Chapter Two
Breakfast passed with the sort of politeness that would have pleased a visiting aunt and alarmed anyone with a taste for truth.
Grant ate toast at the kitchen island, scrolling through messages on his usual phone with his coffee beside his elbow.
Rachel stood at the stove and folded eggs in a pan.
“You were quiet last night,” Grant said.
Rachel turned the heat down. “I was just tired.”
“Nora has been leaning on you too much.”
“Mom had a stroke, Grant. Leaning is allowed.”
Grant smiled without quite using his eyes. “Of course. I only mean that you don't have to carry everything yourself.”
From any other husband, the words might have been kind. From Grant, they arrived polished, ready for display.
Rachel placed his omelet in front of him and noticed how neatly he had arranged his phone beside the plate, screen down and close enough to cover with his palm.
“I was thinking about our anniversary weekend,” she said.
Grant paused only a fraction too long. “Were you?”
“You've been mysterious about it.”
“A little mystery is good for a marriage.”
“Is that what we need?”
The fork stopped on its way to his mouth. Across the island, his expression softened into something well practiced. “Rachel, I know this year has been difficult. Your mother, the business, Sophia being away so much. I thought privacy might help us remember ourselves.”
Rachel poured tea into her cup. Her hand behaved. “Where are we going?”
“I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“I don't like surprises as much as I used to.”
Grant gave a small laugh and returned to his breakfast. “A house near the coast. Quiet place. Lovely views. You can read, sleep, and let someone else worry for once.”
Rachel smiled because good wives smiled at breakfast, especially wives with screenshots hidden in a password-locked folder. “Perhaps I’ve spent too much time with Mom.”
“Exactly. I hate to say it, but too much Nora is no good for anyone,” Grant said.
After Grant left for the office, Rachel waited in the kitchen until his car reversed down the drive. Waiting felt absurd, as though the house itself might report movement.
At last, the sound of the engine faded, and Rachel carried her cup upstairs to his study.
Grant’s study was less a room than a portrait of himself. Awards stood on shelves. Framed photographs showed him shaking hands with councilors, donors, developers, and men who never paid for their own lunch.
Rachel used to dust the frames without studying them. That morning, each smiling face seemed to be keeping a confidence.
Grant’s laptop sat closed on the desk.
The password was not their wedding date either. Rachel had stopped expecting sentiment from him. On the second attempt, the computer opened with the name of his first completed apartment project and the year he still mentioned at dinner parties.
His email was already logged in.
Rachel searched for the name of the rental company from the message on the hidden phone.
Several confirmations appeared.
The booking was for a secluded property outside a coastal village, a house positioned above a cliff track, with private beach access advertised.
The owner’s reply sat beneath Grant’s inquiry.
The rear exterior cameras are still offline after the storm, but the front door camera works intermittently. The walking path behind the house is private and does not connect to neighboring properties.
Rachel read the sentence again.
A second email from Grant asked whether the back path became slippery after rain. The owner had replied cheerfully that the track could be dangerous in wet weather and should be avoided after wine or in poor light.
Grant had sent back a laughing face.
For a moment, Rachel’s reflection hovered in the dark edge of the screen, pale and composed, a woman observing evidence in a stranger’s house. She photographed the emails, downloaded the booking confirmation, and forwarded a copy to the new account she had created before dawn.
The next search brought up insurance.
Grant had increased her life insurance coverage weeks earlier. The new payout made Rachel sit down in his chair.
Two and a half million dollars.
Sole beneficiary: Grant Taylor.
Beside the policy sat a draft email to the insurer, unsent, asking about claim documentation in the event of accidental death during domestic travel.
Domestic travel.
A cupboard opened downstairs.
Rachel froze.
Silence followed.
Grant could not have returned so quickly. The cleaner came on Thursdays, and this was not Thursday.
Rachel closed the insurance file, cleared the recent downloads, and stood from the chair with the calm haste of a woman who had hosted many dinners and hidden many household inconveniences before guests reached the hall.
Another sound came from below, softer this time.
Rachel stepped into the corridor. “Hello?”
No answer came.
At the top of the stairs, Rachel saw a shape through the frosted glass beside the front door. Someone stood outside, close enough for the outline to blur.
The bell rang.
Rachel descended with one hand on the banister.
On the porch, Vanessa Taylor lifted her sunglasses and smiled at Rachel through the glass.
“Sister mine,” Vanessa called. “Are you going to let me in?”
Rachel opened the door.
Vanessa swept inside with a kiss that landed near Rachel’s cheek rather than on it. She smelled of expensive perfume, the same sweet note Rachel had caught beneath Grant’s cologne. Her hair was glossy, her lipstick careful, her cream coat unsuitable for rain and therefore entirely Vanessa.
“I thought you were with Mom,” Vanessa said.
“She threw me out.”
“Typical. She loves an audience until she actually gets one.” Vanessa glanced toward the stairs. “Is Grant home?”
“Afraid not.”
Rachel closed the door. “Did you need him?”
“Don't be silly. I came to see you.”
Vanessa moved into the kitchen, where she rested one manicured hand on the bench and inspected the room. “Grant told me he's taking you away for your anniversary. That should be good for both of you.”
Rachel leaned against the opposite counter. “Did he?”
“Well, he mentioned it in passing. You know Grant. He worries about you.”
“That’s kind of him.”
Vanessa’s smile thinned. “You sound odd.”
“Do I?”
“Very. You have that look you get when you're deciding whether someone has used the wrong fork.”
Rachel picked up a tea towel and folded it. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
“Of course you have.” Vanessa’s voice softened into sympathy, but her eyes stayed busy. “Mom, Sophia away, Grant under pressure. You should let him take care of you this weekend. A quiet house, a view, no interruptions. You might come back feeling like a new woman.”
The phrase moved through the kitchen and settled between them.
Rachel looked at her sister’s face, so close to her own and yet arranged with such different intentions. “Grant didn’t tell me about the view.”
Vanessa’s fingers tightened on the handle of her bag. “I assumed. Men like views when they're being romantic.”
“Do they?”
“Well, married men do.”
Vanessa watched her for another second, and some instinct, old as childhood, warned Rachel that her sister had noticed the wrongness in the room without knowing its source. Sisters, especially twins, could detect this altered state.
“I should go,” Vanessa said. “I only wanted to check on you.”
“Thoughtful as always.”
At the door, Vanessa turned back. “Rachel, you do know you can tell me anything, don't you?”
Rachel held the door open. “Naturally.”
Rain flecked the porch tiles as Vanessa walked to her car.
Rachel waited until the vehicle pulled away before breathing fully.
A typical visit from Vanessa had once meant gossip, complaint, or a request disguised as affection. Today, it had meant confirmation.
Vanessa knew about the house.
Vanessa knew about the view.
Vanessa had come to see whether Rachel knew anything at all.
Back in Grant’s study, Rachel reopened the laptop and copied the insurance documents. Her phone held photographs, emails, a policy, and the outline of a weekend already chosen for her.
Before closing the computer, Rachel created a note in the secure folder.
Grant Taylor and Vanessa Taylor know the rental has no working rear cameras. Grant asked about the cliff path. Vanessa knows about the view despite claiming Grant mentioned only the trip.
Rachel saved the note.
Downstairs, the house gave its usual small creaks. Rachel walked to the laundry, stood before Grant’s gym bag.
A wife could be forgiven for missing an affair.
Rachel did not intend to miss a murder.