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During her years at Mayfield, it had seemed as though she’d never be in the same social or financial league as all of her friends. It had been hard, always feeling a step behind. But when her first million turned into double digits and she started being profiled in national newspapers and magazines, she finally felt like she could hold her own.
Walking over to the long dining room table, she sat and checked her email. She deleted the sales messages from Barney’s and Neiman’s, thinking she needed to start unsubscribing from all the junk mail filling up her in-box. She opened a message from her publicist about two conferences she and Daniel had been invited to speak at. She forwarded the email to him with a question mark.
Next, she googled “Lily Michaels,” something she hadn’t been able to bear to do since she got the news. The page filled with hit after hit. She clicked on the link from the Baltimore Sun to see a picture of beautiful, smiling Lily next to the headline “Baltimore Heiress Bludgeoned to Death in Her Home.” She scanned the article, which included a statement from the police department. They were considering a wide range of suspects, it said. From research she’d done for her books, she knew the husband was always the first suspect. The police would be digging into every area of Harrison’s life, and if they found even one shred of evidence that he had a motive to kill Lily, they’d latch on to him with the ferocity of a feral dog. He and Lily had always seemed happy to Blaire, but a lot could change in fifteen years.
Scrolling farther, she came to the obituary. It was a big article. Prominent. Just like Lily had been. It mentioned her charity work, her foundation, and all the wonderful ways she’d contributed to her community. Blaire felt a stab at her heart when she read that Lily was survived by one daughter and a granddaughter. She thought back to her senior year in college. Kate had been seeing Simon for a few months, and suddenly had less and less time for Blaire. It had been a Friday night when she’d gotten a call from Harrison asking if she knew how to reach Kate, who wasn’t in her off-campus apartment or answering her cell phone.
“Is everything okay?” she’d asked.
“Lily had a minor car accident,” Harrison had said.
“Oh no! What happened?”
“Someone rear-ended her. She has mild whiplash and a broken wrist. I’m on call tomorrow and was hoping Kate could fly down and help out over the weekend.”
“Kate’s probably already gone. She told me that she and Simon were going skiing in Stowe.”
A sharp intake of breath had come over the line. “I see.”
“What if I come?” she’d said impulsively. “I can catch an early train from Penn Station and be there by nine.”
“Blaire, that’s such a kind offer. Thank you.”
She’d heard the relief in his voice. So she’d gone and taken care of Lily, and it turned out to be one of the nicest weekends she could remember. Just Lily and Blaire, talking, watching old movies, playing Scrabble.
Lily had hugged her tight and smiled widely, her eyes crinkling. She’d put her hand on Blaire’s cheek. “Blaire, darling, I can’t thank you enough. How lucky I am, to have not only one daughter but two.”
Yes, Kate had lost her mother, and it was terrible, Blaire thought. But Blaire had lost her too—not once but twice.
Kate shuddered, her teeth clenched, as she got out of bed and looked at the bathroom door the next morning. She couldn’t go in there. Not yet. Not while the rotten, decaying smell of the mice still clung to her. And those horrible eyes—every time she closed hers, she saw them, the empty sockets looking back at her. She’d asked her housekeeper, Fleur, to have her things moved into one of the guest bathrooms for the time being. The police had taken it all, the dead rodents and the note, and had swept the room for evidence. If they hadn’t been sure that she was in danger after the text, the dead mice had convinced them, the concern apparent on Anderson’s face as he’d stood at the sink. He’d cautioned her and Simon to keep the details to themselves.
First the text message and now this—who was watching her, waiting to hurt her? The nursery rhyme, with its mind-numbing tune, wouldn’t stop playing in her head, over and over and over, until she wanted to scream. Did the killer have a third target in mind? And if so, who? Simon? Her father? Or, she shuddered to think, Annabelle? And what kind of charmed life was she supposedly running after, anyway? She’d worked her butt off to get into med school and to ace the MCATs. After medical school, she’d spent nearly five years in residency and another two years in a cardio fellowship. Kate had committed her life to saving others’ lives. And her mother had been a generous philanthropist and advocate for women, admired by the community—except, it was now clear, by whoever was sending these notes.
As a precaution, Simon had hired private security. He’d done some architectural work last year for BCT Protection Services, a security firm in Washington, DC. He’d called his contact there, and there were now two guards stationed outside the house and two inside—one off the hallway in the small study, monitoring the premises via computer fed by the outside cameras, and the other doing hourly rounds of the first floor. The police had offered to station a car outside her house, but Simon had convinced Kate that they’d be better off with BCT, who could be on twenty-four hours a day. Anderson had told them that the size and scope of their property would make it a challenge to secure, especially with the huge expanse of woods adjacent to their thirty-five acres, but BCT had assured him they were up to the task.
Kate walked nervously down the hall to the guest bathroom, her robe tightly drawn around her. It was terrifying to think that the killer had been able to slip into her bathroom undetected in the space of a few hours. Granted, the house had been full of people during the reception, but that didn’t make it better. The police and the security team had both done full checks of the house when they’d shown up, but she couldn’t shake the idea that they’d somehow missed something, that whoever had left the mice was in her house right now, hiding somewhere, lurking behind a closed door, listening.
She’d spent the morning in bed, and now she only had a few minutes to get dressed for the reading of her mother’s will, which was scheduled for ten o’clock that morning at Gordon’s office. They’d considered canceling after the threats but decided it was better to get it over with. When she walked into the kitchen in the simple gray sheath she’d chosen, Simon was reading the paper. Her father sat at the table playing Old Maid with Annabelle. He hadn’t gone back to his house since that terrible night, staying instead at the waterfront condo in downtown Baltimore that he and Lily had bought last year as a weekend retreat. Annabelle looked up from her cards and jumped down from her chair. “Mommy!”
Kate gathered her daughter into her arms, inhaling the sweet scent of her strawberry shampoo. “Good morning, sunshine. Who’s winning?”
“Me!” she shouted and ran back to the table.
Kate followed her daughter to the table to lean down and give her father a kiss on the cheek, noticing again the gray cast to his skin and the dullness in his eyes.
“Good morning,” Simon said, closing the paper and setting it on the table in front of him and rising. “How are you feeling?”
“Not great.”
“Coffee?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He poured a cup of French roast and handed it to her, but as she took it, her fingers trembled so badly that it crashed to the floor. Kate looked at the mess at her feet and burst into tears. At the sight of her mother’s agitation, Annabelle began to cry too.
“Oh, sweetheart. It’s all right. Mommy’s all right,” Kate said, hugging Annabelle until she calmed down.
“Kate,