Aster, who takes them soundlessly. Then she slips her phone from her jacket pocket and switches on the flashlight app, holding the beam close to the ground and hoping it won’t attract any unwanted attention. Wood crumbles beneath her boots as she walks toward what used to be the far end of the stable, in the general direction of Caden’s stall.
At the front of the stable, Aster sinks down onto a plank of what probably used to be rafter and scuffs the ground aimlessly with her foot.
Phone in one hand, Martina begins sifting through the rubble. She’s not even sure what she’s looking for, if she’s entirely honest, which she’d rather not be. She needs to find something. Something that will lead to justice for Zoe, that will win her best friend back, that will compel the judge to grant Anna’s pretrial motion to dismiss. It’s a lot to hope for.
A wheedling voice at the back of her head says the Herron Mills PD won’t thank her for meddling with what might be a crime scene, but they’ve shown little interest in the Windermere grounds after Max Adler spoke with them. She knows they’ve been out here once, about a week ago, but the visit seems to have been perfunctory. Nothing’s taped off, no evidence tagged, no sign that the police plan to return. Their thinking seems to be very much in line with Aster’s: Whatever evidence there was to be found here was witlessly tossed by Caden in January or sent up in flames in July. Martina knows it’s a real possibility that Zoe left the stable shortly after Max that night, that whatever happened to her happened far from Windermere. But she’s not ready to give up yet.
She’s been on her hands and knees for less than a minute, tights and gloves thoroughly blackened with ash, when the flashlight beam catches a small glint in the rubble. The fine hairs on the back of her neck prickle. She switches her phone off and slips it back into her dress pocket. Breath hitched in the back of her throat, she glances over her shoulder. Behind her, Aster is still scuffing the toe of her shoe in the dirt, boredom glazed across her face.
Martina’s pulse quickens. She won’t say anything until she’s sure. She scoots closer. As her fingers find the gleam in the ash, cool and delicate and familiar, a voice cuts across the lawn.
“You.”
Just the one word. Both girls’ heads whip around toward the source of the sound. Ten yards away but approaching fast, Mrs. Talbot is striding across the grounds in a bloodred nightgown and black riding boots. The girls’ faces are snared instantly in a flood of white light from the hurricane lamp clutched in the older woman’s right hand. In her left swings something else, the length of a hunting rifle. Martina stops breathing.
“Let’s get out of here,” Aster mutters, shoving herself to her feet, but before she can run, Martina is next to her, clutching her wrist in her soot-smeared glove.
“Wait,” she cautions, frozen by visions of Mrs. Talbot raising the rifle, firing after them as they run across the lawn toward Clovelly Cottage. “Is that a gun?”
But it’s a parasol with a long, ornate, wooden handle, lovely if rather out of place in the moonlight. Every few steps, Mrs. Talbot presses its pointy tip into the grass like a cane.
“You,” she says again, and Aster wrenches herself from Martina’s grasp. “I’ve seen you here before.” She raises the makeshift cane, points it straight at Martina. Pretty or not, she doesn’t doubt it could do some damage.
“I haven’t—” Martina starts to say, but before she can finish, the stick wavers. Toward Aster.
“On my property,” Mrs. Talbot continues. “Trespassing, just like tonight.” She stops at the threshold to the stable, as if doors still stood between them. The pointy end of the parasol trembles in the air, a foot from Aster’s chest.
Martina sucks in a sharp breath. In her jacket pocket, her fingers close around her phone.
“I used to bring Paisley over here,” Aster says, voice shaky. “Remember?”
“I know who you are,” Mrs. Talbot says, voice slicing the night air. “Little Aster Spanos. Always tagging after Zoe. Your sister’s the only reason I didn’t call the cops the other times I saw you back here, snooping around. Your family’s already had so much grief.” Her voice softens then, and the parasol lowers slowly to the ground.
“We’re very sorry,” Martina says. “We were just leaving.” With