In the Shadow of Lakecrest(26)

“I can’t,” he said.

“Whatever it is,” I said, “I won’t love you any less.”

I can be very convincing, when I have to be.

There was a very long silence. Finally, shakily, Matthew told me what he’d seen in his dream. Cecily lying on the grass. Her dress torn, breasts exposed. His hand reaching out to touch the dark-red stain on her gleaming white skin. His sticky palm, caked with Cecily’s blood.

“It felt so real. Like I was there.”

Carefully, slowly, I asked, “Were you?”

Matthew slammed his hand against the bed. “Of course not!” he hissed. “I’ve told you, I don’t know what happened to Aunt Cecily!”

What’s that famous quote about someone protesting too much? I couldn’t believe Matthew would kill a woman he so obviously adored, especially since he’d been only twelve when she disappeared. But could those images be more than the invention of a shell-shocked mind? It was possible he’d seen something that was beyond his ability to understand at the time. He might have seen her die.

I kept such thoughts to myself, of course. I told Matthew he’d gotten things all mixed up in his mind, and I could tell he ached with regret for what he’d done. Yet he stayed on his side of the bed. The center—where we usually slept, a tangle of arms and legs—remained defiantly empty. It was the first time Matthew had rejected me in five months of marriage. And I couldn’t help feeling he’d lost faith in my ability to help him.

That was the night I vowed to find out what happened to Cecily. Matthew’s tortured dreams, I believed, were signs he’d never resolved himself to his aunt’s loss. Only the truth would allow him to heal. Had Cecily died that night, inside the Labyrinth? I didn’t see how it was possible. The police had searched the grounds and hadn’t found a body or any evidence of violence. She could have been kidnapped, but there’d been no demand for ransom. Most likely, Cecily had chosen to leave, in which case I might be able to follow her trail.

It is possible for people to disappear, from places with unpaved streets and broken streetlights, where neighbors don’t know each other’s names and don’t care to. But women like Cecily Lemont don’t vanish without a trace. They take taxis and trains and visit banks and stores. You can’t lie low in a crowd when you’re wearing silk and are used to being waited on hand and foot.

I suspected Hannah knew more about her sister-in-law’s fate than she let on; a wolf’s fur can’t stay hidden beneath sheep’s clothing forever. But she’d never admit to it if I asked. It was possible Cecily had confided her plans to a friend, someone who’d promised to keep them secret but might be convinced to talk after all this time.

I knew just where to start.



Mabel Kostrick lived in the Continental, a smart building that overlooked the southern edge of Lincoln Park. When I had phoned and asked to meet, she sounded cautiously friendly, and she greeted me at her apartment’s front door the same way. Her smile was warm, her handshake tentative.

She led me to what she called the morning room, a cheery space with tall windows and chairs upholstered in bright yellow. A maid brought in a tray for tea, and superficial chatter took us through the pouring and serving. It was only once Mabel and I were seated at opposite ends of a sofa, cups in hand, that I told her the reason for my visit.

“I don’t see how I can help.” A protest, but her expression showed she was intrigued.

“That day we met, at the Temple, you told me you knew Cecily.”

“Yes, but it was such a long time ago. We exchanged letters after I moved away, but I didn’t see her for years.”

“Can you think of any reason Cecily might have left Lakecrest without telling her family?”

“I truly can’t. As I said, we didn’t keep in touch.”

“When did you first meet her?”

“Oh, I don’t remember. Our families traveled in the same social circles, or what passes for society in East Ridge. Everyone in Chicago knew who she was. They were still talking about her debut when I came out, how she’d dazzled everyone and then sailed off to Oxford in a blaze of glory. It wasn’t long after that I heard she was back at Lakecrest, declining all invitations. There were rumors of a breakdown. I do think she must have been through a dark time to be so understanding with girls like me.”

Dark time. I thought of Matthew’s unpredictable, mournful moods. The way his entire body could go limp with gloom.

“My mother was a very demanding woman, and I was awfully shy, with a terrible stammer,” Mabel continued. “The more Mother berated me, the worse the stammer got, until I was convinced I’d never be able to speak normally again. Mother was terrified she’d never marry me off. When I heard Cecily had begun a salon for young female artists, I begged to go. Painting was the only thing I was any good at, and Mother agreed to let me stay for a month. It changed my life.”

“How?”

Mabel looked away, thoughtful. Deciding how to answer. “Cecily was the first person who made me feel my opinions had some value,” she said at last. “She gave us lessons each day—literature, art, that sort of thing—but she encouraged each of us to try new things. To follow our passions.”

Mabel made it sound as if Cecily was running an art school. But I knew it had been more than that.