The sisters were strikingly similar in appearance, pretty in the way most girls are pretty in their teens, fresh-faced and free of concern. But there were differences too. Darcy had wide eyes and a winning set of dimples. Heather had the same eyes, but the dimples were missing. Probably because she wasn’t smiling in any of the photos. And there was something else about Heather that was different: a flinty sort of defiance peering back at the camera, in stark contrast to her younger sister’s wide-open gaze.
There were photos of the parents as well, most of them taken during press conferences or interviews. Susan Gilman looked virtually catatonic in all of them, as if sleepwalking through a nightmare, which she had been. And there was Fred, the grieving father, glaring straight at the camera. He looked washed-out and gaunt, but with the same hard edges she’d seen in him yesterday.
She studied his face, the pinched lips and flared nostrils, the almost palpable anger staring back at her from the photo. Was it the face of a grieving father, or a man capable of harming his own daughters? Was it possible to be both? And if so, how could she prove it?
The question continued to nag as Lizzy closed the browser and set her phone aside. She’d spent the entire morning online, with zero to show for her efforts, when she should have been calling Realtors or going through the attic. But both options left her cold. She needed to move her body, to clear her head and work off some energy. Perhaps she’d go back to the wildflower garden for an hour, and do some weeding.
She was halfway down the stairs when she heard Andrew’s voice, along with Evvie’s, coming from the kitchen. After her abrupt departure last night, she would have preferred to keep some distance between them, but there was no way to get to the mudroom door without passing through the kitchen.
They stopped talking the minute she entered the room. Not a good sign. Andrew turned to face her, the straw doll clutched in his fist. “Were you planning to mention this?”
Lizzy’s head swiveled in Evvie’s direction, but she was already holding up her hands, absolving herself before Lizzy could get a word out. “Don’t go laying this at my door. I told you to get rid of it. It’s not my fault he saw it when he came in.”
“I found it this morning,” Lizzy explained wearily. “In the tree out front. I know it looks bad, but we don’t really know what it means.”
“Yesterday you paid Fred Gilman a visit. Today you find this. You don’t think the two are related?”
“I get how it looks, and that the timing is suspicious, but if Fred Gilman wanted to hurt me, he had the perfect opportunity last night when I was standing on his front porch. Can you honestly see him climbing a tree and hanging that thing up in the dark?”
Andrew blew out a long breath. “You can’t ignore this, Lizzy. It isn’t like having your car keyed. You need to report it.”
“I’m not ignoring it. And I will report it—eventually. Though, after what Roger told me about Summers the other day, I don’t trust the police to lift a finger when it comes to the Moons. All I want right now is time to do what I need to do without the police muddying the water. Now, can we please drop it? If anyone needs me, I’ll be in the wildflower garden, pulling weeds.”
She turned and walked out, leaving Andrew and Evvie to stare after her, knowing full well they’d have plenty to say once she was out of earshot. She didn’t care. Bad juju or not, it was going to take more than a straw doll to scare her off.
FOURTEEN
July 26
Lizzy had to circle the block three times before she finally located a parking space near the ReadiMaxx office. She was far from eager to sit down with “Southern New Hampshire’s Premier Residential Specialist,” but she’d already wasted an entire week. It was time to talk to someone, to get some idea about what to expect given the farm’s run-down condition. Not to mention the stigma of two dead girls turning up in the pond.
The news wouldn’t be good—she was prepared for that—but at least she’d have some idea about what her options might be. She had some money in savings, but nowhere near enough to pay for the laundry list of repairs Andrew had rattled off. Maybe she could take out a small mortgage. Nothing huge, just enough to pay for the most urgent repairs, and swing the property taxes until the place sold. But what if it didn’t? What if finding a buyer took years rather than months? She’d be risking foreclosure.
The thought made Lizzy’s stomach churn as she dug in her wallet for coins to feed the meter. A nickel and two pennies were all she came up with. She scanned the businesses along Center Street, looking for somewhere to change a ten-dollar bill. Her choices were slim: the post office, a chiropractic clinic, a flower shop that was apparently closed on Mondays—and the coffee shop.
She eyed the sign queasily. BREWED AWAKENINGS. The scene of Rhanna’s infamous last stand—still here. Which was more than she could say for her mother. But then there’d been no staying in Salem Creek after that particular spectacle.
Rhanna had spotted a pair of women staring at her over their lattes, and had proceeded to stage a meltdown of epic proportions, railing about pious old biddies who simpered about turning the other cheek on Sundays, then turned into vipers the other six days of the week. She might have gotten away with it if she’d stopped there. But Rhanna had never been one to do things by half. Instead, she walked to the center of the shop, raised her arms above her
