The staffer leading her through the hall, a middle aged-woman with gray hair tied in a bun, stopped suddenly and opened the door to her new bedroom. It was much less antiseptic than her previous one. There were no bars on the windows and it didn’t look like her bed or other furniture was bolted to the floor. There were even a few framed paintings on the walls.

  “Welcome to Serenity Hall,” the woman said in a pleasant but unenthusiastic tone. “The daily schedule is posted on the back of your door. You have a group therapy session at 2 p.m. Lunch starts in five minutes down the hallway to the left. If you have any questions, the help center is in the same direction. Is there anything else you need?”

  “No thanks,” she said and the woman left without another word.

  Hannah did have questions but none that she wanted to ask the staff. She walked into the room and glanced at her image in the mirror on the dresser. Without the necessity to dress properly for high school, she’d gotten very casual in the last two weeks.

  Her blonde hair wasn’t styled but instead hung down limply at her shoulders. She had on sweatpants and a thin hoodie, and wore no makeup. Because of her more relaxed schedule these days, she’d gotten lots of sleep. As a result, her green eyes—the same shade as Jessie’s—were clear and bright.

  Though she was almost as tall as her sister, she doubted they’d be mistaken for twins right now. Without any of the usual stylistic adornments, she no longer looked like a twenty-something but her actual age: seventeen. Her birthday was in less than a month. She wondered if she’d be celebrating it here.

  She dropped her duffel bag by the bed and sat down in the wooden chair at the small desk against the wall. The center had made a credible attempt to make the place feel homey, but in the end it was still a hospital.

  She recalled when Jessie had first brought her here. They hadn’t talked much on the drive up, mostly because she wouldn’t answer any of her half-sister’s questions. Even though she’d agreed to come to this place in order get a handle on her semi-homicidal tendencies, she couldn’t help but resent Jessie for supporting the idea.

  That residue of bitterness lingered, both when Jessie had said goodbye that first time, and on every subsequent visit. Even before her primary therapist told her so, she knew none of this was Jessie’s fault. Jessie didn’t kill her birth mother or her adoptive parents. Nor did Jessie kidnap and try to brainwash her. In fact, Jessie had taken her in when she was about to be tossed in the foster care system.

  But that didn’t stop Hannah from holding on to the anger. She’d made all kinds of progress in one-on-one and group therapy, but remained sullen and monosyllabic every time her sister came for “pairs” therapy sessions. There was something about watching her sister leave each visit looking wounded and guilty that gave Hannah great satisfaction, even if she felt bad about it afterward.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud rap on her door. She looked up to see a girl in her early twenties standing in the doorway. She had shortish black hair tied into pigtails with rainbow scrunchies. She wore a long-sleeved, tie-dyed shirt and baggy jeans. Extremely pale, with light blue eyes, she could have been mistaken for a boldly-dressed, adorable ghost.

  “How ya’ doin’, newbie?” she asked warmly.

  “Um, okay,” Hannah replied, not sure what to make of this person.

  “Well don’t get used to it,” the girl said grimly. “Your official hazing starts in two minutes out back. The Newbie Committee has pillowcases filled with potatoes and we’ll be beating you with them until you pass out. But if you don’t cry or rat us out, you’re golden for the rest of your stay.”

  “What?” Hannah asked, open-mouthed.

  The girl broke into a wide smile.

  “I’m just screwing with you,” she said. “That was the whole ‘hazing’ thing right there. I’m actually the entirety of the Newbie Committee, which is really more of a welcoming committee. Welcome. I’m Meredith Bartlett, but you can call me Merry.”

  “Hi Meredith,” Hannah said carefully. “I’m Hannah Dorsey and I’m confused.”

  “Because of what I said about hazing and committees or because you’re loony tunes?” Meredith wanted to know.

  “Right now—the first thing.”

  “I just get bored easily,” she replied sheepishly. “I thought messing with you might add a little entertainment to my day. I didn’t mean to freak you out…too much.”

  “Okay,” Hannah replied, not sure what to make of this Pippi Longstocking, hippie ghost girl. “Is there something I can do for you, Meredith?”

  “Remember, it’s Merry. And actually, it’s what I can do for you that has me here.”

  “What’s that?” Hannah asked.

  “I know you came from the lockdown—er, ‘assistance’ wing, where they bring your meals to your room. But over here in Serenity Hall, they trust us to eat our meals together in a cafeteria setting. And considering lunch is about to start, I wanted give you a little piece of cafeteria advice. Always go for the kosher meal.”

  “Why?”

  Merry smiled. Hannah knew it was because she’d managed to pique her interest.

  “Because even though this place charges thousands of dollars a week, very little of that cash goes into food quality, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

  “I have,” Hannah acknowledged. Her tray typically consisted of some kind of mushy meat, next to soggy vegetables, burned tater tots, and a dry piece of cake. If someone wasn’t already depressed, it was enough to make them so. She hadn’t cared much as her appetite had been weak lately. But it was surprising that such a posh place had such substandard food.

  “They just don’t seem to prioritize it for whatever reason,” Merry said. “But with the kosher meals, since they’re for fewer people with more specific needs, the kitchen staff is a little more creative and the selections seem a bit fresher. We’re not talking restaurant quality, more like good hospital quality.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” Hannah said. “As long as you’re dispensing knowledge, can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course,” Merry said. “I pride myself on being the Siri of the psycho set.”

  “Okay,” Hannah replied, uncertain that her new acquaintance was the model spokeswoman for ending the stigma around mental health issues. “Is the visitor policy here the same as in the Assistance Wing?”

  “I’m not sure,” Merry admitted. “What was it over there?”

  “A maximum of two visits a week total from no more than two different people,” Hannah told her.

  “There’s nothing that restrictive over here,” Merry assured her.

  “Can I refuse a visit?” Hannah asked. “Over there, patients are required to attend.”

  “I don’t know,” Merry said. “But why would you do that? If it were me, I wouldn’t refuse a visit from anyone. No one in my family has come to see me once since I’ve been here.”

  “Sometimes that can be a good thing,” Hannah countered.

  “I guess,” Merry shrugged, unconvinced. “But it seems like if someone is making the effort to trek all the way out here a few times a week, it wouldn’t hurt to give them a little time. Of course that’s just me. I don’t want to judge. Maybe your visitor abused you as a little girl or something.”

  While abuse wasn’t a concern, Hannah didn’t want to get into the particulars of her dynamic with her sister and awkwardly changed subjects.

  “Why hasn’t your family been out here to see you?” she asked.

  Merry sighed heavily.

  “There are lots of reasons. But the main one is that I think they view me kind of like a broken toy. They’re hoping that they can ship me off to the repair shop and get me back fixed. They’re not the warmest, fuzziest folks you’ll ever meet.”

  “How are you broken?” Hannah asked, both afraid and excited to hear the answer.

  Merry stared at her and for a brief moment, it looked like her ghostly visage might actually disappear entirely. Then, without warning, she pulled up her left sleeve to the elbow. The inside of her forearm was covered in cuts and scars all the way up from her wrist.

  “I have an unusual way of dealing with stress,” she said softly.

  Hannah knew about girls at her school that cut themselves. But she’d never seen the results of it live and in person. She did her best not to overreact, keeping her eyes from bulging and her breath steady.

  “You must have a lot of stress,” she finally said.

  “One of my therapists says stress is what you make of it,” Merry replied. “I guess I make a lot of it.”

  “It doesn’t look like any of them are fresh,” Hannah noted, “So maybe you’re learning to manage it.”

  Merry shook her head.

  “Why do you think I only showed you my left arm?” she asked. “There’s a reason I don’t have a glass mirror in my bedroom.”

  “Touché,” Hannah muttered, unsure what else to say.

  Merry looked like she was about to reveal something else, but then seemed to think better of it and went with a question of her own.

  “What are you in here for?”

  Though Hannah knew the question was inevitable, she dreaded it, primarily because this girl had been so forthright with her and she couldn’t do the same.

  “Anger management and self-harm issues,” she said blandly, using the agreed-upon diagnosis she and Dr. Lemmon had chosen prior to her arrival. Intense homicidal fantasies about murdering people just to feel something didn’t seem like an answer that would go over well.

  Merry looked like she was about to pursue the matter when a loud, pleasant ringing sound, like a distant church bell, echoed over the speakers in the room.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Lunchtime,” Merry said.

  Hannah shot up and started out of the room.

  “Why don’t you show the newbie the way?” she asked.

  Merry obliged, joining her in the hallway and forgetting about her question from a moment earlier. Hannah had been literally saved by the bell, at least for now

  .

  CHAPTER TEN

  Jessie couldn’t hide her disappointment.

  She met Ryan by the mini-croquet court, which was currently unoccupied. After she told him about her mostly unproductive interview with Malcolm and Abby Andrews, he filled her in on his chat with Matt and Ellie Darcy. He’d come up empty too. Apparently all four of them seemed to think suicide was possible. And all of them remained credible suspects without strong alibis. None of them could absolve Bridget Newhouse either, although at least her whereabouts at the time her husband died—in a massage room at the spa—were verifiable.

  “There wasn’t anything suspicious about the Darcys?” she pressed.

  “Sure. But nothing that had me pulling out my handcuffs,” he said. “The biggest thing was that there seemed to be some unspoken tension between them, both before and after I told them about Scott Newhouse’s death. They were dealing with something major. Whether that was secret knowledge about a murder or just residual resentment after an uncomfortable ‘session’ with Dr. Honey Potter, I have no idea.”

  “Is she really a doctor?” Jessie couldn’t stop herself from asking.

  “I was being sarcastic. To be honest, I didn’t ask,” he said. “Maybe you can follow up on her credentials if you run into her. What about you? No strong vibes from the Andrews?”

  “Nothing definitive,” she replied. “They’re pretty extreme opposites. He’s incredibly dour and she’s a firecracker of fun. I can’t help but wonder if part of her livewire energy is an act.”

  “You think she’s secretly some Machiavellian gold-digger?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” Jessie admitted. “The problem is that even if she is, I’m not sure that helps with the case we’re trying to solve. To be honest, I still think that Bridget Newhouse is the clubhouse favorite until proven otherwise. I just don’t have anything firm to base that on.”

  “I was going to check in with Hugo from security,” Ryan said before adding, “But if you feel that strongly, maybe you should see if you can find anything firm to tie her to this.”

  Jessie nodded in agreement.

  “That’s not a bad idea. I think I’ll go back to the spa and try to verify or disprove her alibi.”

  “While you do that, I’ll see if Hugo sent that spa camera footage to Jamil by now,” he said. “I’ll also see if I can find any other video recordings that corroborate the other guests’ statements. I know he said they intentionally avoid having cameras everywhere but maybe we’ll get lucky. And maybe the medical examiner will have something for us as well. You know we’re going to get a call from Chief Laird at some point soon. I want to be ready.”

  “Sounds good,” Jessie said. “Shall we check back in a half-hour from now?”

  “Sure,” he answered. “And all this spa talk has me thinking—how about if one of us solves this case in that time window, the other one owes them a bedtime neck massage?”

  Jessie smiled at that idea.

  “Not fair,” she teased. “You barely have to expend any effort if you lose. You can use one hand to get in some quality rubbing. For me, it’s a whole production. Your neck’s like a tree trunk.”

  “I don’t know whether that’s a compliment or not,” he replied.

  “Good.”

  *

  The spa was empty.

  All treatments had been postponed for the day so Jessie was able to look around without distractions. The spa manager assigned Kree, the same attendant that Tony Dante mentioned running into while re-stocking towels, to guide her around. Other than the sheriff’s deputies, the two of them were the only ones left in the building.

  Kree, small and quiet, with auburn skin and a shy smile, looked like she was afraid she was about to be arrested.

  “Don’t worry,” Jessie said, trying to calm her down, “I just need you to show me a few different places.”

  “Okay,” Kree said, “Where exactly?”

  “I want to look in the women’s locker room and lounge area, then massage room six, and finally the women’s quiet room.”

  Kree nodded and led her down the darkened hallway to the oak doors leading to the women’s lounge and locker room.

  “Should I guide you?” Kree asked, “Or would you rather look around yourself?”

  “If you turn on the lights, I think I’m good on my own,” Jessie told her. “You can just wait outside. I’ll let you know if I need anything.”

  Even with the lights on, the lounge, which mirrored the men’s almost exactly, was creepily silent. Jessie walked around with her cell phone out, ready to take photos of anything that seemed unusual. But that was difficult, as she didn’t really know what she was looking for.

  She hadn’t expected to see blood on a towel or a rag doused in chloroform—which doesn’t actually work anyway— lying in a trash can. But there was nothing at all. It appeared that, despite instructions to leave everything untouched, the lounge had been cleaned. Either that or it was always this pristine.

  After a fruitless five minutes, she left. Kree was standing outside, scrolling absently through her phone.

  “Was the lounge cleaned after the police arrived?” she asked.

  “No ma’am,” Kree told her. “But it’s kept tidy all the time, so it’s not like there would have been anything lying around. The managers get touchy if a towel is lying on the floor for more than a minute or two.”

  Jessie nodded, unsurprised.

  “Why don’t you take me to massage room six?”

  They rounded the corner and Kree pointed to a door in the middle of the next hallway.

  “It’s been locked since Mrs. Newhouse left, just as we were told to keep it,” she said. “But I have the key. Should I open it?”

  “Please,” Jessie replied.

  Kree unlocked the door and turned on the light. Jessie stood at the entrance and took it in. It was clear that the session had ended in a hurry. The blankets and sheets were messy and someone had forgotten to turn off the steamer for the heated washcloths. But none of that was unexpected under the circumstances.

  “Where’s the quiet room?” Jessie asked.

  Kree led her down a third hallway to a room with a sign that read simply, “Quiet Please.” She pushed the door open and saw that it was just as Bridget Newhouse had described. In the dim light of the room, she could see three easy chairs lined up against the wall. Black curtains, all currently open, could be pulled around each chair to offer some privacy. The chairs all had small tables beside them with steamers holding more heated washcloths, along with pairs of noise-canceling headphones.

  Jessie walked to the last chair, where Newhouse had spent her time. She didn’t know what she expected to find—maybe a pair of latex gloves in the tiny trash can by the chair—but nothing leapt out at her. The leaves of a large Ficus plant in the corner swayed slightly from the breeze coming from the air conditioner. A wall covering behind it, intended to further soothe guests, showed an ocean sunset. To her frustration, there was nothing that indicated that the quiet room was anything more than its title suggested. She turned back to Kree, who was standing in the doorway, looking perplexed.

  “I think we’re done here,” Jessie told her.

  “Did Mrs. Newhouse do something wrong?” the attendant asked.

  “Not based on anything I see here,” Jessie answered, unable to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

  Kree led her back to the main entrance of the spa and unlocked the door for her. Just as she was stepping outside, an understatedly attractive brown-haired woman with glasses, wearing a cream blouse and a gorgeous, cherry pencil skirt walked up. She had a small, leather backpack flung over one shoulder.

 

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