Family.
For some reason, the word struck a chord with Alexia. She and Teddy had been a family once. Back in the mists of time, when Michael and Roxie were children, untouched by tragedy, blissfully unaware of the misery the future held for all of them. It occurred to her that in some ways, her own experiences mirrored Billy's. The sense of being cursed, of having somehow brought calamity down on themselves and their families. Both she and Billy had lost their marriages, both lost their children. Billy's business had failed; Alexia's career had collapsed. When Kelly Dupree spoke about someone holding a grudge against the Hamlin family, Alexia thought, That's how I feel. As if my family are all puppets, and some sadistic, malevolent puppeteer is up their pulling the strings, picking us off one by one.
Of course, she knew it was nonsense. Teddy had killed Billy. And Teddy knew nothing about Jennifer's death. So there was no connection. Just like there was no connection between Roxie's suicide attempt and Michael's accident, or between Teddy's imprisonment and her own ruined political career. It's human nature to try and tie these things together. To find a pattern, to believe there must be a purpose behind the misery. It's what Summer Meyer had been trying to do with Michael's accident. And now I'm doing the same, with Jenny Hamlin's murder. But the truth is there is no reason, no connection, no mysterious person pulling the strings.
It was almost seven by the time Alexia left the Starbucks. Kelly Dupree had given her addresses for Jennifer Hamlin's fiance, Luca, and for her mother, Sally, but it was too late to pay either of them a visit tonight. Alexia would eat, sleep, and see what more she could find out in the morning.
Back at her hotel, a town-house boutique in the East Village, Alexia collapsed onto her bed, suddenly exhausted. After the slow pace of life on the Vineyard, just being in New York tired her. The lights, the noise, the relentless energy of the city. I'm too old for this. Maybe Lucy was right. I should have stayed at the Gables and let sleeping dogs lie.
Nothing she'd heard today encouraged her to believe that she was going to succeed where Chief Harry Dublowski and his men had failed. She wasn't going to find Jennifer Hamlin's killer. Suddenly the whole enterprise seemed pointless. What the hell am I doing, raking around in another family's grief? As if I don't have enough grief of my own.
She checked her messages. Since their bonding session at Michael's bedside, Summer Meyer had taken to texting Alexia regularly from London, just to check in, or send pictures of a sleeping Michael. But today there was nothing. Summer's mother, Lucy, had called twice, but left no message. It was odd, Alexia reflected, the degree to which the Meyers had filled the void left by her own crumbling family. Lucy, Arnie, and Summer were all she had now. Alexia thanked God for them.
She considered calling Summer herself, just to make sure everything was okay. But before she could figure out what time it was in England, exhaustion overtook her. The phone slipped from her hand and she sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Sally Hamlin patted down the earth around the newly planted hydrangeas and surveyed her front yard with satisfaction. Spring had fully sprung in Tuckahoe, the quiet Westchester suburb Sally had retired to three years ago, and the scent of summer already hung tantalizingly in the air. Back in Queens, Sally had never had a yard and had always wanted one. Now she derived deep, intense pleasure from her little rectangular patch of grass and flower beds. The simple satisfaction of planting something, tending it, and watching it grow filled her with contentment and peace, and gave a much-needed sense of control and order to her world. After so much loss, so much horror, Sally had learned to take pleasure in the small, predictable joys of life.
Sally saw the woman approaching from a block away. Tall and elegantly dressed, with a purposeful walk and an erect, almost regal bearing, this was no local Tuckahoe housewife out for a Sunday-morning stroll. The woman slowed as she approached Sally's fence, obviously looking for something.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm looking for a Mrs. Sally Hamlin."
It was the British accent that gave it away. Sally knew at once who the glamorous stranger must be. Brushing the soil off her pants, she stood up and proffered her hand.
"You found her. I'm Sally Hamlin. You'd better come in, Mrs. De Vere."
The house was as neat as a pin. Alexia took off her jacket and hung it carefully on the back of a kitchen chair while Sally made them coffee. Pictures of Jennifer were everywhere, on the refrigerator, the bookshelves, even perched on top of the television set in the living room. There were none of Billy.
Sally sat down, and Alexia immediately noticed the deep grooves etched around her eyes. She was an attractive woman, perhaps a decade younger than Alexia herself, with carefully dyed chestnut-brown hair and a trim, girlish figure. But grief had taken its toll on Sally Hamlin's face.
"You've come about Billy, I suppose," Sally said. "I heard he'd been bothering you and your family in England, before he died. I'm sorry about that."
"There's nothing to apologize for, believe me."
"He used to talk about you all the time. Alexia De Vere this, Alexia De Vere that. He was convinced he knew you. That the two of you were friends. I think he had you confused with an old girlfriend or something. But he was so ill."
Alexia thought, So she doesn't know the truth. She doesn't know my past. Billy protected me right to the end. Protected both of us.
"I did see your husband briefly," she said. "When he was in London."
"Ex-husband," Sally corrected her. "Billy and I divorced a long time ago."
"And that is why I'm here, in a way. He mentioned something to me then about your daughter. I got the sense that he felt she might have been in danger. That somebody might have been trying to hurt her."
At the mention of Jennifer, Sally Hamlin visibly shrank in her seat, her shoulders slumping. The pain was clearly still desperately raw.
"I'm afraid I didn't take it seriously at the time," said Alexia. "But after I heard about what happened to Jennifer, I . . . well, I wondered if I could have done more. It played on my mind."
Sally Hamlin looked surprised. "Don't take this the wrong way. I mean, it's very kind of you to care and all. But I don't understand why my family's troubles would seem important to you. You didn't even know Billy."
"No," Alexia lied, "I didn't. But my encounter with him stuck in my mind. I'm retired from politics now-I've had some family problems of my own-so I had time to follow it up."
Sally nodded. Her mind had already drifted away, to her daughter and the awful nightmare that had overtaken her.
"If it's not too painful," Alexia prodded gently, "perhaps you could tell me a bit more about Jennifer?"
"Of course."
Once Sally started talking, she couldn't stop. She told Alexia everything, from the story of Jennifer's birth to the divorce and how it had affected Jenny, to her daughter's happy relationship with Luca Minotti. She also spoke about the special bond that Jennifer had shared with her father. Despite the obvious problems posed by Billy's schizophrenia, it struck Alexia that his ex-wife still spoke of him with sincere warmth and affection.
Thank God he married someone kind and selfless like Sally, and not someone selfish and ambitious like me. I hope they were happy, for a while at least. Billy deserved that.
When she finally ran out of words, Sally went upstairs and returned with a box file of Billy's old papers and photographs. "For what it's worth. It's mostly business stuff, and I highly doubt it has any bearing on Jennifer's murder. But it's all I have."
Alexia took the file. "Thank you."
"I think Billy's real psychotic break happened when Milo took off," said Sally. "Milo Bates was his best friend. His only real friend, other than me. The divorce wasn't easy on Billy, but Milo leaving the way he did, abandoning Billy to deal with the debts and the business collapsing on his own? That crushed him. That was when the voices started, and the paranoia. He developed these awful morbid fantasies."
"What sort of fantasies?"
Sally shook her head. "Oh, it was crazy. At first he talked about Milo being 'taken.' Abducted, you know. He couldn't accept the fact that Milo had left deliberately. Then it was that Milo had been killed. Eventually Billy started saying that he'd been abducted, that he'd actually witnessed Milo being murdered. The fantasy kept getting bigger and more elaborate. It was awful."
"Did he ever say who he thought had taken Milo?"
Sally smiled. "Oh yes. 'The voice.' "
"I'm sorry?"
"The voice. The voice was to blame for everything. We all knew it was in his head, of course, but to Billy it was totally real, as real as you or me. The minute he came off his antipsychotic drugs, boom: the voice was back. It started right around the time that Milo left town and it pretty much never stopped. He'd call the cops to tell them the voice was on the phone. He complained constantly about threatening calls."
"But he never saw this person. Only heard them?"
"That's right. Auditory hallucinations are very common with schizophrenics."
"Did he tell you what it sounded like?"
Sally looked Alexia in the eye. "Like a robot. Like a machine. Synthesized."
The hairs on Alexia's forearms stood on end, like a thousand tiny soldiers called to attention. Her mind jumped back to another phone call. One she'd received herself two years ago, back home in Cheyne Walk. She remembered the call as if it were yesterday. The sinister, synthesized voice: "The day is coming. The day when the Lord's anger will be poured out. Because you have sinned against the Lord, I will make you as helpless as a blind man searching for a path."
Her throat felt dry. "Did he ever say anything about the voice using religious language? Fire and brimstone, that sort of thing?"
Sally's eyes widened. "Yes! That's amazing. How did you know that?"
Alexia wasn't sure how she made it back to her rental car. Climbing into the driver's seat, she sat motionless, staring straight ahead.
The voice wasn't in Billy's head.
It was real.
It called me too.
What else had been real? Milo Bates's murder? Had Billy really been forced to watch his friend die, like he told the police? And what about the threats to his daughter?
"Was that what you were you trying to tell me, Billy?" Alexia said aloud, her cracking voice echoing round the empty car. "Why didn't I listen?"
She must find out who "the voice" really was. Not just for Billy and Jennifer Hamlin's sake, but for her own.
Because whoever it is, they're not done yet.
They're coming after me too.
Chapter Thirty-six.
Roxie De Vere looked out of the French doors that led from her room onto the gardens and took a deep, calming breath. There were few places more beautiful than Somerset in springtime. The gardens at Fairmont House, the stately-home-turned-exclusive-rehab where Roxie was currently living, were some of the most exquisite in the county. One couldn't help but be uplifted by the blossom-laden buddleia bushes, smothered in butterflies, or the peaceful rose garden with its formal box hedges and gently winding gravel paths. There was a lake with a man-made island and folly in the middle, across which "guests" (Fairmont House wasn't crass enough to have patients) could row for picnics or meditation or sunrise yoga sessions. All in all it was a bit like living in an illustration from a Jane Austen novel: tranquil, idyllic, and utterly unreal.
Opening the doors, Roxie allowed the warm air to flood her room and turned the radio to Classic FM. Today for the first time, she would permit a tiny slice of the outside world to intrude upon her safe cocoon. Summer Meyer was coming to visit her, the first friend Roxie had agreed to see in almost six months. The prospect was both exciting and nerve-racking.
"I feel like an Indian bride about to meet my arranged-marriage husband for the first time," Roxie told her therapist, Dr. Woods, a gentle, professorial Canadian in his sixties who'd inevitably become something of a father figure. "The stakes seem so high."
"They're only as high as you let them be," Dr. Woods reassured her. "Don't put too much pressure on yourself. It's tea with a friend, that's all. You can do that, Roxanne."
Roxie had thought she could do it. But now that Summer was actually coming, would be here any moment in fact, she felt all her old nervousness returning.
Roxie had been so ill when she first got to Fairmont, haunted by terrible dreams about Andrew and gripped by daily panic attacks. I mustn't allow Summer's visit to set me back. It had taken weeks for her to accept that it was Teddy, her beloved father, who had shot and killed the man she loved. But knowing the truth and changing all one's emotions to fit it were two very different things. Why couldn't it have been Alexia? Hating her mother was easy. It had become a habit, like slipping on a familiar overcoat. For the better part of a decade, Roxie had defined herself as a victim of Alexia's cruelty and selfishness. That had become her identity, her self. But now, in the midst of her shock and grief over Andrew, she was supposed to do a complete about-face. To accept that Alexia had been loving and unselfish all along. Acknowledging that fact meant negating her whole adult life. As Dr. Woods said, it was like another death. Like her death. No wonder it was frightening.
In the course of a few months, Roxie had lost her brother, her father, and Andrew, all over again. Everything she'd believed for the last ten years of her life had been a lie. Nothing was what it seemed. The world outside of Fairmont House had become a frightening place. And now Summer Meyer was arriving to bring her news of it. To remind her that it was still there . . . that one day she would have to go back.
"Wow, Rox. You look so well."
Summer had walked into the room unannounced. Before Roxie had time to think about it, she found herself enveloped in a hug. Instinctively she hugged her friend back.
Roxie felt relieved. The real Summer was nothing like the frightening visitor of her imagination. Having her here felt right. She smiled.
"It's a gorgeous day out there. Shall we go for a walk?"
Summer stretched and swung her arms as she strolled down toward the lake, with Roxie wheeling her chair beside her. At Fairmont House, everything was all about helping oneself, becoming independent physically and emotionally. Roxanne's days of being wheeled around by other people were over.
It had been a long, hot drive down from London. Summer's joints ached from being cramped up in her tiny Fiat Punto, so the fresh air and space felt like a luxury. European cars all seemed to have been designed for either Munchkins or children.
"This place is stunning." She sighed. "No wonder you don't want to leave."
"I'm not on vacation, you know," Roxie said defensively. "It's a hospital. I'm here because I need to be."
"I know that," said Summer. "I only meant that it's a beautiful setting. Peaceful. I didn't mean to imply anything."
"Sorry. I guess I'm a little tense. It is peaceful. And you're right in a way. I am lucky to be here."
"Is it very expensive?"
Roxie shrugged. "Probably. Dad's health insurance pays for it, so I haven't seen a bill."
The mention of Teddy was unexpected. Part of the reason for Summer's visit was that it was Teddy's sentencing next week. Alexia was due to fly to London for the hearing and had asked Summer to sound Roxie out in advance, to see if she might be willing to meet her mother face-to-face.
As Roxie had brought him up first, Summer asked cautiously, "Have you had any contact with Teddy? Since . . . you know."
Roxie looked away. "No. Absolutely not."
They walked on in silence for a while. Then Roxie said, "I've tried to forgive him. I want to forgive him. It would be easier for me if I could. But I don't think I can."
Summer nodded. "I understand."
"I doubt you do understand," said Roxie, although she wasn't angry. "All those years of him comforting me, supporting me, pretending to care."
Summer played devil's advocate. "Do you think he was pretending? I'm sure he loved you, Roxie."
"Maybe. But love's not enough. He knew what he'd done. He let me believe the worst of Mummy, and of poor Andrew, just to save his own skin. How selfish is that? I thought I knew him as well as I knew myself." She gave a short, empty laugh, "Then again, knowing myself hasn't exactly been my biggest forte."
"You need to cut yourself some slack," said Summer. "You've been through hell, more pain than most people suffer in a lifetime. You're doing okay."
Roxie smiled. "Thank you. Anyway, enough about me. What's been happening in your life? Are you writing again?"
They talked about Summer's work for a while, until inevitably conversation turned to Michael. Summer still couldn't bring herself to discuss with anyone what Tommy Lyon had told her about Michael's mistress. It wouldn't be fair to burden poor Roxie, or to sully her memories of her brother. But she chatted about his new care facility, the nurses, the encouraging articles she'd read on long-term coma patients making miraculous recoveries.
Eventually, with some trepidation, Summer brought up the subject of Alexia, and how the two of them had become close in recent months.
"She's flying over for your father's sentencing next week. She'd like to see you."
Roxie's shoulders tensed. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"She misses you," said Summer. "Your mother has a hard shell, but underneath it all she's a good person. A compassionate person."
"You never used to think so."
"I misjudged her. I didn't know the facts. Look, Roxie, I know she's made mistakes."
"That's a bit of an understatement, don't you think?" Roxie spluttered.
"Okay, big mistakes. But she wants to put things right. Won't you meet her, just for a few minutes?"