He placed the note next to her phone on the end table. He put on his ski jacket and was already heading for the door when he heard a key turning in the lock. The door swung open, and Madeleine entered the room, her thick wool ski hat pulled down over her forehead and ears, her down jacket zipped up to her chin. She looked cold and tense. She swung the door shut behind her and greeted him with a small “Hi.”
“Where were you?” The sharpness in his own voice surprised him.
“I went out for a while.”
“Why didn’t you leave me a note?”
“I didn’t know where I’d be. I didn’t expect to be gone that long. The fog and the ice . . .” A visible shiver ran through her body. “I need to take a hot bath.”
“Where were you?”
She looked as though she were thinking about a difficult question, then answered. “Someplace that doesn’t really exist anymore.”
He stared at her.
“I went to the house where George and Maureen used to live. If I didn’t know what it was, I wouldn’t have recognized it. It was crushed by a tree. Must have been a long time ago. Moss, pine needles, things growing out of it.”
“So . . . what did you do?”
“Nothing. Everything was different. The dirt road . . . the old fence . . . everything seemed so much smaller and shabbier.”
“How did you find the house?”
“The GPS.”
“You remembered the address after all those years?”
“Just the name of the road. But there were only four or five houses.” She paused, looked forlorn. “Now there’s not much of anything.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“No.” Another sudden shiver shook her. She clasped her arms tightly to her body. “I’m chilled. I need a hot bath.”
The lost look on her face gave him a terrible feeling. Surely it was reflecting something real inside her, yet it was a look utterly alien to the Madeleine he knew. Or believed he knew.
She appeared to notice for the first time that he was wearing his ski jacket. “Where are you going?”
“To see the Hammonds, to get something straight.”
“You’re driving there?”
“Yes.”
“Be careful. The ice . . .”
“I know.”
“I have to get into that bath.” She turned and walked into the bathroom. He followed her to the door.
“Maddie, you borrowed one of the Jeeps, followed a GPS to some dirt road in the middle of nowhere, stared at an old wrecked house, saw no one, then drove back here in the fog, freezing to death. That’s it? That’s what you did this morning?”
“Are you interrogating me?”
That’s exactly what he was doing, he thought. It was a bad habit, triggered by worry.
She started closing the door. He stopped her with a question. “Does all this have something to do with that kid who drowned?”
“All what?”
“All this. This weirdness. This sightseeing trip. That dirt road.”
“David, I really do want to take my bath.”
“What’s the big secret? I asked you if it has something to do with the kid who drowned. How did he drown, anyway?”
“He fell through the ice.”
“You knew him?”
“Yes. There weren’t many kids up here my age, not in the winter, anyway.”
“Are any of them still here?”
“Thirty years later? I have no idea. I doubt I’d recognize any of them if they were.”
He caught himself nodding understandingly—another ingrained interrogation technique, designed to create the impression of agreement, even empathy. He stopped it immediately, embarrassed by the essential dishonesty of the gesture. Keeping his behavior as a detective and his behavior as a husband separate seemed to require endless vigilance. He tried one more question as she was easing the door shut.
“How did he fall through the ice?”
She held the door a few inches ajar. “He raced his motorcycle out onto the frozen lake. The ice cracked.”
“How old was he?”
“He told everyone he was sixteen. I heard later that he was barely fifteen.”
“Who was there when it happened?”
“Just his girlfriend.”
“How well did you know him?”
“Not that well.” A sad smile appeared and disappeared.
HER STORY LEFT HIM FEELING UNCOMFORTABLE AND DISTRACTED ON his drive to the chalet. Halfway there a large gray animal darted across the foggy road ahead of him. He jammed on the brakes as it bounded into the darkness of the pine woods and disappeared.
When he arrived it was Jane who came to the door. She greeted him with a high-anxiety smile. “David? Is something wrong?”
“May I come in?”
“Of course.” She stepped back, motioning him into the entry area.
“Is Richard here?”
“He’s talking a nap. Is there something I can help you with?”
“It might be better if I could speak to both of you.”
“If you feel it’s important.” She hesitated for a moment, then went to get Richard.
She returned a minute later and led Gurney to a seat by the hearth. She perched nervously on the arm of a nearby chair and tugged at a strand of hair by her ear. “Richard will be out in a moment. Has something come up?”
“A couple of questions.”
“Such as?”
Before Gurney could answer, Richard entered the room and took a chair. He smiled a bland therapist’s smile.
Gurney decided to get right to the point. “Fenton came to see me this morning. He told me something that surprised me.”
Jane frowned. “I wouldn’t trust anything that man said.”
Gurney addressed Hammond. “Fenton told me you’re in line for a huge inheritance.”
He showed no reaction.
“Is it true?” asked Gurney.
“Yes, it’s true.”
Anticipating the obvious question, Jane spoke up. “I didn’t mention it because I was afraid it would give you the wrong impression.”
“How?”
“You’re used to dealing with criminals—people who do terrible things for financial gain. I was afraid that Ethan’s will would convey the opposite of what it really meant.”
“The opposite?”
“Because of the crazy things Fenton has been saying, I was afraid you might see it as something Richard had hypnotized Ethan into doing—even though that’s impossible. It was totally Ethan’s idea—a nudge to Peyton to straighten out his life.”
“A threat, to be honest about it,” said Hammond softly. “An attempt to extort improved behavior. The message was simple: ‘Shape up, or end up with nothing.’ Ethan was determined to reform his brother any way he could.”
“The money was never truly intended for Richard,” added Jane. “In fact, once the will is probated and the bequest comes to him, he intends to refuse it.”
Gurney turned toward Hammond. “Twenty-nine million is a lot to refuse.”
Those unblinking blue-green eyes met his gaze. “I’ve had enough money in my life to understand what it is and what it isn’t. When you don’t have it, you tend to believe that having it will make a far greater difference than it actually does. It’s only by having it that you discover its limitations. My father made a great deal of money, and he never ceased to be a miserable man.”
Gurney leaned back in his leather chair and let his gaze settle on the fireless hearth. “Are there any other facts you’re keeping from me because they might give me the wrong idea?”
“No,” said Jane quickly. “There’s nothing else.”
“How about the phone calls to the victims?”