The Secrets She Kept. Brenda Novak

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      THE WATER HAD been let out of the bath, but several wet towels remained on the floor—where her body had obviously been placed after it’d been pulled from the water. Pippa must not have been back since his mother died or she would’ve cleaned this up...

      Had the police told the housekeeper that she couldn’t or shouldn’t come back? Or was it that she wasn’t sure if she’d get paid?

      The police must’ve taken the wine, the glass and the pill bottle, because none of that was in the bathroom, or even in the trash.

      Pulling out the chair of his mother’s boudoir, Keith sank onto the tiny beige seat. At six foot six, he was much bigger than she’d been at five-eight. His knees came up too high, but at least he had a perch from which he could examine the place where his mother had died.

      Why had she drowned? There had to be a reason, and it wasn’t that she’d decided to end her life right before a trip to meet her new love in Australia.

      Her phone. He needed to check her phone. There could be answers there, a text or a call that would give him some clue. She always had it with her. But he went through the whole suite and couldn’t come up with it. Her computer wasn’t there, either.

      He’d just realized the police must’ve taken both when he received a call himself.

      Maisey. If he answered, he’d have to tell her he was in town, and he wasn’t ready to do that. He needed answers, some understanding before he could focus on her needs and her grief.

      But he understood what she was going through—and that made it impossible to ignore her call.

      As he hit the talk button, he happened to turn enough to catch sight of himself in the mirror. So many people had told him he was the spitting image of his mother. Even he could see hints of her in his face. They both had high cheekbones, wide mouths, prominent chins, thick dark hair. They also had the same blue-green eyes, a color so unique he’d had strangers stop him on the street to tell him how arresting his eyes were. Maisey’s and Roxanne’s eyes were the same color. But his sisters had a calm temperament, like their father. He was the only one who’d inherited their mother’s tempestuous nature and extreme stubbornness.

      “Maisey? What’s going on?” he said into the phone.

      “They’ve scheduled the autopsy for first thing in the morning,” she replied. “With any luck, we’ll know more after they’re finished.”

      He walked out of his mother’s room and down the hall, where he felt he could breathe again. “Don’t let ’em do it.”

      “Excuse me?” she said. “I have no say over that. It’s a state law. They have to perform an autopsy in this situation. So even though the coroner is fairly certain he knows the manner of death, we have to let him do his job.”

      “I’d rather he didn’t handle this, Maisey. I’ll take over from here.”

      There was a long silence. Then she said, “Keith, you can’t take over. This isn’t up to you.”

      “I’ll get my own pathologist, someone I’m convinced is good and that they trust, too. If I pay for it, I’m sure they’ll let me. Why wouldn’t they? It’ll save the state the money they’d have to pay otherwise.”

      “Why would you get involved?”

      “So I can be certain that whoever does the autopsy isn’t just going to confirm what the coroner’s already said. I’ll hire someone who hasn’t been previously conditioned to see Mom’s death as a suicide.”

      “You really think that’s necessary?”

      “Mom didn’t kill herself, Maisey.”

      “You believe it was an accident?”

      He poked his head into his old bedroom. This was where his mother used to tie him to the bed to force him to take a nap, not that the room looked the same as it had then. All his toys and sports trophies had been moved to the attic years and years ago, almost before he was old enough to part with them. Josephine had hardly been able to tolerate the childish things her kids had liked when they were young. She’d considered anything with theme-park characters or superheroes “tacky” and got rid of it as soon as possible. So his bedroom had been updated—more than once. But he was looking at the same black wood shutter-style furniture with the expensive yellow and gray bedding and drapes he’d had when he lived here five years ago; nothing had changed since then.

      Given the season and the fact that he didn’t think anyone had used his room in years, he found it odd that the ceiling fan was on. He watched the blades swoop overhead, stirring the air. The police must’ve walked through the house and accidentally hit the switch—

      “Keith?” Maisey said.

      He crossed to the window and opened the drapes and shutters so he could gaze out over the sloping lawn at the turbulent sea beyond, gleaming like crushed diamonds in the moonlight. The view was the one thing he had missed. Even what he saw outside the windows of his house in Santa Monica couldn’t compare to the island, especially in the midst of a storm.

      “It wasn’t an accident,” he said above the howl of the wind as it hit the house. “No one takes a bottle of pills by accident.” His sister had to know that; she was just reluctant to accept the alternative.

      “You’re not saying...”

      “Mom was murdered.”

      “That can’t be true.”

      “It’s absolutely true,” he insisted.

      “No. No one on Fairham would hurt her. We know—and love—all the people she associated with.”

      The people she dealt with on a daily basis were a lot easier to get along with than she was... “Plenty of people on the island have been upset or frustrated by her over the years. Maybe she let Tyrone go, and Tyrone...snapped.”

      “Are you kidding me?” Maisey cried. “It wasn’t Tyrone. For one thing, she didn’t let Tyrone go. I would’ve known if that was the case. Mom had Rafe and me and the kids over for dinner Friday night. To say goodbye before her big trip. Tyrone was leaving for the day when we arrived. It couldn’t have been Pippa, either. She served us that night. And she was the one who was supposed to drive Mom to the airport.”

      “Pippa hasn’t been here since Mom died,” he said, remembering the water on the master bathroom floor. “Do you have any idea why?”

      “Here?” Maisey echoed in surprise.

      He grimaced at the slip. “I’m at Coldiron House.”

      “And you didn’t tell me you were coming?”

      “I’m sorry.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I just got in. Needed some time to myself.”

      Seconds passed. “I see,” she said at length, and rather stiffly.

      “Please don’t take it personally,” he said. “Coming here without calling is about me, not you.”

      She seemed to soften. “Okay. But it seems strange that you didn’t let me know. I’m your