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  For Agnes Partel Newton

  With love

  —Mary

  For Chris Mascal and Carrie Blank

  To another 20 + 20 years of friendship

  —Alafair

  Acknowledgments

  Once again it has been my joy to cowrite with my fellow novelist, Alafair Burke. Two minds with but a single crime to solve.

  Marysue Rucci, editor-in-chief of Simon & Schuster, is again our mentor on this journey. A thousand thanks for your encouragement and sage advice.

  My home team is still solidly in place. They are my spouse extraordinaire, John Conheeney, my children, and my right-hand assistant, Nadine Petry. They brighten this business of putting pen to paper.

  And you, my dear readers. Again you are in my thoughts as I write. When you choose to read this book, I want you to feel as though you have spent your time well.

  Cheers and Blessings,

  Mary

  Yet each man kills the thing he loves

  By each let this be heard,

  Some do it with a bitter look,

  Some with a flattering word,

  The coward does it with a kiss,

  The brave man with a sword!

  —Oscar Wilde, The Ballad of Reading Gaol

  Prologue

  Will the defendant please rise?

  Casey’s knees wobbled as she rose from her chair. She stood with perfect posture—shoulders back, gaze ahead—but her feet felt unsteady beneath her.

  The defendant. For three weeks, everyone in this courtroom had referred to her as “the defendant.” Not Casey. Not her given name, Katherine Carter. Certainly not Mrs. Hunter Raleigh III, the name she would have taken by now if everything had been different.

  In this room, she’d been treated as a legal term, not as a real person, a person who had loved Hunter more deeply than she’d ever thought possible.

  When the judge gazed down from the bench, Casey suddenly felt smaller than her five-foot-seven frame. She was a terrified child in a bad dream, staring up at an all-powerful wizard.

  The judge’s next words sent a chill through her entire body. Madame Foreperson, have you agreed upon a unanimous verdict?

  A woman’s voice responded. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  The big moment was finally here. Three weeks ago, twelve residents of Fairfield County had been selected to decide whether Casey would go free or spend the rest of her life in prison. Either way, she’d never have the future she’d envisioned. She would never be married to Hunter. Hunter was gone. Casey could still see the blood when she closed her eyes at night.

  Casey’s lawyer, Janice Marwood, had warned her against trying to read anything into the jurors’ facial expressions, but Casey could not resist. She stole a glance at the forewoman, who was short and plump with a soft, gentle face. She looked like someone Casey’s mother would sit next to at church picnics. Casey remembered from voir dire that the woman had two daughters and a son. She was a new grandmother.

  Surely a mother and grandmother would see Casey as a human being, not simply a defendant.

  Casey searched the forewoman’s face for some sign of hope, but saw nothing but a blank expression.

  The judge spoke again. Madame Foreperson, would you please read the verdict into the record?

  The pause that followed felt like an eternity. Casey craned her neck to scan the crowd seated in the courtroom. Directly behind the prosecution table sat Hunter’s father and brother. A little less than a year ago, she was going to join their family. Now they stared at her like a sworn enemy.

  She quickly looked away to “her” row, where she immediately locked onto one set of eyes, bright blue like her own and almost as fearful. Of course her cousin Angela was here. Angela had been there for Casey since day one.

  Holding Angela’s hand was Casey’s mother, Paula. Her skin was pale, and she was ten pounds lighter than when Casey was first arrested. Casey expected to see her mother’s other hand also being held, but the next person on the bench was a stranger with a notepad and pen. Yet another reporter. Where was Casey’s father? Her eyes scanned the courtroom wildly for his face, hoping that somehow she had missed him.

  No, her eyes hadn’t let her down. Her father wasn’t here. How could he not be here, of all days?

  He warned me, Casey thought. “Take the deal,” he said. “You’ll have time for another life. I’ll still get to walk you down the aisle and meet my grandchildren.” He wanted the babies to call him El Jefe, the Boss.

  The instant she realized her father was absent from the courtroom, Casey believed she knew exactly what was about to happen to her. The jury was going to convict her. No one believed she was innocent, not even Daddy.

  The woman with the gentle face and the verdict slip finally spoke. “On Count One, the charge of murder, the jury finds the defendant . . .” The forewoman coughed at that very moment, and Casey heard a groan from the gallery.

  “Not guilty.”

  Casey held her face in her hands. It was over. Eight months after she had said good-bye to Hunter, at last she could begin to envision tomorrow. She could go home. She wouldn’t have the future she’d planned with Hunter, but she would sleep in her own bed, take a shower by herself, and eat what she wanted to eat. She’d be free. Tomorrow, a new future would start. Maybe she would get a puppy, something she could take care of, that would love her even after every­thing that had been said about her. Then maybe next year, she’d go back to school to get her PhD. She wiped away tears of relief.

  But then she remembered she wasn’t done yet.

  The forewoman cleared her throat and continued. “On the alternative charge of manslaughter, the jury finds the defendant guilty.”

  For a second, Casey thought she might have misheard. But when she turned toward the jury box, the forewoman’s expression was no longer unreadable, her face no longer soft. She had joined the Raleigh family in staring at Casey with condemnation. Crazy Casey, just like the papers called her.

  Casey heard a sob behind her and turned to see her mother making the sign of the cross. Angela had both hands on her head in utter dismay.

  At least one person believed me, Casey thought. At least Angela believes I’m innocent. But I’m going to prison anyway, for a long time, just as the prosecutor promised. My life is over.

  1

  Fifteen Years Later

  Casey Carter stepped forward once she heard the click, then heard the loud, familiar clank behind her. The clank was the sound of her cell doors. She’d heard them close every morning when she stepped out for breakfast, every night after dinner, and usually twice in between. Four times a day for fifteen years. Roughly 21,900 clanks, not including leap years.

  But this particular sound was different from all the rest. Today, instead of her usual orange prison attire, she wore the black slacks and crisp white cotton shirt her mother had brought to the warden’s office yesterday—both a size too large. Today, when she walked out, her books and photographs would be leaving with her.

  It was the very last time, God willing, that she’d hear that stifling metallic echo. After this, she was done. No parole. No restrictions. Once she stepped from this building, she would be com
pletely free.

  The building in question was the York Correctional Institution. When she’d first arrived here, she’d felt sorry for herself every morning and every night. The papers called her Crazy Casey. More like Cursed Casey. Over time, however, she trained herself to feel grateful for small blessings. Fried chicken on Wednesdays. A cellmate with a lovely singing voice and a fondness for the songs of Joni Mitchell. New books in the library. Over the years, Casey had earned the privilege of teaching art appreciation to a small group of fellow inmates.

  York wasn’t a place where Casey had ever pictured herself, but York had been her home for a decade and a half.

  As she walked the tiled halls—one guard in front of her, one behind—fellow inmates called out to her. “You go, Casey.” “Don’t forget about us.” “Show them what you can do!” She heard whistles and claps. She wouldn’t miss this place, but she would remember so many of these women and the lessons they had taught her.

  She was excited to leave, but she hadn’t been this scared since she first arrived. She’d spent 21,900 clanks counting down her days. Now she had finally earned her freedom, and she was terrified.

  As she heard an entirely new sound—the prison’s outside doors swinging open—she wondered, What will my life be like tomorrow?

  A wave of relief washed over her when she saw her mother and cousin waiting outside. Her mother’s hair was gray now, and she was at least an inch shorter than when Casey began serving her sentence. But when her mother wrapped her arms around her, Casey felt like a small child again.

  Her cousin Angela was as gorgeous as ever. She pulled Casey into a tight hug. Casey tried not to think about the absence of her father, or the fact that the prison hadn’t allowed her to attend his funeral three years earlier.

  “Thank you so much for coming all the way up from the city,” Casey said to Angela. Most of Casey’s friends had stopped talking to her once she was arrested. The few that pretended to remain neutral during her trial disappeared from her life once she was convicted. The only support Casey had received beyond the prison walls was from her mother and Angela.

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Angela said. “But I owe you an apology: I was so excited this morning that I left the city without the clothes your mom asked me to bring. But no worries. We can stop by the mall on the way home for some basics.”

  “Leave it to you to find any excuse to go shopping,” Casey joked. Angela, a former model, was now the head of marketing for a women’s sportswear company called Ladyform.

  Once they were in the car, Casey asked Angela how well she knew the Pierce family, which founded Ladyform.

  “I’ve met the parents, but their daughter, Charlotte, runs the New York operations. She’s one of my best friends. Why do you ask?”

  “The disappearance of Amanda Pierce, your friend’s younger sister, was featured on last month’s episode of a show called Under Suspicion. It re-investigates cold cases. Maybe Charlotte can help me get a meeting. I want them to find out who really killed Hunter.”

  Casey’s mother sighed wearily. “Can’t you just enjoy one peaceful day before starting up with all this?”

  “With all due respect, Mom, I’d say fifteen years is a long enough wait for the truth.”

  2

  That evening, Paula Carter was sitting in bed, her back against the headboard, an iPad mini on her lap. She found comfort in the muffled voices of Casey and Angela from the living room, backed by a television laugh track. She’d read several books about the “reentry” transition for prisoners returning to the outside world. Based on Casey’s free-spiritedness in her younger years, Paula had initially been worried that her daughter might immediately try jumping back into a busy life in New York City. Instead, she’d learned that, more often than not, people in Casey’s position had a hard time realizing the extent of their freedom.

  Paula was self-confined to her room to give Casey a chance to move around the house without her mother hovering over her. It pained Paula to think that a trip from the bedroom to the living room, with full use of the TV remote control, was the most independence her smart, talented, strong-willed daughter had enjoyed for fifteen years.

  She was so grateful to Angela for taking the day off to meet Casey when she was released. By blood, the two girls were cousins, but Paula and her sister, Robin, had raised their daughters as if they were siblings. Angela’s father had never been in the picture, so Frank had been a father-figure to Angela. Then when Angela was only fifteen years old, Robin was gone, too, so Paula and Frank finished raising her.

  Angela and Casey were as close as sisters, but couldn’t be more different. They were both beautiful and shared the same bright blue eyes, but Angela was blonde, and Casey was brunette. Angela had the height and frame of the very successful model she had been in her twenties. Casey’s build had always been more athletic, and she had played competitive tennis in college at Tufts. While Angela skipped college to work on her modeling career and a busy social life in New York, Casey had been a serious student, dedicated to multiple political causes. Angela was a Republican, Casey was a Democrat. The list went on and on, and yet the two of them remained as thick as thieves.

  Now Paula looked down at the news she’d been reading on her iPad. Only ten hours after leaving her cell, Casey was back in the headlines. Would the attention drive her into her room, never to venture out again?

  Or even worse, would it send her straight before the public eye? Paula had always admired her daughter’s willingness to fight—often loudly—for what she thought was right. But if it were up to Paula, Casey would change her name, start a new life, and never speak of Hunter Raleigh again.

  She had been so relieved today when Angela sided with her against Casey’s idea of contacting the producers of Under Suspicion. Casey had dropped the subject once they were at the mall, but Paula knew her daughter. That wouldn’t be the end of the conversation.

  She heard another burst of canned laughter from the television. Casey and Angela were watching a sit-com for now, but with one click, they could stumble onto the news. She was surprised that word had leaked so quickly. Did reporters monitor the names of prisoners released each day? she wondered. Or maybe one of the prison guards had made a phone call. Or perhaps Hunter’s family had put out a press release. Lord knows they thought Casey should have gone to prison for the rest of her natural life.

  Or maybe someone had simply recognized Casey at the shopping mall. Paula kicked herself again for delegating to Angela the task of pulling together a wardrobe for her cousin. She knew how busy her niece was.

  Paula had made such an effort to have everything Casey would need waiting for her at home. Magazines on the nightstand. New towels and a bathrobe. A medicine cabinet filled with the very best spa products. The whole point of preparing was to keep her out of the public eye, but instead they’d ended up at the mall.

  She looked again at her iPad screen. CRAZY CASEY’S SPENDING SPREE! There were no photographs, but the so-called reporter knew which mall Casey had been to and which stores. The hit piece concluded, “Apparently prison food was kind to the sleeping beauty’s figure. According to our source, Casey is slim and fit from all the hours she spent exercising in the prison yard. Will the accused gold digger be wearing her new wardrobe to find a new boyfriend? Only time will tell.”

  The blogger was Mindy Sampson. It had been a long time since Paula had seen that name in print, but she was up to her same old tricks. The reason Casey was in excellent shape was because she had always been the worker-bee type, constantly on the go between her job, volunteer work, political groups, and art showings. In prison, she had nothing to do but exercise and obsess over finding someone to help her clear her name. But a tabloid hack like Mindy Sampson made it sound like she’d been preparing for a red carpet.

  Whether Paula wanted to or not, she had to alert Casey. As she walked down the hallway, she could no l
onger hear the sounds of canned laughter. When she turned the corner, Casey and Angela were staring at the television screen. The cable news host’s face was filled with pious indignation. “It has been reported that Casey Carter was released from prison today and headed for a shopping mall. That’s right, folks, Crazy Casey, Killer Casey, the so-called Sleeping Beauty Killer is back among us, and the first thing on her mind was a closet full of new clothes.”

  Casey clicked off the television. “Now do you see why I’m so desperate about Under Suspicion? Please, Angela, I’ve written to defense lawyers and law clinics across the country, and no one will help me. That television show could be my best shot, my only shot. And your friend Charlotte has direct access to the producers. Please, I just need one meeting.”

  “Casey,” Paula interrupted, “we already talked about this. It’s a terrible idea.”

  “I’m sorry, but I have to agree with Paula,” Angela said. “I hate to say this, but some people think you got off with a slap on the wrist.”

  Paula and Frank had been devastated when their only daughter was convicted of manslaughter. But the media reported the verdict as a loss for the prosecution, which had depicted Casey as a cold-blooded murderer.

  “Let one of those people spend a week in a cell,” Casey protested. “Fifteen years is an eternity.”

  Paula placed a hand on Casey’s shoulder. “The Raleighs are a powerful family. Hunter’s father could pull strings with the producers. That show could paint you in a very negative light.”

  “A negative light?” Casey scoffed. “I’d say I’m already there, Mom. You don’t think I saw all those people staring at me when we went shopping today? I can’t even walk into a store without feeling like a zoo animal. What kind of life is that? Angela, will you call your friend for me or not?”