Chapter Seven
Vanessa Taylor arrived with flowers.
Rachel saw them first through the glass panel beside the front door, pale lilies wrapped in brown paper, expensive enough to seem considerate and funereal enough to make the gesture obscene.
Grant had changed his shirt after opening the wine, as though an evening of murder required the same standards as dinner with clients.
“Let me get it,” Rachel said.
Grant stood near the kitchen island with the bottle beside him. His hand moved toward the glass he had poured for her, but he didn’t touch it. “You don't have to play hostess tonight.”
“That would be a first.”
Grant’s smile appeared. “Be kind, Rachel. Vanessa is trying.”
Rachel crossed the hall with her handbag over one arm. Inside it, the recorder was already running. In the sitting room, on a shelf among framed photographs and a ceramic bowl from a holiday in Italy, a police camera watched the room with a patience no guest would notice.
At the door, Vanessa lifted the flowers.
“For Mom,” Vanessa said. “Or for you, if you’re feeling neglected.”
“So thoughtful.”
“Don't sound so surprised. I do occasionally remember I have a family.”
Rachel stepped aside.
Vanessa entered and kissed the air near her cheek. The same perfume moved with her, sweet and familiar, a ghost of Grant’s collar and Rachel’s bedroom video.
In the sitting room, Vanessa placed the lilies on the coffee table and looked around.
Grant came in behind them with three glasses of wine on a tray. “I thought we could all talk calmly.”
Rachel noticed the arrangement. Vanessa’s glass was fullest. Grant’s held barely a mouthful. Rachel’s sat apart, the pale liquid catching the lamplight.
“I’m not drinking tonight,” Rachel said.
Grant’s gaze found hers. “Still your stomach?”
“I’m tired of waking up foggy.”
Vanessa laughed. “Rachel, darling, that’s called being middle-aged. If I refused wine every time I woke up regretting life, I’d be unbearably virtuous.”
Grant set the tray down. “Water’s fine?”
“Water would be lovely,” Rachel said.
A brief pause followed. Grant left for the kitchen, and Vanessa’s smile thinned as soon as he was gone.
“You don't have to make everything difficult,” Vanessa said.
Rachel sat in the armchair facing the sofa. “I thought we were talking calmly.”
“Calmly does not mean accusing people with your eyebrows every chance you get.”
“My eyebrows have always been more honest than I am.”
Vanessa lowered herself onto the sofa and crossed her legs. “Grant said you’ve been suspicious lately.”
“Did he?”
“He worries when you get like this.”
Rachel looked at the flowers. “Like what?”
Vanessa plucked a small piece of lint from her sleeve. “Withdrawn. Watchful. A little self-righteous, if I’m allowed to speak as someone who knows you better than most.”
From the kitchen came the sound of water running.
Rachel kept her hands folded in her lap. Reaching for the handbag would have been a mistake.
“Did Grant promise you the house?” Rachel asked.
Vanessa’s fingers stopped at her cuff. “Sorry?”
“I wondered whether you had already chosen which rooms you wanted.”
“Rachel, I know you’re upset about your marriage, but making ugly little accusations won't save it.”
“Who said I wanted to save it?”
Grant returned carrying a glass of water. He handed it to Rachel without taking his eyes from Vanessa. Some silent message passed between them, quick and practiced. Rachel accepted the glass and set it untouched on the side table.
Grant sat on the sofa beside Vanessa, though not too close. They had judged even that. Not lovers. Not conspirators. Two concerned relatives, waiting for poor Rachel to become reasonable.
“Rachel,” Grant said, “this has gone on long enough. You’ve been tense and secretive, and Vanessa is worried, as am I.”
“That’s generous of her.”
Vanessa leaned forward. “I came because I want to help. You’re my sister.”
“I’m aware of the relation.”
“God, that tone just makes everything worse,” Grant said.
Rachel turned to him. “Worse than what?”
Grant’s jaw moved. “Worse than it needs to be.”
“Please explain that to me.”
No one spoke for a moment.
Outside, a car moved along the street and continued past the house.
Rachel knew another vehicle waited farther down, engine off, officers inside, Mara listening.
Grant rose. “I think we should all stop pretending.”
Vanessa looked at him. “Grant…”
“No,” he said. “She knows something, or she thinks she does. She’s clever that way.”
Rachel’s mouth dried. “Is that a compliment?”
Grant walked to the mantel and looked at the photographs there. One showed Sophia at her graduation, smiling between both parents. Grant picked it up, studied it, and placed it face down.
“There are ways to handle disappointment,” he said. “There are adult ways. Quiet ways. No one needs to be ruined.”
Vanessa stood. “Grant, this is not the conversation we talked about.”
Rachel looked at her sister. “Which conversation would you prefer? The one where you convinced me to go to the rental house with no working cameras?”
Vanessa’s face changed. Only a little, but enough.
Grant turned from the mantel. “You went through my things?”
“I found your things.”
“That’s an interesting distinction.”
“Some distinctions matter.”
Grant came toward her with his hands open, as if approaching a nervous client. “Rachel, you don’t understand what you found. It’s not what it looks like.”
Vanessa gave a brittle laugh. “For God’s sake, Grant, don’t insult her. She understands enough.”
Rachel kept her voice even. “Enough about the affair?”
Vanessa’s chin lifted. “If you want to make me the villain because your marriage is already dead, so be it.”
Rachel looked at Grant. “Enough about the insurance?”
Grant stopped.
“Enough about the cliff, the pathway?” Rachel asked. “Enough about the gloves in the garage? Enough about the wine?”
Grant’s hand moved with sudden speed. He crossed the space between them and caught Rachel’s wrist before she could rise. His grip was controlled, not frantic, which made it worse.
“Where is it?” he asked.
Rachel did not pull away. “Where is what?”
“Whatever you copied.”
Vanessa moved behind him. Her face had lost color beneath the careful makeup. “I told you she’d ruin everything. She’s always been a snooper.”
Grant tightened his hand. “Vanessa, be quiet.”
“No, she should hear it. She should hear that she was supposed to be gone by the weekend, and we would finally have something that belonged to us.”
The front door burst open.
Detective Mara Ellis entered first, with two uniformed officers behind her and another coming through the kitchen entrance. Grant released Rachel’s wrist as if her skin had burned him. Vanessa stepped back into the coffee table. The lilies slid onto the floor.
“Grant Taylor,” Mara said, “away from her. Now.”
Grant lifted both hands. “This is a misunderstanding.”
“I said, move away from her.”
The officer nearest the kitchen crossed the room and took Grant by the arm. Grant didn’t resist at first. His eyes remained on Rachel, astonished not by the police, perhaps, but by the fact that she had allowed them into his house.
Vanessa pointed at Grant. “He planned it. He said it would be simple. He said no one would ever believe Rachel over him.”
Grant twisted toward her. “You stupid woman.”
“Both of you can save your explanations,” Mara said.
An officer collected the wine glasses. Another took Rachel’s handbag when Mara asked for the recorder.
Another heading to the kitchen, no doubt to collect the jar from behind the soup tins.
From the hallway, another officer moved toward the garage.
Rachel stood beside the armchair, her wrist marked red where Grant had held it. Mara came to her, blocking the room from view.
“Are you hurt?”
Rachel looked past her at Grant, who was being handcuffed beneath the family photographs.
Vanessa had begun crying, not softly, but with open-mouthed outrage, as if the evening had been arranged to embarrass her and her alone.
“No,” Rachel said. “I don’t think I am.”
Mara’s gaze dropped to Rachel’s wrist. “We’ll have that photographed.”
Grant turned as the officer led him toward the hall. “Rachel, listen to me. You don't know what she did. Vanessa put all of this in my head.”
Vanessa made a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. “You begged me to trust you.”
Rachel looked at them both. The lilies lay crushed on the rug, their white petals bruised by Vanessa’s heel. “Get them out of here.”