Influenced by Eva Robinson (love story books to read .TXT) 📕

them. A wall of sea-blue tiles; quirky lanterns hanging from the ceilings among dried herbs. A pale blue Aga. A bohemian paradise in a mansion. This was where Jess would have lived.

But Ciara supposed it was the sadness in Stella’s eyes that was so like Jess. A slightly haunted look that spoke of mysteries. Stella wrapped her small hands around an enormous mug of herbal tea, explaining that she’d been up in the kids’ room when Peter disappeared.

At that point, Ciara realized she’d been just staring at Stella, struggling to listen to the details of the party, so she forced herself to tune in.

“So just take me through this one more time. You went to check on your children, and you’re not quite sure of the time.”

“I didn’t check the time. But it was quite late.”

“And you were in your daughter’s room for how long?” Michael asked.

“Maybe a half-hour. I lay next to Ada for a bit to calm her down. Might’ve dozed a little.”

“And the party just went on without you?”

Stella shrugged. “They were all comfortable out there. They really had a lot of alcohol.”

Michael prompted, “And when you returned…?”

“Peter was gone. The others were quite drunk. Peter often walked home from my house.”

“And you’re sure Peter ate brownies that evening?” Michael had asked this several times. The autopsy had shown an empty stomach, so it seemed an important point to get right.

“I’m sure,” she said. “He has very severe nut allergy. I’m not sure if that helps.”

“Let’s go back to the beginning,” said Ciara. “You were the only reasonably sober person that night. Can you tell us about the behavior of every person there, throughout the night?”

“Everyone?”

“Start with Hannah. When did she arrive? How did she look?”

“She looked…” Stella trailed off, gazing up at the ceiling as if trying to remember. She clutched her mug, the steam curling in front of her face. “Well, she looked just like Rowan.”

Thirty-Four

Hannah poured three cups of coffee—one for herself, one for the redhead, and one for the handsome English cop. She wondered how closely they were watching her to read her body language. This must be how students felt when she was observing them, that feeling of being studied, the knowledge that every minute gesture could be analyzed.

The redhead made something snag at the in the back of Hannah’s mind—a dull sort of nervousness.

What had she said her name was? Detective Munroe? Her eyes seemed too sharp, perceptive, her shoulders too tense. She looked like she was ready to pounce at any moment.

Still, they wouldn’t be able to tell much from Hannah’s body language. You could read anxiety in body language, but not truthfulness. And the Benadryl she’d taken that morning had given her that pleasant fog, dulling her emotions into a haze. It was like her nervousness was covered in cotton.

The only problem was that it was a little hard to think straight, and she wanted to lay her head down on the soft pillow. After a minute, she realized that she’d poured the coffee, then just stopped to stare at the counter. Surely they were taking notes on her confused mental state…

She cleared her throat. “Cream?”

At least she’d managed to get the place completely clean. The poison had killed all the ants, and everything was in the right place again.

“Yes, please,” said Detective Stewart. “For both of us.”

Detective Munroe shifted in her seat. “Do you know why we’re here, Hannah?”

Of course she did. But she couldn’t let on, which meant she’d already made a big misstep. Because she hadn’t seemed confused enough. This was the problem with putting her mind in a fog—she couldn’t think straight. “Oh, is it about Arabella? I assumed that since you interviewed Rowan, maybe that’s what it was about.” She set the cups of coffee on the wooden table.

“Were you at a party Friday night? On Kendall Avenue, near Fresh Pond?”

Frowning, she pulled out a chair at her little kitchen table. “I was there, yes. At Stella’s house. Why?”

“And was Peter Sylvestro there also?” asked Detective Munroe.

Even through the haze of Benadryl, Hannah’s pulse started to race a little. Stick to the story. “Oh, Peter? Yes, I forgot his last name, but he was there. He got a grant funded. We were celebrating.”

“How well do you know him?” asked Detective Stewart. He’d picked up a spoon from the table, and he seemed to be focusing on stirring the coffee, even though he hadn’t added any sugar.

Hannah found herself as mesmerized by his stirring as he was, because it seemed oddly precise. He looked up again and met her gaze.

“Oh, not well. I’d met him twice. We were working on a project together. The Cambridge Teen Center. I wasn’t as involved as the others. I just helped a bit with the marketing and writing.” Show curiosity. “Why are you asking about Peter?”

Detective Munroe had somehow already finished half her coffee, and Hannah was struck again by that sense of time slipping by too fast. “Ms. Moreno, can you tell me exactly what happened that night?”

“The whole night?”

“Everything you can remember.”

They’d all gotten their stories straight, and she’d been practicing this. She was supposed to give as many details as possible, and keep it all completely truthful. Except for the part where they’d dragged a body to the pond. “Did something happen?” She wasn’t sure if this second question was pushing it too far.

“Ms. Moreno.” Detective Munroe sounded annoyed now. “Please tell us what you can remember from that night.”

“Well, I got there around eight, I think. We knew we were celebrating, so I’d dressed up a bit. I talked to Daniel. He’s an artist; French. Peter was there. Stella laid food out like last time—she’s the one who owns the house. Rowan Harris was there. Um…” Hannah glanced at the photo hanging on her wall—it was a picture of the three of them: Luke, Nora, and her at a picnic. Both detectives followed her gaze. “My daughter, Nora, was staying with her dad, Luke.