Influenced by Eva Robinson (best free ebook reader TXT) 📗

to avoid all the criticism I knew I’d get, but I can’t avoid it. And now I can hear their voices…”

“What are you talking about? Rowan, you need to cut down on the drugs. I need you to listen to me. The police think I stole Arabella’s computer. And they’re suggesting that I murdered Tom all those years ago. If you know anything about Arabella or Peter that you’re not telling me, you have to come clean. Because I don’t want to go to jail for something I didn’t do.”

Hannah is like a better version of her, now. Prettier. More successful. More put together. “But people said you pushed him.”

Hannah’s eyes flashed. “Of course I didn’t push him. I was upset, yes. I wanted him to like me, but he was in love with you. Everyone was in love with you. And Tom was devastated. You were flaunting your new relationship right in front of him. He was heartbroken. So he drowned his sorrows in drugs and alcohol.”

“I was eighteen,” Rowan shot back. “I didn’t care about anything.”

“You cared if you got attention. And I think not much has changed now, because if someone pays attention to me, you leap into his lap. Your entire sense of self is dependent on other people thinking you’re beautiful. And that’s why you’re falling apart now, because on the internet, beautiful people are a dime a dozen, and no one cares anymore.”

The words were like a punch to her gut. What happens when her looks wither, and all that’s left is the rot inside? Anger flared. “Oh, really! If I’m such a sad case then why have you started dressing exactly like me?”

“Because I like how you look. But that’s not enough to feel good, because you don’t have any faith in your own ability to do things. You’re a damsel in distress—can’t make a cocktail. Can’t cook. Can’t write captions on your own. And now you think confessing everything will work out well, because somebody’s always swooped in to fix things. You’re going to cry on Instagram, and someone will fix everything that’s wrong.”

“Why are you being so mean?”

“Why am I being mean? You just accused me of murdering Tom!”

Slowly, the puzzle pieces were sliding together in her mind. She’d been thinking that people tended to die around her—but it was Hannah, wasn’t it? Hannah had been there when Tom died. “People said you pushed him. And you said the police were questioning you about Arabella’s laptop. Now my laptop is gone. And Peter’s had been stolen, too. You didn’t like Peter, did you?”

Hannah stepped closer. “Rowan, I need you to pull yourself together. I need you to think clearly and help me to figure this out.”

Look at Rowan, unable to pull herself together. She’s going to snap. She’s going to push Hannah right off that deck. She’s a disease. “Shut up!” Rowan snapped. “Shut up. I’m going to find a way to shut you up for good.”

She was talking to the voices, but Hannah took a step back from her, eyes wide.

“Oh, calm down,” Rowan said. “Not you. I was talking to them.” She was getting confused again.

“Who?”

“Listen, Hannah. I’m done messing around. You have to tell me everything. Tell me what happened with Tom. Tell me why the police think you’re connected to Arabella’s death. Have you been sending me these threatening texts? Did you steal my laptop?”

“I’m not telling you anything. You’re not even remotely reliable right now. You’re just going to post everything online.”

“Come here.” She sidled up to Hannah and wrapped an arm around her. “We’re sisters now, right? We’re Saltonstall and Oakes sisters.” Her voice dripped with bitterness. “But sisters tell each other their secrets. Now, smile for the camera. I’m about to make you famous.”

Thirty-Six

Michael clicked his pen—sixteen times—while he waited impatiently for Ciara to get off the phone. Her phone call ended with a terse “Fine,” and then a slam of the receiver.

“Easy,” said Michael.

“The lieutenant says no, we can’t follow Hannah. He doesn’t want to expend the extra manpower at this point.”

“Of course he said that.”

“And the break room is out of coffee, and it feels like someone is jabbing a knife into my skull.”

“Well, I just got off the phone with the coroner. She has Peter’s results. And I think I have an idea how he died.”

She turned to him, wide-eyed. “Thallium?”

“No. He tested positive for benzodiazepine. Roofies. Which means it’s possible he wasn’t the only one knocked out.”

She nodded. “Is that what killed him? Overdose?”

Michael shook his head. “She didn’t think so. But we know from his medical records that he had a severe nut allergy. If someone wanted him dead, as he was passing out from the roofies, they’d only need him to ingest a small amount of peanut powder. Anaphylaxis wouldn’t have shown up clearly in the autopsy after he’d been in the pond for a few days. It would explain why his stomach contents were empty, even though he’d eaten the brownies.”

“The brownies could have been contaminated,” said Ciara.

“Or the punch. Maybe everyone drank the same thing, and it only killed one of them.”

“So who wanted him dead?” Ciara muttered to herself. “We’ve been looking at Hannah, but does she really have a coherent motive? Jealousy? He was too close to Rowan?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve been following up with the high school where Hannah worked. If Arabella was poisoned the morning of May second, that was the same day Hannah quit her job. Everyone seems to remember this outburst or breakdown or whatever it was. That means she was at work that morning. I confirmed it with the head of special ed and a few other people in her department.”

“But she quit,” said Ciara. “She left early that day.”

Michael shrugged. “True. And the William James building isn’t far from Woodhurst High School, so it might not take long.”

Ciara turned back to the surveillance video. “The laptop was turned on in her neighborhood. And she has a dubious