An hour and a half later, Lizzy left Chuck Bundy’s office with a virtually untouched vanilla latte and a throbbing pain behind her right eye. As expected, the prospects for an easy sale were far from rosy, though he’d been careful to remind her several times throughout their conversation that he was speaking only in hypotheticals as it related to her particular property.

She’d gotten a crash course in real estate, learning the many pitfalls inherent in the sale of distressed properties, and how price could vary wildly based on the number of comparable listings currently on the market. When asked about the possibility of a quick sale, he’d been coolly evasive, suggesting they set up a time for him to come out and look around. Once he knew what he was dealing with, he’d give her a list of options, and they’d come up with a battle plan.

In the meantime, he’d given her some homework: documents she needed to locate; calls she needed to make; forms she’d need to procure, sign, and record with the county. He’d offered her a toothy smile as she left the office, assuring her that there was no such thing as an unsellable property, but now, as she drove home with terms like market saturation and stigmatized property rattling around in her head, she wasn’t so sure. Nor was she looking forward to explaining it all to Luc, and telling him she would be delayed. Again.

She was considering just how long she might be able to put off that conversation when her cell phone rang. She eyed the number on the hands-free display, wondering if she’d actually conjured Luc, but the area code was 978 rather than 212—not one she recognized.

“Hello?”

“Miss Moon?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Susan Gilman. Judith gave me your number.”

Lizzy was so surprised she could barely speak. “Thank you so much for calling. I know this is awkward, but I was wondering if you’d consider speaking with me. We could meet for coffee.”

“It would need to be here in Peabody,” she replied after a lengthy pause. “I can’t meet you in Salem Creek.”

“No, I understand. I’d be happy to come to you. Name the place, and I’ll be there.”

“I’m not sure I can tell you anything that will prove helpful, but if you have questions, I’ll answer whatever I can. I could meet you after work.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Gilman. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

“Today then. After I finish my shift. There’s a bookstore at the mall—a Barnes & Noble. I’ll be in the café at six.”

The café was packed when Lizzy arrived at ten minutes to six, students and business types mostly, hunched over laptops, earbuds plugged in. It took several passes before she spotted Susan Gilman seated at a corner table, and even then she had to do a double take.

The years had changed her, but not in the way they had changed her husband. Her hair, always mousy and lank, was now a pale shade of blonde with rose-gold highlights, and her makeup looked as if it had been applied by a professional. In her boots and skinny jeans, she looked chic, almost edgy.

“Mrs. Gilman?”

Susan looked up from her magazine without smiling. “I go by Ames now, my maiden name. It was just . . . easier. But please call me Susan.”

Lizzy nodded, understanding why her online searches had come up empty. “Thanks so much for agreeing to see me. Can I get you a coffee?”

“Thanks, I’m all set. My last appointment canceled, so I’ve been here awhile.” She gestured toward the vacant chair and waited until Lizzy was seated. “I hear you paid my ex-husband a visit.”

Lizzy opened her mouth, then closed it again, surprised that she knew about her visit to Fred Gilman’s trailer.

“Don’t look so surprised. We both know how that town works. Judith’s husband works at Mason Electric. It didn’t take long for word to spread that you’d shown up looking for Fred. So how’d it go?”

“Not well. I’m pretty sure he was trying to scare me off.”

Susan nodded grimly. “Big man, my ex.”

“Did he ever try to scare you?”

“He didn’t have to try. It came naturally.”

“Was he . . . abusive?”

“If you’re asking did he hit me—no. He got his point across in other ways.”

“What other ways?”

Susan lifted her mug, cradling it between her palms. Her hands were shaking. “There are all kinds of ways to be abusive, Ms. Moon. Ways that don’t leave scars for the neighbors and the police to see.”

“Did you ever call the police on your husband?”

Susan peered over the lipstick-stained rim of her mug. “And say what? That he was being mean to me? That I was being punished for burning his toast or forgetting to buy new laces for his boots? No, I never called the police. I drank instead. Not too much, just enough to numb myself. Then a little more when that stopped working.”

Lizzy was getting a depressingly vivid picture of life as the wife of Fred Gilman. “What about Heather and Darcy? Were they scared of their father?”

“Scared? Of Fred? God forbid.”

Something new had crept into Susan’s expression, something deeper than sadness, and far more brittle. Lizzy remained quiet, waiting for her to say more. She didn’t, choosing instead to pick at the frosty maroon polish on her left thumbnail.

Lizzy shifted in her chair, feeling the woman’s pain, but needing desperately to get to the truth. “Susan?”

“Hmm? Oh, right. Were the girls afraid of him. That would be a huge no. Maybe if they had been, they’d still be here. Heather would have gone to prom, and Darcy would have gone to nursing school. I’d have grandkids and scrapbooks full of vacation snaps. But I kept quiet, so none of that happened. Fred got his way like he always did. And look where it got him, where it got all of us. As far as Fred was concerned, those girls could do no wrong. He absolutely refused to see it. And he certainly didn’t want to hear it from me.”

“Didn’t want to hear what?”

“That Heather was out of control. That Darcy was right behind her. That if he didn’t rein them in, something awful was going to happen. And something did.” Her voice broke then, splintering with emotion. She looked away, fanning the tears that had pooled in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said finally. “It’s just so hard to have been right. You know how you get that feeling, and you just know something bad is coming. And then when it does, you keep kicking yourself because you knew. You knew, and you didn’t stop it. I live with that.”

Lizzy was groping for a response when she caught a whiff of something murky and dank, a combination of mildew and freshly turned earth. The mingled aromas of coffee and baked goods were so prevalent in the café that she hadn’t noticed it until that moment, but the layers of emotion were unmistakable now. Loss. Regret. Soul-crushing grief.

Before Lizzy could check herself, she had reached for Susan’s hand. “What happened wasn’t your fault. A mother can’t protect her children from everything.”

“No. Not when you’re not allowed.”

“Not allowed? I don’t understand.”

“Fred wouldn’t let me discipline them. Not for anything. That was his job, he said. His girls, his job.”

“He wouldn’t let you discipline your own daughters?”

Susan glanced up from her thumb, where she’d been at work again on her polish. A tear spilled down her left cheek. “That’s just it. They weren’t mine. Not legally.”

Lizzy blinked at her. In all the coverage of the Gilmans eight years ago, that little detail had somehow escaped notice. “He was married before?”

“Christina. His high school sweetheart, if you can believe that. She died in a fire. Faulty wiring or something. Fred had taken the girls to his mother’s for supper. By the time he got home, it was over. They found her in the bathtub. They think she must have been trying to protect herself from the flames.”

Lizzy suppressed a shudder, trying not to picture the scene. “How old were the girls when you and Fred married?”

“Heather was three. Darcy was a year and a half.”

“You raised them.”

Susan nodded, brushing away another tear. “I’m the only mother they ever knew. Except I was never really allowed to be their mother. Fred never let me forget they were his girls, or that I was an outsider.”

Lizzy felt her anger at Fred Gilman bubbling up all over again. “But he married you.”

“Turns out he didn’t want a wife so much as a housekeeper. Lucky me. I qualified for the job. By the time I realized what I’d signed up for, I was too in love with his daughters—our daughters—to leave. I’d have no right to them if I left. I’d never see them again.”

“You never formally adopted them?”

“No.” She wiped at her eyes, smearing her mascara. “I wanted to, but Fred wouldn’t even discuss it. They had a mother, and I wasn’t her. It didn’t matter that they didn’t remember anyone but me singing them to sleep, or holding their heads when they were sick. He remembered.”

“That sounds a little . . .”