Jack says, “I don’t buy that Saelim would have dropped Darling back at the scene. Especially after she screamed like that. Doesn’t add up.”
Lula says, “It’s weird, but bear in mind, I checked, and it took more than ninety minutes for first responders to even arrive at the Glass House. Beulah Brown was known to make false calls. The West Van PD and dispatch are all too familiar with going out there only to find raccoons in her garbage or shadows in the wind. Brown’s call was placed at a lower priority when another emergency came in right after hers. There was a significant delay in response to the scene, so it’s possible Darling returned, and that Rittenberg had time to abduct or kill her, or both. It’s possible Saelim is telling the truth.”
“Saelim says he can identify the other participants on that ski lodge footage,” Mal says. “Let’s get him started. We—” Her cell rings. It’s Benoit.
Mal holds up her hand, connects the call. “Go ahead, Benoit. You’re on speaker.”
“They’ve almost got her body free. They’re about to bring her up now.”
Mal surges to her feet and reaches for her jacket. “I’m on my way. Lu, get Saelim identifying those participants. Get a written statement from him detailing his involvement. Arnav, assemble a team—arrest Jon Rittenberg. Gavin, loop Crown prosecution in. Get things rolling on the charges. Jack, work with our media liaison, and let’s get ahead of the press on this one.”
Mal shrugs into her jacket and hurries for the station exit. As she climbs into her car, the irony hits hard. Kit Darling is getting exactly what she wanted. Theater. With Jon and Daisy in the spotlight.
Darling is finally exacting her revenge. She has won.
At a price—her life.
MAL
November 4, 2019. Monday.
Clouds press down low and dark, and rain whips sideways, driven by gusts of wind.
Mal stands next to Benoit at the water’s edge, where giant riprap boulders shore up the bank. The ground underfoot is muddy. They’re near the bridge, close to where Tamara Adler stated that she and MLA Frank Horvath parked to have sex in her Mercedes-Maybach. Traffic roars overhead and the bridge clunks.
Mal huddles deeper into her coat as the rigid hull inflatable with tenders on board guides the divers underwater. In her mind Mal sees the photo of Kit Darling. She hears Beulah Brown’s words.
She’s pretty. I’ve seen her face through my binoculars. She always waves when she sees me. Sweet girl . . . She wears her hair up in two little buns, like cat’s ears.
Emotion tightens Mal’s throat. Perhaps she’s finally been exhausted by the depravity and darkness after year upon year of this job. Perhaps retirement will feel okay. She glances up at Benoit. He offers a comforting but sad smile. He feels something, too. Benoit has empathy, and while empathy can be an asset to an investigator, especially when it comes to interrogation and getting into a victim’s or villain’s head, the trait has a downside for a homicide cop. Those who can shut out feelings last longer, because this job takes its toll, and after thirty years, she’s feeling it.
“You okay?” Benoit asks.
“Yeah. Just thinking about the irony of Rittenberg bringing her back out here.”
“You think Saelim is telling the truth?”
“We’ll find out. I’ve got the team going through additional CCTV footage.”
“I’m just glad we found her.”
“Helluva case to go out on.”
“Some curtain call for sure.” He breaks his gaze and turns away. “Gonna miss you, Mal.”
“I’ll be around. Any time you want coffee or to troubleshoot a case. God knows, I miss doing that with Peter.”
“At least Sam Berkowitz will feed her crow,” he says as four divers break the surface, wet-suited heads rising like seals coming up to play in the stormy water. Light glints off their dive masks. Mal tenses as the tender gives a shout. Slowly, the divers surface the body. She lies facedown. Mal sees her blonde hair floating like a gentle fan about her head. The divers begin to swim her to the shore. She’s wearing a lilac jacket.
As the divers and the body draw closer, Mal and Benoit scramble down the bank of wet concrete boulders. A chopper thuds overhead, hidden by the clouds. Crowds are once more gathering along the pedestrian section of the bridge. By tonight the Kit Darling theater will be on everyone’s TV screen and all over social media. The media will have gotten word of Jon Rittenberg’s arrest for the sexual assault that occurred eighteen years ago. The other guys involved in the assault will be scrambling, worrying about what’s coming down for them. Daisy Rittenberg will be awaiting the birth of her child, unsure of what this will mean for her marriage, her baby. And for her. Annabelle and Labden will watch the news and call lawyers about their own exposure.
The divers reach the boulders. The arms of the decedent bob softly at her sides—she floats in the shape of a cross. Mal sees bracelets on one wrist. A watch on the other. Jeans. Boots.
The coroner’s guys make their way over to the rocks with a body bag.
Slowly, the divers roll her over. Mal recoils as a swarm of sea lice explodes in a cloud, exposing the face. Her nose is gone. Her eyes are gaping sockets. Her lips have been eaten. Her cheeks are fleshy holes that expose the teeth in a macabre grimace.
“Shit,” Benoit says quietly. “I know sea lice, crabs, starfish, other underwater critters can strip a body to bone in days, but . . .” His voice fades. He clears his throat.
Mal’s brain is wheeling. “Boots,” she whispers. “And the hair—it’s not blonde. It’s silvery-white.” Her gaze shoots to Benoit as adrenaline dumps into her blood.
“It’s not her,” she says quietly. “It’s not Kit Darling.”
THE MAID’S DIARY
Kat reaches for the umbrella drink at her side and sips. The taste is coconut and lychee. The air is warm and feels rounded and soft against her bare arms. The breeze smells like the ocean. She wears a bikini, a sarong, sandals, and a big straw hat. She’s on the patio of a thatched beachside bar in Bali, ironically named Karma Beach Bar. She’s always wanted to visit Bali. She flew in from Laos via Jakarta this morning. Kit opens a teal-color spiral notebook. She’s starting a new diary. A fresh page. She even managed to find purple gel pens at a Jakarta airport store. She takes another sip of her drink, sets it down, picks up her pen. She writes:
Sometimes when you start a journey—or a journal—you have a destination in mind. You aim for it. You make a plan, devise an itinerary to get there. But the road is never straight. You hit storms, are blocked by rockslides, avalanches, construction detours, accidents. Perhaps you might notice a fellow traveler hitching a ride, so you pick them up . . . and your journey, your plot, your destination changes.
Was my diary supposed to be part of a plot to implicate Jon Rittenberg? To set him up to be investigated for murder? To expose what he and his wife did to me all those years ago? In a way, yes. I started trying to write down my thoughts the day I learned I was in his house. I had to do something. I couldn’t just sit with the knowledge he was back, and I was inside his private cocoon. With the fact he was finally having a baby where I could have none, because of his act.