Somewhere around the time he crossed the border from Maine to New Hampshire, on the heels of his conversation with Jonathan Hurley and his realization about the origins of the photos in Lizzie Ouellette’s little album of “dreams,” Bird had tapped into a profound and intense dislike for Adrienne Richards. By the time he arrived outside her door, he had decided that she was at least as bad as, if not worse than, her conniving fraud of a husband, and that she deserved to be dragged over the coals as hard as humanly possible for her involvement with Dwayne Cleaves—which made it jarring when the door opened and he found himself immediately apologizing.
“Adrienne Richards?” he said, and watched her nod, her eyes wide, as she peered out through the crack in the door. “I’m sorry to bother you so late. I’m Detective Bird, with the Maine State Police.”
The door swung wider as he held his ID up for examination, and Bird looked at Adrienne as she looked at his badge. She was pretty in person, but not the way he’d expected. There was no sign of the pouting, posing, attention-seeking rich bitch he’d seen in pictures and read about in the news; unfiltered and in real life, Adrienne Richards had a haunted, vulnerable look, with a soft mouth and striking pale blue eyes that widened as they met his.
“The state police, you said?” She chewed her lip. “Why?”
“I have a few questions for you. Can we talk inside?”
She hesitated, then swung the door wide. He stepped in as she stepped aside, the scent of something light and citrusy trailing behind her. The events of that morning, the blood-soaked quilt being drawn away from Lizzie Ouellette’s lifeless body to the angry buzzing of a hundred thirsty flies, seemed suddenly very far away.
“Were you expecting company tonight?” he asked.
Adrienne shut the door firmly and gave him an odd look. “What makes you say that?”
“I saw you at the window. I thought you might be watching for someone.”
“I was just . . . sitting. It’s a nice view,” she said. A short set of stairs rose up behind her, and she turned, beckoning him to follow. “We can talk up here.”
Bird watched her back as she ascended, taking in her outfit （bare feet, sweatpants that looked like they were made of silk, an artfully distressed gray sweater that probably cost a thousand bucks and came with its sleeves pre-frayed）， her hair （twisted up on her head, that funny pinkish-copper color that Jennifer Wellstood had called “rose gold”）， her posture （tense, but normal for a woman home alone getting an unexpected visit from the cops）。 There was a photograph on the wall where the landing turned a corner, Adrienne and Ethan posing on a hilltop terrace under a light pink sky. A sea of sun-bleached buildings were set into the hill behind them, with the real sea just beyond, stretching blue and endless to the horizon. She was blond and tanned and smiling; he was planting a kiss on the top of her head.
“Nice picture. Is that Greece?”
She turned, leaned in, squinted. “Yeees,” she said slowly. “The islands. We honeymooned there.”
“Looks beautiful.”
“My husband isn’t here,” she said abruptly. She moved away, climbing the last three stairs to the second floor and then turning to look down at Bird where he still stood on the landing. She crossed her arms, shifting her weight. “I still don’t know what this is about.”
“You’re alone here, then?”
“That’s what I just said,” she replied. “My husband isn’t here. So whatever this is about—”
“Actually,” he interrupted, “you’re the one I wanted to talk to. And I think it’s better that I speak to you first.” He ascended the stairs, too, looking around again as he did. The stairs opened into a living area, the space marked by a deep sectional sofa, a plush chair, and a large wall-mounted television, turned on but with the sound muted. Beyond the living area was the kitchen—he could see the big bay window where Adrienne had been standing a moment before, and a half-empty bottle of wine perched on the countertop next to a half-poured glass of red.
“Is that yours?” He pointed to the wine.
“Yes,” she said, and he thought he detected a note of exasperation underneath her politeness. “Like I said, it’s just me here. You can look around if you don’t believe me.”
Bird plopped down on the couch instead.
“You want your wine?” She shook her head, and he shrugged. “All right. Please have a seat.”