Chapter 2 - Seven Minutes and One Terrible Lie
Grant did not look at me.
He looked at Claire.
“Caroline?”
Claire rose so quickly her chair scraped across the marble.
“Wrong person.”
Grant’s face changed.
“I know you.”
“No, you knew my sister.”
That silenced him.
The photograph remained in my hand.
Grant saw it.
His eyes narrowed.
“Where did you get that?”
Claire took it from me.
“Not here.”
“Claire—”
“Apparently you know my name now.”
Grant glanced toward Lauren.
She was greeting guests near the cake.
Then he lowered his voice.
“Does Lauren know?”
“Know what?”
Grant’s jaw tightened.
Claire picked up her clutch.
“I should leave.”
I stood.
“You just got here.”
“That was apparently my first mistake.”
“Claire.”
She looked at me.
For seven minutes she had been playful, composed, mysterious.
Now I saw fear.
Real fear.
Not of Grant.
Of whatever history had just walked into the room.
“I’m sorry about your lie,” she said quietly. “But I think mine is worse.”
Then she walked toward the French doors.
Grant moved to follow.
I stepped into his path.
He stared at me.
“Daniel.”
“You’re getting married.”
“I noticed.”
“Then maybe let me handle this.”
I almost laughed.
“You want me to trust that sentence after what just happened?”
His expression hardened.
“You don’t know what happened.”
“No. I don’t.”
“And you should keep it that way.”
That did it.
For two years I had stayed out of Lauren’s life because I respected the boundary between past and present.
But if the man she had just married was hiding something involving her father and a woman who used a false name—
That boundary suddenly looked different.
I followed Claire.
Outside, the mountain air had cooled.
She was standing beneath a magnolia tree, gripping the photograph.
“You followed me.”
“You left your champagne.”
“That’s your reason?”
“No.”
She looked toward the parking area.
“Go back inside.”
“Caroline.”
Her head snapped toward me.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Then tell me why Grant did.”
She closed her eyes.
“My name is Claire Caroline Dawson.”
“So neither of you lied.”
“Not exactly.”
“Progress.”
She almost smiled.
Almost.
“My older sister was named Catherine,” she said. “Grant knew her.”
I waited.
“She died seventeen years ago.”
The music from inside seemed suddenly too cheerful.
“What happened?”
Claire looked toward the mansion.
“She fell from the west balcony.”
My eyes went to the upper floor.
“Hawthorne?”
“Yes.”
“Was Grant there?”
“Yes.”
The photograph suddenly felt heavier even though she was holding it.
“Lauren’s father too?”
“Yes.”
“What does Lauren’s father have to do with it?”
Claire’s voice dropped.
“That is why I came.”
Before she could continue, the French doors opened.
Lauren stepped outside.
Alone.
Her expression was no longer curious.
It was frightened.
“Daniel,” she said, “why did my husband just ask me whether my father ever told me about a girl named Catherine Dawson?”
Claire went still.
Lauren saw the photograph.
“Where did you get that?”
Claire hesitated.
Lauren took one step closer.
“That’s my father’s handwriting.”
Claire looked at me.
I understood immediately.
She had not come to ruin a wedding.
She had come because something had finally forced her to confront a seventeen-year-old mystery.
Lauren held out her hand.
“Give it to me.”
Claire did.
Lauren read the back.
Her face drained of color.
“My father wrote this?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“The night my sister died.”
Lauren looked toward Grant through the glass.
“My husband was there?”
“Yes.”
Lauren swallowed.
“Tell me what happened.”
Claire opened her mouth.
Then every light in the courtyard went out.
Guests gasped.
The chandeliers inside remained on, but the garden fell into darkness.
Someone brushed past me.
Claire cried out.
When the courtyard lights returned three seconds later, the photograph was gone.
And Lauren was staring at the empty space in her hand.
Her phone buzzed.
One message.
No number.
She opened it.
Her eyes widened.
I stepped closer.
May you like
The message contained only six words.
ASK GRANT WHO PUSHED CATHERINE DAWSON.
