Page 1 of Beneath the Poet's House

Prologue

Rosedale Cemetery, Montclair, New Jersey

January

It was hard to argue against death’s inherent beauty in a place where stonework snaked through icy landscapes like abstract art, and evergreens softened the spaces between tombstones as elegantly as emerald paint. Saoirse White resisted the urge to wrap her arms around her black-clad torso and tried to focus on the priest’s words—something about grains of golden sand creeping through one’s fingers—rather than the collection of mourners gathered around the open grave. But no matter how many statements of comfort and peace the priest offered, Saoirse remained jumpy, unmoored, and on edge.

The slightest movement in either direction found her face-to-face with yet another friend or family member of her late husband’s. There was Jonathan’s college roommate. Next to the roommate was the law school mentor, blotting his eyes with an endless stream of tissues. Jonathan’s Princeton colleagues huddled in a group, and Saoirse recognized the president of the historical society Jonathan volunteered at, as well as a few members of his bowling league. And to her left, beside a massive arrangement of creamy orchids and indigo gladioli, were Jonathan’s mother, older brother, and younger sister.

At the sight of Isabel, Issac, and Caroline White, Saoirse felt her heart tighten and her breath grow short. As panic climbed up her throat,Saoirse’s own mother took her hand and squeezed it. Ann Norman glanced down with practiced subtlety, catching Saoirse’s eye, refusing to relinquish her grip on her daughter’s hand.

“Got you,” she whispered, and Saoirse relaxed. Her husband may be dead, but her mother was the unyielding pillar from which she’d always drawn strength. She could get through this. Her motherwould help herget through this. Saoirse closed her eyes, and let the priest’s closing remarks wash over her: boundaries dividing life and death ... uncertainties about where one ends and the other begins.

When the last lemon-yellow lily had been thrown atop Jonathan’s casket, Saoirse’s mother started to lead her away. As they stepped onto the dirt path, Saoirse felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to find Isabel, flanked by Jonathan’s two siblings, her green eyes smudged with mascara and the corners of her lipsticked mouth trembling.

“Isabel,” Saoirse said before her brain could tell her to wait, to see what Jonathan’s devastated mother might say to her first. “I’m ... I ... I can’t believe we’re standing here.”

“I can.” Isabel sniffled and reached into her purse for a tissue. “I told him it was too much. All of it. The work, the charitable organizations, the students he was supervising. The”—she paused to blow her nose—“expectations he had for his home life. The things he still wanted to accomplish. What you two were trying to—”

Saoirse’s mother broke in before Isabel could finish. “Mrs. White, now’s not the time. Everyone is grieving. Emotions are high. There’s no sense in bringing up the past”—she gestured around them—“with all these people present. Saoirse and I are going to head to the house. Why don’t you let Jonathan’s friends and colleagues know that anyone who wants to come back there is welcome. We’ll have the food and drinks out by the time you arrive.”

Isabel sniffled again but nodded. With the help of her two remaining children, Jonathan’s mother retreated to where the largest group of mourners still lingered, paying their final respects.

“Thank you,” Saoirse whispered to her mother, who gripped her hand harder and led her toward the limo. A sleek-feathered black bird—too large to be a crow—issued a series of croaks from a nearby bush, and Saoirse jumped. “Goddammit,” she muttered. But it wasn’t the bird that had her looking over her shoulder. She needed to get out of here, away from the whispers and prying eyes. Away from the endless prayers and the cloying scent of flowers and the frigid weather.

When they’d arrived at the cemetery, Saoirse had instructed the limo driver to pull away from the rest of the procession. A copse of weeping willows had provided the privacy she’d needed to compose herself before the service, but now those same hanging boughs seemed ominous, the shadows stretching out from under them creeping and curling like probing fingers. Saoirse forced herself to continue forward, ignoring her fear that she might disappear beneath those branches and never emerge.

“Go ahead,” her mother offered, holding the driver’s-side back door open for Saoirse.

“My bag’s on the other side. I’ll go around.” Circling the back of the limo, Saoirse couldn’t help but consider Isabel White’s words:The expectations he had for his home life. The things he still wanted to accomplish. What you two were trying to—

Saoirse knew whatJonathanwas trying to do, yes, and what he would have told his mother and the rest of his family he wanted to “accomplish.” She cringed at the word. But had anyone been aware of her thoughts on the matter? Certainly not. Likely, the only one who knew anything close to the true nature of her and Jonathan’s relationship was Aidan Vesper. Jonathan’s partner in crime. Jonathan’s confidant since boyhood. Jonathan’s—

“Saoirse,” a voice said, at the same time Saoirse felt a hand grip her elbow. She whirled around, almost catching a branch to her cheek, and found herself staring into Aidan’s pale, angular face, as if her thoughts had conjured him from the air.

“Aidan.” Saoirse tried to back up, but she was already pressed against the limo. She skirted several steps to the right, intent on putting some distance between them. Under the weeping willow, framed by skeletal branches and wearing a black trench coat, he looked like something out of a Grimm’s fairy tale.

“Saoirse,” he said again. “I’ve tried calling, but it goes to voicemail. How are you holding up?”

She stared at him, not answering. A sound came from inside the car. Aidan’s eyes flicked past her, to where Saoirse’s mother would be seated. “Can we go somewhere private?” Aidan asked. “To talk?”

Saoirse’s earlier panic crashed over her in an instant. She had to refrain from bringing a hand to her chest; feeling the erratic beating of her heart would only alarm her further. Why did her husband’s best friend want to talk with her?

Aidan reached into the pocket of his trench coat and came out with his phone. “I know this is not the best time to—”

“No, it’s not,” Saoirse’s mother said. She’d gotten out and come around the back of the limo. “It’s not the best time at all.”

Saoirse nodded. “I’m sorry, Aidan, but I can’t. Everything’s too ...” She trailed off.Everything’s too what? Fresh? Final?“Over,” she finished.

“Over?” Aidan appeared genuinely confused.

“You and I were never close. Jonathan’s people werehispeople. Now that he’s dead, our feigned affinity for one another ... it’s over.” She sighed. “I just want to be left alone. To grieve. To—”

Aidan pursed his lips. “Listen, Saoirse, youneedto hear what I have to say. For the sake of the investigation. For closure. It’s beyond important.” His tone was hard, unflinching. Gone was the friendly—or at least civil—man of a moment before, replaced with the person Aidan became when he scrubbed up and hit the hospital floor for work ... or the person he used to morph into when he would spend time with Jonathan.

“Thereisno investigation,” Saoirse reminded him. “Jonathan died of a heart attack. The autopsy confirmed it.”

Flustered, Aidan shook his head. “Still, it’s about his last night. The night the police say Jonathan died. Even though ...” He trailed off, but Saoirse knew what he was going to say:even though his body wasn’t found until three days later ... by you.

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