The Shadow Box(69)

CLAIRE


Everything felt new and unfamiliar. Moving around by daylight, something everyone took for granted, felt wild and dangerous. I didn’t have a disguise, and it was impossible to think I wouldn’t be recognized—Hubbard’s Point was a private beach within the small town of Black Hall; I lived and shopped and had so many friends here, and for the people I didn’t know, my photo was all over the news.

I had regained some strength over the last days, and I had a plan. I needed a computer. I felt I had tempted fate enough by returning home once, so I walked through the woods in the opposite direction, away from Catamount Bluff, until I came out at the top of the hill overlooking Hubbard’s Point.

It was seven a.m., early enough in the day that people were not yet sitting on the beach. The tide was out, so I ran along the hard sand at the water’s edge to the footbridge crossing the creek and up the steep, narrow stone stairs that led to Jackie’s cottage. My heart was pounding as I walked through the hillside thick with coastal scrub, white oaks, and sassafras. The small gray-shingled house was perched on the rock ledge just above. I stood quietly, listening for sounds of the family talking, having breakfast. Nothing.

I poked my head over the crest of the hill to see if there were cars parked along the stone wall—none were there. Tom often left for work before dawn. Hunter worked the early shift as a trooper, and her younger sister, Riley, was a lifeguard at the town beach. The gallery opened at noon on Sundays; although it was too early for Jackie to be opening up, she often went running at the high school sports fields before work. I badly yearned to see her and talk to her, but I wasn’t ready to be seen—not even by her.

The house had an outdoor shower enclosed by latticework entwined with ivy and honeysuckle vines. Just behind it was a door, green paint fading from sea wind and salt air, that led to the cellar. I pulled it open, wincing as the hinges creaked. I held my breath, listening for footsteps up above, any sign that someone had heard me, but all was silent. The wooden frame was swollen from humidity, and the latch was stiff; the door didn’t quite close behind me—I’d make sure to shut it tight when I left.

Here was a difference between the posh comforts of Catamount Bluff houses and the salty simplicity of Hubbard’s Point: the bluff houses had sturdy foundations with wine cellars and, at least in the Chases’ case, a temperature-controlled room for storing antiques and fine art. Jackie’s cottage was built directly on a granite ledge. The cellar held crabbing buckets, nets, and fishing rods. A rickety ladder led to a trapdoor that opened into the kitchen.

I stood very still for a long time, listening. I heard no one walking around upstairs. Once I was mostly sure no one was home, I climbed up, inched the hatch open, peered around, and hoisted myself into the kitchen. Congratulations, Claire, I thought. You’ve just broken into your best friend’s house. And I was about to do worse.

The family room was just off the kitchen, and an Apple desktop was set up on a drop-leaf table. I sat down and clicked the mouse. I was relieved to find the computer wasn’t password protected, so I went to Safari and brought up Facebook. It was opened to Jackie’s account. I logged out, but instead of going to my own page, I created a new username: Anne Crawford. It was meaningful to me alone—Anne was my middle name and Crawford, the name the English settlers had forced on Tantummaheag.

I needed a profile picture. I scrolled through Jackie’s photos and, hoping she’d forgive me, chose one of the two of us—photographed from behind, standing at the water’s edge, looking toward the horizon. Since our faces weren’t visible, it seemed a safe bet. For the cover photo, I uploaded a shot of a sunset, taken from this very spot—Jackie’s house—facing the beach and the woods beyond.

I immediately went to the WHERE IS CLAIRE BEAUDRY CHASE? group and requested to join it. Within a few minutes I received a message from Kiley M, the administrator: Hello! I have a concern. You have zero friends. Are you a bot?

No, I wrote back. I’m a person.

With no friends?

I just joined Facebook. Haven’t had the chance to friend people yet.

Well, I have to ask the question: Why do you want to be in this group? And why join it before you even find friends?

The case interests me. I want to know what happened to Claire. It struck me, as I wrote those words, that nothing could be truer.

Okay, you can join. But we are a serious group—we’re here for Claire. No self-promotion, no bashing on Claire or other members.

Why would people bash Claire?

Haters in this world. In groups like this, even her attacker could be trolling us and we wouldn’t know. We are very careful, and if we sense anything like that, we report to law enforcement.

Like her husband?

We won’t bother him, he’s got enough going on. But state police, def. So behave yourself!

I will, thanks.

Two minutes later I got my first friend request—Kiley M. I accepted.

My next step was searching out Fenwick388. I found the profile by looking through Kiley’s friends. Her profile was set to private, but because we had Kiley M as a mutual friend, I was able to look through her photos. I found the ones she had posted of me, taken last week as I walked in and out of the gallery.

I scrolled through her albums, looking for clues of who she was, people we knew in common. There were several scenic shots of southeastern Connecticut, so I assumed she was local. She had one album labeled Danger, and it was filled with photos taken in and around the courthouse, including several of Griffin.