3
Conor stood still, his heart thudding out of his chest. He stared at Belinda crumpled on the floor.
What had she just done? He had only heard part of it, but he had seen the devastation in Kate’s eyes.
He started to run after Kate—he would catch up to her, hold her, make everything go back to the way it was supposed to be.
But Tom grabbed his arm and held him back.
“Conor, hold on,” Tom said. “Take a minute.”
“I have to get to her,” Conor said. His face felt hot.
“Not yet,” Tom said sternly.
Conor saw shock in Tom’s eyes, and he knew how he must look. Throughout his police career, Conor had broken up many fights. He had been called to the sites of countless domestic disturbances, and he had always done what Tom was doing right now: separating the couple until they could cool down.
Their uncle Mike was right behind them, and he took Conor’s arm. As a judge, he was no stranger to altercations.
“Let’s take a walk,” Mike said.
They crossed the lobby and stepped onto the verandah.
It was bustling with people enjoying the summer evening, but Conor barely saw them as Tom and Mike led him down the steps.
The breeze was cool, the sky perfectly clear.
Stars blazed in the cloudless sky. He looked over his shoulder, up at the top of the hotel, at the tower, where he and Kate were staying.
The round windows glowed from the lights inside the suite.
Tom tried to steer him along the walkway toward the beach, but Conor pulled back. “I’m fine,” Conor said. “You don’t have to worry.”
“You’re the calmest one in the family,” Mike said. “Unflappable. So when you lose your cool, we’re going to worry. What’s going on?”
Conor stared at his uncle, his father’s youngest brother—the last Reid of that generation.
The Honorable Michael Reid had presided over many high-profile Rhode Island cases; he was often urged to run for political office.
He had political and legal clout, and he was well known throughout the state.
To Conor and Tom, he was just Uncle Mike.
“I know you’re trying to help, but I have to talk to Kate,” Conor said.
“First, you’re going to talk to us,” Mike said. “What was all that back there?”
Conor just stared at him.
“Why was that woman yelling at Kate?” Tom asked, as if Conor needed prompting.
“Didn’t you recognize her?” Conor asked.
“No, should I have?” Tom said.
“Tom, that’s Belinda Quinn,” Conor said.
“From next door? Montauk Avenue?” Tom asked.
“Yeah,” Conor said.
“Wow, that girl?” Tom asked. “Everyone at school thought she died.”
“There were a lot of rumors,” Conor said. He thought back, remembering how one day Belinda had been their neighbor, and one day she was gone. Not long after that, the rest of the Quinn family moved away.
“Never mind the past,” Mike said. “Let’s discuss what just happened—why did you shove her?”
“I didn’t,” Conor said. “That was all an act—she fell on purpose.”
Both Mike and Tom squinted, as if wondering if they should believe him.
Conor knew Tom had seen it a hundred times in his law enforcement career and Mike had heard cases where that behavior had played a part—someone faking for effect.
Just then, Anne beckoned to Mike. He looked over at his wife, then gave his nephews an apologetic shrug and walked over to her.
“Belinda went down pretty hard, Conor,” Tom said. “Garrett will probably call for a paramedic, and then he’ll come looking for you.”
“I hope he does,” Conor said. “He should know who he’s dating. I’ll tell him.”
“Based on what, knowing her when you were six?” Tom asked.
“Look, forget it. I’ve got to go to Kate.”
“I’m going with you,” Tom said.
“I can handle talking to Kate on my own,” Conor said, glaring at his brother.
“Maybe so,” Tom said. “But I’m still going with you.”
They heard a distant siren, and Conor felt a new rush of anger.
He figured that Garrett had in fact called the paramedics.
Belinda was clearly a good emotional con artist. That tumble had been contrived.
Conor knew she had fooled Garrett the way she’d tricked him.
She’d invented a damsel-in-distress fiction that had probably worked for her before.
He and Tom walked back through the lobby toward the elevator.
It was evening now, and the harp music had given way to piano.
Everyone knew about tomorrow’s wedding, so when the piano player spotted Conor, he played a few bars of the “Wedding March.” Conor tried to smile at him, but he felt sick inside and couldn’t.
Conor and Tom got off on the fourth floor and took a left. The door straight ahead was flanked by glowing lanterns and bore a discreet plaque that read Tower Suite. Conor used his key card to open it.
“Kate!” he called as he stepped inside.
No answer. He knew how upset she was, and he just wanted to get to her, put his arms around her, tell her how much he loved her.
The suite had three levels. He checked the bedroom, then tore upstairs into the living area—their favorite place to sit by the fire while surrounded by windows that overlooked the ocean, the bay, and three states—but she wasn’t there.
A polished and gleaming wood spiral staircase went up to a reading nook on the top level—a spot Kate loved, where she could nap and dream. Conor ran up, two steps at a time, but she wasn’t there either.
He looked down from the high perch at Tom, standing in the living room. Tom was staring at one of the window seats, where Conor could see there was a pile of shredded white fabric.
“No,” Conor said, hurrying down the spiral stairs. “Kate’s veil.”
Tom started to touch it.
“Don’t,” Conor said, grabbing his brother’s wrist to stop him.
The veil was delicate lace, and it had been torn into small pieces.
Conor had never seen Kate’s wedding dress—that was a sight to be saved for tomorrow, in the chapel—but he had seen her veil, and this was it.
It had belonged to his and Tom’s mother.
Jackie had worn it at her wedding to Tom, and they had given it to Kate, to wear at her wedding to Conor.
“Kate ripped it up?” Tom asked. “That’s how angry she is at you?”
Conor had an internal struggle between his two selves: detective and husband-to-be.
In that instant, the detective won out. He crouched by the window seat, undistracted by the view of the dark night ocean, and looked more closely at the fabric.
It had been cut, not torn. The edges were smooth with no trailing threads.
A sharp blade had been used to slice the veil into fine ribbons.
“Kate didn’t do this,” Conor said. “She wouldn’t.”
“Then who?” Tom asked. “Does anyone else have a key?”
“No,” Conor said.
That’s when his heart began to crash. He had watched Dermot, the valet, hang the garment bag holding Kate’s wedding gown inside the bedroom closet. He ran down the stairs to the first level and opened the closet door.
Their regular clothes were still there, his and Kate’s. Her blouses, a pale-green linen jacket, a flowered summer dress, and the blue suit he was going to wear to their wedding. But the garment bag was gone.
And so was Kate.
Friday, July 2; 11:00 p.m.
After finding the ripped-up veil, Conor and Tom went through the whole hotel.
Conor felt panic building. They spoke to the security manager, who said that he hadn’t seen Kate but would keep an eye out for her.
Then they took the walkway from the hotel to Dune Cottage, the café by the beach, to see if Kate was there.
The light was dim, perfect for candlelight dining, but not great for finding Kate.
Conor stared at the beach, listening to the sound of the steady surf.
He heard the bell buoy tolling off Watch Hill Point.
His stomach flipped to think of Kate being so upset that she wouldn’t even talk to him.
The beach was dark other than the edge of the waves catching light, streaming down from the Ocean House, white foam fizzing on the wet sand.
Garrett came charging onto the Dune Cottage deck. “What the fuck, Conor?” he asked. “I’ve been looking for you all over.”
“I figured you would be,” Conor said. “Is Belinda okay?”
“No,” Garrett said. “She hit her head when you pushed her.”
“Is that what she told you?” Conor asked.
“It’s what I saw,” Garrett said.
“No,” Conor said. “You saw me reach for her phone and her faking a fall.”
“You lunged at her,” Garrett said. “You had the whole table watching you. And what’s this bullshit about you proposing to her, her having your kid?”
Conor stiffened up, wanting to shove Garrett away. He could feel Tom’s eyes on him. His brother had been sitting across the table and hadn’t heard that part.
“It’s bullshit,” Conor said.
“She showed me the ring you gave her,” Garrett said.
“We were six,” Conor said. “We lived on the same street. I made her a ring out of some soldering wire I found in the garage.”
“And she kept it all this time?” Garrett asked.
“I don’t know what to tell you about that,” Conor said, burning to get going, to find Kate. He pictured those shreds of his mother’s veil—Kate’s veil—and his thoughts were revving, going to terrible places, wondering what was happening with her.
“Yeah, well, you better tell me something,” Garrett said. “I told the paramedics to take her to Westerly Hospital, to check her for a concussion. I’m on my way there, but I had to see you first. I’m going to give you a chance to explain . . .”
“Before what?” Conor asked.
“I arrest you for assault.”
“You’d better ask her to explain before you do that,” Conor said. “I have things to say, but you talk to her first. And really listen—I mean, past the words.”
“You mean like I’m interrogating a suspect?” Garrett asked.
Yeah, like that, Conor thought. But he held the comment inside.
“Why were you grabbing for her phone?” Garrett asked.
“Ask her,” Conor said.
Garrett left, but Conor didn’t miss the fact that his hands were balled into fists.
“That was nice,” Tom said. “Two friends and colleagues having a civil discussion. What’s this about a kid?”
“Belinda’s playing a game,” Conor said.
“Is it called ‘destroying your life’?”
“Seems to be,” Conor said, but just then he didn’t care what Belinda did. Only Kate mattered, and he had to get to her before Belinda had the chance to do any more damage, to twist the truth and tell Kate her version of the longer story.
He couldn’t get that cut-up veil out of his mind. Could Kate have been so angry that she’d done it? In his worst nightmare, he couldn’t imagine that she could. It was a question he encountered in many investigations: How well do people know each other?
Even people in love—he had seen it over and over. Secrets sometimes led to unfathomable behavior. Conor had always told himself that he and Kate had been through so much together, they knew everything important about each other.
But that was letting himself off the hook.
He had never told her the worst thing. After what had just happened with Belinda, he could barely confront it himself.
Maybe Kate had just revealed a side of herself he’d never seen—the ability to destroy that veil—a symbol of their love, of the marriage vows they had yet to say. A family heirloom that they could pass on to a daughter.
Then a worse thought hit him: If Kate hadn’t done it, who had? If Kate wasn’t hiding, had someone taken her?
“Where are you?” he asked out loud, but the only answer he received was the sound of the waves.