Chapter 2

Most of the shops in Wick Harbor close after Labor Day.

On the other side of that fence, Eleanor's yard hadn't been raked in a year.

The ivy grown into the bay window. There was a sign staked in the lawn.

NOTICE OF SALE. Under it, a date. NOVEMBER 30.

"Clara? Is that you, dear?"

An old woman was on her knees at the fence line with a trowel.

"Oh, thank God." She sat up and took my face in both hands.

"Mrs. Gable."

Grace Gable had been Eleanor's closest friend and neighbor for decades.

"You've gone thin, child. I thought those fancy people up in Boston had swallowed you whole."

"Not yet." I said with a smile.

"Do you remember it? I watched you paint those beautiful murals all over your own parlor wall when you were twelve. Eleanor nearly skinned you for it." She peered at me.

I searched my memory, but there was nothing there.

"I miss your grandmother sometimes," Mrs. Gable said softly. "Since she passed, I haven't really had anyone to talk to."

"I miss her too." I said softly.

After a brief pause, I glanced toward the old house.

"Actually, Mrs. Gable, I came to check on the house."

"About time. Your husband's car was sitting out front last Tuesday," she said flatly. "I went out to ask when you come. He said you were up in Vermont. Private clinic."

Vermont. A private clinic.

Last Tuesday I was asleep in my own bed in Boston.

"Mrs. Gable." My voice came out very careful. "He was here Tuesday?"

"Yes. Your husband was out here Tuesday, sat in that car twenty minutes like he does, wouldn't come in for a coffee. Never does."

"How often is he here?"

"Most weekends. Checks the place for you."

Mrs. Gable leaned the shovel against the wall.

"Let's get you inside," she said with a smile. "I've got the key. First Sunday of the month I go in and dust."

It didn't smell like rot in there. Linseed oil and dust and lavender.

"There's your grandmother's coat rack. I keep meaning to get at those things---"

By the foot of the stairs the pine was worn down in a wide shallow circle, the grain rubbed pale and smooth.

"Have you been painting at all these past few years, Clara?"

"Preston says I stopped drawing because my hands shook."

"Your hands?"

"He says I couldn't hold a pencil steady enough to be happy with it. He says I'd get frustrated. He says I'd cry."

"Well, you'd cry. Artists always seem to find their inspiration in a little sadness."

Mrs. Gable was looking at the stool and not at me.

"Remember it? That's your stool. You'd spin on it and Eleanor would holler."

Her kindness caught me off guard, and my eyes stung with unexpected tears.

"Where were the murals?"

"Parlor. I still remember it."

However, the parlor wall was white.

Roller marks still in it, two coats, and nobody had sanded first.

"Preston painted over my murals."

"Yes, Clara. You paint a house before you sell it. That's a normal thing."

"My mother's portrait was gone."

Mrs. Gable stopped.

"On that wall. That was her. I painted it from the photograph on Marianne's dresser. It was the only portrait of her I ever made."

"Oh, honey."

"Mrs. Gable---"

I wiped away my tears, turned to her, and said, "Listen to me."

My breathing turned ragged. Years of memories and grief came crashing back, sending my body into a familiar panic.

"I've never been able to make sense of it. After the crash, I could have sworn I heard my mother and grandmother talking in the back seat. But when I woke up, I was told they were dead."

Mrs. Gable stepped closer, rested a gentle hand on my shoulder, and brushed the tears from my cheeks.

"I know. I know. You told me that years ago."

I went to the police countless times, recounting everything I could still remember about the crash.

But as the years passed and the memories faded, the case was eventually ruled an accident.

Mrs. Gable let out a quiet sigh. "I remember you telling me years ago that you suspected Preston."

The moment I heard Preston's name, I looked up.

She continued. "But Clara, I can tell you with certainty... it couldn't have been him."

A sharp pain exploded in my head. A memory from years ago flashed across my mind.

Mrs. Gable and I were standing in my grandmother's bedroom, locked in an argument.

"Mrs. Gable, I thought Preston was abnormal."

"Either my husband is doing something very bad to me," I said, "or I'm out of my mind."

Mrs. Gable came over and put her arms around me.

"Oh, Clara," she said into my shoulder. "Do you know that? They pulled you out of that car at half past midnight and Preston was on the road by two."

"He was there."

"He was in Boston. The police record can't lie to you."

"No. No. He was there, I saw him. I saw his face through the glass. He had his hand --- he had his hand on my face and there was glass in it, I remember the glass had blood on it---"

"Clara."

"He was there, he got there first, he was there before the---"

"Clara. It was me. I found you."