Chapter 25
The next morning, a faint light from the window eases my eyes open. I blink a couple of times until I’m fully awake, and then I remember: I slept with Logan last night. I’m lying on my right side, and as the seconds pass, I become aware of his breathing behind me.
Somewhere, someplace, I sense guilt on the prowl, roaming room by room, but it hasn’t found me yet.
I’ve cheated on Bas, a man I know I love, but what I feel—at least for now—is only a lingering elation from last night, from sex that was intoxicatingly brand-new and familiar at the same time, as if I’d gone to bed with a stranger who’d studied my body in a past life and knew everything it liked.
And if I’m being honest with myself, it was more than good sex. There was relief, the kind from having all your saddest, darkest places known without having to explain them. Elation, too, from being allowed entry to a land I’d been banished from and never thought I’d see again.
I hear Logan stir behind me. I have no idea what his reaction will be this morning, but I might as well find out. I roll onto my back and turn my head. His eyes are open. In fact, he’s staring at my face.
“Morning,” he says, smiling softly.
“Morning.”
After wrestling his arm from beneath the sheet, he reaches up and smooths my hair.
“Are you up for some breakfast downstairs?” he says, his voice still deep from sleep. “I’ll probably just have coffee and a bagel, but I’ll sit with you.”
“Sure, but I need some time to get ready.”
He plucks his watch from the bedside table and glances at it. “Why don’t we meet down there in thirty minutes? I’m going to hit your bathroom first, though, if you don’t mind.”
After he gets out of bed, finds his boxers on the floor, and pads off to the bathroom, I push myself up to a sitting position. Both my wrist and hip are throbbing lightly, something I managed not to notice last night, even with Logan on top of me, gently holding my wrists.
And now, here it comes at last: guilt nosing its way into the room. My stomach twists, not only from regret but panic, too. I’ve made a commitment to Sebastian, and sleeping with Logan has been a total violation, one that would cause Bas such pain if he knew. Even set our relationship on fire.
And though last night seemed separate from Bas and me, a type of time travel to a past life unrelated to my new one, surely Bas wouldn’t see it that way.
I realize suddenly that he’s still never responded to my messages from yesterday. Maybe he did find my text dismissive. But right now, of course, that doesn’t hold a candle to my infidelity.
God, what an awful mess I’ve made.
I dress quickly and fire up the Nespresso machine on the dresser.
From the bathroom comes the sound of the tap running at full force and water splashing.
Logan was always noisy at the bathroom sink, cupping water with both hands and tossing it at his face.
It’s like hearing a song on the radio that I haven’t listened to in years and haven’t even remembered until now.
He emerges moments later, and I keep my back to him as he finishes dressing. Then I turn and hand him an espresso.
“What do you think you’ll do today?” he says.
Yes, what will I do, besides trying to swim against the waves of guilt now trying to swamp me?
Alison Handler suggested last night that I drop by her studio, but at this point I don’t see any reason to.
I haven’t lost my resolve to find out if Mel had an affair with her husband—and as far as I know, he’s the one who dragged the table in front of the door last night—and yet I’m not going to learn anything by looking at his wife’s creepy paintings.
“Just answer emails, I guess,” I say, starting an espresso for myself. “And read Mel’s writing from the digital archive. I’m supposed to be getting the link soon, so I’ll pass it along when I have it . . . You?”
“Just tying up some loose ends,” he says. “And I want to stop by the Muse office while the workers are around, see if I can get to the bottom of things. I’ll also talk to someone about repairing the door.”
“Great.”
He takes a long pull of his drink and narrows his eyes. “I know this sounds crazy, but part of me has wanted to go by Pebble Creek Park while I’m still here. I don’t know, maybe being back there will be a release of some kind.”
I shake my head as hard as I can. “Logan, don’t. I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet, but I went by the other park, Mohegan, yesterday to see where Riley was attacked, and I’ve regretted it ever since. It’ll stir up all the worst things for you.”
“You’re right, you’re right,” he says, massaging the back of his neck. “I think I brought it up so you’d talk me out of it.”
The second espresso is finished pouring, and I take a careful sip.
“Were things the way Riley described?” he asks.
“Very much, and that’s partly why I came to believe her. I saw the jogging path and the picnic tables, hidden under some trees. The creek was shallow yesterday, but the cabdriver told me it can get full enough to carry someone downstream—depending on how much rain there’s been.”
“That makes sense.” He shakes his own head, not as a no but with a look of dismay.
“Remember me saying that Riley’s story made me angry?
Because if she’d come forward at the time, things would have moved faster here, and Amanda Kline might still be alive.
Since then, though, I realized that I also resent her.
She somehow managed to fight back and roll off the table and throw herself into that raging creek.
But none of that happened for our beautiful Mel. ”
“I know,” I say quietly. Because, for the first time, I realize I’ve felt twinges of resentment as well. Riley got away.
And then, seemingly out of nowhere, something begins to paw at my brain—and it’s got nothing to do with regret this time.
I hesitate, the espresso cup in midair, and though I struggle to hold on to the thought, it beats a fast retreat.
It’s like I’ve heard the scuff of a shoe behind me, but when I turn around, no one’s there.
Logan drains the last of his coffee without taking his eyes from my face.
“What?” he says, clearly reading my expression.
“Uh, nothing.” But it is something. The elusive thought has drifted within reach again, and this time I grasp hold. It’s really more of a question, one I should have asked myself yesterday.
“See you in a few, then,” Logan says. He grabs his blazer from the armchair and swings it over his shoulder. Still a bit of the rogue, even at fifty-nine.
I nod, smiling.
“Bree.”
Okay, here it comes, I realize. The “about last night” talk. Something like, “We lost our heads in the heat of the moment. Can we just put this behind us?”
And that’s okay for him to say. We did lose our heads, and we should never have done what we did. Right?
“Yes?” I say. I realize I’m holding my breath.
“I meant what I said last night. I love you. And it’s burning a hole in my heart.”
It’s now seven in the morning, meaning his declaration of love last night wasn’t simply one-part seduction and two-parts pining for the past.
But what’s he really saying—that he wants us to be together again? How does he imagine that even playing out?
Without waiting for a reply, he lowers his head and moves toward the door. Seconds later, he’s gone.
I need to get a grip on how to handle the mess I’ve made, but not right this minute. Because there’s something even more urgent I need to contend with.
I grab the small notebook I’ve used off and on this week and thumb through it until I reach the notes I scribbled when I first spoke to Harry Kronish.
Mel was “like the cat that ate canary”
Because weather better?
Harry—“New squeeze?”
Mel—“My lips are sealed.”
Yes, it’s just as I remembered. Before Harry deduced that Mel might be involved with someone new, he assumed her good mood was due to a change in the weather. It had turned sunny and warmish after seemingly endless days of rain.
Suddenly, something doesn’t make sense to me.
I flip open my laptop. As I start to type in the search bar, my phone rings, with Maya’s name on the screen. Maybe she heard about my experience in the Muse office.
“Bree, I’m so sorry I missed you last night,” she says. “I looked for you several times, and yet our paths never crossed.”
So, she hasn’t heard. I should bring her up to speed about what happened—but not now.
“Unfortunately, something came up, and I didn’t arrive until very late,” I say. “Logan says the event was terrific.”
“Well, as you know, we’re very grateful to both of you. When do you head back?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Is there anything I can do for you before you leave?”
“That’s very kind of you, Maya, but I think I’ll be okay.”
A brief pause follows.
“You sure?” she asks.
There’s something about her comment that causes me to sit up straighter.
“What makes you ask that?”
“I’ve been a little concerned about how you’re doing. Professor Handler called me this morning and said you’d seemed quite distressed at the reception, and also when he ran into you outside his house one night. He wondered if there was any way for the school to be of assistance.”
I feel my blood start to boil. Handler could care less about my well-being.
“That’s very kind of you, Maya, but it’s nothing more than normal grief rearing its head. Maybe Professor Handler’s been lucky enough not to know what that feels like.”
I summoned more than a hint of sarcasm for the last line, which I’m sure has caught her off guard.
“If so, how lucky for him indeed,” she says, the perfect response. “I wish you all the best, Bree.”
I wish her well, too, and offer a warm goodbye. It will surely be the last time we ever speak.
I give myself a minute or two to stew about Handler.
He’s got some kind of game going on—trying to paint me as slightly unhinged, possibly barricading me in the room last night.
Is it all a defensive move, in case I start making accusations about him and Mel?
As Logan keeps reiterating, it was Ruck who killed Mel, and yet Handler might have secrets he wants kept under wraps.
But I need to table that right now and return to the task at hand.
After briefly searching online, I end up on a site that provides the weather history for any place in the US.
I type in “Cartersville, NY,” and then find my way to the October Mel died.
I’ve done my best since yesterday to quell any vague, lingering doubts about her murder, but I’m not going to ignore a possible discrepancy.
What I’m looking for are the weather conditions not only on the night Riley jumped into the creek but also on the days leading up to it.
The information is surprisingly easy to interpret.
There’s a graph for each day of the month as well as an accompanying summary, covering details like the temperature throughout the day, dew point, and wind speed, but the only thing that matters to me is precipitation.
As I go through the month one day at a time, I jot details down in my notebook and create my own little chart.
Just as Harry reported, the first half of October was incredibly rainy. There was at least some precipitation on eleven out of those fifteen days, and the temperature never reached sixty.
The Sunday before Mel died must have been particularly miserable.
It apparently poured the entire day, with an accumulation of over two inches.
But everything, I see, shifted on Monday.
According to the graph, there was zero precipitation that day or during the days immediately following.
The temperature climbed into the high sixties. Indian summer, just as Harry said.
Which meant it was practically balmy when Mel walked to the park that night after dinner.
I recall next to nothing about weather conditions upstate during the days after she died, though it must have turned cool again since I was always in a coat, a lightweight camel one that I tossed in a dumpster as soon as I arrived back to Tribeca.
It doesn’t matter, however, that I’ve forgotten the details because all I need to know is right here on my computer screen.
The temperatures in Cartersville did indeed begin to dip again on Saturday, but—and this is the part that interests me most—the skies remained clear.
There wasn’t a drop of precipitation again until the following Tuesday.
I finish drawing my own little chart and stare at it, reiterating the question I asked myself as Logan was about to leave my room: Can a creek be raging if it hasn’t rained in days?
Probably not, I think, but I’m out of my league here. What I need is a consult with someone who knows waterways, but since I certainly don’t have access to anyone like that, I call Cartersville Taxi and ask for Craig, who seemed savvy about the creek.
“Yeah, hi,” he says after I remind him who I am. “Are you at the inn? I’m jammed up now, but I can have someone else pick you up in fifteen.”
“I don’t need a ride. I just want to ask a question about the creek.”
“You thinkin’ of taking a boat out on it?”
“Not quite,” I say, hearing myself laugh in spite of everything. “I was just wondering how much the creek might change during a given week. Like yesterday, it looked low and slow, but you said that it rises after it rains.”
“Yup, exactly.”
“And then how long would it take to go down again once the rain stopped?”
“Not long. The creek’s what they call flashy.”
“Flashy?”
“It’s how they describe a stream or river that rises fast when it rains but decreases almost just as fast afterward. It’s all got to do with the watershed.”
“So, if it was pouring one weekend but the rainfall stopped completely by Monday morning, would the creek be low, like, six days later?”
“If there was no more rain? Oh yeah, it’d be just pokin’ along by then . . . That all you need for now?”
“Yes, yes, thank you.”
My heart is racing as I set down the phone. Based on what I’ve learned this morning, there’s no way Pebble Creek could have carried Riley downstream that Sunday night.
Which means I’m staring at a gaping hole in her story.