property—is modern and huge, like a lot of homes out here. One minute it’s familiar, the next it’s a trick of the light. We step onto the porch, below the overhang, and take down our umbrellas.
“You didn’t tell her anything, right?” I whisper to Martina. “About Tiana Percy?” Again I wonder what Tiana might be capable of. What she might have done to make Zoe go away …
“Not a thing,” Martina whispers back, touching the pad of her thumb and index finger together and running them across her lips like a zipper. “It’s a little weird keeping it hidden, but there’s no point in upsetting them yet, not until we find out more.”
Aster greets us at the door wearing a red and teal sarong. A little white dog runs circles around her feet.
“This is Julia Child,” she says. “Zoe named her.”
I squat down to offer Julia Child my hand to sniff, but she completes her laps around Aster and runs off into the back of the house without even acknowledging my presence.
“She’s nine and still a total energy ball,” Aster says. “Don’t take it personally.”
We make our way through the house and into the kitchen, and to my disappointment or relief, nothing looks particularly familiar. It’s a nice house with nice stuff, but there are no chilly tendrils of memory reaching out to grab me like the other night. The possibility that I was just confusing Herron Mills and my recent deep dive into Zoe’s life with some memories of childhood vacations dances at the back of my mind.
In the kitchen, Aster and Martina flutter around collecting cups, straws, and a pitcher of something that looks like lemonade. I’m instructed to grab a tote bag filled with snacks, and then we head through a large red-stone archway connecting the kitchen to an airy breakfast nook, which then leads out to the pool. When we step through the sliding glass doors, I stop doubting myself. I may not have Kaylee’s steel trap memory, but the pool is unmistakable.
I press my lips between my teeth and try to keep the mix of shock and validation off my face. Maybe there was a similar glassed-in pool at the hotel in Stone Harbor. But this is the pool that’s been tugging at the edges of my memory, telling me to pay attention.
I’m so focused on keeping my expression neutral that I don’t realize I’ve stopped walking. My feet are glued to the terra-cotta tiles, my eyes roving all around, taking in the lush vines, the pink and orange and yellow blooms, the delicate waterfall—all the details I knew I’d find. The dog scampers in through the sliding glass doors and brushes past my legs in a blur of white, yapping at something only she can see in the air in front of her.
“What’s out there, Belle?” I squat down and extend my hand toward her again.
Aster turns slowly to face me. “What did you call her?”
Choosing that moment to acknowledge my existence, the dog nuzzles her little pink and white snout into my hand. I look up. “Um. Julia Child, right?”
“Right,” she says, face tilted slightly to the side. “I thought …”
Aster trails off, and Martina clears her throat, saving us from the awkwardness. “Pretty amazing, right?” She gestures with her chin around the space.
“It’s gorgeous,” I say, straightening up. “I thought the Bellamys’ pool was impressive, but this is something else. …”
“My dad’s in landscaping,” Aster says. She’s slipped out of her sarong and stands at a glass-topped table in a black tankini, filling three plastic, pineapple-shaped cups from the lemonade pitcher. I force my legs to work again, to carry me over to where she’s standing so I can unload the snacks onto the table. Martina slips her dress over her head, revealing a blue and white polka dot one-piece with a little skirt that’s either actually vintage or styled to look that way.
“He worked with another architect who specializes in glass to design the pool when we moved in,” Aster continues. “I’m sure he’ll find his way down here at some point tonight. He’ll talk your ear off about it if you let him. Lemon Spritz?”
She holds a pineapple cup out toward me, and I accept.
“It’s a mocktail,” Martina clarifies before I can place the pink-and-white paper straw between my lips. “So don’t get too excited.”
“I don’t really drink,” I say. “Or I’m trying not to. So this is perfect.”
We walk over to the lounge chairs at the edge of the