Chapter 1
Leah
Never flirt at a funeral. As far as life lessons go, it was right up there at the top.
There had been a tightness in Leah’s throat, a prickle behind her eyes, right up until he walked to the front of the chapel and started speaking with a voice like honey-coated gravel.
She’d have put money on her tears falling when the beautiful words began to echo in the still and airless room.
Instead, she was hooked.
He was enormously tall. A mountain of a man in a charcoal three-piece which made Leah’s mouth water. Without referring to any notes, he recited the Leo Marks poe.
“The Life That I Have”
which Esther had requested—the same poem the old lady had read herself at her late husband’s funeral.
His deep voice was steady, a frown pinching his eyebrows.
His gaze swept over the small gathering of mourners as he spoke, a laser beam scanning the room, scalding a path through the chapel.
Dark hair curled just above the collar of his shirt, a little longer than average and less sleekly groomed than the rest of him, attitude in every strand.
Tense and shuttered, nothing about his face was friendly.
His shoulders were rigid.
Posture as arrogant as an NFL linebacker, the tilt of his chin had superiority written all over it.
And yet Leah felt the impact, the click, an indefinable something that whispered, There you are.
A soft, thrumming soul-voice calling to her, invisible fingers tugging on her sleeve.
In the plain and stifling room, he was a star of zinc sulfide, luminescent and mesmerizing.
When their eyes connected, Leah’s heart went into freefall like an elevator in a disaster movie.
Despite the occasion and all the distress of the past couple of months, she smiled at him.
You’ve got this, Leah told him, mind to mind.
Great job.
I love your suit.
You’re gorgeous.
Without the slightest flicker, his arctic blue eyes slid impassively from her face, passing to Hazel on her right (Esther’s friend and neighbor), to Gerry and Marjorie (from the general store), Ailsa (Esther’s gardener), and across the aisle to three of the ladies from their book club.
He spared them each as much attention as he’d given her.
And moved on to the next row.
Mortification formed a messy knot in her chest.
Leah had never been more grateful she wasn’t a violent blusher.
When would she learn a little restraint?
Sending an apology skyward to Esther, she focused on her hands as the oblivious object of her attention finished speaking and stepped back to his seat at the front.
It was quite an introduction to Esther’s grandson, Jackson Hale.
The only person listed on the heavy, cream-colored order of service other than the funeral officiant who’d already addressed the gathering.
Even if his name hadn’t been there in black on buff, she’d have known who he was from the many times she’d discussed him with Esther. And her own personal Google searches.
Jackson sat beside a pretty blonde with a blunt-cut bob and exquisite makeup.
Flanking him on his other side were his parents.
His father, who Leah also recognized thanks to a stiff corporate headshot from their company website, was Esther’s son.
None of them had visited Esther in the two years Leah had lived with her, and she would be lying if the reminder of that didn’t stick a big, fat needle into the balloon of momentary attraction.
All four were dressed head to toe in immaculate black, the girlfriend sporting a fascinator which bobbed and quivered each time she moved.
Leah curled her fingers into the tatty cuffs of her black sweater dress, feeling like a small and scruffy eighth grader, the sodden mess of emotions in her chest growing weightier by the minute.
Matt would have sneered at the Hales.
He’d have told Leah to toughen up, rolled his eyes at her stricken face.
For all his easygoing outward chill, her ex-boyfriend had been hard through and through—as warm and supportive as concrete pantyhose.
Well, Matt wasn’t here. Matt could fuck off.
The first chords o.
“Amazing Grace”
rippled through the air and everyone rose to their feet. They stumbled through the verses in a painful display of too few voices and little musical talent, made bearable only by a loud and enthusiastic contribution from the officiant. Leah’s voice grew tighter and tighter, stuttering entirely on the word “home”
in the third verse. A vortex of panic swirled in her stomach, turning her hands clammy.
Home.
Was she always to be stuck in this holding pattern, one slip of a foot away from couch surfing and begging favors? Memories of homelessness rolled and swelled, huge and monstrous.
It was impossible to sing anymore.
A tear ran into the corner of her mouth, hot against her lips, and she made it vanish with the tip of her tongue, furiously ashamed to be crying for herself at Esther’s funeral.
By her side, Hazel reached for Leah’s hand and held it firmly in her own as the hymn lumbered to an end.
She had to believe it would be OK.
At the very least, she had Esther’s approval to remain at Amity Court until the house was sold.
There was still time to concoct a plan, build allegiances, win people over if necessary.
Be friendly, appealing, undemanding—helpful, even.
She’d done it before, a dozen times. She could do it again if it meant keeping a roof over her head until she found somewhere else to go.
As piped music swelled to mark the end of the service, Esther’s family stood first and slowly left the chapel through a door at the front.
None of them looked at the coffin.
Jackson Hale rested a broad hand between his girlfriend’s shoulders.
How comforting to have that kind of support.
“Short but sweet.
Just how she wanted it.”
Hazel sighed as she stood, stretching knees that had likely stiffened while she sat. The old lady’s face was drawn.
“Are you alright, sweetheart?”
Leah nodded, scraped raw, suddenly exhausted. She tucked her hand beneath Hazel’s elbow.
“I’m fine.”
By the time they’d made their way to the main doors, edging carefully past the tasteful floral display of white roses, baby’s breath, and eucalyptus stems, the Hales had climbed into a black Tesla and were already pulling away from the parking lot. Leah watched the car until it disappeared toward the highway, heading in the opposite direction from Esther’s home on the edge of Pine Springs.
They exchanged hugs and goodbyes with the other book club ladies. Cassidy, mom of professional hockey player Tanner Stone, gave them both a kiss on the cheek and paused for a chat with Hazel, while Ava and Florence Martinez, mother and daughter, dragged Leah in for a tight hug. It was a testament to her love of Esther to see Ava in muted colors when her natural exuberance usually spilled over into an array of bright clothing.
“She’d have been very happy with a simple send-off like that,”
Ava murmured into her ear.
“Surrounded by family and friends. That’s all any of us can ask for.”
“I know you’re having a hard time with this, but we’re here for you, babe.”
Florence’s reassurance did nothing to dispel the lump in Leah’s throat, so she just nodded in response and forced a smile.
The remains of a late flurry of snow lay on the ground and a bitter wind lifted Leah’s hair, blowing it into her face, but there was a faint promise of the Michigan springtime in the fresh air. She lifted her head, blinking slowly, and savored the glow of weak sunshine on her closed eyelids.
There should be a rule against holding funerals in March. March was for new beginnings, not endings.
“Anyone for an Oreo mini?”
Marjorie asked as Gerry popped the locks on their Honda Fit.
“I think I have some in the glovebox. Funerals always make me hungry.”
“Why would you keep my least favorite snack in your car?”
grumbled Hazel.
“Oreo minis are worse than no cookies at all.”
“I bet the Hales have Crumbl cookies in their glovebox. They look like boxed-snack kind of people.”
Gerry cleaned his glasses with the end of his tie.
“Boxed snacks, maybe. Cookies in the glovebox, I’d doubt it.”
Hazel sank onto the back seat with a relieved huff.
Leah, climbing in beside her, thought of Jackson Hale’s girlfriend and her flawless appearance.
“Blinis in the conservatory. That’s the kind of people they are.”
She wrapped her arms around her body for warmth and gazed out of the window at the sign that rea.
“Sandy Grove Funeral Home and Cremation Center.”
The letters blurred, the conversation around her faded out.
She was alone.
Again.
She’d lost someone she loved. Again. And the feeling of isolation that clawed at her chest was worse than grief, worse than fear, worse even than the prospect of having nowhere to live.
Leah did her best to bury herself in work for the rest of the week; Esther had left plenty to get on with.
Fragile rays of sun eased through the smeared study window, pooling in dappled patches on the wooden floor and playing on the desktop as Leah shifted through some papers.
The verse of a song had snagged in her mind and she hummed the lyrics on repeat as she busied herself, searching for what she needed.
“Come on, Esther.
Give it up—”
It should be here somewhere.
She was transcribing Esther’s last manuscript—the conclusion to a crime series—which Leah had helped the old lady complete in her final months of life.
Most of it, plotted before the swift illness had stolen her strength, was written laboriously in longhand on sheaves of white paper, the end dictated breathlessly into a hurriedly purchased Dictaphone.
For their own reference some time ago, after struggling to keep things ordered in their minds, they had written out a complicated timeline together, plotting the protagonist’s career path, cases and work colleagues over the years.
And now Leah couldn’t find it.
She spun her pen on the desk, scrubbed at a smear of ink on her forefinger, and stared sightlessly at the fraying drapes framing the window.
She knew it was in one of Esther’s old notepads.
Her gaze wandered the room.
She really needed to tidy up soon; it was a mess. But, haphazard though it may be, there was some sense in the order and she knew where most things were.
Definitely not here.
Leah pushed back the chair.
Maybe Esther had stored her filled notepads upstairs.
The pulsing silence that enveloped the old house beat even louder in Esther’s bedroom, as if this room actively missed and mourned its mistress.
How did people just stop being? It still seemed impossible to Leah—that someone could be there one minute, doing everyday things, and gone the next.
Not only gone but never to come back again.
Not even to pop up and say.
“Whoops, sorry! I forgot to say such-and-such.”
One hundred percent gone.
She took the lid off a pot of face cream on the vanity and held it to her nose.
Honeysuckle sweet, it brought a flicker of a smile to her lips but gave her no sense of the old lady’s presence.
Esther had been so much more than a scent.
Recapping the pot, Leah replaced it gently in front of the mirror and looked around.
Fairly sure the dresser contained only clothes, she tried each drawer in turn regardless, proving herself right.
With no closet in the room, there were few other places to store anything.
Apart from under the bed.
Leah dropped to her knees and lifted the frilly valance, recoiling at a hidden wasteland populated not so much by dust bunnies as tumbleweed-style balls of debris she’d rather not identify.
Plus one storage box and an old suitcase.
She pulled the box out first, grimacing at the thick layer of dust that covered the top.
Peeking inside, Leah found it filled with shoes—about eight pairs, some sturdy and practical, some extravagant, obviously expensive and pristine.
She wished she’d known the Esther who’d bought and worn the stylish shoes.
They were fabulous.
The suitcase was cream in color and scuffed, the hard-shelled lid dipped and creased with age.
She heaved at the handle and dragged it out from beneath the bed.
Brushing at her dusty knees, Leah flipped the catch and opened it up an inch or two.
Bingo.
A stack of notepads nestled next to a bundle of old photographs, held with an elastic band.
On top was a casual shot Leah hadn’t seen before of Esther and a small child at the beach—it must be Jackson Hale’s father.
Tempted to leaf through them, she left the photos where they were.
It seemed intrusive to rummage any more than necessary.
There were eleven notepads in total and she stacked them in two piles on the floorboards.
Flicking open the top one, she smiled to see Esther’s handwriting covering the pages.
Green ink.
Always green ink. She had no idea why. There were snippets of ideas, diagrams, names, and questions throughout. Some sounded familiar, and Leah linked them to one of Esther’s more recent books. Putting the first notebook to one side, she reached for the next.
Before long, she had identified the novel that each notepad related to—there was a new book for each title (thanks for making this simple, Esther)—and they rested in chronological order beside her knees.
She gave a hum of satisfaction when she came across the one containing the timeline she needed.
A cloud drew across the sun as Leah reached for the last book, the bedroom darkening a little.
She debated turning on a lamp but was distracted by the notepad on her lap.
Smaller than the others and thin, it had a faded purple cover that looked well-handled, and her fingers brushed the battered edges of an old black-and-white photograph poking from the pages.
Leah pulled it free.
The two girls, posing joyfully on a bridge over the Chicago River, were immediately identifiable as youthful versions of Esther and Hazel.
Their smiles wide, their arms linked.
Their coats, hats, and hunched shoulders told Leah it was wintertime.
With unlined faces and dark hair, they looked to be quite a bit younger than her own twenty-seven years. Joy spilled from the image and settled on her own lips as Leah placed the photo to one side.
With casual curiosity, she flicked the book open at the first page and found herself staring at diary entries in a flamboyant hand.
They were completed sporadically, a few lines here, a longer paragraph there, not every date given an entry.
She ran her gaze over the first few, her smile growing wider.