But first, she had to put the logistics in place for the three of them to disappear without a trace. She’d taken some important steps already. She’d bought a gun, unregistered and untraceable, which she’d keep hidden until it was needed. There was a death certificate in Sylvia’s name, obtained by bribing a county employee. Once it was filed, Sylvia would cease to exist, legally speaking. They’d paid top dollar for new identification, not just for Sylvia, but for Kathryn too, in the names of Marie and Jenna Allen, a mother and daughter who’d died in a car crash in Tennessee years before. Rather than going through crooks in Boston who might rat her out, she bought the Allens’ identities on the Dark Web, using an alias. It cost many times more, but the peace of mind was worth it. Using the name Jenna Allen at the hospital, Kathryn obtained a birth certificate for Grace in the name of Allen, too. But as anyone living in the shadows knows, even the most professional-looking false documents will only get you so far. It’s hard to build a life around them if you want to work, go to school, get a line of credit or a mortgage. The risk of being caught was too great, at least in the States. She would be better off retiring to a foreign country. But for that, she’d need money. Lots of money, enough for the three of them to survive on indefinitely. And since she’d just drained her bank account, that would take time to accumulate, more time than she wanted to spend. So she decided to steal it. The people who’d been profiting off her for decades were loaded. She would take their money and leave them broken and destroyed. She didn’t know how yet, but that was her vow as she returned to Boston on a warm spring day, with a marble urn in her roller bag that supposedly contained her mother’s ashes.
* * *
Step one in her plan for revenge: lull them into a false sense of security.
There was no coffin at Sylvia’s memorial service. Just the urn displayed on a stand next to a photograph draped with black ribbon. The photo showed Sylvia on the Cape thirty years before, looking glamorous in sunglasses and a white dress. The lavish arrangement of white lilies in front of the photo complemented her outfit. Kathryn snapped a picture on her phone. Her mother was going to love this.
“Damn, she was a looker,” Ray said from behind her.
Her skin crawled at the sight of him, which reminded her not to overplay her hand. The last time they met was at Matthew’s funeral. That ugly confrontation was burned into her brain. It would be burned into his, too. He was the first to arrive. They were alone for the moment. But welcoming him with open arms wouldn’t seem natural.
“You weren’t invited,” she said coldly.
“Kathy. Please, let me say goodbye. Your mother was the love of my life.”
“You should have thought of that before you murdered her son-in-law.”
He put his hand over his heart like he’d been struck.
“If it was up to me, that would never have happened. I tried to protect you. It was just impossible. I know you’ll never forgive me, but please, for Sylvia’s sake, let me mourn her. I would have been with her at the end if you had let me. Held her hand while she left this earth. Sung to her. You know she loved my singing voice?”
That voice was shaky now, his eyes red and wet. She had a hard time believing anything Ray said or did, but she had to admit, his tears seemed real. He was an old man, and not in the best of health. She had an image of him dropping dead on the floor in front of her. How satisfying that would be. But it wouldn’t serve her purpose.
“You can stay,” she said grudgingly. “I agree Mom would have wanted that, and today is her day.”
He grabbed her hands and kissed them.
“Thank you. I’m very grateful. I pray that someday our differences will be like water under the bridge. You know I think of you like—”
A daughter? It made her want to vomit.
“Enough,” she said, and took her hands away.
She let him stand beside her as the room began to fill. The crowd was bigger than she’d expected. Ray made introductions because Kathryn didn’t know most of them. People from the office, the old neighborhood. She was taking mental notes for Sylvia, who’d want an accounting of who showed up for her funeral. Some of them objected to the choice of cremation. She wanted to say, Mind your business. Better to placate them than get them focused on what was in the urn—which was nothing.
“It’s what she wanted. She was vain of her appearance. And she wasted away at the end, lost her hair and everything. She preferred cremation.”