Page 56 of The Shape of Night

“They were also working in this house while Ms. Nielson lived here.”

“Do you actuallyknowBilly and Ned?”

“Do you, ma’am?”

That makes me pause. In truth, how can we truly know anyone? “They never gave me a reasonnotto trust them,” I say. “And Billy, he’s just a kid.”

“He’s twenty-three years old,” says Perry.

How odd that they already know Billy’s age. Now I do, as well. They don’t need to point out the obvious: that twenty-three-year-old men are capable of violence. I think of the muffins and stews and cakes I prepared for them, and how Billy’s eyes would light up whenever I appeared with new treats for them to sample. Was I feeding a monster?

“And the second carpenter? What do you know about Mr. Haskell?” His gaze offers no clue to what he’s thinking, but his questions have veered into disturbing territory. Suddenly we’re not talking about faceless intruders, but about people I know and like.

“I know he’s a master carpenter. Just look around, at what he’s done with this house. Ned told me he started working for the Sherbrooke family years ago. As a handyman for the owner’s aunt.”

“That would be the late Aurora Sherbrooke?”

“Yes. Why would he still be working for the Sherbrooke family if there’d been any problems? And he’s more than just a carpenter. He’s also a well-regarded artist. The gallery downtown sells his carvings of birds.”

“So we hear,” says Perry, sounding unimpressed.

“You should take a look at his work. His pieces are even sold in galleries in Boston.” I look back and forth at the two detectives. “He’s anartist,” I repeat, as if that excludes him as a suspect. Artists create, they don’t destroy. They don’t kill.

“Did Mr. Haskell ever say or do anything that bothered you? Struck you as inappropriate or made you uneasy?”

Something has changed here. Both of these men have leaned ever so slightly forward, their eyes fixed on me. “Why are you asking about Ned?”

“These are routine questions.”

“They don’t sound routine.”

“Please, just answer the question.”

“All right, then. Ned Haskell never once made me uncomfortable. He never scared me. Ilikethe man, and I trusted him enough to give him access to my house. Now tell me why you’re focused on him.”

“We follow every lead. It’s our job.”

“Has Ned done something wrong?”

“We can’t comment,” says Vaughn, an answer that tells me everything. He closes his notebook. “We’ll be in touch if we have other questions. In the meantime, do you still keep your house key above the doorjamb?”

“It’s there right now. I just haven’t taken it down.”

“I suggest you do that now. And while you’re at home, use the dead bolt. I notice you have one.”

The men head to the front door. I follow them, so many of my questions still unanswered. “What about Charlotte’s car?” I ask. “She had a car, didn’t she? Have you found it yet?”

“No.”

“So the killer stole it.”

“We don’t know where it is. It could be out of state by now. Or it could be lying at the bottom of some lake.”

“Then it could have been just a carjacking, couldn’t it? Someone stole her car and threw her body into the bay.” I hear the note of desperation in my voice. “It could have happened while she was driving out of town. Not here, not in this house.”

Detective Vaughn pauses on the front porch and looks at me with those coolly enigmatic eyes. “Lock your door, Ms. Collette,” is all he says.

That is the first thing I do after they drive away. I turn the dead bolt and walk around the house, checking that all the windows are latched. The storm clouds that have been darkening all afternoon suddenly rip open with a clap of thunder. In the sea room, I stand at the window watching rain sheet down the glass. The air itself feels charged and dangerous, and when I look at my arms, I see the hairs are standing up. Lightning streaks from the sky and the whole house shakes in the instantaneous thunderclap.

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