I take a last look around. Who would want a young, handsome doctor dead?

CHAPTER 3

Molly

THE POLICE ALLOWED ME TO CHANGE MY CLOTHES AND PACK A BAG before leaving with Corrine. My home is now a crime scene, and I’m banished, at least for a little while. It pains me to leave, as though I’m turning my back on Jay and our life together. When I return, even his body will be gone, and I’ll be alone again, an idea that shakes me to my core.

My sister and her husband, Rich, live in a toney apartment building in Boston. They’d moved there last year after their son left for college. Corrine was never the domestic type, and the less square footage to keep up, the better. Besides, she and Rich both work downtown in tall office buildings. The urban life suits them.

I changed out of my sweats when I got here, took a shower in the perfectly appointed guest bathroom, and dressed in leggings and a long blue sweater. Sergeant Simmons told me to expect a visit from the detectives.

I sit on my sister’s expensive off-white sofa with a cup of tea she made and shoved into my icy hands. I can’t seem to warm up, but don’t want to ask her to turn the heat up again. The view is beautiful, Boston Harbor in the distance, dark and still, and I try to make out the details of the boats anchored there, anything to keep from thinking about Jay. I’m beyond traumatized, temporarily emptied of tears, numb. I’m on autopilot. I know how to do this—function, don’t think, and definitely don’t feel.

Rich is away at a conference, so it’ll be just my sister and me and our parents when they get here from Maynard. I really want to see Kim and Laken. I was able to call them and Elise quickly while my house was being searched, but then the cops asked for my phone, telling me they’d have it back as soon as possible. I guess I could’ve said no, but I don’t want to hinder the investigation. Don’t know what they think they’ll find on it, but they assured me it was routine.

The bell chimes, and Corrine leads a man and an older woman into the living room. The woman is slim, has dark hair, with a light smattering of gray, pulled up in a bun, and light blue eyes that seem to take in everything around her. She’s dressed in dark pants and a white, collared, button-up shirt, a jacket draped over her arm. The younger detective is bundled up in an overcoat and scarf. He carries a briefcase, and she drops a battered leather satchel on the floor next to the armchair. They introduce themselves as Detectives Myers and Fuller, Graybridge PD.

“We’re sorry for your loss, Mrs. Bradley,” Detective Myers says as she settles back in the chair.

I nod. It sounds so inadequate, as though my handbag went missing. But it’s what people say in times like this.