19
Ford couldn’t get Lucy to eat dinner while it was hot; she was too anxious to call Friedman back. And he could understand
why. What the investigator had said threatened to upend everything they both understood about that summer fifteen years ago.
As Mick’s daughter, she would be eager to grasp hold of any evidence to suggest her father was innocent, and Friedman seemed
to be offering her that.
But Ford was afraid she’d only be disappointed in the end. The detective was merely sharing what he’d learned and getting
feedback to help gauge how important or correct it might be. That was part of the process. He wasn’t thinking about what offering
false hope might do to Lucy. And it had to be false hope, Ford told himself. The evidence against Mick McBride was simply too strong, at least in the Matteo case.
After all, DNA was the gold standard.
Ford wished he could contact Friedman on his own, see what was going on and sift through what was true and what wasn’t before bringing Lucy into the conversation. But it was too late for that. Friedman had already mentioned the fact that there might be some reason to believe her father didn’t kill Tony and Lucinda, and now she couldn’t wait to hear what he’d learned.
Although Ford had turned off the stove before he went over to the Smoot cottage, he knew it might be a while longer before
they could eat, so he covered the food and called the detective. Lucy was so hopped up on adrenaline, she wouldn’t enjoy a
meal right now, anyway. She couldn’t even hold still. She paced across the room, pivoted at the window and returned to him
three times before he was able to get through to Lester.
“What’s going on?” he asked as soon as Lester came on the line, with the phone on Speaker. “Are you suggesting the police
planted evidence or that someone lied and said there was a DNA match when there wasn’t?”
“Or that the lab made a mistake?” Lucy chimed in.
“I’m still trying to figure it out,” Friedman said. “The file says the murder started as an attempted robbery, but nothing
was taken. I think the house was tossed just to make it look like a robbery.”
“The police would probably argue that it was because everything went so badly—that Mick panicked and ran away after killing
the Matteos,” Ford pointed out.
There was a pause before Friedman said, “Then who does the other DNA belong to?”
Lines of concentration formed on Lucy’s forehead. “What other DNA?”
“There was a small amount of unknown DNA at the scene—more than the miniscule amount they found of your father’s.”
“No one mentioned that at the trial,” Lucy said.
Ford didn’t remember it, either. But he’d had to miss school to attend, and that meant he couldn’t be there for the whole
thing. “Maybe they determined it was from a door-to-door salesman or a pest control guy or whatever,” he said.
“Would someone like that have any reason to be bleeding?” Friedman asked. “Because this DNA was found in the drain of the kitchen sink, giving me the impression that was where the killer might’ve attempted to wash up.”
“You’re saying the killer was bleeding?” Lucy said.
“That’s what I’m saying,” Friedman clarified. “Not all the blood in that trailer belonged to the Matteos, which isn’t surprising.
During such a violent attack, it isn’t unusual for the killer to be hurt, too.”
Ford took hold of Lucy’s arm near the elbow. “Do you remember your father having any injuries the morning after the Matteos
were murdered?” he asked.
“That was my next question,” Friedman said. “Because I don’t see any injuries documented in the police file.”
She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment, seemingly far away as she remembered. Then she said, “No. He came
in early, before I got up, and did a load of laundry. I remember because he usually left the laundry to me. Still, I didn’t
think too much of it until his DNA was found under Tony Matteo’s fingernails. Then I realized he must’ve been washing the blood out
of his clothes. The police said the perpetrator would have been covered in blood. I don’t recall my dad having any injuries,
but he was a handyman—always had some nicks and scrapes on his hands or arms.”
“If he beat those old people to death the way they claim, he should’ve had some scratches or other marks from Lucinda trying
to help as he attacked Tony—or the other way around,” Friedman said.
“The police claim he beat them with a hammer—probably the same one that was used to break in,” Lucy said.
“Did the hammer belong to your father? Or did they tie it back to a purchase he made?” Friedman asked. “Because there’s nothing
about that in the file.”
“The hammer came from the Matteos’ own shed,” Lucy told him.
“Oh, right. Actually, that is here,” Friedman corrected. “I see it now. But I’m sure that didn’t help your father’s defense because he would’ve known where to find it.”
“And several weeks had passed before the investigation homed in on him,” Ford added. “By then, any injuries he’d gotten in
the attack would’ve healed.”
“How’d the police get his DNA?” Friedman wanted to know. “Did he give it to them voluntarily?”
Lucy shook her head. “They asked for it, but he refused.”
Ford winced as Friedman voiced the obvious. “No doubt they found that suspicious.”
“He didn’t trust them,” Lucy explained. “He’d never been friends with law enforcement, and once they made him their primary
suspect, he told me they were out to get him whether he was the killer or not.”
“They had to have gathered his DNA somehow,” Friedman said. “What’d they do, steal your garbage and take it from a beer can
or something?”
“They got it from a coffee cup he used at a neighbor’s while fixing their heater.”
“Okay,” Friedman said, “so just to clarify—you saw no marks on him after the killings, and we still don’t know whose blood
was in the drain.”
Ford exchanged a look with Lucy before she confirmed. “Right.”
“Seems to me these loose ends should’ve been tied up,” Friedman said.
“I don’t think my word meant anything, since... since they thought I was aiding and abetting him,” she said. “And we couldn’t
afford a high-powered attorney. We had to go with the public defender, who didn’t think there was any way to compensate for
the DNA evidence against my father.”
Friedman made a sound of disgust. “Meaning he gave up before he even started.”
“Not to justify what the public defender did—or didn’t do—but there was a lot going against him,” Ford said. “Mick knew when the Matteos were going to be gone, knew his way around their trailer and where to find the hammer that was used to break in. He didn’t have an alibi. He was a known alcoholic.”
Lucy frowned. “And that’s before you get to the hard evidence.”
“Exactly,” Ford concurred. “How do you explain his DNA being found under the old man’s fingernails?”
“I can’t explain it,” Friedman said. “But I can’t explain these other things, either. The blood in the drain has to mean something,
and the police never closed that loop.”
The air conditioner was on. It wasn’t overly warm in the house, and yet a sheen of sweat covered Lucy’s face—proof she was
rattled by what they were learning. She wiped her hands on her shorts as if her palms were clammy, too. “So where do we go
from here?”
“We try to figure out who else was there that night,” Friedman told her.
Something that was, no doubt, much easier said than done, especially after so long.
Lucy wore a troubled expression as she spoke up so she could be heard. “Do you think there’s any chance my father might be
innocent, Mr. Friedman?”
Ford closed his eyes, hoping the investigator would handle this question very carefully. He didn’t want to see her crushed again, could feel the emotion flowing through her body even though he’d already
let go of her arm.
“I have more questions than answers at this point,” Friedman said. “But if he is innocent, I hope we’ll be able to find something to prove it.”
“That’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack—or maybe a needle that could be in one of several haystacks,” Ford said,
trying to help her keep it in perspective.
Friedman readily agreed. “I can’t argue with you there. But I’ll stay on it and let you know what I come up with.”
They thanked him before disconnecting. Then Ford set his phone down and reached for Lucy’s hand. She gave it to him, somewhat
reluctantly, and he tugged her into his arms.
He thought she might resist. She was so afraid of letting him get close to her. She reminded him of a wary animal, one that
skittered away as soon as it was approached—or bared its teeth to scare off any threat. But she didn’t fight him. He was only
trying to comfort her, and he was fairly certain she understood that.
“What if... what if he’s innocent?” she murmured against his chest. “I should’ve stood by him, Ford. I was all he had,
and I let him down.”
He could feel her trembling. “Whoa, we have a long way to go before you start feeling that kind of guilt.” He held her tighter—as
comfort, yes, but also because having her in his arms again showed him just how much he’d missed her. He remembered what she’d
said to Claxton—that she’d been in love with him—which dredged up those old feelings, made them much more present. “You were
only acting on the ‘facts’ provided by the adults around you, those in authority. And it’s still more likely that he did it
than that he didn’t.”
“But what if he didn’t?” she asked again, obviously unable to get over that question.
“You were only seventeen,” he reminded her and pressed his lips to the top of her head, something he instantly regretted because
that simple kiss seemed to wake her up to the fact that she was accepting solace from someone she’d been taught—by experience—not
to trust, and she pulled away.
“I’d better call Dahlia and let her know about the broken window,” she said.
He watched her take out her phone. “Okay. I’ll walk over, vacuum up the glass and cover the hole with cardboard, but she’ll
need to get someone out to fix it soon.”
Lucy couldn’t sleep. After seventeen years of feeling so much shame, humiliation and heartbreak, the idea that her father might not have harmed anyone was both shocking and overwhelming. Was it a viable possibility? Was there some other explanation than the one the commonwealth attorney had put forth during her father’s trial?
It’d seemed impossible at the time. Everyone had been so sure. But now it felt as if she and her father might’ve suffered
a terrible injustice.
Her mind raced as she recalled what he’d said once the police focused on him as a suspect. He’d denied any involvement in
the killings. And she’d believed him. It was only after the DNA evidence came out that his protestations had stopped. Since
he didn’t have a firm recollection of where he’d been and what he’d done, and no one else seemed to be able to provide him
with an alibi, Lucy got the impression that the prosecution had convinced even him. It’d certainly felt that way, which was
why she’d quit holding out hope and tried to accept the truth as they’d presented it.
But maybe she shouldn’t have done that. Maybe she and her father should’ve stuck together and continued to fight...
Unable to get comfortable, she flopped over in bed. Thanks to the air conditioner, it was cool enough in the house. And she
didn’t have to worry about Reggie or even Chief Claxton trying to break in and hurt her, not with Ford around. But still her
mind would give her no respite. It kept screaming, “What if?”
With a sigh, she kicked off the covers, put on her swimsuit and slipped out of the house.
As she stood on the deck and looked out at the moon glinting off the ocean, she had to marvel at the beauty of it all. She’d always wondered what it would be like to live in such comfort—right on the beach, no less—and if she could focus on it, she knew she’d enjoy it. But there was too much going on in her head and heart. For one, she didn’t belong in this expensive house owned by some of the people who’d shunned her fifteen years ago.
She was also far too aware of Ford himself. The memory of how good it’d felt to have his arms around her, especially after
so long, had plagued her ever since, making the dinner they’d shared afterward strained and awkward. They’d discussed what
the investigator had found, with Ford mostly trying to convince her to reserve judgment and not set her expectations too high.
Then they’d looked for neutral topics to talk about while being ultracareful not to so much as brush against each other as
they cleaned the kitchen. It was still early when they said good night, but it’d relieved the tension to be able to escape
Ford’s physical presence.
Besides, Lucy had been exhausted. She needed sleep, and yet she couldn’t get it, not with the memory of his embrace crowding
into her mind whenever she wasn’t thinking about her father.
She had to be more careful, she told herself. She couldn’t continue to allow her resistance to crumble or what small amount
of self-respect she’d clung to over the years would be washed away with the tide.
The steps creaked as she climbed down to the beach. The air was muggy and oppressive, made all the worse because there was
no wind. The scene that greeted her was so still it looked like a photograph, one in which the moon wasn’t quite full but
shed enough light that she could see the shoreline in both directions as far as the natural landscape would allow, with trees
and grasses eventually blocking her view to the north and the land curving away from the row of expensive houses, including
Ford’s, toward town and the public beach to the south.
It was almost midnight on a weekday; no one was out and about, not even the teenage sons and daughters of the tourists who came here to enjoy a warm, sandy holiday. There could be a few stragglers in the public section, of course, which she couldn’t see—a local drunk or a honeymooning couple eager to spend the night with the sound of the sea in their ears and the stars glittering overhead. But this part of the beach was reserved for those who owned the homes that fronted it and was rarely crowded, even during the day.
It’d seemed busier fifteen years ago, but schools weren’t out yet so most of the houses near Ford’s remained empty. She remembered
spending many evenings on this beach once she got with Ford. On one such occasion, she’d been sitting around a bonfire with
him, Chet and two other guys—one with a girl who was on vacation, as he was, and another without a girl because he was in
a serious relationship with someone back home—when Aurora and her new best friend, Josephina, who’d moved to North Hampton
Beach the winter before, had walked down from the public beach. Chet had offered to add rum to the Coke he offered them, and
they’d stayed there drinking for quite a while. Every time Lucy had glanced up, she’d found Aurora watching her through the
fire’s leaping flames, clearly not pleased to see her sitting on Ford’s lap.
But Lucy had been so caught up in her relationship with Ford that she hadn’t let it bother her. She hadn’t been friends with
Aurora since the first year after she arrived in North Hampton Beach and had long since stopped lamenting it. Aurora had changed
so much that Lucy didn’t even care to be her friend.
But Aurora’s feelings hadn’t been quite as indifferent. Her jealousy had been palpable, especially that night. So Lucy supposed
she could understand why Chet and others might jump to the conclusion that she’d wanted to eliminate any threat Aurora posed.
Thanks to the wealth and influence of her family, Aurora would’ve been considered better suited to Ford. And if he’d started
showing significant interest in her, maybe Lucy would’ve experienced more jealousy than she did.
But what she and Ford had felt for each other was so intense and all-consuming that she’d never dreamed she was in danger of losing him. That was the night they’d first made love. After everyone else had drifted away, they’d both gone in to appease their parents, only to slip out again and meet up in the heavy darkness of a stormy night.
Sexual awareness skittered through Lucy as the memory of Ford moving inside her combined with the more recent memory of her
cheek pressed to his chest only hours ago. What was it about him that drew her? That made it impossible for her to get over
him, no matter how much time had passed?
It didn’t seem fair.
Planning to exhaust herself to the point that she couldn’t continue to stress, she took a final glance around before plunging
into the surf.
Ford heard Lucy as she went out. Because he’d seen her go into the sea late at night once before, he knew what she was most
likely doing. But he didn’t like the idea of her being out alone, especially after that break-in at the Smoot cottage. Since
Chief Claxton was anything but a friend, Ford wasn’t even convinced they could count on the police for help if they needed
it. There were also other dangers to swimming alone, especially in the ocean, so he got up and pulled on a pair of shorts.
Then he went outside to watch over her.
He’d planned to stay on the deck while making sure she didn’t drown and no one bothered her. That way, he could slip back
inside when he saw her getting out, and she wouldn’t have to know he’d ever been there. But he quickly realized he’d be too
far away to help if she did get into trouble, so he walked down to the beach and stood off to one side.
He didn’t do anything to draw her attention, didn’t make any noise, and yet she came out of the waves as soon as he arrived—almost
as if she’d expected him—and stood in the shallows, where the surf foamed up around her ankles and calves.
She was wearing a white bikini, and her dark hair was slicked back off her face, the tendrils dripping onto her skin. He wanted to slip his hands in the silky thickness of that mass of wet curls, tugging it ever so gently to get her to tilt her face up so he could kiss her. He could still remember what she tasted like—her mouth as well as other parts of her.
When she didn’t speak or come out of the water, he moved closer. He wasn’t sure what to say. He still felt bad about how he’d
behaved fifteen years ago, but a lot had changed since then. He’d grown up. He’d apologized. And he still cared about her—far
more than he wanted to.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Can’t sleep?” Her wet body glistened in the moonlight, reminding him of the first time they’d ever
made love. The images his brain suddenly threw at him caused a visceral reaction in the rest of his body, making his pulse
pick up and his breathing grow shallow. He wanted to touch her more than he’d ever wanted to touch a woman—but he didn’t.
“Lucy, I know what Friedman told you has your mind going in a million different directions. I’d be freaked out, too. It’s
been a long fifteen years, and you’ve been through a lot. But we’ll figure it out. I promise. I won’t let you down this time.”
Her lips parted and her chest lifted as if she was trying to catch her breath, too. But he didn’t think she’d been swimming
long enough to be winded. “Ford, I...” She didn’t finish. Closing her eyes, she wiped the water out of her face. “Never
mind. I can’t let this... this thing between us get started again. I have to go inside before...”
“Before what?” he asked, intercepting her as she tried to move around him.
Shaking her head, she tried to sidestep him again, but he caught her hand. He’d merely meant to stop her, to get her to face him so they could talk. But the contact seemed to charge through them like an electric current, and the next thing he knew she was sliding her arms around his neck and pressing her body against his as she kissed him deeply.
Ford groaned as she parted her lips, allowing his tongue access to hers. He felt as if he’d been waiting for this ever since
he’d left North Hampton Beach fifteen years ago—that, on some level, he’d come back for what he’d found and then lost here.
“I’ve wanted you from the first moment you showed up at the Smoot cottage,” he murmured against her lips. “You’re all I’ve
been able to think about, Lucy.”
He regretted saying anything when she pulled away. He felt as though he’d gone too far again, like he had in the house when
he’d kissed her head. But she didn’t go inside and leave him standing on the beach like he thought she was going to. She untied
her bikini top and let it drop.
Ford didn’t know where it fell, nor did he care. His eyes were riveted to what she’d revealed. If it was possible, she was
even more beautiful today.
The moment his hands cupped her breasts, he could feel her nipples harden beneath his palms and bent his head to kiss her
again, this time with more authority, since he’d been invited.
A few minutes later, he slid her bikini bottoms down and when she kicked them off, he caught them and threw them as far as
he could up the beach. He didn’t want to cause her to lose them like she might her top. But if she couldn’t find them later,
he’d buy her as many swimsuits as she wanted.
Lifting her up, he felt her legs lock around his hips as he carried her into the water.