The Winters(62)

On day three I found Adele in the den, her feet propped up on Max’s desk, video-chatting on her phone. When she saw me, she swept her feet off the desk and slapped her phone down on the mahogany.

“It’s okay, Adele, I’m looking for Dani.”

“She’s not here yet. I texted her. I’ll wait around a bit longer, but then I don’t know . . .”

“She’s been a bit distracted lately, I know. My fault, with the wedding and everything.”

Adele stood, lowering her voice a little. “She’s more than just normal distracted, though. Yesterday she couldn’t stop checking her phone, then she got all anxious and said she wasn’t feeling well and left early. I asked her what was wrong, she said nothing. I’ve been meaning to talk to you guys.”

“Okay. That’s good to know, thanks. I’ll see if I can get to the bottom of it.”

I headed straight to Dani’s bedroom. I knocked and waited, then knocked again. I put my ear to the door. Nothing. I tried the handle and the door opened. The room was neat, her bed made. The cleaning staff wasn’t due until noon, which meant she likely hadn’t slept in her bed, since she never made it herself. And there was that smell. On the dresser by the door was an enormous stand of those red-black roses, this one with a card: For my only girl, always. There was no name, but it was from Max, clearly. Of course this warmed me, knowing how much these flowers meant to Dani. But I also felt that buckle of envy. That he had never sent me flowers, not even after I almost left him, wasn’t what irked me. It was that he sent these flowers, Rebekah’s roses, which I had come to loathe. They felt obvious, garish, their scent smothering and ubiquitous.

I shut the door behind me. The only other place she’d be was the turret, which had been locked, forbidden to her for the last couple of weeks. Max had planned to wait until after the wedding to let her back up there, with instructions to finally sort through Rebekah’s things, choose what to keep, and get rid of the rest.

On the third floor, the gallery walls were still pocked with the shadows of the pictures that had once hung there. I wondered if the workers could paint this week, white for the wedding, anything but this lurid red. As I suspected, the turret door was still locked. But when I pressed my ear against the dense oak, I heard her, faint at first and then louder, her voice guttural with upset.

“Don’t lie to me, Claire. It’s not funny!”

I hesitated, afraid of wading into a volatile mood, or a fight between two teenage girls I was already afraid of. When I didn’t hear Claire reply, I realized Dani was on her phone.

“Well then, who is doing it, bitch?”

I waited for a bout of silence before I bucked up and knocked. This is what it is to parent. Nothing. I called her name, once, twice. Still nothing. Too afraid to press any further, I headed to our bedroom, where my phone was charging next to the bed. I could call her, I thought, or text. Instead, my fingers unwittingly routed me to her Instagram.

I’d been checking it less and less since our relationship seemed to have found better footing. But I thought it might give me some insight into her whereabouts these past few days. There were new posts, mostly of her and Claire wearing their customary seductive pouts, sometimes cartoon ears and noses, always their breasts out, their backs arched, lips puckered. Some were taken in her bedroom, some in what I assumed was Claire’s—more evidence of Max’s ineffectual grounding. She’d posted a lovely shot of Isabel pasturing out near the barn, and a stylish one of Asherley crowned by a stormy sky, a filter lending the house a terrific ominousness. There was a jarring selfie out at the shooting range behind the stone ruins of the old barn, Dani provocatively blowing on the end of a gun, Gus miserable in the background with his rifle pointed down. Her most recent post was a moody black-and-white, taken in front of the Eiffel Tower. She was holding a cigarette, hair blurring across her face. How many takes had there been, how many filters applied, before this one was deemed perfect enough to post? The caption read, “miss u #Paris #tbt.” Below that a few comments from friends, including Claire, who wrote “my reine” next to a crown emoji. The second-last comment stood out. It was right below Claire’s and it read, “And I miss you, my darling daughter,” below which Dani replied, “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!! FUCKING STOP DOING THIS!” It came from an account called @rwinterforever.

I tapped the handle. It was a private account. There were dozens of posts and the account was following only one person. Though I was unable to see any of the pictures, just the name, @rwinterforever, gave me chills. I flicked back to the comments in Dani’s other recent posts, the one of the horse, of the house, the gun range, and found more comments from this account, a compliment here (“Gorgeous shot!”), an endearment there (“Our lovely Asherley”), always followed with a reply from an alarmed Dani: “WHO ARE YOU? WHO IS DOING THIS? PLEASE STOP DOING THIS.”

I dropped my phone as though it were hot, feeling winded by this particular bout of snooping. Was this the reason she was yelling at Claire? If so, it was an appalling prank. If this was just a random fan account, I couldn’t think of a more malicious way to show appreciation for the late Rebekah Winter than to harass her daughter like this. I wanted to help. We were getting closer, weren’t we? She might appreciate my concern. Or I might open myself up to more ridicule and a fresh bout of antagonism, so close to the wedding. You’re a lurker, so creepy! Yet I was going to be her stepmother. I had to stop being afraid of her. Besides, I could broach the topic by asking gentle questions. You seem down, Dani, I could say. You don’t seem yourself. Is anything the matter? Anything you’d like to talk to me about? I’m here for you.