Mark looked at me, and I saw that he had been carrying something alone for so long it had reshaped his face.
“Claire called me the night she died,” he said. “She said she’d found something about Adrian. She said he was following her. I told her she was being paranoid.”
His voice broke.
“She begged me to meet her at St. Agnes. I went. I was late. When I got there, she was in the parking lot with him. Vanessa was there too.”
Vanessa’s face became empty.
“I didn’t hear everything,” Mark said. “They were arguing. Claire had papers. Adrian grabbed them from her. Vanessa kept telling Claire she was ruining everything. Then Claire saw me and told me to take Emma home.”
“You were there?” I whispered.
“I took Emma. Claire put her in my car. She told me to drive straight to your house and lock the doors.”
“You never told me.”
“I thought she was having some kind of breakdown. I thought Adrian was trying to calm her down.” He wiped his face with both hands. “Then I saw him get into her car.”
The rain seemed louder.
“I followed them,” Mark said. “Not close. I lost them near the bend on Route Nine. By the time I found the car, it was already against the barrier.”
I could not feel my hands.
“You saw him get into her car,” I said.
“I saw him.”
“And you let the police say she was alone.”
“I was scared.”
“You let me bury her believing she lost control of the car.”
“I was scared,” Mark said again, but this time it sounded like what it was: no defense at all.
Detective Ramirez turned to Officer Carter. “Secure both witnesses separately. Call the county unit. I want warrants for all devices, accounts, and the St. Agnes property. Now.”
Vanessa’s eyes snapped toward the front door.
She moved fast.
For one stunned second, no one stopped her. Then she shoved past the dining chairs and ran. Officer Carter caught her at the hallway entrance, but Vanessa twisted hard enough to knock a framed photograph from the wall. Glass exploded across the floor.
Emma screamed.
I turned her into my shoulder, shielding her face.
Vanessa fought until the handcuffs clicked around her wrists.
“I didn’t kill Claire!” she cried.
No one answered.
“I didn’t kill her!” she shouted again, louder, toward me. “I only wanted her gone.”
The words struck the room and remained there.
Officer Carter led her outside. Her heels scraped against the hardwood. The front door shut behind her, cutting off the sound of the rain.
For several moments, I could hear only Emma’s small, ragged breathing against my neck.
Then Detective Ramirez said, “Mr. Mercer, I need to ask you something difficult.”
I nodded because I could not speak.
“Did Claire leave anything behind that you have never opened? A safety deposit box, storage unit, personal files, anything she may have hidden?”
I thought of her jewelry box. The cedar chest in the attic. Her laptop, which I had not been able to unlock. Then I remembered the old cookbook she used to keep on the highest shelf in the kitchen, the one with her grandmother’s handwriting in the margins.
Claire had loved baking with Emma. After she died, I put the book away because flour on the counter and the smell of cinnamon had felt like a cruel imitation of home.
I handed Emma to Mark before I could stop myself.
He reached for her, then froze.
Emma looked at him for a long moment. Her tiny face was swollen from crying.
