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Something small tugged at Jodie’s chest. Even Nancy was avoiding her now. But she wasn’t surprised. People had been talking, saying Jodie had gone over the edge. For ‘people’, read Ethan.
She and Nancy had settled in Hillsborough County around the same time, Jodie as Ethan’s Irish bride, Nancy as the new proprietor of Attic Corner, a quirky little café tucked into an art gallery in Peterborough. It was Nancy who’d pitched Jodie’s paintings to the gallery and made them see her potential.
‘Us blow-ins got to stick together in this godforsaken place,’ Nancy had said once, hefting a pan of cinnamon rolls from her oven. ‘Especially in the winter. All these blizzards and power outages, snowdrifts barricading your front door. Talk about isolated. Drive you five kinds of crazy.’ She’d given Jodie a probing look, the scent of brown spices billowing from her in waves. ‘Especially way out in the wilderness where you are.’
Jodie had smiled, shrugging off the concern, her mind skittering away from her own growing misgivings. It was only later she’d admit that the backwoods had turned oppressive.
The whirr of crickets pulsed from the lakefront.
Slowly, she pulled away from Nancy, angling wide along the embankment, still scouring the crowds for Ethan.
‘Didn’t expect to see you here, Jodie.’
She whipped around. A blocky, compact figure was stalking towards her, dark eyes pinned to hers. Her heartbeat tripped.
Zach Caruso, Sheriff of Hillsborough County.
She slipped a hand inside her bag. Touched the gun like a talisman.
Caruso halted in front of her, his solid bulk blocking her path. ‘You sure being here is such a good idea?’
‘I’m just looking at the fireworks, Zach. Like everybody else.’
His eyes were watchful. ‘Ethan didn’t mention you’d be along.’
‘Ethan doesn’t know.’
Fireworks exploded overhead, spotlighting Caruso in the dark. His expression was hard and flat with suspicion. He had to be in his fifties, over twenty years Jodie’s senior, but his hair was still thick and dark. That and the high-bridged nose spoke of Italian lineage, but the accent was pure, abrasive Boston.
His eyes narrowed. ‘Maybe I should let him know. You don’t look too good.’
‘I’m okay.’
Jodie knew how she looked: rail-thin in jeans and T-shirt; skin stretched taut, bare of makeup; up-slanted eyes dull and vacant; straight dark hair unkempt and shoved back behind her ears. Her world had been annihilated. Made desolate. Her appearance was nothing.
Caruso stepped closer. ‘You had a chance to reconsider things since this morning?’
Jodie felt her jaw clench as she recalled their earlier encounter, when she’d made the mistake of thinking that the law might be on her side.
Caruso went on. ‘You were overwrought, I can understand that. After all you’ve been through.’ The sympathy was a mismatch for the guarded look on his face. ‘Ethan says you’re trying to work through it together. I told him, if I can help, he just has to ask.’
‘I’m sure he’s glad to know you’ve got his back.’
‘You got to understand, making groundless accusations is rash. People can get hurt.’
His closeness was suffocating. Jodie touched her bag.
‘I’m not here to make trouble, Zach. There’s just something I need to give to Ethan.’
Caruso shot her a wary look. Jodie made her face bland, breezed on.
‘He’s catching a ten-thirty flight after the fireworks.’
‘I know. He told me.’
‘Did he tell you he forgot his passport?’
His gaze dug into hers, looking for the lie. The explosions paused overhead, and a mosquito whined next to Jodie’s ear. Caruso’s stare was unblinking.
‘Not like Ethan to screw up on details,’ he said. ‘Usually has everything under control.’
‘I guess everyone slips up once in a while.’
Caruso dropped his eyes to her bag. She groped for a distraction, gestured at the lake.
‘You’re a little way off your turf, aren’t you, Zach?’
He darted a look out across the water that geographically resided in Cheshire County, close neighbour to his own jurisdiction. He shrugged.
‘Doesn’t hurt to broaden your horizons, does it?’
Jodie eyed the crowd, a new batch of voters for Caruso to get his hooks into. Whatever scheme he was cooking, Ethan was probably involved. She used to wonder what kind of backscratching they had in place to make Ethan align with such a crook. But none of that mattered any more.
Caruso held out a hand. ‘Why don’t I take him his passport? You get on home, get some rest.’
She gripped her bag, her heart rate climbing. ‘Thanks, but I want to do it myself.’
She edged away, sidestepping his bulk.
‘I want a chance to say goodbye.’
Jodie hiked along the lakefront. By now, she’d combed most of the northern shore, and she still hadn’t found Ethan.
She checked her watch. He was scheduled to leave for the airport any time now. Maybe he’d already gone.
A rush of dizziness flooded her head. Her encounter with Caruso had left her shaky, but worse was the thought that she’d missed her chance. That Ethan had slipped away. She blundered onwards along the embankment.
The weight of the gun dragged at her bag. She’d only used it once before, six months earlier. Her first time ever handling a firearm.
She’d been alone in the house, finishing up another painting for the gallery. She could still recall the graveyard silence of the rooms, deadened further by the waist-high snowdrifts outside. Jodie shivered.
When she’d first come to New Hampshire five years earlier, Ethan’s house had charmed her. The Irish place names had charmed her too, lulling her with a false sense of the familiar: Kilkenny, Antrim, Dublin Lake.
She’d never had a home of her own. She’d grown up on the move in Irish foster care, twelve moves in all over eighteen years, to places where nothing was ever really hers. And each time, she was told she’d be safe with the next family. She wasn’t.
But Ethan had seemed safe. He’d wooed her with an old-fashioned attentiveness, and his secluded Colonial home had reinforced the gallant image. Maybe she’d finally found a home.
But the truth was, it was all a fake.
Fireworks burst into bloom overhead, brilliant red chrysanthemums of light. Jodie stumbled through the cheering crowds, out of whack with normal life.
She flashed again on Ethan’s house in the backwoods: six miles from the nearest town; no neighbours, no boundaries; the garden blending without warning into dark, dense forest. Not forest like she knew it, but vast, primeval hinterland that besieged three sides of the house.
Incarceration.
She could still hear Ethan’s voice echoing in the banquet-sized rooms.
‘If Mommy wants to work, it means she doesn’t love you, Abby.’
‘It’s Mommy’s fault you don’t have any brothers or sisters.’
‘If Mommy leaves, we can’t be a happy family any more.’
Jodie’s throat closed over. She clenched her fingers around the gun in her bag, re-living the day she’d last fired it, six months earlier.
She’d been painting for three hours straight, her spine crunching with the backache she always got from standing for too long. She stepped back from the easel to eye her work, a vigorous landscape of the local Contoocook River. Like all the paintings she sold, it offered plenty of wild, improbable colour but almost nothing of herself.
She wiped her hands on a turps-soaked rag, stirring up a pungent, piney scent. Then she selected a fine rigger brush and signed the canvas: Jodie Garrett.
She eyed her signature with misgiving. Another battleground with Ethan. She still used her maiden name, signing her work with it the way she’d done ever since she was a child. Ethan railed at her to switch to his, as though the other was some kind of veiled threat; some act of defiance.
Maybe it was.
She tossed the brush aside, got ready to clean up. Then an eerie screech tore through the silence.
Raucous, inhuman.
Jodie raced to the window. Stopped dead when she saw the malevolent forest animal skulking in her back yard.
Black as the devil against the snow. Dense, glossy pelt, humpbacked like a rodent, haunches high and round. Maybe four feet long from nose to bushy tail, about the size of a family dog.
A giant fisher cat.
That was the local name, though there was nothing feline about it. A gigantic member of the weasel family, to Jodie it was furtive and diabolical-looking.
The fisher froze, its eyes trained high on the birch tree by the back door. Jodie’s stomach lurched. Abby’s cat, Badger, was clinging to one of the branches.
Jodie yelled, and pounded on the glass. The fisher ignored her, twitched its tail. Then it streaked up the tree and wrestled Badger to the ground.
The fisher’s high-pitched shrieks were blood-curdling. Badger yowled, staggered free. Jodie cried out, bolted to the study. Couldn’t bear to think of Abby’s face if her beloved cat was killed.
She wrenched open drawers, scrabbled for keys, unlocked the cabinet where Ethan kept his gun. Loading it with shaking fingers, praying she was doing it right, she sprinted to the back porch.
The fisher had a jaw-lock on Badger’s neck, and was thrashing him against the snow. The cat emitted a keening sound. Jodie fired into the air, but the fisher ignored her. By now Badger was silent, his throat ripped open. She took aim this time, fired at the fisher, knowing it was too late. Kept on firing, round after round in a frenzy of bullets, until the fisher lay still over Badger’s limp body.
That night, Abby was inconsolable. The cat had been her ally in the silent house, his robust crankiness a match for her own wilful, tomboy spirit. Jodie sat on the bed, rocking her on her lap. Ethan glared at Jodie, his eyes full of dark reproach. Eyes that looked so much like Abby’s.
‘You let the cat outside? What the hell were you thinking? You know those goddamn fishers attack pets around here.’
Jodie stared in disbelief. From the start, she’d wanted to safeguard Badger in the house. It was Ethan who’d insisted the cat be allowed to roam; who’d scoffed at her caution, dismissing the threat of fishers as old wives’ tales. After all, he’d argued, it was his home country, he should damn well know.
His eyes challenged her to contradict him, the faint sneer betraying his certainty that no one would believe her if she did. Her gut turned cold as she realized something else: Ethan had wanted something bad to happen to Badger.
Dazed, she watched him lift Abby into his arms, watched his head bend to hers, the two so alike. Same dark hair, same strong brows; same stubborn set to the mouth. Ethan kissed Abby’s plump, damp cheek.
‘It’s Mommy’s fault poor old Badger is dead.’
A fireball of colour exploded over the lake.
The flash defined a knot of spectators on the shore, and Jodie’s heart double-thudded. Backlit in their midst was Ethan’s sculpted profile.
She edged forward. He was less than two hundred yards away. Close enough to make out the faint Van Dyke beard, its thin vertical line carefully etched from lower lip to chin. As a beard, it was barely there; just a whispered suggestion of maleness, pirate-style.
A pulse hammered high in her throat. Behind Ethan, Dublin Lake seemed on fire, the blazing sky twinned in the water like paint pressed from a centrefold. A dramatic backdrop to Ethan’s buccaneer looks, as though he’d staged it with that in mind. Then again, maybe he had.
She inched closer, eyeing his group of companions. They were mostly men, their body language proclaiming Ethan as the dominant figure. She saw it all the time; that potent sway he had over people.
She watched as one of the men leaned in to make a comment, saw the other low-rankers all peek at Ethan, gauging his reaction before committing to theirs. Jodie noticed Ethan appeared a head taller than the rest, and guessed it was no accident he’d ended up on higher ground than they had.
Power and control: his motivation for everything.
Jodie clutched her bag, felt the hard outline of the weapon inside. She tried to picture the moment when it was done. When Ethan was dead, and the time finally came to turn the gun on herself.
Would she hesitate?
Would it hurt?
She probed her psyche, plumbed deep. Took an honest pulse-check of her soul.
Found no fear.
Pain would be cathartic. A final scream of release.
She took a deep breath, scanned her surroundings. Felt a twist of unease. The lakefront should have emptied out by now, but the shore was still lined with people. She couldn’t risk a shot from here. What if she hit someone else?
She had to get up close. But all those people. One of them might try to stop her. Putting Ethan back in control.
Her spine hummed. In less than two hours, Ethan would be on a flight to New York, gone for three weeks. She couldn’t last that long. Couldn’t survive it. It had to be tonight.
Her gaze rolled down the shoreline, out to the road, her brain scrambling for a way to get him alone. Then her eyes came to rest on the cars by the kerb, settling on the stately black sedan that dwarfed its neighbours.
Ethan’s Bentley.
Jodie’s skin tingled.
With a last look at Ethan, she struck out towards the highway, willing the car to be open. He’d never given her a key. No point, he’d said, since he wasn’t going to let her drive it. She climbed the slope up to the road, pinning her hopes on his complacent habit of leaving the vehicle unlocked. She could see his point. Who’d steal from the local hotshot lawyer, especially when his ally was an ambitious thug like Caruso?
She clambered over the guardrail onto the road. Stole up to the Bentley. Tried the handle.
