mother out, let her ramble on until she ran out of steam, then come in and try to gloss over the whole thing, managing to apologize to his daughter without quite condemning his wife. “Your mother’s a little high-strung sometimes,” he’d say. “You just have to try not to upset her.”
Now, still sprawled out on her bed, Becky heard her father’s car pull into the driveway. She heard its door slam, the back door open and close, and her father call out to her mother. Then she heard the murmur of voices drifting in from the living room. She could practically count the seconds until she’d hear the soft knock that meant it was time for her father’s not-quite-apology for her mother. Except that when it finally came, it wasn’t a soft knock at all. It was a sharp rap, followed immediately by her father opening the door and stepping into her room.
“Your mother tells me you were with Matt Moore this afternoon,” Frank Adams began, his forehead creased with deep worry lines.
Becky’s jaw almost dropped open in surprise, and she sat up, swinging around to face her father. As the anticipation of his apology faded, she felt the anger that had been simmering for the last hour surge to a boil. “I don’t believe it! You’ve always liked Matt — in fact, you’ve always wanted to know why I don’t go out with him!”
Frank Adams’s eyes narrowed defensively. “That was before — ” he said, but his daughter was on her feet now.
“Before what?” she demanded, her voice rising. “Before everybody decided he did all kinds of horrible things? Well, if he did them all, how come he hasn’t been arrested?” The memory of the misery in Matt’s face and voice as they’d stood on the sidewalk while he confessed his own doubts rose to the forefront of Becky’s mind. “He didn’t do anything, Daddy! If he had, he’d have told — ” She cut her words off abruptly, but it was too late.
“Told who?” her father asked. “Told you? Why would he do that? And if he didn’t do anything, then what happened to Bill Hapgood? He was there when Bill got shot! He was standing right there, and he shot a deer that was between him and Bill! It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. I’m not saying he did anything to Emily Moore — God knows she might have just wandered off. But what about Kelly Conroe? She wasn’t the kind of girl who’d just take off, so something must have happened to her. And Matt is the only person that makes sense!”
Becky’s eyes glittered with fury. “It does not!” she insisted. “Maybe Matt did shoot his dad. But even if he did, it was just an accident! And anybody could have picked up Kelly — if she was walking home by herself, anyone could have come along and picked her up!”
“That’s not what happened,” Frank Adams insisted.
Becky’s temper snapped. “How would you know what happened?” she shot back. “You don’t even know what happens in your own house! You don’t even know that Mom’s drunk all the time! All she has to do is deny it — just claim she had a ‘bad day’ or something — and you make every excuse you can think of for her! But not for Matt! Even though you’ve known him all his life, and always told me he’s exactly the kind of boy I should marry. Well, guess what, Daddy? I’m not going to marry Matt, because he’s never going to ask me! Why would he, with the kind of parents I have?”
When she stormed out of the house, neither of her parents made a move to stop her. Her father was too stunned by her outburst to do anything but watch her go. Her mother was too drunk even to know she’d gone.
Her fury still raging, Becky set off down the street. If she was the only friend Matt still had, he was also the only friend she had.
* * *
CYNTHIA MOORE MOVED slowly through the house, carefully examining each of the rooms, deciding what she would keep and what must be changed. Some of the pieces were really quite good — she recognized them as family heirlooms that had undoubtedly been in the Hapgood family for generations. But others — both the Queen Anne chair in the living room, which was obviously a reproduction, and the not-quite-Chippendale sideboard that stood gracelessly in the dining room — would have to go. Not that she was surprised to find the less than perfect furnishings: Joan had never had any taste, and undoubtedly had never noticed that the pieces she’d put in the house simply weren’t up to standard. What she did find surprising was that Bill Hapgood had allowed Joan’s taste to taint the house so badly.
When she finished her tour of the downstairs rooms, she returned to the second floor. First she went to the master suite, into which she would move her things this very day. Going to the closet, she pulled a large suitcase off the top shelf — second rate, like everything else Joan had surrounded herself with — and began filling it with the contents of Joan’s dresser. Not all of it had to go, of course. There were a few things — some lingerie, a few silk blouses, and some very good cashmere sweaters — that she recognized as having been gifts from Bill Hapgood. But the things Joan herself had bought all disappeared into the suitcase, just as Joan herself had vanished a little more than an hour ago, when Cynthia had finally come to the end of her patience and decided to take over completely. Having made room for her things in the dresser, Cynthia started back to the guest room to deal with the mess Joan had made. Her hand was on the knob when she heard the front doorbell chime softly from below. For a moment she was tempted not to answer it at all — the house was hardly in condition for her to receive visitors yet. But when the doorbell rang a second time, she sighed, went downstairs, carefully put on her most gracious smile, and opened the door.
The girl standing on the porch was about Matt’s age, and struck her as unfortunately plain, her hair as badly done as Joan’s had always been. She wore clothing Cynthia considered drab, the kind of clothing she had always hated. She was about to close the door, but before she did, she decided to retrieve a name for the girl from Joan’s memory and talk to her, if only for a moment.
She opened the door a little wider, adjusting her smile to project a degree of cordiality, if not quite friendliness. The girl, after all, was not the sort of person toward whom Cynthia Moore would ever have been more than polite.
Becky Adams looked uncertainly at Joan Hapgood. Though she recognized her immediately, she appeared different to Becky than the last time she’d seen her, at Mr. Hapgood’s funeral. She had changed the way she did her hair, putting it up in a French twist, and her makeup was different too. It almost looked like she wasn’t wearing any, except that her cheekbones seemed a little higher, and her eyes looked wider apart.
Though Becky had always thought Matt’s mother was pretty, she now seemed truly beautiful. Even the way she stood made her look different, and left Becky feeling self-conscious about her own plain features and slumping posture.
“What is it, Becky?”
Becky frowned uncertainly. Even Mrs. Hapgood’s voice sounded different — low, and sort of throaty. “Is — I was wondering if Matt’s home,” she said, her voice faltering.
Cynthia hesitated, then pulled the door further open and stepped back. “I’m afraid he’s upstairs in the shower, but I’m sure he’ll want to see you. Won’t you come in?”
Becky remained where she was for a moment. It almost seemed to her that the woman inviting her into the house wasn’t Mrs. Hapgood at all. But of course she could see that it was. She stepped inside.
“Perhaps you’d like to wait in here,” Cynthia said, guiding her through the wide archway that led to the spacious living room. She gestured Becky into one of the wingbacked chairs that flanked the fireplace, and lowered herself onto the edge of the one opposite it. “I’m sure Matt won’t be more than a few minutes,” she went on, her eyes fixing on Becky.
Becky fidgeted under her gaze. “Maybe I should come back some other time,” she said, starting to get up. “Or you could just have Matt call me.”
Cynthia leaned forward, holding out her hand as if to stop Becky. “Oh, no,” she insisted. “You mustn’t go — you just got here, and I know Matt wouldn’t want to miss you.”
Uncertain what to do, Becky nervously eased herself back into the chair. Then the demeanor of the woman sitting opposite her changed.
“You’re in love with my son, aren’t you?” Cynthia Moore asked, her eyes hardening, her voice suddenly cold.
“No!” Becky protested. “I — ”
“Of course you are. It shows all over you. But it won’t do you any good. He belongs to me!”
Becky’s stomach suddenly felt hollow, and a chill ran through her. What was Mrs. Hapgood talking about? In
