7
Westport, Connecticut
It’s dark by the time we arrive at the lake house.
The air smells fresh from a recent rain.
How I’ve missed this place. I don’t know why I bother with returning to the city.
I shake my head. My obligations, of course.
Although I have put aside most of my own philanthropic work for now, I’m the wife of a much-lauded philanthropist in his own right and CEO of an investment firm—not to mention the future mayor of New York City.
I have charity functions and committee meetings for women’s outreach programs to attend.
I hold a significant position in the social hierarchy of the community.
None of that matters anymore. I’m not sure it ever really did—to me, at least.
I wonder what they think now with all those fiery accusations going viral.
I can well imagine. Julia Anderson Belmont was a privileged teen who epitomized the quintessential mean girl.
She used a serial killer to excuse her selfish actions, effectively stepping on the bodies of his real victims. When is she going to tell the truth?
Answer for what she did? The case should be reopened, and she should be investigated.
I will not look at the comments related to the article. Not today. Not ever, I promise myself. I must stay focused.
Acacia unlocks the door, and Olivia rushes around her and into the house, excited to be back.
I enter the alarm code and follow the two of them more slowly, absorbing the sensations and memories of our summers here.
The house smells pleasant, welcoming despite having been closed up for months.
I smile at the hint of Italian seasoning in the air.
Helen has made her specialty and left it for us.
I will have to remember to add a nice tip to her salary this month.
“There’s pizza!” Olivia bursts from the kitchen, all smiles. “Can we eat now? I’m starving!”
“It’s still warm,” Acacia notes, coming up behind Olivia. “Helen must have only just left.”
Helen goes the extra mile, just as Eleanor always did. I genuinely appreciate all the additional effort, especially now.
“Absolutely.” I push my lips into a happy smile, and Olivia tugs Acacia back toward the kitchen.
I have no desire for food at the moment. Instead, I reset the security system and then walk slowly—I do everything slowly these days—from room to room, checking windows and any exterior doors. Perhaps I’m overreacting, but now that darkness has descended, I can’t help thinking how remote we are.
I stare out the enormous wall of windows in the living room that look out over the lake.
The moonlight shimmers on the surface. Most of the larger rooms in this house have at least some portion of that view since this property sits in the bend where the lake turns south and expands beyond two more properties.
Though the house is more than fifty years old, it is quite grand.
Tall ceilings and wood beams. Stone fireplaces and wood floors.
The rooms are large and airy. But the things that make it so desirable are the water views, the private access to the enormous lake. And the size of the estate, ten acres.
There are other homes around this lake, but they are few and far between with thick woods.
The woods border each property on three sides, creeping all the way to the water’s edge, providing great privacy.
None of these are new homes; they are all generational. Built by families and then passed down.
The moon is almost full and looks as if it has risen from the dark water to linger just above the trees, keeping watch.
I hug myself to ward off a shiver. I glance to my left, and for a moment, I feel as though I see her next to me.
We were so young and so determined to rush into the future, with little concern for the path we chose.
She flashes that wicked smile of hers, and then she is gone.
I blink, draw in a deep breath, and turn back to the tranquil view. On some level I worry that my decision to escape to this place was not so well thought out. There are so many memories, and we are very isolated here.
Then again, I realize that whatever happens, it will be better here.
The finale I know is coming must happen here, where I have the advantage.
The road that winds around the properties is a private one that dead-ends where the forest is as dense and dark as a cave.
There is only one way in or out. There is no through traffic, only the occasional lost delivery driver.
But even that no longer happens, since Phillip arranged with the other property owners to have the high-tech gate added to the road.
A code is required for access. Given recent events and my abrupt decision to escape the city, Phillip hastily added a twenty-four seven security guard who will keep the reporters away.
I’m sure the few neighbors are grateful, particularly since he did this at his own expense.
The house has a newer security system, but not much else in the way of protection. Phillip is antigun all the way, but there’s an old shotgun under the bed in the primary bedroom. I never mentioned it, and Phillip never noticed.
No matter that I stand here knowing what I know, it all feels utterly surreal—as if it is happening to someone else.
The weight of the past grows heavier with each passing hour. But I have to be strong. If I am strong enough, I can do what needs to be done.
If . . . there can be no ifs on my part. I must be strong enough. When things go the way I expect, I hope to convince Helen to help. I know she keeps a shotgun or rifle of some sort in her home. But would she agree to this? I can’t be sure.
The echo of the doorbell intrudes on my troubling thoughts.
A frown pulls at my brow. Surely Phillip has not decided to follow us here.
No, this can’t be him, I realize with a shake of my head.
He wouldn’t ring the bell. Perhaps Helen arranged a delivery that was delayed.
Doubtful. She would have mentioned it. Helen is very organized.
Whatever the case, someone is at my door. Has to be someone with the gate code and the proper explanation or authorization to satisfy the guard.
Worry gnaws at my insides as I walk across the room.
Acacia shouts that she’s got it before I reach the center hall that connects all the downstairs rooms to the foyer.
I decide to wait out of sight until she appears with word on the identity of the visitor.
I wonder if it’s the police. Maybe they’ve decided to reopen the two-decade-old case after reading that article.
Maybe they want to ask me questions. Certainly the guard would have allowed them access.
Don’t be silly. There hasn’t been time for all that.
Acacia appears at the living room doorway, and the puzzled expression on her face warns that this is no forgotten or lost delivery.
“There’s an FBI agent here to see you. Rick Howard. I wasn’t sure I should let him in.”
Relief rushes through me, and I can breathe again. Of all the answers she could have given me, this one is considerably less troubling. Though not entirely.
“It’s fine.” I nod. “I’ll invite him in. You go finish your pizza with Olivia.” Feeling generous, or perhaps simply curious as to his motive, I decide Rick is just in time for pizza as well. “He and I will join you and Olivia in a bit.”
Acacia nods and disappears in the direction of the kitchen.
I have no clue how the special agent who served on the task force that worked the Judge case twenty years ago would know of my arrival.
The weekend is days away, and there’s no imminent holiday—the usual events that bring us here.
I assume he read the article and has concerns, but that still doesn’t tell me how he knew I was coming.
Then it hits me. Phillip likely told Rick we were escaping to the lake house. I wouldn’t put it past him to urge Rick to check in on us. Great.
Although I don’t consider Rick a family friend by any stretch of the word, he has shown up in our lives repeatedly over the years.
Usually to have a beer with Phillip. They’re close in age.
But I have always sensed him watching me.
I have also often felt he knew things that no one else did twenty years ago.
Why he chose not to share whatever those things were eludes me still, but I do have my suspicions.
Though I don’t precisely feel threatened by him, I do not trust him. Then again, I trust basically no one. Nothing—not time or good fortune—has or will change that fact.
Trust can be a dangerous gift to give.
If I had a therapist of my own, I am sure he or she would insist this inability to trust speaks volumes about the impact of what happened twenty years ago and how it shaped my life. I roll my eyes at the thought. No one who wasn’t there could possibly imagine.
The place that was my prison makes an appearance in my thoughts, reminding me that a part of me was lost there . . . to the monster who called himself my keeper.
I take a moment to ground myself in the present, pushing the past back to its place, then make my way to the door. I would have preferred to have some amount of time to settle in before having visitors or any elevation in this nightmare, but I suppose that is not meant to be.
Special Agent Derrick “Rick” Howard, now retired, stands on the threshold of my front door, and his mere presence sets me further on edge.
This is really happening. I feel like it’s ten years ago all over again, and I’ve just come back from my extended vacation in Europe.
Rick showed up at the door just like this back then.
Talk about unnerving. It was the true test of all I had chosen to be and do after the tragedy of my life to that point.