All the Beautiful Lies(52)

It was over a mile to Kennewick Center, but the walk felt good. He began to warm up, the sun rising, the mist burning off. Approaching the Dunkin’ Donuts, he wasn’t sure it was open yet, but when he got to the front doors, he could make out an employee moving behind the counter. He got himself a large regular—a coffee with maximum cream and sugar—and a blueberry donut.

He sat in a booth, watched through the steamy window as a pickup truck pulled in across two spots. A skinny man wearing a camo baseball cap jumped out of the cab, the truck still running, and strode into the shop. “Mornin’, Cody,” said the woman behind the counter as she got him a coffee and an apple turnover without asking him what he wanted. Harry kept his eye on the truck, spilling exhaust, and had a brief urge to race out of the shop with his coffee, steal the truck, and just start driving north, see how far he could get.

But he didn’t move. The man returned with his breakfast to his truck. Harry kept sipping at his coffee. He ate the blueberry donut, remembering, as he ate it, that it had been his father’s favorite. His thoughts shifted again to Alice, and Grace’s conviction that she had something to do with the murder. What if Grace was right, and he’d slept with his father’s murderer? His stomach flipped. He told himself to breathe, and thought of Occam’s razor, something he’d learned about in a probability course in college: The simplest solution to a problem is most likely the correct one.

What was the simplest solution?

Probably that his father had been an adulterer who liked to seduce younger women. He’d seduced a married woman and been killed by a jealous husband. Grace was just another girlfriend who had nothing to do with his father’s death. Alice was a betrayed wife who was right now trying to grapple with everything that was happening. And she was desperate for attention and affection. Wasn’t this the most logical solution? And if that was the case, then Harry had some responsibility because of what his father had left behind. His hand went instinctively to his pocket, looking for his phone, just to check if Grace or Alice had sent him a text, but he’d left it in the bedroom.

He left the shop with his coffee. The sun was higher in the sky, and there were a few cars along Route 1A now. He decided to walk back home; later he would get in touch with Grace again, make sure she told the police what she knew. He walked along the sandy edge of the road. There was a breeze from the east, and the air held the smell of the ocean. As he approached Kennewick Village he was about to veer off toward York Street and back to Grey Lady, but decided at the last moment to walk past the house where Grace was living. It was too early to visit, but maybe if he just walked by . . .

The house looked quiet and empty in the morning light. Harry glanced up at Grace’s second-floor window; it was hard to know for sure, but he thought her lights were on. He walked halfway to the door, thinking maybe he’d knock gently just in case she was up. But then he stopped; the door was open. Not by a lot, but it was cracked by about six inches. He almost turned back, knowing suddenly that something was wrong. He stood frozen for a few moments, then continued toward the door. He could peer inside, and listen. When he reached the door, he pressed his palm against it and pushed. The inside of his mouth was coated with the cloying taste of the sweet coffee.

Grace was on the floor of the foyer, her bare feet pointed toward the door. He knew she was dead but said her name anyway, his voice no louder than a croak. He stepped through the doorway. She was wearing the clothes she’d been in the night before. A striped shirt and jeans. One arm was flung over her head, the other down by her side.

“Grace,” he said louder, hopeful, but when he took another step inside the house, he could see what had happened to her. Her skull, on the left side, was collapsed inward, her hair sticky with blood. Her purple jaw didn’t line up with the rest of her head.

Bile rose in the back of Harry’s throat, and he closed his eyes for a moment. He took a step backward, felt the blood rushing from his head, and took hold of the door frame.

He touched his pocket, even though he knew he didn’t have a phone with him. He took one quick look into the foyer again, past Grace’s body, and saw a phone on a waist-high table. Keeping his eyes on the phone, he went to it. It was an old landline, squat like a toad, and he half expected it to not have a dial tone when he picked up the receiver and pressed it to his ear.





Part 2

Black Water





Chapter 22





Now



Caitlin McGowan reread the e-mail for what must have been the fiftieth time. It was from Grace, her sister, and it had been sent probably just hours before she’d been murdered.

I know you’re going to freak out, C, but I’m in maine. I came up after I heard B died, just after we talked. I found an airbnb and drove up to go to the funeral. I just couldn’t stay in new york and pretend it wasn’t happening. I needed to see her.

Sorry, I know I’m not making sense. I’ll slow down. I’m exhausted and wired at the same time, and I’ve barely eaten today. B’s son Harry was just here. He came by to tell me that there’s now a suspect, that Alice told the police B was having an affair with someone in town, and she thinks this woman’s husband was the one who killed B. SHE’S MAKING IT UP, and that makes me think that Alice actually did have something to do with B’s death. First of all, B was not seeing someone else. I told Harry that and he looked at me like I was deluded, and you’re probably thinking the same thing. But he WASN’T. Alice made it up because she found a way to kill him, and now that the police know it wasn’t an accident, she needs someone else to blame.