Amid Noah’s deep slumber, he calls out. He’s typically not one to talk in his sleep, so I hurry back, worried something’s wrong.

  But he’s still motionless on his back, eyes shifting around behind their closed lids.

  As I creep in closer, he moans, much like he had earlier on the deck when he’d climaxed.

  “Oh, baby, I like that,” he calls, his voice deep and sexy. “Oh, Beth.”

  16

  PRESENT DAY

  Detective Josephine Kelly

  Still parked across the road from the Huisman’s monstrosity of a home, I drop back against the driver seat of my sedan. I was certain Britta Baxter’s classmate had been telling the truth about Noah Huisman having an intimate relationship with Britta when she was still a teenager. I suspect the relationship may have ended with her death. I’m also convinced Noah Huisman had been sleeping with Linda Boese.

  While it would give Maxine Huisman a clear motive, my gut tells me Mrs. Huisman’s reaction to the picture of Linda Boese had been complete shock rather than a well-rehearsed act. I’m willing to bet Mrs. Huisman knows about her husband’s affair but is still having difficulty accepting it.

  However, it's unusual that Maxine Huisman insists on preserving her deceased cousin’s reputation as a beloved community member. Why does she feel obligated to continue with the facade? Is she in denial? Is she trying to paint her cousin in a positive light so no one suspects her husband could’ve been involved in her death? Even Taylor Baxter had plenty of negative things to say about her mother.

  After speaking with Britta’s next-door neighbors, the Lufts and the Hansens, I'm getting a better idea of the real woman behind the popular videos. Everyone from Britta’s professional and social circles I spoke with at the memorial service sounded exasperated by Britta’s antics. Not a single one seemed overly mournful of her death.

  There seems to have been a darker side to the self-made celebrity than the carefully planned photographs posted online, intended to cast the influencer in a positive light.

  Either Maxine Huisman was delusional in thinking her cousin was cherished by those who knew her, or she’s hiding something.

  Noah Huisman is good for the murders. I only have to unearth concrete evidence to back my theory and look into his alibi for the night of the murders. The task would become more difficult now that Mrs. Huisman wants a lawyer involved.

  Remembering how Taylor Baxter had mentioned the Huismans’ neighbor had also been a friend of her mother’s, I exit my sedan a second time and start for the urban rambler a hundred feet from the Huismans’ home.

  When the zealous, buxom blonde answers the door, I sense I’ve struck gold. The woman all but hugs me and declares me to be her new best friend before she instructs me to make myself at home in the living room nearby. I take my time studying a wall of framed pictures, noting they almost all consist of selfies taken by Ms. Gallo with others. Although the house was designed with a minimalistic eye, the furnishings are clearly high-end, much like those inside the Husimans’ home. Moments after the whistle of a tea kettle, I hear the click of Ms. Gallo’s heels on the wood floor behind me.

  “I’m so glad they put an intelligent woman in charge of this investigation,” she declares while handing me a warm cup of chamomile tea. She glides away in a cloud of flowering fabric and bright patterns before claiming her spot in the opposing armchair. “God knows we don’t need more arrogant men mucking things up. There are already too many ancient, wealthy white dudes running this country into the ground.”

  “Cheers to that.” I raise my cup before taking a minuscule sip for show. “You have a lovely home. Have you been here long?”

  “I just celebrated my first year of living here full-time. If it weren’t for Britta and Maxine, I’d still be wasting most of my year away, slumming it in Palm Springs.”

  “You’re from California?”

  “Born and raised.”

  Eyebrows raised, I set the cup and saucer on the coffee table. “How did you find your way here?”

  “It’s a long story. I’d hate to bore you with the mundane details. In a nutshell, I’m a widow who has a string of terrible luck. My second late husband’s family owned this property, so I sort of fell into it like a drunk would fall over a cobblestone street after too much Italian wine.”

  My professionalism kicks in, preventing me from openly laughing at the woman’s oddities. “Second late husband?”

  “Well, my first one, Tony, died because he was overweight and didn’t bother listening when the doctor told him his heart would give out if he didn’t stop stuffing his face.”

  “And how did your second husband pass away?”

  Gabby’s eyes narrow as if she’s sharing something scandalous. “Paully was a pill popper who also had a passion for fast muscle cars. I think you can guess how he met his demise.”

  “I can’t imagine that combo ended well.”

  “They had to cut out a portion of the brick wall he hit so they could test his brain matter for illegal substances.”

  I inwardly shudder at the visual. “They investigated his cause of death?”

  “His father is a powerful man with a lot of enemies. He wanted to make certain someone hadn’t put a hit out on his son.” She holds her hand beside her mouth and adds, “He was a boss in the Italian mafia.”

  My eyebrows shoot up on their own. “Did they investigate your first husband’s cause of death?”

  Gabby’s mouth puckers. “Are you suggesting I’m some kind of black widow?”

  “I’m simply interested in the details of your ‘string of terrible luck,’ as you called it.” Although I fully intend to research the stories of the two men, it’s time for a change of subject before she becomes upset with me. “Tell me more about your relationship with the Huismans. You must witness plenty with all these open windows. Are you only close with Maxine, or do you also have a relationship with Noah?”

  Sitting a little taller, Gabby folds her hands in her lap. “I’m not going to sit here and pretend I don’t find Noah hella sexy, but my relationship with him doesn’t go beyond anything innocent. I’m not a harlot. And besides, I wouldn’t do that sort of thing to my best friend. Max and I have each other’s backs through thick and thin.”

  The irony of her mentioning “backs” when both women had been stabbed in theirs isn’t lost on me. The widower may have a tendency towards murdering those who have done her wrong, including female friends and acquaintances. “I understand Britta and Maxine had a close-knit friendship as well as being cousins. Have you ever experienced jealousy towards their relationship?”

  “Of course not. I felt lucky when they invited me into their circle.”

  “How did Britta and Maxine get along? Were you aware of any rivalry between them? Any old, unsettled riffs?”

  “You’re asking if I think my sweet friend killed her beloved cousin and tossed her corpse into the lake because of some old grudge? The answer is hell to the no.” Her cheeks flush with anger. “You didn’t witness Maxine falling apart after they stuck Brit’s body inside the hearse. Her cousin’s death destroyed her. She’s been walking around like some kinda zombie!”

  “Okay, okay,” I concede, holding up the palms of my hands in a peaceful gesture. “I’m trying to do a thorough job. Let’s go back to Mr. Huisman. Do you have any reason to believe he’s been unfaithful to his wife, either recently or in the past?”

  “That’s not for me to say,” she says, again folding her hands against her lap. “I, for one, don’t engage in small-town gossip.”

  Sensing she’s eager to tell me something, I pretend to be satisfied with the answer by saying, “I can respect that.”

  Gabby leans closer and whispers, “But if I tell you a secret, can you promise it won’t get back to Max?”

  I nod, waiting for her to continue.

  “Everyone around here considers Noah Huisman to be a total player. They laughed behind Max’s back when word got around they were getting married after only a few months. I mean, the man has been married two times before. Did she really believe another worthless piece of paper would make him a loyal husband?”

  “From what I understand, he’s out of town quite often. Do you believe he’s unfaithful while he’s away?”

  Gabby scoffs. “I mean, come on. Did you get a proper look at the man? He was put on this earth to seduce women.”

  “Would it surprise you to learn he’d been intimate with Britta Baxter?”

  Gabby’s eyes flicker over to the Huismans’ home, visible through a large set of square windows. A bank of clouds has moved in over the fortress-sized home, giving it a more sinister vibe.

  “Real talk…just between us girls?” Gabby offers, her voice hardly a step above a whisper. “Not at all. Britta and Noah were like the real-life Ken and Barbie of Lake Shetek. I mean, they’re so attractive and perfect. The rest of us should be embarrassed. Max is beautiful and everything, but she’s more of a natural beauty, kinda like Day to Night Barbie with the pink suit and the sensible pumps, while Britta was a total Crystal Barbie…all glitter and glamour. I mean, all Barbies are plastic, so it might not be the best comparison. At least as far as Max is concerned. Know what I mean?”

  Although a little confused by the odd metaphors, I nod regardless. “Did you know Linda Boese?”

  “Is that the dead girl Donna Rivers found yesterday?” Gabby’s eyes begin to sparkle with unshed tears. “Poor thing. I’ve seen her at the bar a handful of times. She was beautiful. She had so much to offer. Just think of the superb babies she could’ve brought into the world had she found the right man. What kind of sicko would want to wipe someone with so much potential off the face of this earth?”

  “Miss Boese’s twin sister suspects Linda was having an affair with a man from this area,” I say, careful to gauge the movement of every muscle on the woman’s body.

  Eyes widening, Gabby slaps her knees. “Wait. Is that why you had all those questions about Noah? Do you think he was sleeping with Britta and the hot bartender?”

  “I’m searching for any facts about the area’s two recent victims that will lead to an arrest.”

  Gabby gasps. “So you think the two deaths were related? What if some psychopath serial killer on this lake has a thing for hot blondes?” Her shaking hands flutter over the sides of her face. “Oh no! What if they come after me next?”

  “At this point in time, we don’t have reason to believe more murders will occur, but as always, it doesn’t hurt to err on the side of caution. Don’t go out alone at night, keep your doors and windows locked at all times. If you have reason to believe you’re in danger, don’t hesitate to call nine-one-one.”

  “It’s a good thing I got my conceal and carry when I first moved here,” Gabby says with a tisk. “A young, single, vulnerable woman like me can never be too careful.”

  I balk at the idea of the eccentric woman handling a firearm. God help us all. “Like I said, call nine-one-one if you think you might be in danger.” Standing, I pass my business cards to the woman. “Please don’t hesitate to reach out if you can think of anything helpful.”

  “Oh, I will,” Gabby promises with an enthusiastic nod. “You can count on it.”

  And you can count on the fact that I will learn what exactly happened to your husbands by the day’s end, I silently add.

  17

  PRESENT DAY

  Maxine

  After camping out in the hidden pantry, watching out the window until I’m certain Detective Kelly has finally left Gabby's house and the neighborhood, I spend a few minutes hunched over the toilet.

  What if the man I promised to spend the rest of my life with is a murderer?

  As much as I want to deny it, how can it be a coincidence I found a picture of the woman on his phone mere hours before she washed up on the lakeshore?

  I flush the toilet and rinse my mouth before rushing into our closet. I start with Noah’s bank of drawers, tossing everything aside into a heaping pile on the tiled floor. I honestly have no idea what I’m looking for or what I’m trying to prove. I’m on autopilot as I empty the entire contents of his side of the U-shaped closet.

  From there, I head into his office on the second floor, dumping out each drawer to frantically search for hidden compartments. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I acknowledge my neat husband will be livid when he discovers the mess I’ve made of his important documents. I’m past the point of caring.

  I make my way through the house one room at a time. At this point, I’m sure I’ve completely lost my mind. But I need something to either confirm my greatest fears or negate them. There’s no in-between.

  Once I’ve finished combing through every square inch, I stare at the doorway tucked in the back of the pantry. When the house was first built, Noah left the basement unfinished. According to him, he had a fall out with the architect over something to do with the layout of the wine cellar. Although he ultimately decided to leave it until he could find an architect who shared his vision, there’s still a makeshift room dry and cool enough to store the cases of wine he brings home from every business trip.

  I rarely go into the room as it houses numerous spiders of different varieties, no matter how many times the exterminators come to spray. I usually either make Noah retrieve the bottle of wine I want if he’s home, or I run into town and buy whatever is needed to pair with dinner. I prefer not to step foot into the dark cellar at any cost. So when I think about it, it’s the perfect place for Noah to hide something from me.

  Taking a deep breath for courage, I pad barefoot down the stairway, finished in the same white oak as the other stairways in the house. As I flip on the light switch, my pulse dances to an erratic beat. Under the golden glow of oversized construction lightbulbs dangling from the ceiling, the barren cement space comes to life.

  Although it’s been three years since the contractor finished taping the ceiling and gave it a coat of primer, the “new construction” smell remains prominent as I shuffle through the empty space.

  The cold concrete on my bare feet evokes memories of a disturbing occurrence from my childhood. It comes hard and unexpectedly, forcing me to lean against the nearest wall to stay upright.

  I was sure the memory of that horrific day had remain buried.

  My mom’s boyfriend, Martin, came to our house every Sunday afternoon without fail. He was a traditional Southern Baptist and never missed a Sunday morning service. He’d force me to pray for salvation on my knees at his side, often for several hours. My little legs and joints would lock up so I couldn’t walk for several minutes after he finally permitted me to stand.

  Once, when I was six, I wet myself because he wouldn’t let me use the bathroom. After that incident, I learned to empty my bladder minutes before he would arrive.

  My mother was conveniently absent during these prayer sessions involving what could only be described as acts of torture. She’d show up around dinnertime to prepare something fresh from the supermarket, pretending nothing nefarious happened while she was away.

  One Sunday afternoon, days after my thirteenth birthday, I decided I’d had enough of Martin’s prayer sessions. My mother left early, leaving me alone nearly ten minutes before his scheduled arrival. I crawled under the house’s concrete foundation to hide. The space was tight and filled with some of Georgia’s least-desired creatures, but I didn’t care. It was safer than being at Martin’s disposal.

  My plan would’ve worked if I hadn’t come face-to-face with a copperhead snake.

  I actually willed the snake to bite me.

  I closed my eyes and prayed it would end my life, prayed it would stop the misery I had to endure over and over again.

  My prayers were answered as Martin stepped out of his vehicle in the driveway. I gave my hiding spot away with a wail of pure agony.

  Five bags of anti-venom were necessary to keep me alive. Without them, a surgeon would’ve amputated my leg. My mother was unaccounted for in the two days I spent in the ICU. Martin told the hospital staff he was my father, so they allowed him to stay. Unfortunately, he remained vigilant at my side.

  Despite the narcotics they continuously pumped into me, hoping to take the edge off, I’d never understood that level of suffering.

  It was still better than the fate awaiting me once I was released.

  One late evening during my stay in the hospital, when Martin was asleep, I tried to tell one of the young nurses why I didn’t want to go home. Either Martin wasn’t really sleeping, or he woke at the very start of the conversation. He told the nurse I wasn’t right in the head, and they continued the conversation in the hallway.

  The thing about Martin was he knew how to charm anyone. I guess women who didn’t understand he was evil found him attractive. The next time I saw that nurse, she was flirting with him and blushing at almost everything he said.

  In that hospital bed, I started planning my escape.

  The flashback sends a jolt to my system, almost knocking me off my feet. I’ve tried to suppress any memories involving Martin for so long.

  Now I understand why I’ve done everything to avoid this basement.

  With a guttural cry, I sink to the floor.

  I was so young, so innocent. What kind of a monster does countless evil things to a child? And how did my mother stand by all those years without stopping him?

  You’ve come this far, Maxine. Don’t let that bastard break you now.

  I wipe my wet face and stand, continuing toward the makeshift cellar. Dozens of bottles rest on the custom racks, half covered in a layer of dust. I peruse through the meticulously arranged selections, curious how many thousands of dollars Noah has dropped on alcohol that may or may not ever be consumed.