Addy
Monday, July 20
I can’t stop watching the news.
“Now one teen is dead, and another—the notorious Jake Riordan, who helped Simon Kelleher frame the Bayview Four—is missing.” Liz Rosen from Channel 7 is at it again, breathlessly acting as if the total lack of updates over the past twenty-four hours is actual news. “An entire town remains on edge, wondering what’s next, and—”
Then Liz disappears as the television screen goes blank. “Hey,” I say, twisting in my seat as my mother lowers the remote. “I was watching that.”
“I’m staging an intervention,” Mom says. “This isn’t healthy, Addy. If anything important happens, we’ll hear it from Eli.”
“Eli’s out of the loop,” I grumble, even though it’s not my brother-in-law’s fault that I heard the news about Jake from Detective Mendoza. I got multiple panicked voice mails from Eli while I was at the station, so he wasn’t far behind.
“I want you to promise me something,” Mom says, carefully lowering herself into a chair across from me. Her lime-green sheath dress looks great but isn’t made for sitting. “Don’t go running around town like you did after Simon died, putting yourself in Jake’s path. Let the police do their job.”
“Seriously, Mom? When have the Bayview Police ever done their jobs?”
Mom ignores that extremely valid point. “You’re leaving for Peru next Friday, Addy. If you stay at home that entire time—”
“I’m not sitting at home for eleven days,” I break in, even though I’ve considered it. Somehow, no matter what my mother suggests, I find myself wanting to do the opposite.
“We need to take precautions with that monster at large,” Mom says. I must be rolling my eyes, because she purses her lips and adds, “What’s that look for?”
“Nothing,” I mutter, but then all of a sudden, I’m tired of holding my tongue. “I mean…sure, he’s a monster now, but he wasn’t always, was he?” Mom flushes as I continue, “We’re terrible judges of character, aren’t we? You and I used to think Jake was the greatest guy ever. So great that I was lucky to have him and had to watch my step in case he ever figured out that I wasn’t good enough for him. Ashton’s the only one who ever saw through him, but we wouldn’t listen.” I can’t bring myself to say the rest: And when I say we, I mean you, Mom, because how was I supposed to know? I was just a kid.
I expect her to murmur some excuse and make a beeline for the nearest bottle of wine, because that’s Mom’s go-to coping mechanism for any conversation she doesn’t want to have. Instead, she smooths a wrinkle from her dress and says, “I know. I let you down, Addy.” That’s so unexpected that I just blink as she adds, “The thing is…I’ve never been very good at being on my own. I was unhappy for most of your childhood, and I thought it was because things didn’t work out with your father, and then with Troy. I thought if you and Ashton could avoid my mistakes—if you could find the right person and build a life together—then everything would be different for you. But it didn’t work out that way, did it?”
“Bit of an understatement,” I say.
“Ashton figured it out first,” Mom says. “I couldn’t believe it when she left Charlie. I thought she was giving up, and that she wanted you to do the same. But she was so smart, wasn’t she? So strong. And you are too.”
“Oh,” I say. Eloquent as ever, but she’s kind of throwing me for a loop here.
“I hate what Jake did to you, Addy, but even before that, I hate the way that he made you feel. And I’m sorry I let that happen.” Mom’s run out of wrinkles on her dress, so now she’s smoothing out the cashmere blanket beside her. “I wasn’t much of a mother to you, was I?”
“At least you were here,” I say, and add, “No, I’m serious,” as Mom huffs out a mirthless laugh. “Dad wasn’t. He pretty much forgot about us once he met Courtney. Nobody could ever say that you were, um, uninvolved.” One of my earliest memories is of my mother brushing my hair for a pageant, carefully separating the strands into sections and coaxing them into soft waves. I remember watching her face scrunched with concentration in the mirror and loving that all her focus was on me.
Maybe I didn’t always get the healthiest form of her attention, but it was there. And it’s still here, even though I’ve been treating her like a distant, somewhat annoying roommate ever since I moved back.
“Indeed,” Mom says drily. “Well, I could have done worse, I suppose, because you’ve turned into an extraordinary young woman. I hope you know that, Addy.”
This is the part where we should probably hug, but the women in my family aren’t great at that. Even Ashton and I tend to collide awkwardly when we try. Before I can make an attempt, though, Mom reaches over and tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “I do wish you’d go back to your natural color, though. Your hair was always your best feature.”
Normally that would annoy me, but there’s something almost comforting about Mom not changing too much, too fast. So instead of snapping that I like my hair just fine, I say, “You’re going to be a great grandmother.”
Somehow, she manages to both brighten up and cringe at the same time. “How on earth did I get to the grandmother phase of life already?” she asks.
“Insta Gram,” I say.
“Absolutely not.”
“Grandrea?” It’s a play on her first name, Andrea, but I can tell from her face that she doesn’t like it, so I try again. “Big Momma?”
“Stop it.”
“G-Ma?”
“Geema?” From the way she says it, I can tell she’s picturing an entirely different spelling. “You know, that’s really quite cute.”
“G-Ma it is, then,” I say with a smile. We’ll work on the spelling later.
“A hundred thousand what?” I ask Maeve.
She mimes zipping her lips. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you, so you have to act surprised when Nate does, okay?” She flips open her laptop as she sprawls beside me on my bed, grabbing an extra pillow to put between her and the headrest. “It just slipped out. I’m so freaking excited for him. What a game changer, huh?”
“No kidding. Meanwhile my estranged parent and I finally had a heart-to-heart, and all I got was a pat on the back,” I say, rolling my eyes so that Maeve knows I’m kidding. Because yeah, of course I’d love that kind of windfall, but I also love that it’s going to Nate. I worry about him sometimes, feeling trapped in Bayview while the rest of us—even me, although it’s taken me a while—make plans to move on. Now he has options.
“It’s cool that your mom is being supportive, though,” Maeve says. “Even if it took another Jake disaster to get you there.”
“Yeah. It was nice,” I say, resting my head on her shoulder as she toggles between websites on her screen. “So, what’s the latest? Is what Vanessa learned from Ms. Riordan helpful?”
“I think so,” Maeve says. “I mean, we already had a pretty good idea that she and Alexander Alton were having an affair, but it’s nice to have it confirmed. The question now is—did Alexander really drown or not? And if he didn’t, who’s responsible?” She waits a few beats before adding, “You know what I always say, right?”
“Don’t trust coincidences?” I ask.
“Not that.”
“Everyone gives themselves away online eventually?”
“Wow, you’ve really been paying attention,” Maeve says, sounding gratified. “But no.” Her voice drops to a low whisper. “It’s always the husband.”
I lift my head so I can stare at her. “You’ve literally never said that.”
Maeve huffs in annoyance. “Okay, well, I don’t have to, because every true crime podcast ever has said it for me,” she says.
“So you think Mr. Riordan…” I trail off, trying to remember the last time I’d seen Scott Riordan. It was at Jake’s trial, of course. He was seated as close to Jake as he could get and never looked my way once. Not even while I was testifying.
“…killed Alexander Alton?” Maeve finishes. “It’s a possibility, right? He had motive, and if he’s anything like Jake—”
“He is.” I gulp. “In lots of ways, but…would Ms. Riordan still live with him after something like that?”
“Maybe,” Maeve says. “If she didn’t know. Or if she was afraid of what he might do to Jake, or to her, if she left.”
“Okay, supposing that’s true,” I say. “How does it connect to what’s happening now?”
“Well, let’s assume that Jake hasn’t disappeared on his own. Like Phoebe said, maybe he’s the perfect in practice makes perfect. Alexander Alton’s last campaign.”
“But why would his family do anything to Phoebe, or to Reggie?”
“I don’t know,” Maeve admits. “Alexander’s death is the only real clue we have, though, so I’ve been focused on his family. But his wife is dead, Chase and Chelsea are accounted for, and guess what? I found Christopher.” She opens a tab showing a row of smiling people standing in a semicircle around a guy holding some kind of plaque. “Let me introduce you to Penner Insurance’s Employee of the Month.”
“Are you sure that’s him?” I ask, squinting at the screen. As soon as Maeve enlarges her screen, though, I see the resemblance to Chase. “Where is Penner Insurance?”
“Ohio,” Maeve says.
“Maybe he’s on a leave of absence or something,” I say.
“According to this article, though, the Employee of the Month ceremony happened the day Reggie disappeared,” Maeve says.
“Oh,” I say, momentarily stumped.
“Yeah. Oh.”
“So, what next?”
Maeve sighs. “Beats me. I have zero alternate theories. I was going to ask Phoebe to set up another fake interview at Conrad and Olsen and see if she can learn anything more about Alexander Alton. Who knows—maybe there was bad blood with some colleague who hated him. Advertising’s a cutthroat business, right?” She shrugs at my dubious look. “I know, I know, I’m grasping at straws. Doesn’t matter anyway, because Phoebe’s been totally MIA.”
“She has?” I ask, alarmed. “Since when?”
“Not literally,” Maeve says quickly. “She’s working with Luis at Café Contigo right now. But she keeps putting me off every time I try to talk strategy. She says that she and Emma have a lot of catching up to do.”
“I’ll bet,” I say. There’s more I could add, because Phoebe’s been acting strangely all summer, but I don’t want to get too far off track. “I guess it could be a disgruntled-colleague situation, but…that kind of thing doesn’t feel personal enough for Bayview-style revenge. You said it yourself, right? It’s Jared Jackson all over again. Another Bayview family destroyed. Alexander Alton drowned, and his wife was so devastated that she died in a drunk-driving accident.” I hadn’t been on the beach blanket that day for the original conversation, but Maeve has repeated it more than once since then.
Maeve beams at me. “I did say that. You’re such a good listener, Addy.”
“I listen, and I learn,” I say. “You’ve managed to track down actual calendar events—a play’s opening night, and an Employee of the Month ceremony—that make it impossible for Chase or Christopher to be in town. But what about Chelsea? I know she’s all the way in England, but it’s summertime. What if she’s using old pictures?”
“I thought of that,” Maeve says, toggling to another tab. “But she’s been posting selfies at this seminar series that’s happening right now.”
Chelsea Alton’s Instagram page is up on Maeve’s screen, and she clicks on the first picture. “See, here she is at a lecture that was given by a World Bank economist a couple of days ago, and—”
Maeve breaks off, inhaling sharply, but I don’t understand why. There’s nothing alarming about the smiling girl posing next to a bespectacled man behind a podium. “What?” I ask.
“Ohhhh, you sneak,” Maeve breathes, fingers flying over her keyboard.
“What?” I repeat, more insistently.
“Hang on. I have to screenshot this before it disappears, because it probably will soon. Check out the first comment on this picture,” Maeve says, handing me her laptop.
It’s a comment posted by a girl with the user name @sophiehh13, whose avatar photo…looks a lot like Chelsea Alton. The comment reads, Stop stealing my pics you psycho!!!
“Wait, what? Who is that?” I ask.
Maeve clicks on the user name beside the comment and loads a new Instagram page belonging to someone named Sophie Hicks-Hartwell. Her bio reads: Tea enthusiast. Oxford student. Probably sleeping. Every picture that Maeve has shown us in the past from Chelsea Alton’s feed is on Sophie’s as well—plus a lot more of her hanging out with friends at parties, restaurants, and what looks like a dorm room.
“Damn,” Maeve says with what almost sounds like admiration. “I fell for the oldest trick in the book. Here I was, catfishing Chelsea’s older brother, and it never occurred to me that she might be doing the same thing to anyone checking up on her. Sophie Hicks-Hartwell even looks like Chase Alton, doesn’t she? The problem is, Chelsea allowed too many followers. That makes the account look legit, but also lets in people who might know the girl whose pictures she’s been using. Which is probably exactly what happened.”
Maeve returns to Chelsea’s page, where Sophie’s comment has already been deleted. “Chelsea jumped all over that notification, but it’s too late,” she says. “We already know she’s lying, so all we need to know now is—”
“Where is she?” I finish, staring at the screen.
SIMON
Six Years Earlier
Jake Riordan was so predictable. He’d been pulling away from Simon all summer, but now, when he wanted to do something sneaky, whom did he call?
It was the right call, obviously. But still predictable.
“Alexander Alton,” Simon said, shoving his phone in Jake’s face. “Her comanaging director at work. They couldn’t be more of a cliché if they tried.”
Jake stared at the phone, his jaw working. “No way. She can’t be hooking up with this guy. He’s not even good-looking.”
“If you say so,” Simon said, shrugging.
Jake threw the phone down onto the couch and folded his arms across his chest. “What did you hear, again, at the Ramona house?” he asked.
“That she was packing up a bag and couldn’t wait to go,” Simon said. He couldn’t remember Ms. Riordan’s exact words, but that seemed close enough.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Jake said, frowning. “My dad is perfect!”
Simon managed to hold back his snort, but just barely. “People have affairs for all kinds of reasons,” he said, gazing around Jake’s cavernous living room. It was a bright and sunny Saturday afternoon in August, and Mr. Riordan had made a big show of “hitting the links,” as he called it, when Simon showed up. Ms. Riordan, on the other hand, was nowhere in sight. “Where is Mommie Dearest, anyway?”
“Lunch with a friend,” Jake said.
“Uh-huh,” Simon said, hoping his sarcasm wasn’t lost on Jake.
It wasn’t; one of Jake’s hands curled into a fist that he slammed repeatedly into his palm. “This is nuts. She’s going to ruin everything.”
“I have an idea,” Simon said. Jake had only wanted a name, but Simon, of course, went the extra mile. Information was power, after all. “Let’s ride our bikes past the guy’s house and see if your mom’s car is there.”
Jake’s eyes popped. “It’s the middle of the day!” he protested. “She’d never do that.”
“No offense, but I don’t think you know much about what your mom would or wouldn’t do in any given situation,” Simon said. “Especially this one.”
Five minutes later, they were pedaling toward Alexander Alton’s house.
Secretly, Simon didn’t actually think that Ms. Riordan would be there. According to his research, the guy had a wife and three kids, so home base wasn’t a good choice for an afternoon tryst. But Simon was enjoying Jake’s angst, and even more, he enjoyed the thought of whatever chaos might erupt if they caught sight of a stray Alton.
And what if, by chance, Jake’s mother’s car really was in the driveway? Simon permitted himself a small smile as he coasted down a hill. Her secret would be out, thanks to him, and he couldn’t wait to see what might happen next.
He had to remind himself, when there was no shiny red BMW in the Altons’ driveway, that he hadn’t really expected one. No reason to be disappointed.
“She’s not there,” Jake said, clearly relieved, as he stopped in front of the house. “Told you so.”
“Not now, anyway,” Simon said, gazing at the empty driveway of the neat, compact bungalow in front of them. It was set off by itself at the end of a long, winding road and was barely the size of Jake’s living room. “I thought this guy had a big-deal job? Why is his house such a piece of crap?”
“Ad agencies don’t pay like law firms,” Jake said. He sounded almost forlorn as he added, “My mom doesn’t get it. If it weren’t for my dad, we’d be living like this too.”
“Who knows? Maybe you will,” Simon said, dropping his bicycle to the ground. “Let’s check out the rest of it.”
“What? No!” Jake protested. “Somebody might be home.”
“So what?” Simon asked, loping across the street. “We’re just a couple of kids cutting through a yard. Happens all the time.”
Jake was too much of a coward to follow, though. He stayed behind on the sidewalk as Simon made his way up the Altons’ driveway. The house, with its french-blue paint and bright white trim, wasn’t as bad as he and Jake had made it out to be. It had a bay window on one side and an attached garage on the other, with a small porch full of flowering plants surrounding the front door. You couldn’t see any other houses from the Altons’ yard, which Simon considered a real-estate plus. His own neighbors weren’t nearly distant enough.
Simon headed around the back, curious if there might be a deck or a low-enough window that he could peer inside. Before he got far, though, a voice called out, “Um, excuse me. Who the hell are you?”
He turned to see a girl a little older than him, lying on a hammock strung between two trees. Simon should have noticed her, probably, but no matter. This was what he’d come for, after all: an up-close-and-personal look at the Altons.
“Simon Kelleher. I live down the street,” he said, the lie slipping out easily. “Sorry about the trespassing. I thought I could get to my house from here, but apparently not.”
“Nobody can get to their house from here.” The girl swung her legs over the edge of the hammock, then stood and strode through the overlong grass until she was a few feet away from Simon. This must be Alexander’s sixteen-year-old daughter Chelsea, unless the Alton family was in the habit of letting random kids use their hammock. She struck Simon as too territorial for that to be the case, though. “I’ve never seen you before,” she said, eyes narrowing.
Same, Simon thought. But that wasn’t surprising, even though they were only a few years apart in age. From his research, he knew that Alexander Alton’s wife was a teacher at Dartmoor Prep, a private school in Eastland, and that all the Alton kids went there. Free of charge, probably, although Dartmoor was already the cheapest private school around. Could it even call itself a prep school, Simon wondered, with such abysmal Ivy League acceptance rates?
“I’m relatively new to the area,” Simon said. Another lie; he’d lived in this cursed town his entire life.
Chelsea shrugged. She clearly wasn’t the sociable type, which Simon could respect. He wouldn’t make polite conversation with somebody trespassing in his yard either. “Well, you can go now,” she said, making a shooing motion with one hand. “Back the way you came.”
Simon wasn’t quite ready for that. “You probably know my friend,” he said.
“Who’s that?” Chelsea asked. There was a cool, appraising wariness in her eyes that interested him; it was the same look he sometimes saw reflected in his own mirror. She’d be a worthy adversary, he thought. Or ally. Who knew where fate might take them if the Riordan-Alton affair exploded as spectacularly as Simon hoped it would.
“Jake Riordan,” he said, watching her carefully.
There was no flicker of recognition on the girl’s face. “Never heard of him.”
“Don’t worry,” Simon said. “You will.”
