“I guess I was drunk. But the thing is, I don’t actually remember drinking. I remember that my party was getting out of hand, everyone boozing too much. I looked for Bryan, because he’s good at calming things down. He wasn’t around, so I left, just to drive around a while and get away from it all. On my way back, I guess I was driving too fast and—and it happened.”
He stopped his pacing and turned to look at her. It was nearly dark inside the cottage. Ivy reached and turned on the lamp. Max looked as confused as she felt.
“Why didn’t you slow down?” she asked. “Why didn’t you move over to the right side of the road?”
“I tried to. I mean, I thought I did. But I couldn’t control the car. I was pulling on the steering wheel as hard as I could, but it wouldn’t turn—it just wouldn’t! My car just kept going toward you, until you pulled sideways and flipped over.”
Ivy sat back against the chair cushion, thinking.
“After you did, I rushed away,” Max said. He sat down on the chair across from her and dropped his head for a moment. “I’m ashamed of myself. I should have stopped. It was close to my house, and I kept telling myself the kids at the party would hear the crash—they’d help you. I parked on the other side of the causeway, then ran back, got there the same time as the emergency vehicles. I was a coward.”
Ivy didn’t speak for a minute. The part of her that had grown fond of Max wanted to say it was no longer important; she and Beth were fine. But another part of her knew that Max had been as wrong as Bryan, abandoning his victims after a hit-and-run. Good people were also capable of doing very bad things.
“Max, I blame you for running, but for nothing else. I believe you tried to avoid my car. You aren’t the kind of person to deliberately hurt another. Besides,” she added, “for your own safety, you’d have turned your car aside.”
“But the thing is, I didn’t.”
Because Gregory wouldn’t let him, Ivy thought. Gregory had already come into the world through the séance, and he saw his chance to kill her. He didn’t care if he killed Max as well. Max had fought for control of the wheel, but Gregory was stronger and had succeeded—except that Tristan then stepped in and kissed her.
She couldn’t imagine how to explain this to Max. “Something was wrong with your car. There’s no way you would have deliberately done that.”
“I don’t want to make excuses, Ivy. I want to admit I did something terrible and have it over with.”
“Why didn’t you admit it then?” she asked curiously. “Maybe not right away, but a few days later?”
“The night of the party—two or three in the morning—Bryan came back. I told him what had happened. He said to wait, just wait, let everything calm down. Then, when we found out you and Beth were okay, he said a confession would only screw things up. My parents would get upset. The police would start investigating my parties and asking a lot of nosy questions.”
Like where Bryan was that night, Ivy thought.
“He said Dhanya would never want anything to do with me. So I put it off, and the longer I did, and the nicer you were to me, the harder it got.” He stood up and walked to the screen door, gazing out for a moment. “Then the boat trip happened.”
“What about it?”
“It was the same feeling as when I was driving toward you. When Chase grabbed the wheel and I couldn’t get back control, it was like it was happening all over again.”
Because it was, Ivy thought. Gregory was in charge again. But Gregory had known that she was wearing a life vest. This time, Ivy realized, he wasn’t aiming for her, but for a body of his own—the perfect body for him, a match made in hell.
“Last night,” Max went on, “I kept dreaming about your accident. When I woke up this morning, I knew I had to come clean.”
“Did you tell Bryan you were going to confess?” Ivy asked. “He’s staying at your house now, isn’t he?”
Max returned to the chair across from her. “I told him about the nightmare. I didn’t say that I was going to talk to you, because I knew I was cowardly enough to let him talk me out of it.”
“There’s no need to tell him now,” Ivy said. The less Gregory knew about Max’s affairs, the less power Gregory would have over him.
“Do you forgive me?”
She saw the dampness in the corners of his eyes. “Max, we all make mistakes—”
“And then act like we didn’t, even when someone could have died?” He looked away from her.
“We’re human. We make mistakes, and sometimes we’re afraid enough to cover them up.”
“Will you say it?” Max asked. “It would help me to hear you say it.”
She didn’t want to forgive something caused by Gregory.
“Otherwise I feel like I can’t get free of it,” Max explained. “I guess that’s selfish, but I feel like I can’t—”
“I forgive you,” Ivy said, wondering if her heart could ever truly forgive Gregory. “I want to be free of it too.”
After Max left, Ivy sat staring at the puzzle, pushing pieces around, trying to make connections. She forced two pieces together, then had to undo them.
If Gregory was responsible for killing her, wasn’t Tristan justified in bringing her back to life? Hadn’t Tristan’s kiss of life set things right again? Right—according to whom? Right, if she was supposed to stay alive on this earth. Right, if their desire to be together in this world was the only thing that mattered.
Ivy wanted to believe that Tristan and Max were victims of Gregory’s evil, forced into doing the wrong thing. But Max’s situation had made clear in her mind an important distinction: While Max wasn’t the one who drove her off the road, he had made the wrong choice in how he responded to the accident. When he left her and Beth to die, Max had succumbed to a temptation created by Gregory. Like Max, Tristan had faced a great temptation created by Gregory. Now he was stripped of his angelic powers, and the temptation to protect her was even stronger. The truth was that each person was responsible for how he or she responded to a situation.
In her heart, Ivy knew that Tristan’s mission was to save his fallen soul. She would do anything to help him—anything! But she feared that the best thing for Tristan was for her to stay out of his way. It was the hardest way to love.
Eleven
THE MORNING MIST STILL CLUNG TO THE TREES SURROUNDING Ice House Pond. Tristan hoped his borrowed clothes, faded jeans and a khaki T-shirt, helped him blend in. He hummed to himself as he walked, feeling as if he had been given a furlough from prison. A few minutes later, Ivy’s VW pulled up. He got in quickly and slid down in the seat. She squeezed his hand and continued driving: The sooner they got away from Orleans, the better. They didn’t talk until the car was speeding along the Mid-Cape Highway.
“I’m disappointed,” he said. “Where’s Gemma?”
Ivy grinned. “We’re meeting her at the Dunkin’ Donuts on the other side of the canal. She’s been looking forward to seeing you, too!”
“So who are we visiting this time?”
“Luke’s former landlady, Crystal Abbot. In one of the news articles, it said the police interviewed her, but people don’t always tell the police everything they know. She refused to talk to reporters. Maybe she’ll talk to Luke. It’s worth a try.”
“It’s worth it just to sit next to you,” Tristan said. With his arm outstretched, he dropped his head back against the headrest. Laying his wrist on her shoulder, he let his fingers nestle in her hair. “I wish we could drive like this straight across the country.”
Ivy didn’t reply. When he turned his head, he saw her biting her lip.
“We have today,” he said quietly. “It’s more than we once thought we’d have.”
During their stop at Dunkin’ Donuts, they started laughing again. Ivy emerged from the restroom wearing sheer leggings colored with hearts, roses, and skulls, and a pair of laced-up booties that ended in open-toed thongs. Over her tank top she wore her prize purchase from a Provincetown shop, a
vest woven from ribbons and pieces of glass, the recycled mouths of beer bottles. Her usually gold eyelashes looked as if they’d been tarred.
“I don’t know how you can keep your eyelids up,” Tristan remarked as they walked to the car, his arm around her. He could feel her giggling.
Since they didn’t want to leave an electronic trail via her GPS, Ivy had printed out a map and marked on it Mrs. Abbot’s address. They reached the Providence neighborhood of River Gardens close to nine o’clock and parked across the street from the tall frame home. In a neighborhood of rusty chain-link fences, Mrs. Abbot’s yard seemed more welcoming than the others with its assortment of plastic toys. Flowers grew at the corners of her chipped concrete steps. Next to the door were two buttons and two mailboxes. Ivy pushed the bell marked ABBOT.
The door cracked opened and the face of a little boy appeared in the three inches between the frame and the door. “Mom said the apartment’s rented.”
“We’re not here for an apartment,” Ivy began to explain.
The door closed, then just as quickly opened wide and the child flew out. Footsteps sounded in the hallway and a blur of a little girl raced past Ivy and Tristan.
“Zeke, I’m gonna hammer you!” she cried. Chasing the boy, she left the door gaping.
“Hello?” Tristan called as he and Ivy stepped inside.
At the end of the hall, tucked beneath the stairway, another door was open and a baby crawled toward them. A pair of strong arms appeared, scooping up the child.
“Sorry,” the woman said, moving into the hallway, the struggling baby in her arms. “The apartment is leased now.”
Tristan removed his baseball cap and sunglasses.
“Luke! So it’s true. You have been coming back to the Gardens.”
He simply nodded, not knowing what Luke had called his landlady.
“Hello, Mrs. Abbot,” Ivy said.
“Crystal,” she replied with a nod. The full-bodied woman had mahogany-colored skin and close-cropped hair. Her pleasant face was set off by a huge pair of hoop earrings.
“Crystal, this is my friend Gemma.”
“A friend through Corinne,” Ivy added. “Corinne and I went to art school together.”
The woman smiled a little, eyeing Ivy’s outfit. “Should’ve guessed,” she said. “Come in. Watch the scooter. And the skates.”
The Abbots’ living room was sunny, its furniture worn, and its scatter rugs truly scattered, creating the feeling of kids rushing through it even in the silence. Crystal balanced the baby on her hip and picked pillows off the floor with her free hand as she led them through the room to the kitchen.
“Al’s asleep. My husband works the night shift,” she added, directing that explanation at “Gemma.”
They followed the landlady onto a porch with two rockers. Tristan sat on the steps. The backyard was a small jungle of weed trees growing under one large tree. But, judging by the ropes and tires tied to the big tree and the open bins of leftover construction materials, it was a kid’s paradise. The boy and girl were busy stringing up a tent.
“Just like old times,” Crystal said, and Tristan smiled, feeling that same awkwardness and humility he had felt before when people who cared for Luke looked fondly at him.
“Better put on your sunglasses and hat. I’m not telling the kids it’s you. Don’t want them saying something to the wrong person.”
He nodded and did as she said.
“Whoever the wrong person is,” Crystal added, frowning. “Do you know who killed Corinne?”
“No.”
Crystal rocked a moment, then turned to Ivy. “Do you think the murderer was someone from Corinne’s new life? Did she make enemies at art school?”
“She didn’t make many friends.”
The baby started fussing, and to Tristan’s amazement, Crystal handed the child to him. “Micah always liked you.”
Tristan looked at Ivy, feeling helpless. He tried to remember how he’d seen people hold babies. The little bare feet kept beating against Tristan’s legs, so he held the kid by his armpits, standing him up so he could flex his pudgy knees. “You’re getting big, buddy.”
The baby grabbed the brim of Tristan’s hat and started chewing on it. “Whoa! You don’t know where that’s been,” Tristan said, holding the child with one hand and turning his hat backward. Micah grabbed Tristan’s sunglasses and started swinging them around, batting him on the side of the head, then dropped the glasses and collapsed against Tristan’s chest. His small body was damp and warm and smelled like powder. Patting the baby’s back, hoping he wasn’t going to spit up, Tristan glanced over his shoulder and saw Ivy laughing.
“You should have gone west, Luke,” Crystal said. “Or south. The Cape’s not far enough.”
“Yeah, I know that now.”
“What happened to Alicia? That girl wasn’t suicidal.”
“I agree,” he said.
“I heard talk, blaming it on you,” she continued. “I know that’s not true.”
“I think the person who killed Corinne also killed her. She was here with me the night Corinne asked me to meet her at Four Winds. Alicia didn’t realize it when it happened, but she was my alibi.”
“So they killed your alibi.” Crystal closed her eyes for a moment. “God have mercy.”
“Did you see Alicia that night?” Ivy asked Crystal. “I know if you had seen what time she left, you would’ve told that to the police. But maybe, at least, you saw her arrive.” Ivy’s voice pleaded. “Anything that you could tell them now might help.”
Crystal glanced at “Luke.”
“You always could win over the girls’ hearts.” Then she pointed to a set of exterior steps. “That’s the stairway to the third floor,” she told Ivy. “Evenings are noisy here—Al gets the kids wound up. I hole up in the bedroom and study. I didn’t see or hear anything. I told that to the police when they came banging on our door at two a.m. I wasn’t awake enough to think about giving anyone an alibi. The best I could do was keep them from searching Luke’s place until they had a warrant.”
So, another dead end, thought Tristan.
“How about Bryan Sweeney?” Ivy asked, and let the question hang, as if testing the landlady’s gut response to the mention of him.
Crystal watched her kids wheeling a cinderblock to the tent in a rusty wheelbarrow. “Bryan was a help. He got Luke out of here. But he and I, we don’t get along. You know that, Luke.”
“Why not?” Ivy asked.
“You know him?” the woman asked back. “He’s a lot like Corinne. Ambitious. Self-centered. He disguises it better than Corinne did, but he was always looking out for himself.” Crystal studied Ivy, then rose to her feet as if she had made some decision. “I’ve kept something for you, Luke. I guess I can give it to you in front of your friend here.”
She disappeared into the kitchen, and Ivy and Tristan exchanged hopeful glances. The baby straightened his chubby legs, straining to see where his mother had gone, then rested back against Tristan’s shoulder.
Crystal returned carrying a cereal box. Slipping her finger under the cardboard flap, she pulled out a small padded envelope and handed it to Tristan in exchange for the baby. The envelope, addressed to Luke, had a handwritten return address for Corinne Santori.
“It arrived two days after Corinne was murdered, one day after the police searched your rooms.”
Tristan looked up questioningly at Crystal.
“Al and I decided not to tell them. If they had caught you, I would have found a way to get it to you. As far as we were concerned, it was for your eyes only.”
It took all of Tristan’s self-discipline not to rip the package open. He tried to loosen the packing tape, then asked for a pair of scissors. With a few snips, he eased open one end of the envelope. Something small and solid fell out.
“Her flash drive!” Ivy exclaimed softly.
Tristan set the drive on the porch floor next to him, then pulled out a note.
“Luke, keep this safe for me,” he read aloud.
“What’s the postmark on the envelope?” Ivy asked.
Tristan squinted. “The day before she died.”
“Somebody was breathing down her neck,” Crystal said.
Tristan picked up the flash drive. Somewhere in these 16 gigs were pictures of Bryan’s damaged car. Those photos, Corinne’s note, and the photo of Bryan wearing the cufflinks matching the one left next to his first victim would be enough evidence to convince the police.
“I wouldn’t advertise you’ve got that,” Crystal advised. “Corinne was always poking her camera into other people’s business. There’ll be plenty of folks desperate enough to pry it out of your hands.”
Tristan smiled up at her, then pocketed the drive. Of course! There would be others who had done lesser things than murder, who could verify that Corinne was a blackmailer. They wouldn’t have come forward willingly, but if evidence was presented now, they’d have to talk to police. “Do you have something we can put this envelope in?”
Crystal brought him a zip-lock bag.
“I—I don’t know how to thank you for this,” Tristan said.
“You could pay your last two months of rent,” Crystal replied.
“I owed you two months?” Tristan saw Ivy bite back her laughter.
“You paid off the third month by painting the bathrooms, remember?”
“Write down the amount,” Ivy said. “You’ll get it.”
Crystal did, then walked them to the front door with Micah on her hip.
Tristan debated how to say good-bye. A handshake seemed too formal for a woman Luke used to sit on the back porch with. But each hug he gave while playing the role of Luke made him feel more dishonest. He laid his hand gently on the baby’s head. “Soon,” he said, “you’ll be chasing your big brother and sister. You’ll be showing them just how fast those little feet can go.”