Page 40 of In the Bones
Even so, he hadn’t expected what she said next.
“When was the last time you talked to Mac?” Shana’s eyes were dark now, and riveted to his.
“Mac?” Tim repeated. “Not since last night at the party.”
“So she doesn’t know we’ve ID’d the victim?”
“Not yet. Shit.” Tim felt his stomach bottom out and a wave of nausea surge through him. “Shit,” he said again. “It’s Monday. The sheriff’s debate.”
Shana’s jaw dropped open. “Oh no. I wanted to be there. With everything going on …”
“Yeah,” said Tim. “I forgot too.” Mac had been stressing about going up against Bruce Milton, and Shana and Tim had promised they’d stack the crowd with friendly faces. It was late afternoon, the debate well underway, and neither of them had managed to show up.
“So Mac doesn’t know,” Shana said. Tim couldn’t tell if she was talking about the debate or something else. “We need to think this through. A lot of nasty stuff is going to come to light. We need to be careful. Think about Nicole and the girls.”
“What am I missing?” Valerie asked. “You’re kind of freaking me out.”
“I’m sorry,” said Shana, but it was Tim that she turned to, meeting his puzzled gaze. “I didn’t tell you before. I couldn’t. Mac asked for discretion. I guess that’s irrelevant now.”
“What—”
“I think you might be right,” she told him, drawing out the words, “about a hook-up. But I’m worried it wasn’t with Mikko.This doesn’t leave the room,” Shana said, looking from Tim to Valerie.
Both investigators nodded, and Shana drew a steadying breath.
“A few months ago, at one of my girls’ nights with Mac, she told me Nicole and Woody were having problems. She was worried about their marriage. How it would affect the girls. She didn’t want to tell me at first, but she was so upset that I kind of wheedled it out of her.”
Tim didn’t like where this was going. When Shana spoke again, she sounded short of breath, as though she was trying to wade through a seagrass-choked river.
“Nicole found out that Woody had cheated,” she said. “I guess a friend of Nicole’s saw Woody with the other woman. Mac didn’t know all the details, but Nicole seemed to think the woman was from out of town.”
Tim’s chest constricted. He was picturing Mac the way she’d looked in Mikko Helle’s basement, visibly concerned about Nicole’s state of mind after finding a stranger in the ceiling. He knew Mac was quite a bit older than her sister, and sensed she was protective of Nicole. It was why she’d wanted to be at Tim’s interview with Mikko, to ensure that Nicole wasn’t working for a killer.
If Tim had correctly interpreted the connections Shana was making, Mac’s presence in the house that day was about to take on a whole new meaning. Nicole’s, too.
“It was familiar to me,” Shana said, her eyes soft and sad. “That name. I just didn’t put it together. Last summer, Woody Durham had an affair. And I’m fairly certain Mac said the woman’s name was Angelica.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Molly
Nine months ago
“It feels like such a waste,” Gigi said, twisting the ring on her finger, the sunlight sparking off the angel wings. It was habit, but also a way to curb her boundless energy. Keep her in check.
“What does?” I asked, turning to face her. Saturday morning, and we were on a boat—an actual fucking boat—gliding down the St. Lawrence River and surrounded by the most amazing views I’d ever seen. I’d never been on a boat in my life, but the water was full of them: fishing boats carrying teenagers who blasted music as they rode, yachts with decks full of people sunning themselves like this was the French Riviera, vintage-looking wooden ones flying American flags that cracked in the wind. From the second story of the tour boat, which had a red paddlewheel on the back, we could see them all. But Gigi wasn’t referring to the boats. She was talking about the houses.
“Did you hear the guide say these places sit empty for most of the year? They’re just summer homes. And look at them.”
Next to Gigi, I swiveled back toward the view. So far, we’d passed a hulking ten-bedroom home with two private docks, a four-story manor perched on a mountain of tiered stone walls, a gilded age “cottage” that could sleep twenty-eight, and a gingerbread-trimmed Victorian mansion whose boathouse was nearly as big as the home itself. The tour guide, a woman our age in khaki shorts and a polo shirt, had called this Millionaire’s Row.
I had a house once. It wasn’t nearly as grand as the island homes, but it was two stories with a flagstone fireplace and French doors that led to a lush back yard my sister and Iused to camp out in, and I’d loved it—right up until the accident. After Mom and Jenny died, the house felt hollowed out, like its beating heart had been scooped from its ribs. It was me and my father after that, rattling around in that empty space until I finished high school and he met Amanda and moved west.
Gigi’s right, I thought as I glanced up at a stone and cedar palace to my left. It was a waste. There’s nothing sadder than an empty house.
“Sign me up for that lifestyle,” I told my friend. “A beachfront house in the winter—someplace hot—and in the summer, a private island.” A fantasy so far out of reach, but for a minute, I let myself sink into it.
“Can’t help you with the beach part, but all this,” she said with a dramatic wave of her arm, “could be yours.”
