcuffs come out. No perp walk. They just promise to keep us updated on their investigation and leave.

An armed invasion in East Hampton is something the cops take seriously, so I know they’re going to be looking hard for Aiden now.

Which also means that, if Aiden has a single functioning brain cell in his head, he’s in the wind now. Gone. Skedaddled.

“I’m sorry about this,” I say to Justin. “He was after me, not you. I brought him to your house.”

“He brought himself.” Justin touches my arm. “You’re the good guy, remember?”

Not sure about that. I’d say Justin’s the good guy. And dammit, I really wish my feelings for him went deeper than that. I wish I could manufacture some chemistry, a spark between us.

The wind whips up, straining the large pieces of cardboard that we used to cover the shattered window.

“I have to go,” I say.

“Stay. It’s after four in the morning. And you can’t go home.”

I probably can go home, actually. Apparently, Isaac’s plan to “take care of” me doesn’t include issuing a warrant for my arrest for breaking into Aiden’s house.

So yeah, I can probably go home. But I won’t. Not yet.

Aiden’s surely not home, after all. What better time to visit his house again?

85

I park my car on the shoulder of the road, just as I did last night, and I approach his house with caution, just as before.

First blush, I see nothing different about Aiden’s house. The front window through which I climbed, almost grabbing Aiden as he raced past me to his bedroom, is still open. If Aiden had come back, surely he would have closed it.

Same deal in the backyard. His bedroom window still open.

Isaac didn’t close up the house? Not his job, I suppose. And he was probably distracted.

Or maybe not. Maybe he knew I’d come back. Maybe I’m walking into a trap.

The front window would be an easier entry point, but the backyard is more private, nothing but a sloping yard and swaying trees, and total darkness.

I climb into the bedroom and stand for a moment, silent. Hard to hear much of anything inside the house. Wind coming in from windows in the front and back, simultaneously, like the entire house is whistling to me.

Daylight will come in an hour. I want to be home by then.

Start with the bedroom. A battered dresser with a framed photograph on top, one of those side-by-side frames. On the left, a beautiful young woman, probably in her late teens, with strawberry-blond hair and elegant features. On the right, the same woman, propped up against pillows in a hospital bed, her face pale, her hair unkempt, no makeup, but a radiant, beaming smile as she holds a newborn. Pretty much a standard postbirth hospital photo.

I remove the hospital photo and flip it over. On the back, handwritten in cheap blue ink:

Aiden as a baby. And this very attractive woman, his mother. He doesn’t look a thing like her.

Then again, I haven’t seen the father yet.

I replace the photos and open some drawers, having no interest in his clothes or underwear but hoping for anything else that might be tucked away in here.

When I get to the final drawer, I don’t find clothes at all. I find a small photo album, a cheap one you’d get at a convenience store with plastic sleeves to hold the photos.

Most of them are of his mother, going back as far as the hospital photo. Little Aiden, with those raccoon eyes even as an infant, appears once or twice. And I get the first shot of the father, his cheek pressed against Aiden’s, smiling for the camera. A strong resemblance to Aiden, deep-set eyes and straw-colored hair, not by any means a handsome man.

But the mother dominates these photos. About twenty photos in all. Starting with the hospital and moving forward, chronologically I assume, but—

But she looks different as time moves on in these photos. Not older, but different. Hard to tell how much she has aged — not too much, a year or two, at most — but a definite change. Her eyes darker, deeper. Looking more gaunt, more tired.

Sick? Can’t tell, but — darker, for sure. More troubled, more weary, as the photos progress, like I’m watching the story of her decline in time-lapse photography.

And then the last photo, her head turned from the camera, her hand raised in a stop gesture, as if she didn’t want to be photographed.

And a baby bump, unmistakable, protruding from her belly, beneath her black T-shirt.

My heartbeat kicks up. A second child?

The last page doesn’t contain photos. It contains two news clippings, one of them a vertical column, the other merely a headline and photo. Old articles, each of them, faded, with the crispy texture of aged newspaper.

The vertical column, stapled to the album page, has this headline:

They’re talking about Aiden’s mother. Gloria Willis, age thirty, of Bridgehampton, pronounced dead at Southampton Hospital after being hit by a car on Sugar Hill Road the previous night. The article claims she had several priors for prostitution and drug possession. Her blood analysis revealed the presence of narcotics and alcohol in her system at the time of her death.

The article is cut out of the bottom quarter of a newspaper page, so there’s no date. But it can’t be that hard to find out when Aiden’s mother died.

Gloria Willis was a drug addict and a prostitute?

Holden VI liked prostitutes. It seemed to be a family trait, in fact.

The other news clipping isn’t even an article. It’s a photo, likewise ripped from the center of the newspaper and thus undated. The photo shows Uncle Lang, in his chief’s uniform, holding a child swaddled in blankets.

Beneath it, this caption:

Southampton Town Police Chief Langdon James holds a newborn child, left abandoned at the entrance to the Bridgehampton substation last night. The infant will be turned over to the Suffolk County Division of Child Protective Services.

What does this all mean? Is this abandoned child Aiden? No. No, of course not. There are photographs of Gloria and Aiden in the hospital at birth.

The baby bump. The second child.

I close the photo album and leave the bedroom. In the kitchen, there is a door that could possibly be a door to a pantry, but my money says it’s a door to the basement.

The basement with those wax figures, arranged perfectly, like a family portrait.

It’s time I got a better look at them.

86

I open the basement door, flip on the switch, and head downstairs.

The basement is unfinished, with an aging washer and dryer, an unused sink.

I walk toward the back of the basement, the part I saw through the open window last time. But this time, the lights are on.

The creepy wax figures, the Norman Rockwell setting around a coffee table, the faux fireplace.

On the love seat, the wax figure of the man, in a tweed coat, hair greased back, beady eyes, looking a lot like the man in the photo album.

In the rocking chair, the woman, seated and wearing a shawl over her shoulders — a dead ringer for Aiden’s mother.

A third chair, empty. For Aiden?

For Aiden to sit down here and play “let’s pretend” with his family?

Weird. Creepy.

Sad, actually.

I get a closer look at the woman and see, for the first time, something I didn’t notice when I was shining a flashlight in here from the backyard.

On the floor, next to the woman’s chair.

A tiny toy crib, for an infant.

Not a wax figure this time, just a doll — a naked doll, a tiny, bald newborn, swaddled in blankets.

A newborn.

Trying to connect it now.

Aiden at the cemetery, urinating on the tombstone of Holden VI.

Holden VI, the man notorious for frequenting prostitutes.

Gloria Willis, a prostitute — in that photo, pregnant with a second child.

The caption from that photograph in the paper: NEWBORN ABANDONED AT POLICE STATION.

“Shit,” I mumble. “That’s it.”

Gloria Willis had two children. Aiden first, then a child she gave up at birth, abandoned anonymously at the police station.

And why would she abandon her son at the police station anonymously?

Because she didn’t want him? Because she didn’t want a child whose father was a monster? Because she didn’t want the father to ruin the son?

I don’t know. There are still some questions.

But at last, finally, I might have a few answers.

Aiden Willis had a brother. Or more accurately, a half brother.

Whose biological father was Holden Dahlquist VI.

And somehow, in some way, that abandoned boy found his way back into dear old Dad’s life.