“Why don’t we rest here for a second,” Nessa said. She often drove out to sit in the same spot. The dead girls were gone now, their spirits at rest. Faith’s and Mandy’s families knew what had happened. But the third girl had no one else to mourn her, so Nessa did.
Her name, they’d discovered, was Mei Jones. A fifteen-year-old girl who’d lost her parents in a car accident, she’d come to Mattauk to live with the chief of police and his wife as a foster child. According to Juliet Rocca, the girl had disappeared the night after she arrived. It wasn’t uncommon, she was told, for foster children to run away before settling into a new home. Juliet had insisted her husband open a missing persons file, but no leads ever came in. After Mei’s disappearance, Juliet spent months trying to hunt down any family members. She later learned no report had ever been filed.
The medical examiner couldn’t say for sure how they’d murdered her. But there was no doubt Mei had died on Culling Pointe. Nessa raked her eyes down the charred peninsula. Nothing had survived the fire. And nothing would ever be built there again. Leonard had left the land to a whale conservation group. They had already confirmed that Culling Pointe would forever remain undeveloped and barren.
“You good?” Franklin took Nessa’s hand. The wedding ring she’d worn for so long now hung from a chain around her neck.
Nessa looked over at him and smiled. “Yeah, I’m good,” she told him.
Harriett glanced up at the sun. Every minute she had to spend with Lucy was precious, and she didn’t want to be late for lunch. If they got to the boat soon, she and Celeste could be back to Mattauk by noon.
The garden they’d come to visit was lovely—perhaps the prettiest in all of East Hampton. In late spring, it opened to the public for two days. Harriett could see it was tired of putting on a show. It wanted to be free of shears and mowers. And the man who spent his summers in the nearby mansion didn’t deserve to enjoy its blooms or its fragrances.
She’d met the man once, years before. He was the CEO of the holding company that owned a third of the ad agencies in Manhattan, including the company that had just dumped Max—and the one that still employed Chase and his second wife, who’d soon give birth to the couple’s first child. The CEO’s name had leaped out to Harriett when she’d gone through Claude’s files. She’d assumed always he was just a garden-variety dick like her old boss and her ex-husband. Instead, she learned he’d been a frequent guest at Culling Pointe.
“Beautiful,” Harriett said. They’d arrived at a rustic wooden arbor with a bench half hidden by wisteria vines.
“The article in Gardens Illustrated said he comes here to think,” Celeste told her.
“Perfect,” Harriett said. “Let’s give him something to think about.”
She pulled a glass tube from her pocket. Celeste took a step back as Harriett kneeled on the grass and unscrewed the metal cap, in which she’d drilled several small holes. “Here you go, ladies.” She placed the tube on the ground and watched with pleasure as its three eight-legged occupants scuttled straight for the bench.
Acknowledgments
So many women helped bring this book to life.
My mother, Katherine Miller, who relished nothing more than a righteous fight.
My childhood best friend, Erica Waldrop, the model for every delinquent with a heart of gold in my books.
Patricia Berne and Fitzallen Eldridge, who inspired and encouraged a weird little girl.
All the women of Barnard, but especially Joan Rivers.
Lilian Schein, whose kindness and generosity made it possible for me to stay in New York.
Susan Roy and Leeanne Leahy, the brilliant strategists who gave me my first jobs in advertising.
Suzanne Gluck, my firecracker agent, whose advice I’ve relied on for fifteen years.