Page 46 of Strict Confidence (Rochester Trilogy 2)
“When I’m grown up,” Paige says, “can I still play at the beach?”
“Yes, of course.” Sweet relief. “You don’t have to wait until then. Should we play at the beach this afternoon?”
“Sand castles,” says Paige. “I want to make the towers.”
“I’ll make the walls.”
“Not too close to the water.” She takes a big breath and lets it out. “I don’t want the waves to knock it down before we’re done.”
“Not too close,” I agree.
It gets quiet between us again, and I smooth down her hair. Playing Monopoly with Beau and Paige yesterday felt like this. That’s what it would be like to have a family. She still hasn’t lifted her head from my chest. This is what it would be like to have a daughter. All these difficult, painful moments with impossible questions tucked in next to the sweet, innocent ones.
“Do you think she’ll come back?” Paige asks.
“Who?”
“The woman on the cliff. The one wearing the nightgown. She used to walk outside our old house, before it burned down.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Beau Rochester
Now that the former Coach House is no longer a crime scene, I’m forced to deal with the insurance company. I could just pay to have it replaced myself, but it’s complicated because the house is technically in the trust that’s in place for Paige. Then I deal with the contractors. I want the house rebuilt so I can get Jane and Paige somewhere that doesn’t feel so exposed. At the very least, I want the accusing rubble cleared off the cliff.
Phone calls eat up most of the afternoon while Jane and Paige are at the beach. The whole damn thing is an exercise in frustration. I hate sitting so long for phone calls, but my leg throbs when I stand or pace. The two of them come back from the beach with sun-pink cheeks. Jane’s quiet at dinner. The shadows in her eyes eat at me.
I want her alone in a room so I can back her against the wall and write questions on her skin. She’ll give me the answers. They just have to be coaxed out of her. We put Paige to bed, dancing around the worry she won’t talk about.
Jane slips into my bedroom a few minutes after Paige has fallen asleep. I’m at the dresser, pulling a sweater over my head.
From the shift in the air, I think she might be crying. There’s a certain relief in that. I can hold her too close. I can wipe her tears away.
Taste them on her lips.
But when I turn to face her, she’s not crying. Jane clasps her hands in front of her, and there’s pained indecision on her face.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“This might sound—” She shakes her head. “Last night, while I was giving Paige her bath, I saw this woman walking on the beach. She was there one second, and then just… gone.”
“Probably Marjorie out for a walk.”
“In a white nightgown? With blonde hair?”
It’s like she’s tipped an ice pitcher down into my gut. “Not Marjorie, then.” She’s a redhead. “A guest from one of the other bed-and-breakfasts, Jane. People walk on the beach.”
“That’s the thing.” More color fades from her cheeks. “Paige mentioned a woman this morning. She said a woman used to walk on the cliff by the house before it burned down.” Jane swallows. “She said the woman wore a white nightgown, too.”
Fuck.
I want to back away from her, but there’s no space left in the room to do it. The window’s the only illusion of escape. An empty stretch of sand waits in front of rippling waves. Makes it hard to see if there’s anything in the water. I can’t logic my way out of this. It would be easy to dismiss them both. Chalk it up to being tired and stressed.
My stomach turns.
Jane touches my elbow, her fingertips light on the fabric. I feel like a house fire waiting to start. Her dark eyes find mine. “What should we do?”
She’s urgent. Afraid. I want to soothe her, not scare her.
But she should be afraid. My heart pumps pure adrenaline into my veins. I’ve already installed a security system. There’s not much more I can do to protect the house other than hiring armed guards to stand around a mostly-empty beach.
What would that say about my sanity, if I surrounded this place with mercenaries? What would it do to Jane’s sanity? To Paige’s? It would only be confirmation that we’re not safe. Visible, unavoidable confirmation.
Then again, maybe we’re not safe. It might only confirm the truth.
Her voice trembles. “Who could be doing this?”
If the sightings on the beach are related, then it’s a blonde woman. “It could be Zoey Aldridge. I thought of her from the beginning, but she has an alibi. The cops already checked her out. But there’s always a chance she manufactured it.”
