Page 35 of Strict Confidence (Rochester Trilogy 2)
“Lots of bodies don’t get found after boating accidents.”
“She would have known every way into the house.”
Chills race over my back. “Are you suggesting she’s still alive?”
“I’m not suggesting anything.” He gives a sudden, slightly manic laugh. “Just the imaginings of an old man. I should probably do the department a favor and retire already.”
In the stunned silence my mind processes the following facts: that Emily Rochester loved this house. She wouldn’t voluntarily leave. She used to point at it when we walked the beach on the other side. I used to dream about buying it for her. Of course, it was Rhys that eventually did that. It was Rhys she eventually married.
Why would she let everyone believe she died?
My brother was an accountant. Not a fisherman or even a hobbyist boater. Emily didn’t grow up around the ocean. And she got seasick.
Despite those things, they rented a boat.
They went out on the water and never came back.
“No,” I say, the word drawn out and final. “I don’t believe in people coming back from the dead. I don’t believe in ghosts. We had a funeral for Emily Rochester. She’s gone.”
“I’m sure she is,” Diebold says, sober now. “But whoever set that fire didn’t go up in flames. They’re walking around the cliff. Walking along the beach. Walking the same places as you and me, so take care of Paige. And take care of yourself.”
I glance at the winding path where Joe Causey’s black department-issued Taurus descends the winding road. “You don’t think he’s going to catch the person who did it.”
He scratches his head. “I’m not entirely convinced it wasn’t him.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jane Mendoza
I go through the motions of Paige’s bath-time routine with an aching heart.
As if Beau reached in and twisted it as he left.
Every beat of my heart forces me to remember his words on the beach. The man who said those things was the casual, cruel boss I started working for, not the lover in my bed. After everything, it’s still painful. I wanted to sink down to my knees in the sand and sob.
Not with Paige waiting in the house.
Not with everything feeling as tenuous as it did when I first got here.
Now she flips over in the clawfoot tub and kicks her feet. Paige was suspicious of the tub until the first time she tried it. Then she did a complete one eighty. “It’s like a pool!” she’d said, eyes round with astonishment. “Or a hot tub. I’m a mermaid. Look at me, I’m a mermaid.”
There’s more than enough room for her to stretch out her legs. She sweeps one hand through the water and makes waves on the side of the tub.
“Ten more minutes,” she says.
And I get it. There’s a whole toy store in there for her. Everything we had sent from a little shop downtown to try and coax her in. Bubble bath that makes the surface of the water glisten with rainbows. Floating toys in the shape of boats. Bath paints, which seem like they’ll defeat the purpose but remain miraculously out of her hair.
“Five minutes,” I offer as a compromise.
My temples throb with the stress of the argument. Beau said he needed me. It didn’t stop him from turning his back on me. He claimed he didn’t mean it when he said he loved me. A moment that passed, he called it. I don’t have the energy to fight him.
“Seven,” Paige says, and dunks her head under again. She learned how to make deals while playing Monopoly. She’ll make you an offer on St. Charles Place for more than it’s even worth. It seems like a good idea until she captures her monopoly and bankrupts you a few turns later.
“Okay,” I tell her when she resurfaces. “Seven minutes.”
I step out into Paige’s bedroom. Most times, she wants to be alone, so I give her space. I’ve already washed her hair. She’ll be pruny soon, but I don’t want to push her too hard. So I perch on the edge of the bed and listen to her drag the toy boats through the water. From the sounds of her dialogue there’s a pirate ship in battle with a cove of mermaids. Kitten naps peacefully on Paige’s pillow, undisturbed by the battle.
A movement outside the window catches my eye. I sweep back the curtain a few inches, expecting to see moonlight on waves.
There’s someone out there.
A woman, walking slowly down the beach. I get the impression of blonde hair bleached white by the moon. A long, pale nightgown. Unease skips down my spine. The woman doesn’t seem to leave footprints in the sand—or maybe I’m too far away to see them. It’s almost like she’s floating over the beach, drifting toward the water.
“How many minutes? How many minutes left?” A child’s voice calling from the bathroom.
