‘Two years later, Vivien was still on the warpath, trying to stir up trouble, so I fled to Spain for a year to hide out. After that, I moved to London to start a new life.’ Her fingers grazed the back of Ray’s hand. ‘Erin is the name of my father’s mother, long dead now, and Cartwright… I got that off the back of a delivery van.’ Her smile felt forced. ‘It seemed appropriate at the time.’
The blood had drained from Ray’s face. She was sorry now to have dumped this on him, but he deserved to know the truth.
‘That’s the reason I’ve been so obsessed with Tim and his family,’ Erin said, raising her eyes to meet his. ‘At first, it was just the Belle River connection, but when I discovered my own family was involved, what with Graham possibly giving PCP-laced marijuana to Tim, and my mother providing a false alibi to Stern, so many things didn’t mesh with my own memories of that time.’
She scooped an ice cube from her glass and touched it to her wrists. ‘I heard her come home that night, though I didn’t remember it until recently, when she was supposed to have been with Stern. For nearly two years, she lived in fear I would rat her out to the police. That’s why she had me sent to Danfield.’ The story, locked away for so many years, came out in a rush. Had anything she said made sense?
As the memories surfaced and whirled like a Catherine wheel, Ray swam in and out of focus.
What if Stern did it?
There it was again. That voice, teasing and taunting. But she wouldn’t say it out loud.
The nausea returned, and with it an overwhelming desire to lie down. She felt someone pulling her up by the arms and tried to speak, but darkness descended, and she slipped away.
*
When she opened her eyes, it felt like hours had passed, but it was still daytime and bars of sunlight slanted through the blinds. The pillow under her head was deliciously cool. A ceramic urn, glazed in a pleasing mosaic of yellow and green, stood in a corner by the bed. On the far wall, a motley collage of photos provided a bright spot of colour.
As she pushed away the damp bed sheet, fragments of the day shimmied to the surface. The confession to Ray, her panic and confusion, the ride through the heat-buckled streets in a taxi, all the way to the Upper West Side.
A knock, and Ray stuck his head around the door. ‘Look who’s up.’ He slipped into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘How are you feeling?’ He felt her forehead with the back of his hand. ‘Much better. You were burning up before.’ He handed her a glass of water.
Erin struggled to sit up, embarrassed at feeling so helpless. ‘I should get home.’
‘Why not stay over? We can order in food or watch a film. Whatever you like.’
Nausea cramped her stomach. She rushed to the bathroom, where she threw up in the toilet. Heatstroke. She’d had it once before, in the cauldron of southern Spain. The mirror gave her the bad news. Sweat-damp hair stuck to her cheek, and her skin was milky pale. She splashed water on her face and yanked a comb through her hair before returning to the bedroom.
It was empty. She could hear Ray in the kitchen, opening cupboards and running water in the sink. The parquet was deliciously cool on her feet, and she paused to look at the photo collage, a pastiche apparently, of Ray’s travels. Spain, Greece, Italy. A country in South America that might be Ecuador or Peru. Were there pictures of his ex-wife? She saw no photos of women, but her eyes were drawn to a familiar snapshot, similar to the one she’d seen in the Belle River Gazette from the 1976 bicentennial. Further down was a picture of Ray and an older man, both in baseball caps and sunglasses. A beach at sunset, with the surf at their backs and rocky bluffs damp with salt spray.
Ray stood in the doorway, holding a plate of food. ‘I made sandwiches. And, if you’re up for it later, I can open a bottle of Rioja.’
‘Is that Spain?’ She pointed to the photo.
He set the plate on the bedside table. ‘Nope. Santa Barbara. Me and my dad from a few years back.’
He came up behind her and lifted the hair from her shoulders. His breath tickled the back of her neck, as his lips sought the skin behind her ear. She shivered as he slid the cotton blouse from her shoulders and when she turned to face him, he kissed her neck and grazed his lips along the length of her collarbone. With a pang, she remembered the scar. But this time, it didn’t matter. She no longer had anything to hide.
45
Matlock, Vermont
August, Present Day
On Friday afternoon, Erin locked the door to her office and slipped away from the Meadows. While her judicious side urged her to inform the authorities of her suspicions and let them handle it, this trip to Vermont to confront Stern was a piece of unfinished business she needed to deal with on her own. Even if she convinced the police to follow up on the false alibi, Vivien would flat out lie. And if that didn’t work, she would wave Erin’s records from Danfield in their
