Page 51 of I Need You to Read This
Alex glances at her phone. It’s nearly 5 p.m. If Howard leaves theHeraldonce the paper goes to press, that will give them at least four hours to hunt down the missing knife.
“So, this is where the rich spend their summers?” Lucy cranes her head as they pass a row of businesses in whitewashed buildings, a few cafés, a Pilates studio, a few shops with caftans and handmade pottery in the windows. People linger at outside tables with gem-colored drinks. They look so worry-free that Alex wants to park the car and join them, to be absorbed into their lives and forget what she is actually doing here.
“Look at this,” Lucy scoffs, waving her hand out the window at a bakery for dogs. Alex looks up, surprised at the bitterness in hervoice. “These people have so much money they have to invent ways to spend it.”
“It doesn’t mean they’re happy though,” Alex says quietly, reminding herself of what she knows deep down is true, that no amount of privilege can buy you contentment.
“No, I’m sure you’re right,” Lucy agrees begrudgingly. “But they’re idiots not to be. What does anyone with a beach house have to worry about?” She waves her hand dismissively.
Getting murdered, for one,Alex thinks.
“I think Francis’s place is up here just a little way,” she says instead, looking down at the map on her phone. They pass a public beach. A few holdouts are still in the water, their towels empty on the sand. The waves rock them gently on their golden crests as the sun starts its descent. How long has it been since Alex has had a real vacation? For a moment she pictures Tom in the driver’s seat. She imagines them coming here for a romantic weekend, checking into a hotel by the beach, lingering over lobster and bottles of white wine at one of the beachside restaurants.No, no, that’s no good. She shakes her head, dissolving the image of Tom, of beach walks and sun-kissed skin and evening cocktails, from her mind.
Lucy doesn’t seem tired at all. If anything, she is more energetic now than at the start of the drive. Her eyes are bright and focused as Alex directs her down one of the side streets, fringed in tall trees, their silhouettes bending in the late summer light. The houses back here look like they are straight from a fairy tale, sprawling cottages shingled with cedar and landscaped with sea grasses and massive hydrangeas. It’s the kind of low-key wealth that you only find in New England. Alex glances at the map and sees that past their manicured lawns there is a crescent of beach invisible from the road. She looks at the houses, which are set back from the street and spaced far enough apart to not have to interact with each other. You wouldn’t have to worry about your neighbors bothering you in a place like this, Alex thinks. You wouldn’t be able to hear anyone scream either.
They round a curve and drive along a stacked-stone fence. “This isit,” Alex says, glancing back to make sure they aren’t being followed. They turn onto a long drive bumpy with cobblestones. The house comes into view at the end of the drive. It is three floors with graying wood shingling and white trim. A cheerful blue door opens onto a wide front porch. The driveway is still blocked off by a crisscross of police tape, sagging and faded.
“We probably don’t want anyone knowing we’re here, right?” Alex says, pointing to a hedge down the road.
“Oh, right, smart,” Lucy says, rolling the Hyundai very slowly behind a stand of trees. As they step out of the car, the smell of freshly cut grass and the tang of ocean hit Alex’s nose. It makes her think of being a child, back in the before times. The nostalgia feels almost painful. They walk silently toward the house, slowing to step over the fence in a spot where the stones have toppled.
A bank of clouds has blown in and the sky has turned a milky green. They look toward the house. The windows are dark and opaque.
Alex glances at Lucy, feeling another stab of guilt for bringing her here. This whole thing could get her into so much trouble. She has tried not to think of the possibility of getting caught, but it is there.
“You don’t have to come with,” Alex says suddenly. “You should wait in the car and I’ll just do this on my own.”
But Lucy ignores Alex, her eyes fixed on the house. “Where did you say the key was?”
“Howard said it was under a garden gnome.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Lucy mumbles.
“You want to tackle this side and I’ll look around back?” Alex asks. Lucy nods, and they split. Alex moves past the house with its perfectly weathered shutters and stone accents and out into the backyard. She stops to take in the view, which looks like it’s out of a postcard, a lush green lawn cradled on two sides by pretty wild foliage and flowering plants framing a view of the Atlantic, which seems to appear there as if by magic, shimmering right above the edge of the yard.
The grass has been mowed, though not recently. The blades tickle her ankles as she walks through it. As she approaches the water, shesees the slender curve of beach, dipping down from a line of sea grasses wavering ever so slightly in the breeze. The honey-colored sand looks warm and inviting. If Alex had a house like this, she would spend all of her time down here just listening and watching. She thinks of Francis following this same path. Would she have stood in this spot and gazed at the ocean on the day she died? She forces herself to turn away and keep searching for the key.
She walks to the far edge of the property and comes up to a row of raised garden beds. Left to their own devices, they have still managed to seed. Clumps of green tomatoes cling to their stalks, while some farther down have ripened and burst open uneaten. Snap peas with nothing to climb droop over the sides of the bed, their pods eaten away by animals. Another gift Francis left behind without even meaning to, Alex thinks.
She spots the gnome finally, tucked away behind the last bed. Lucy comes around the side of the house, and Alex calls her to it. The gnome is bigger than she expected, made of solid concrete worn down by the weather, moss growing up its side. She can still make out its cherubic face, its plump hands on its waist framing a round belly. Lucy tilts it back, grunting with effort, and Alex drops onto her knees in the grass; she sees a glimmer of a silver key pressed into the dark soil and pulls it up from under a layer of dirt, wiping it on her shirt.
“Okay, let’s go,” Lucy says. They dash back across the lawn, ducking back against the side of the house. Alex’s hands shake as she fits the key into the back door’s lock and twists the handle.
Alex’s skin prickles as the door swings open into Francis’s back foyer. The flashlight from her phone bounces around the mudroom. She doesn’t know what she expected to find, but she hadn’t thought it would feel so lived-in. Francis’s shoes are still stacked on a tray next to the door. A set of light jackets, a market tote, and sun hats hang from a row of wooden pegs, just waiting for her return from the city. Beyond the entrance is a wide hallway that opens into a large open living room with a giant fireplace. It is stylish and cozy, a bright quilt thrown over the arm of a plush cream sofa. No one knows why Francis came up herethat weekend, but looking around, Alex has the suspicion that this was a place she could come to sort herself out.
“What are we looking for exactly?” Lucy says.
“A knife.” She lifts the top off a box shaped like a wooden dove and looks inside at a set of fireplace matches. She replaces the lid. “That’s what Howard implied, anyway, that the murder weapon is here somewhere in the house. He just didn’t seem to know where.”
They come to a spacious kitchen. Everything is still where Francis must have placed it. It’s on the small side for such a big house. Wide white cupboards ring a center island topped with a rough wood chopping block. Alex runs her fingertips across the surface; from the amount of nicks in it, she can tell that Francis must have liked to cook.
Alex stops and looks out the kitchen window. It is getting dark outside, the edges of the yard blurring into shadows. It would be strange to be here all alone, she thinks.
“How would we know which knife?” Lucy asks, pulling a large chef’s knife from a butcher block and extending it in front of her.
Alex shakes her head. “I don’t think it is a kitchen knife. I think it might be decorative,” she says, thinking of the elaborate embossing on the case. “Look for some sort of design on the hilt.”
Lucy returns the knife to its slot. “I’m confused. Wouldn’t the police have found it already if it was here?”
