Now it was over. This time it was really, truly over.
She smiled at the sea. My soul is mine again, she thought. A calmness, a serenity she had not felt in months, settled over her. She rose to her feet and started for home.
Two blocks from her house she spotted the blue Peugeot, parked near the intersection of Willow and Spring Streets. So he was still waiting for her. She paused by the car, gazing in at the black leather upholstery, the sheepskin seat covers, all of it too familiar. The scene of the crime, she thought. The first kiss. Ive paid for it, in pain. Now its his turn.
She left the car and headed purposefully to her house. She climbed the porch steps; the front door was unlocked, as shed left it. Inside, the lights were still on. He wasnt in the living room.
Richard? she said.
No answer.
The smell of coffee brewing drew her to the kitchen. She saw a fresh pot on the burner, a half-filled mug on the countertop. One of the kitchen drawers had been left wide open. She slammed it shut. Well. You came right in and made yourself at home, didnt you? She grabbed the mug and tossed the contents into the sink. The coffee splashed her hand; it was barely lukewarm.
She moved along the hall, past the bathroom. The light was on, and water trickled from the faucet. She shut it off. You have no right to come in here! she yelled. Its my house. I could call the police and have you arrested for trespassing.
She turned toward the bedroom. Even before she reached the doorway she knew what to expect, knew what shed have to contend with. Hed be sprawled on her bed, naked, a grin on his face. That was the way hed greeted her the last time. This time shed toss him out, clothes or no clothes. This time hed be in for a surprise.
The bedroom was dark. She switched on the lights.
He was sprawled on the bed, as shed predicted. His arms were flung out, his legs tangled in the sheets. And he was naked. But it wasnt a grin she saw on his face. It was a frozen look of terror, the mouth thrown open in a silent scream, the eyes staring at some fearful image of eternity. A corner of the bed sheet, saturated with blood, sagged over the side. Except for the quiet tap, tap of the crimson liquid slowly dripping onto the floor, the room was silent.
Miranda managed to take two steps into the room before nausea assailed her. She dropped to her knees, gasping, retching. Only when she managed to raise her head again did she see the chefs knife lying nearby on the floor. She didnt have to look twice at it. She recognized the handle, the twelve-inch steel blade, and she knew exactly where it had come from: the kitchen drawer.
It was her knife; it would have her fingerprints on it.
And now it was steeped in blood.
Chase Tremain drove straight through the night and into the dawn. The rhythm of the road under his wheels, the glow of the dashboard lights, the radio softly scratching out some Muzak melody all receded to little more than the fuzzy background of a dream a very bad dream. The only reality was what he kept telling himself as he drove, what he repeated over and over in his head as he pushed onward down that dark highway.
Richard is dead. Richard is dead.
He was startled to hear himself say the words aloud. Briefly it shook him from his trancelike state, the sound of those words uttered in the darkness of his car. He glanced at the clock. It was four in the morning. He had been driving for four hours now. The New Hampshire-Maine border lay ahead. How many hours to go? How many miles? He wondered if it was cold outside, if the air smelled of the sea. The car had become a sensory deprivation box, a self-contained purgatory of glowing green lights and elevator music. He switched off the radio.
Richard is dead.
He heard those words again, mentally replayed them from the hazy memory of that phone call. Evelyn hadnt bothered to soften the blow. He had scarcely registered the fact it was his sister-in-laws voice calling when she hit him with the news. No preambles, no are-you-sitting-down warnings. Just the bare facts, delivered in the familiar Evelyn half whisper. Richard is dead, shed told him. Murdered. By a woman.
And then, in the next breath, I need you, Chase.
He hadnt expected that part. Chase was the outsider, the Tremain no one ever bothered to call, the one whod picked up and left the state, left the family, for good. The brother with the embarrassing past. Chase, the outcast. Chase, the black sheep.
Chase, the weary, he thought, shaking off the cobwebs of sleep that threatened to ensnare him. He opened the window, inhaled the rush of cold air, the scent of pines and sea. The smell of Maine. It brought back, like nothing else could, all those boyhood memories. Scrabbling across the beach rocks, ankle deep in seaweed. The freshly gathered mussels clattering together in his bucket. The foghorn, moaning through the mist. All of it came back to him in that one whiff of air, that perfume of childhood, of good times, the early days when he had thought Richard was the boldest, the cleverest, the very best brother anyone could have. The days before he had understood Richards true nature.