Chapter Twenty-Six
TWENTY-SIX
The house is silent. Rachel and Miguel are off playing tennis, and I’m alone, stewing in my thoughts. I walk into the bathroom, searching for some Tylenol to quell the ache in my head.
Yumi lied to me.
Right to my face.
I open the medicine cabinet and stare at the packed shelves.
An archaeologist could reconstruct the Costa family from the contents—Ninjago bandages, yellowing with age, an expired tube of sunscreen, a caked bottle of calamine lotion, an old neti pot from the days when I thought that might be the trick to fixing Zach’s sinus problems. I find the Tylenol behind an almost empty tube of arnica cream.
My brain is raging, on fire, on overdrive.
Why would Yumi tell me Rachel was part of the break-ins if she wasn’t? What possible reason would she have?
I pop two pills in my mouth, then fill my cupped hands with water and swallow.
It’s a question I’d like to put to Yumi personally, but she’s not answering my texts or calls. This happens sometimes—Yumi going radio silent. Her illness means she gets tired easily, takes long naps during the day, and doesn’t check her phone for long stretches of time.
It doesn’t mean she’s avoiding me.
In the mudroom I throw on some sneakers and head out into the afternoon heat, heading toward the Allards’.
I stop at the utility pole outside their house and bend down to pick up the torn flyer lying in the gutter.
The paper is damp, one corner soaked through, the image of the girl starting to blur.
For almost a year, I’ve walked past these flyers without truly seeing them.
Just another sad story in a world full of tragedy. But now, everything has changed.
Now I feel like I know Autumn, at least a little, thanks to Finn.
The girl’s face stares back at me—heavy bangs framing wide, hopeful eyes, her smile so bright it makes it impossible to believe she’s gone. Finn’s friend. His best friend.
DO YOU KNOW WHO KILLED ME?
The bold letters seem to throb on the paper.
My name is Autumn Hemmings and I was a nanny for the Price family right here in Eastbrook.
I devour the rest quickly—the brutal facts of the crime, the desperate plea for help, the contact information for the police.
I can picture Finn, shoulders hunched against rain and snow and blistering sun, replacing these flyers season after season, his fingers raw from stapling, his heart heavier with each passing day.
The Allard house looms before me, perfect and imposing, a modern farmhouse with crisp black trim and potted geraniums that never seem to turn brown in the heat. I take a deep breath and press the doorbell, hearing its melodic chime echo inside.
When Daniel answers, his smile takes a moment too long to reach his lips. “Caren, what a nice surprise! Come in.”
I step into their foyer, instantly aware of how out of place I feel.
No scattered shoes near the stairs, no evidence of life’s beautiful chaos.
Picture ready, as if they were holding an open house.
My eyes land on a large brown suitcase in the dining room, tiny tan logos covering it.
Louis Vuitton, naturally. No black rolling bags for the Allards.
Daniel catches my wandering gaze. “First of many,” he says with a faux grimace. “Jo’s bringing half the house to Provence this year.”
“How long are you planning to stay?”
Something dark flickers across his eyes, gone so quickly I almost miss it. “We’ll see,” he says in a modulated voice. “Did you need to see her? She’s upstairs. I can get her for you.”
I nod and wander into the kitchen while I wait, my fingers drumming nervously against my thigh. Muffinhead waddles over and sniffs my legs.
“Do you smell Kugel?” I ask him.
Satisfied, he wanders off to a bed in the corner and settles in. The kitchen is like a magazine showcase, gleaming surfaces and high-end appliances that look barely used.
On the marble countertop sits a beautiful ice-blue leather notebook, the color of a frozen alpine lake.
Gold letters—JL—are embossed on the cover.
My curiosity piqued, I pick it up, surprised by its weight and the supple feel of expensive leather.
Not a notebook after all, but a passport holder.
Inside are two passports, one American with its navy blue cover, one burgundy French.
“Isn’t it lovely?” a voice asks from behind me.
Startled, I let the passport holder slip from my fingers.
I turn to see Jo in the doorway, a vision in a black linen sleeveless dress that accentuates her impossible thinness.
Her tanned arms, no larger than a teenager’s, are adorned with delicate gold bracelets that clink softly when she moves.
Not a wrinkle in sight, not a hint of the anxiety I feel coursing through my own body.
“Very pretty,” I manage.
“Daniel bought it for me to celebrate my finally getting my French passport,” she says. “I’m a dual citizen now, but, mon dieu, did it take a long time.”
“I had no idea you were doing that.”
She reaches around me and seizes the passport holder, her movements fluid and graceful.
I catch a glimpse of her manicured nails, painted a subtle ballet pink.
“Oh, I submitted everything about a year ago and simply forgot all about it. You know the French, with their paperwork.” Her laugh tinkles like crystal.
“It’s been a little dream of ours to spend more time in Provence, and everything is so much easier when you’re a citizen. You know how it is.”
I nod, though I don’t. Miguel and I haven’t been out of the country in years, not since Zach started college. Our passports gather dust in a drawer while our savings account dwindles with each of Zach’s tuition payments.
“What’s going on? Daniel said you wanted to see me.” Jo walks to a wide drawer and pulls out two glasses, the movement practiced and precise. “Lemonade? Sparkling water? I have a bottle of rosé open in the fridge.”
“Plain water is fine.”
Jo goes to the fridge and fills two glasses from the filter. “Olives? Cheese?” she offers, playing the perfect hostess. I recognize her constant motion now for what it is—an evasion tactic, a dance to keep distance between us and the truth.
“I’m fine. Let’s sit. We need to talk.” My heart hammers against my ribs.
“Oh?” She raises one sculptured eyebrow, the only part of her forehead that seems capable of movement. “That sounds serious.”
“It is.”
I walk over to the table and pull out a chair.
From here I can see the two other full dining room sets Jo has in her house—the formal one in the dining room under a crystal chandelier, and the long teak table and benches on her patio, visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I count absently, realizing there’s a ratio of six dining chairs for each member of the household.
The excess makes me dizzy. Will she buy three more sets for her house in Provence?
Jo places the glass of water on a coaster in front of me, the movement deliberate, controlled. “Is everything all right, Caren? It’s not your head, is it? I know a terrific neurologist. Dr. Freeman at Sibley.”
“No, it’s not my head.” I look directly into her eyes, searching for humanity behind the perfect mask. “It’s about Van.”
The change is immediate in Jo. She stiffens, her spine straightening as though someone has yanked an invisible string attached to her crown.
Her chin lifts a fraction, her shoulders pull back.
It’s the posture of someone preparing for battle, a general surveying the field before the first arrow flies.
“I see.” Her voice is cool, devoid of emotion. “What about Van?”
I take a sip of water to steady myself. “As you know, I run the yard sale with Kenya every year.” I pause, watching her face for any reaction, any crack in her facade.
Does she know where I am going with this?
That I am about to accuse her precious Van of being a thief?
But Jo’s expression remains as placid as the still waters of a lake.
No ripples of doubt, no creases of concern.
Of course, it could just be the Botox. “Well, it’s come to my attention that one of the items we posted online was stolen.
And it’s also come to my attention that Van was, well, he was breaking into homes two years ago.
” I hold up a hand. “Please don’t deny it. I’m not here to get him in trouble.”
Her lips quiver slightly, as though she might smile, but she doesn’t. “Sounds like you know everything.”
“So he did steal that bracelet.”
A small nod. “Satisfied? You must be thrilled to learn that Rachel is not the only teenager who has had problems.” Her fingers tap once, twice against the table’s surface before she stills them. “You must be loving this.”
I lean forward. “I’m not here to judge you or Van.”
“Then why are you here?”
It’s a good question. I’m here because I want to know if Rachel was with him on these escapades. Rachel said no, and her calendar seems to back that up. But Yumi said yes. “I know someone was with him,” I say. “I want to know who.”
Jo brings her glass of water to her lips, and I see it—the slight tremor in her hand, making the water ripple against the crystal. There are some places on this woman’s body that Botox can’t reach. After she replaces the glass, she looks me in the eye, her gaze hard as flint.
“Why does that matter?”
“I think you know why.” My heart pounds so loudly I wonder if she can hear it.
“Actually, I don’t.”
“Was it Rachel who was with him when he broke into those houses?”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Rachel? Is that what this is about?” She lets out a sharp laugh. “Good lord, no. You really have no idea what your daughter gets up to, do you?”
I’m so relieved by her authentic reaction to the idea that Rachel was involved that I let the insult slide.
Whoever it was, it was not my daughter. Maybe Yumi saw another girl with Van that night—it could easily have been Elo?se.
They’re the same height and build, with long brown hair.
Yes, that was it. Two Allard siblings getting into trouble.
No wonder Jo is so tense. Yumi didn’t lie to me, she was just mistaken.
“Anything else?” Jo asks. “I really have to get back to packing.”
Is there anything else? A flash of the bloodstained carpet from this morning’s visit to the house springs to my mind. “Yes, there is something else.”
“I’m listening.” A muscle throbs in her jaw.
“Did you drug me at your party, Jo?” The words rush out of me like water through a broken dam.
“Did you knock me out so you could go into my house and look for that bracelet? Because you knew it could lead back to Van?” The thought crystallizes fully, no longer just a suspicion lurking in the shadows of my mind.
“Did you drag me into the basement of that house on Baltimore?”
“You sound crazy.” Jo pushes her chair back with such force, it nearly topples over.
She stands, looming over me, her shadow falling across the table.
“Drug you? Do you hear yourself? You got drunk. We all saw it. We’re all talking about it.
Did you know that? You’re the gossip of the neighborhood.
Poor Caren, about to turn fifty, no job, no prospects, her kids are gone, and she’s becoming a lush.
Did you hear she passed out in the street? ”
“Go to hell, Jo.” I stand as well, my legs shaky.
“I feel sorry for you, and whatever this is.” She gestures at me with both hands, fingers splayed as though I’m something distasteful.
“The place you should look for answers is in the mirror. Preferably with the help of a good therapist. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some packing to get to. ” She starts to walk away.
“I wasn’t drunk,” I call after her. “You know that and I know that.” The conversations of the past few days—Finn’s story, Yumi’s tales of secret visitors—swirl in my mind.
“What about that nanny who lived in your rental?” I gesture with my chin to her large window that overlooks the backyard.
“Autumn. She was killed in a robbery gone wrong. A break-in.”
She’s halfway across the room but stops and pivots. “Watch it.”
The thoughts keep coming, like a rushing river. “What if it was a burglary gone wrong and someone got killed? Even accidentally. I mean, a stolen bracelet, who cares? But murder? That would be a different story, wouldn’t it? If Van was involved.”
“Stop,” she commands. “Stop right there.” For one terrible second, Jo’s mask slips completely.
Her face contorts into something monstrous—eyes narrowed to slits, nostrils flared, lips pulled back in a snarl of pure rage.
I step back, genuinely frightened by the transformation.
Then, just as quickly, she recomposes her features into the Jo we all know and admire.
“You’ve got it all wrong, as usual.” Her voice drips with disdain. “Poor Caren, always the last to know. Always a step behind. You may have clawed your way into this neighborhood, but you’ll always be the girl who went to some second-rate state school, who married up, but doesn’t quite fit.”
“You would know all about marrying up, Jo.”
“You should leave now.” She sneers at me. “And if you have any more questions, I suggest you ask Miguel. Let him fill you in.”