Chapter Nineteen
NINETEEN
Nicole
“I spent hours alone in that house,” said Nicole, reaching once more for her drink. “With a stranger above me, and a dead body below.”
It was the first time she’d put the situation into words, and the horror of it all knocked her sideways.
How could it be real? Things like this didn’t happen in Cape Vincent.
They didn’t happen to Nicole Durham, with her simple dreams and sensible life.
It was happening now, though. Cracking her world open like a hammer to a skull.
They were at The Brig, balanced on pleather stools at the bar while all around them patrons shouted out orders and sloshed pints of beer on the floor.
Nicole had been told to keep the details of the case to herself until the local news picked up the story, but she was desperate to talk.
She needed to wrap her head around what had turned out to be one hell of a day.
She needed Stacy.
“So the cops think he did it?” The way Stacy’s eyes glittered, equally curious and concerned, made Nicole feel ill at ease.
Stacy had ordered a rye and Diet Coke, her go-to cocktail, and was turning the glass on the bar top as if sawing an invisible hole.
Nicole imagined the glass falling through, Saturday morning cartoon-style.
She pictured making herself small and diving in after it.
Wherever that hole led, it had to be better than here.
“I honestly don’t know,” Nicole answered at length. “They asked me about him, though—what Mikko is like, how he treats me and his girlfriend. They wanted to know if I found any weapons. Weapons! I mean, what the fuck? He has to be involved, right? What the hell are the odds that he had no idea?”
“What the hell are the odds of any of this?” Stacy waved a hand, her gold bangle bracelets clacking. “A woman hides out in a house where someone already hid a body? The whole thing’s insane.”
It was insane. From the moment she first heard about Mikko, she hadn’t trusted him, but now, somehow, he was at the center of a murder investigation. Who the hell was this guy?
“The detectives didn’t come right out and say that Mikko’s a suspect,” Nicole said, “but I got the sense they think it’s too much of a coincidence.
This random woman picking that par--ticular house and finding the skeleton while she was there …
like, how? I asked a bunch of questions, but they wouldn’t tell me anything.
I don’t even know if the victim’s a man or a woman.
Poor Eva.” Nicole couldn’t stop thinking about her, and what it must be like to learn your boyfriend might be a murderer.
Nicole had some experience with men breaking her trust, and it was horrible.
She’d been talking for almost an hour while Stacy sipped her drink, letting Nicole get it out of her system, but as she looked at her friend now, Nicole felt a jolt.
“I’m an asshole. I made this whole thing all about me, but you spent time in that house too.
Are you OK?” The question sounded weak, even to her. Too little too late.
“I mean, I’m not sure what this is going to do to my agent ratings, but I’ll probably live.” Stacy pulled her frosted pink lips into a smile. “Jesus Christ, Nic. Think this qualifies us for free therapy?”
“I hope so. We’re both gonna need it.”
“You’ve needed it for a long time.” Stacy squeezed her hand so hard that Nicole’s wedding ring gouged her finger.
Nicole could only nod. When was it finally going to sink in? It had been nine months since she found out what Woody had done, and there was no pretending it wasn’t true, because it was Stacy who’d told her.
It had been a Sunday morning, and she’d just gotten out of the shower when Stacy called.
Nicole had stood naked and dripping on the bath mat, phone gripped in her hand as her chest filled with so much heat it felt like she’d swallowed a flare.
Grief, she realized that day, has a color.
It isn’t black like people think, but pure, limitless white.
Grief doesn’t wrap you up like a dark cloak or plunge you into the suffocating warmth of night.
It’s sharp and its blinding, searing your eyes and your skin with its relentless glare.
Even now, Nicole’s grief over Woody’s infidelity trapped her in a huge, empty room like the ones used to represent heaven on TV.
As she sat in the bar with her friend, she remembered exactly what it felt like to cry until your eyes were glued shut.
Two men in their thirties sidled over, offering to buy them both drinks.
“It’s girls’ night. Shoo,” Stacy said without apology, turning back to face Nicole.
Nicole loved this about her; Stacy had no qualms about telling total strangers to fuck off, nor did she take issue with free drinks if the moment was right.
“I kind of feel responsible,” she said. “I sold him the house. I’m the one who recommended that he hire you.
It’s my fault you were in there. His girlfriend, too. ”
“Working there was my idea,” said Nicole. “This isn’t your fault. They asked me about you too, by the way.”
“Oh yeah?”
“They want to talk to everyone who spent time in the house. I gave them your contact info. Hope that’s OK.”
“Of course,” Stacy said, flashing a smile. “It’s odd, though, don’t you think? The timing? The house was under construction for months. All those people in and out, and nobody found the bones sooner?”
“The detectives said there was a secret room. I guess no one saw it.”
“But that woman did? After just a few days, most of which she had to spend hiding out in the attic? How’d she get so lucky?”
“I don’t know if I’d call that luck, but yeah,” said Nicole. “You make a good point.” The timing was odd, and not just of the discovery. “One of the detectives, Valerie Ott? She called the body skeletonized remains. Wouldn’t that mean it’s been down there a long time?”
“I guess? More than a few days, for sure.”
“A lot more.” Nicole felt a hiccup rising in her throat and swallowed it down.
She hadn’t eaten a thing since that morning, before leaving her house for Mikko’s, and the wine she was pounding felt extra potent.
It had started to give everything a halo.
Nicole willed herself to focus. “Mikko bought the house last summer, right?”
“Just before Labor Day.”
“And when did the reno work start?”
“March, I think.”
“Why the delay?”
“I guess the contractor was busy,” Stacy said with a one-shouldered shrug. “I connect him with a lot of new owners, so I think he’s pretty backed up. Mikko didn’t mind waiting, though. He wasn’t planning to spend time in the house till summer anyway.”
“Hear me out,” said Nicole, an idea struggling to take shape in her mind.
“What if that was all part of some big master plan? What if Mikko wanted the house to be empty, so he could stash a body in there and nobody would know? And they wouldn’t have,” Nicole went on, “except that he happened to become the target of a serial trespasser who’s really good at hide and seek. ”
Stacy gave a long, slow sigh. “Let’s focus on what we know. Mikko Helle has issues. I spotted them on our very first house tour. The guy’s a certified narcissist.”
“Agreed.” Five minutes with the man had told Nicole the same thing.
“Well, narcissists like to believe they can get away with anything. It’s an entitlement thing.”
“You’re right,” she told Stacy. “I’m sure you’re right.” Why hadn’t she realized it sooner? Mikko was skilled at manipulation. No wonder Woody had let himself be fooled.
“Look,” Stacy went on, leaning in close, “I’m not saying he did this. The police will sort that out. But it’s a damn good thing you got out of there before it got dangerous.”
Nicole nodded. The action made her feel woozy, and for an alarming moment she thought she might fall off her stool. She’d gotten out of the house, yes. But there was no way she could walk away from Mikko.
Wealth and status. Those things were a fundamental part of Woody’s life, at once his obsession and his kryptonite.
It was something Nicole had always brushed off as inevitable, a hazard of living in a place popularized by aristocrats and industrialists who’d built a literal “Millionaire’s Row.
” Many of those lavish homes sat empty for most of the year, while Woody and Nicole barely scraped by.
That was the way of things, though. The haves, and the have-nots.
There was nothing to do but accept it. That’s how Nicole felt, anyway.
Woody disagreed.
Woody had always wanted more. He fought against the tide, plunging his arms through the water again and again, even as waves crashed over his head. The summer people. He needed them, had built a business that couldn’t exist without their idle hours, kids, and cash. But Woody loathed them, too.
It used to bother Nicole that he’d disparage customers in front of the girls, cracking jokes about their Tommy Bahama shirts and extra-large wine slushies.
And then, one day, he’d come home singing a different tune.
His name’s Mikko Helle. He’s a retired pro hockey player—the NHL, Nic, the real fucking deal.
He’s moving up here, and he’s loaded. He made me the most amazing offer.
There had been a time when Nicole had believed in her husband, when she wouldn’t have questioned his decisions, even one as big as this. The sense of ease she’d enjoyed with him for twenty-three years had shriveled and died last summer.
If Woody hadn’t cheated …
If Woody hadn’t handed over their savings to a man he didn’t even know …
Nicole used to let herself wallow in those “ifs.” Not anymore.
Something else about grief was that it could slow time, dragging out each second so you felt like you were neck-deep in a weed-choked lagoon. It could clutch your tongue and coat it with silt, black and bitter, and it had Nicole in its grasp. There was nobody within arm’s reach who could save her.
And that had left her with no option but to save herself.