“Nothing,” said Pete. “You’re doing great. You’re stirring the pot. Like you wanted. You’re making people think and talk about rape. Keep doing what you’re doing. This kind of response is exactly what we were looking for,” he said. “Plus, controversy is great for publicity.”

Rachel winced. She hated the idea that anyone might think that she was deliberately courting controversy by choosing a rape trial for her new season. She finished the call with Pete just as she pulled up at the single-lane Old Mill Road bridge, where she had to wait for a truck to cross before she could drive over. After a hair-bend turn, she drove uphill until, through the gaps in the trees on the roadside, she saw stone-colored town houses blending into the landscape of a ridge. Rachel was sure the Stills house had been on that ridge. It closely fitted Hannah’s descriptions in her letters.

Rachel waved at the guard who was sitting in a security booth with a “Sea Breeze Retirement Villas” sign on the side. The familiarity of her gesture gave the impression that she was a regular and the guard automatically opened the boom gate. Rachel pulled her car into a visitors’ parking lot and walked toward a pool area where she could hear splashing and music. As Rachel came in through the pool gate, she saw a handful of women doing low-impact water aerobics while an instructor stood on the edge demonstrating each exercise. Other swimmers swam breaststroke up and down the side lanes.

Farther along, two men slouched over a chess set. “Can’t believe I didn’t see that coming,” said one of the men, slapping his thigh when the other took his bishop.

“Excuse me.” Rachel approached them. “I’m wondering if you can tell me what was here before this complex.”

“You should ask Estelle.” The man gestured toward a woman in her seventies with dyed-blond hair who was lying on a sun lounger. “She knows everything there is to know about the history of this town.”

“You’re only saying that because she’s your wife, Hal,” said his friend.

Estelle put down the novel she was reading at the sound of her name. “Take a seat, hon,” she told Rachel, patting a chair next to her with red fingernails that matched her one-piece swimsuit. “What is it you want to know?”

“I’m trying to find out about the Stills family. I think they lived around here once.”

“Actually, they lived right here,” Estelle said. “These condominiums are built where Edward Stills’s house used to be. His land ran all the way up to the river. Would have been worth a fortune today. In those days, nobody wanted to live here. When his granddaughter Hope died, the land was sold cheap to a developer to pay for her funeral and debts.”

“Who was the developer?” Rachel asked.

“Hal,” she called out. “Who was the developer of Sea Breeze Villas?”

“It was my old tennis buddy Trent’s cousin,” he called back. “Simon Blair.”

“That’s right,” she said. “His son was a famous swimmer. Grandson too. Kind of a notorious family right now, if you haven’t already heard. The Scott Blair trial?” She looked at Rachel to see if she’d heard of it. Rachel nodded.

“Well, in the early nineties, Simon and his son Greg built their first retirement units. Made a lot of money. Enough to build more. And then more. I was at school with Simon. His family was dirt poor. Used to come to school in hand-me-down shoes with holes in them. His dad was a two-bit renovator. These days the family own properties up and down the coast.”

“What can you tell me about the Stills family?” Rachel asked.

“I only know bits and pieces,” said Estelle. “Hope came back after Ed Stills died. She had two children, both out of wedlock. In those days, people talked. Hope moved into her grandfather’s house and lived there with her daughters. Everyone thought that house was a health hazard. Ed lived like a hermit. But I heard that Hope fixed the place up real nice.

“Hal,” she said, handing her husband some coins. “I’m parched. Won’t you get us drinks from the vending machine? What’s your name, honey?”

“It’s Rachel.”

“What a lovely name. Very biblical,” she said. “Where was I?”

“You were telling me about Hope Stills.”

“Such a shame when she came down with cancer. One of those leukemias. She used to work at my local supermarket. Such a bright, vivacious girl. She was a little, you know, out there. She put pink dye in her hair once. Had butterfly tattoos on her ankle. I asked after her when I hadn’t seen her for a while. The cashier told me that she was sick. They gave her an office job, but she couldn’t manage the hours. A few months later, they said she’d died. I heard her daughter died, too. Jenny. She was the oldest one.”

“Do you know anything about her daughters?”

“Jenny had a reputation. Just like her mother. Hope was barely seventeen when she was born. I heard that she didn’t even know which boy was the father.”

“What do you know about Jenny’s death?”

Estelle shrugged. “We were down in Florida for my brother’s wedding that summer. I remember it well, though. It was the same summer that we lost two boys in that awful car crash. I played bridge with one of the dead boys’ mothers. She was heartbroken. Her only child,” she said. “I vaguely remember hearing something about how the older Stills girl went swimming one night and drowned. There was talk that she’d been skinny-dipping with a boy,” she said with a meaningful glance. “Apparently she did that a lot.” She paused as her husband returned with the soda cans. She passed one to Rachel and then opened her own and took a sip.

“Any chance you might know the name of the boy who went swimming with Jenny that night?” Rachel asked.

“I don’t think I ever knew his name,” said Estelle. “It was a long time ago. I was a different person then. Younger. Prettier. And with a better memory. Wasn’t I, Hal?”

“Nah, you look just as pretty now as you did then,” he responded.

“He’s a born liar. Used to sell life insurance,” she told Rachel conspiratorially. “Honey, you’re asking me about things that happened a lifetime ago. Anyway, you’re talking to the wrong people. You should be speaking to Jenny’s school friends.”

“Can you give me some names?”

“Let me see,” said Estelle, closing her eyes as she thought back.

“The kids those days were thick as thieves. They spent the summers down at Morrison’s Point. My daughter may have some names. I can ask her tonight when she gets back from work. How long are you around for?”

“Two, three weeks,” said Rachel. “I’m here for the Scott Blair trial. So till whenever that ends.”

“Well, there you go, honey,” said Estelle, clapping her hands together with excitement. “You know who you should be talking to?”

“Who?”

“That lawyer. What’s his name? Hal”—she turned to her husband—“who’s that handsome young lawyer who was in today’s newspaper?”

“Mitchell Alkins,” he said.

“That’s right. Mitchell Alkins knew Jenny Stills. They were at school together. In fact, everyone said he was sweet on her. You should ask him.”

33

Hannah

Earlier today, I visited our old house. It’s gone, of course. The land has been turned into a retirement home. How Mom would have laughed to know that people are swimming where our living room used to be. She wouldn’t be so happy to know that they pulled out the lemon tree and asphalted over her vegetable garden. The only things that haven’t changed are the daisies. The field that was below our old house is blooming with them.

Going there reminded me of something that I’d long forgotten. I was sitting on the front porch, reading a book, when I heard a car approach. It was a pale car. Green, I think, with a dent in the back. The driver was the boy with dark hair and athletic build whom Jenny had swum with at the beach. He was wearing jeans and a button-down shirt. I could see the leather necklace around his neck.

He nervously slicked back his hair as he headed up to the front door, swinging his car keys in one hand. The other hand held a bunch of white and yellow daisies that he must have picked in the field. He tossed the flowers on the ground as he climbed the porch stairs. I guessed that he felt self-conscious.

“Hey,” I said, tossing my book aside as he reached the front door.

“Is Jenny around?” His eyes flicked away from me to look for Jenny through the ripped netting of the screen door.

“She’s in the back garden. Come this way,” I said, leading him into the house and then out again through the back porch.

Jenny was getting in the laundry from the backyard when we came out. She wore shorts and a candy-striped T-shirt. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled when she saw him.

“Hey, Jenny,” he said, putting his right hand in the back pocket of his jeans. He stepped off the porch onto the grass and stood awkwardly next to her as she took clothes off the line and tossed them into a wicker basket.

“I tried to call. Got a message saying the phone was disconnected. So I stopped by,” he said.

“We’re having problems with the phone line,” Jenny lied. She didn’t tell him our telephone line was cut because we’d forgotten to pay a bill and it was too expensive to get the line reconnected.