Keith Ablow - Compulsion

"Why not?" I asked.

"The family is full of agendas," he said. "Garret's got one. Claire has her own. They're all using this tragedy to get things done-jockeying for more power, more freedom, whatever."

"So let's get over there while we can." I bent to pick up my overnight bag, sending the muscles of my back and side into spasms that nearly brought me to my knees.

Anderson grabbed me under the arms. "Easy," he said.

I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth, waiting for the pain to end. When it had died down, I stepped back and forced a smile. "Sudden movements are not what the doctor ordered," I said.

Anderson leaned and picked up my bag. "Let me do the heavy lifting for now," he said.

We met three cruisers on the drive up Wauwinet Road. Television vans lined the road, starting half a mile from the estate. Reporters leaned dangerously toward Anderson 's car, waving hands for us to stop for interviews. Photographers snapped photos as we drove by. I heard the sound of a helicopter, looked up through the windshield, and saw a State Police chopper and another from Channel 7 News crisscrossing the sky.

"Big change," I said.

"The press is loving this," Anderson said. "As soon as they find out Tess is at MGH, they'll send an army over there, too."

A couple Rovers were parked at Bishop's "watch house," and a couple more sat in the semicircle in front of the main house, but no one tried to stop us when we headed for the front door. I checked out the grounds and noticed that Win's security team was outnumbered by State Police SUVs and ATVs. "Are they here to search the grounds or defend them?" I asked Anderson.

"You got me," he said, shrugging. "It depends how cozy Bishop really is with Captain O'Donnell. You'll meet him, eventually. I'd love your take on him."

Claire Buckley answered the door, as usual. She seemed nervous. "No one let me know to expect you," she said, with a tight smile. "Win headed to Boston."

"We won't take much of your time," Anderson said. "Just a few questions."

"I guess that would be fine," she said. "Come in."

Anderson glanced at me and winked. His prediction that we wouldn't meet with much resistance from Claire seemed to be holding up.

As we followed her toward the living room, she glanced back at me struggling along. "You seem like you're in pain," she said.

"I had a little problem in Boston," I said. "Someone jumped me."

She stopped and looked at me with what seemed like real concern. "Are you all right?" she said.

"I will be." I smiled. "Pulled muscles." And a few slashed ones.

"Can I get you anything?"

"Thanks, no."

She invited Anderson and me to take seats on the couch. She took a floral wingback chair opposite us. "How can I help you?" she asked, twisting her diamond pinkie ring back and forth. She noticed me noticing her nervous hands and laid them unnaturally still on her thighs.

Anderson motioned for me to take the lead.

I didn't know exactly what I was after, so I started with a very general question. "Claire, when we last met," I said, "I didn't ask you directly whether you actually saw anything the night Brooke was murdered-anything that might shed light on the investigation. Now, with Tess in the hospital, I need to ask about both twins."

"What sort of thing do you mean?" she said.

"Anything peculiar," Anderson interjected. "Something that got your attention. Maybe seeing the tube of plastic sealant or the bottle of nortriptyline or hearing one of the babies in distress."

"If I had had anything like that to share," she said, "I already would have." She paused. "And the police finished searching the house, right?"

"She has nothing like that to share," the voice at the back of my mind said.

"Claire, did you see or hear anything at all that we should know about?" I said. My mind replayed the question she had just asked Anderson about the search. "Or maybe you found something…" I added.

She cast a worried glance my way, as if she and I shared knowledge that shouldn't be extended to North Anderson. She started twisting her pinkie ring again.

"I've told Captain Anderson about Julia's feelings toward the twins after they were delivered," I said, prompting her. "We share all the information about the investigation. Anything you would tell me, you can tell both of us."

"I didn't see anything directly related to the attacks," she said.

"Okay," I said. "What did you see?"

"I found something," she said. "Something weird."

"Weird…" Anderson said.

"A letter," Claire said. She looked down and shook her head. "I only bring it up because of Tess-because Julia is still with her." She let her head fall into her hands. "God, I don't know if I should be mentioning any of this."

My skin had started to crawl. I was either about to hear a baseless attack on Julia, fueled by Claire's desire to take her place in Darwin Bishop's life, or something that would topple my vision of Julia and rocket her forward on the suspect list. "If there's something weighing on you related to Julia and the twins," I said, "please tell us-especially if it can help us keep Tess safe."

Claire looked up at the ceiling, glanced at Anderson, then focused on me. "Wait here." She got up, walked out of the living room, and headed upstairs.

"What do you figure she's up to?" Anderson said.

"No way to know," I said. "I think the whole, 'I don't want to tell, make me tell' routine is a bunch of crap, but that's my only read so far."

"She's a gold digger," Anderson said. "I don't trust her."

I nodded, but my anxiety about what Claire was about to reveal kept growing. I tried to keep it in check by getting up and walking around the expansive room. I lingered on some of Bishop's trinkets: a vintage Chelsea ship's clock, a set of Daum torsos in subtle shades of blue and green and rose, a collection of enamel fountain pens in a glass-topped, mahogany box.

I stopped wandering the room when my gaze crossed an empty space on the wall. I stood still, looking at the spot. Bishop's Robert Salmon painting of a ship at sea had been hanging there when I last visited. I scanned the walls and saw that the beach scene by Maurice Prendergast was gone, too. Carl Rossetti and Viktor Golov, I thought to myself, must have been right; Bishop was liquidating his art collection. Those two canvases alone could bring several million at auction.

Claire Buckley walked back into the room clutching a folded piece of stationery. I returned to my seat on the couch. She took hers in the wingback.

Anderson leaned forward, staring at the sheet of paper.

"I found this in Julia's closet," she said. "I was straightening up."

"The closet?" I said.

"I'm compulsive that way. Inside closets. Under beds. Behind bookcases. I can't relax until every nook and cranny is spotless."

I resisted making a diagnosis. "And what did you come across?" I said.

"It was tucked inside a hatbox," she said. "The box seemed like it was empty, so I was going to use it to store some loose hair ties and so on, but then I found this." She held up the stationery. "I read it. I shouldn't have, but I did."

"So what does it say?" Anderson asked, a little irritation sneaking into his voice.

"I don't know how important it is," she said, letting out her breath dramatically. "That's why I'm giving it to you." She shook her head. "I don't feel good about this."

I couldn't stomach Claire's manufactured reticence much longer. I walked over to her, held out my hand. "Thank you," I said. "We understand."

She placed the folded sheet on my palm with exaggerated care, as if it was a wounded bird. Then she looked away.

I took my seat back on the couch, unfolded the stationery, and saw that it was a page of a letter, written in a feminine hand. My eyes flicked to the bottom of the sheet. It was signed by Julia, and dated June 20, 2002, the day before Brooke was murdered. My heart fell. As Anderson watched for my reaction, I kept a game face and read in silence.