Chapter 2

Evelyn Caldwell lived on a quiet street called Laurel Street in North Inmsmouth. It was a white house with a gray roof and a neatly trimmed lawn. A pot of wilted petunias hung on the porch. It was November, and no one had remembered to bring it inside. The withered petals had curled into little brown scrolls and were piled up along the edge of the pot, looking like some kind of dried-up residue.

Denise parked her car across the street. She didn’t get out right away. It was another one of her habits—to let a place enter her before she entered it.

She looked at the house—white exterior walls, white curtains, and a white picket fence. Too much white, as if trying to prove something. Clean things don't need to prove they're clean. Only places with stains try to hide them by painting over them repeatedly.

But she couldn’t see anything. It wasn’t that she wasn’t perceptive enough; Evelyn had simply done too good of a job.

Denise pushed open the car door and walked down the street. Her heels tapped out a steady rhythm on the concrete. The doorbell rang three times, and footsteps inside were light as if afraid of hurting the floor.

The door opened.

Evelyn Caldwell stood in the doorway.

She wore an off-white cashmere sweater with a neckline that rested softly against her collarbone. Her light brown hair fell loosely over her shoulders, the ends slightly curled as if she’d just used a curling iron—yet not at all forced, just the way a woman looks when she’s been at home.

Her makeup was light: sheer foundation, a single coat of mascara, and clear lip balm on her lips. She looked fresh and clean, like a bouquet of white daisies that had just been watered.

Her eyes were gray-green. The color of the sea off Innsmouth in winter.

“You are—”

“Denise Parker, Criminal Investigations Division, State Police.”

Evelyn’s eyes reddened slightly. She blinked twice, her lashes trembling gently, then stepped aside to let her in. Her movements were light and slow, like a woman who had just received devastating news and was summoning every ounce of strength to maintain her composure.

"Please come in."

Her voice was slightly hoarse, as if she were recovering from a cold. It was just enough to be noticeable and make one hesitate to ask any further questions.

The living room matched the exterior, neat and quiet. There was a beige sofa, a glass coffee table, and several hand-painted landscape paintings with soft brushstrokes and warm tones hanging on the walls.

In the corner stood an upright piano with its lid closed and an open sheet of music resting on top. It was Chopin’s Nocturne. Above the fireplace was a picture frame. Denise stepped closer to take a look.

It was a wedding photo: Brian Caldwell in his police uniform and Evelyn in a white wedding dress. Brian was smiling, showing his teeth, while Evelyn smiled with the corners of her mouth turned up slightly, her eyes curving into two gentle arcs.

Denise looked at the photo for three seconds. Evelyn Caldwell looked so happy in the photo. Her eyes were smiling. The corners of her mouth were smiling. Her whole face was smiling. Not a single flaw.

"That was seven years ago," Evelyn said from behind her, her voice soft and tinged with a barely perceptible tremor. "It rained that day. He said rain was a good omen.”

Denise turned around. Evelyn stood in the center of the living room, her hands clasped in front of her and her shoulders slightly hunched. There was a sense of fragility in her posture, like that of a porcelain figurine perched on the edge of a table, prompting the desire to reach out and steady her.

“Mrs. Caldwell, I’m sorry to disturb you at a time like this.”

“No.” Evelyn shook her head. It was a small movement, and her hair brushed against the collar of her sweater, making a faint rustling sound. "You're just doing your job. I understand. Sit down, please.”

Denise sat down on the sofa. It was soft, and as she sank into it, her whole body relaxed.

Evelyn sat in the armchair across from her with her legs together and turned slightly to one side. Her hands rested on her knees with her fingers interlaced. On the ring finger of her right hand was a simple wedding band—no diamonds, just a thin band of white gold.

“What do you need to ask me?” Evelyn spoke first. Her eyes met Denise’s; her gaze was gentle with a hint of puffiness. It was just enough to suggest that she had cried in secret the night before and didn't want anyone to notice.

“When was the last time you saw your husband?”

“Wednesday night.” Evelyn’s voice was steady, but there was a faint tremor beneath the calm.

“When he left, he said he was going to the office to work late. He was standing at the door, putting on his shoes. I asked him when he’d be back. He said he wasn’t sure. I was standing behind him while he tied his shoelaces. He stood up, glanced at me, and then…” She paused. "Then he opened the door and left."

Denise looked into her eyes. A faint light flickered within her gray-green irises. The fog outside the window softened the light, turning it into a gentle, diffused glow that fell on her face like the soft focus in a classical oil painting.

"Was there anything unusual before he left?"

Evelyn thought for a moment, her brow furrowing slightly and her lips pressing together lightly as if she were carefully recalling every detail.

"No," she said, then paused. "No, there was one thing.”

"What was it?"

“He forgot his phone when he left." Evelyn lowered her head and stared at her fingers.

"He never forgets his phone. He’s a cop; he always has it on him. But that day, he forgot. I ran to the door and handed it to him. When he took it, his fingers brushed against mine." Her voice caught. “His hand was so cold. I asked, Why is your hand so cold?”

“He didn’t answer. He turned and walked away."

She looked up, a tear hanging from her eyelashes.

Denise handed her a tissue. Evelyn took it and gently dabbed the corner of her eye, careful not to smudge her makeup. The sound of her blowing her nose was soft, too—as if she didn’t want her sadness to disturb anyone else.

"I'm sorry," she said.

“No need to apologize.”

Denise waited for Evelyn to calm down. The living room was quiet. The clock on the mantel ticked, its second hand jumping from one mark to the next. Cars passed by outside; the sound of their engines grew closer, then faded away. Evelyn’s breathing slowly evened out, and the rise and fall of her shoulders slowed.

“Where were you on Thursday night?”

Evelyn looked up. Her eyelashes were still wet, and her eyes were brighter than before, like leaves washed by rain.

"On Thursday night, I was at my mother's house. In Salem. I visit her every Thursday night. She’s elderly and has trouble walking. She needs help bathing, changing the sheets, and cooking.”

“Did you go alone?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anyone who can corroborate that?”

"My mother."

“Is there anyone else?”

Evelyn fell silent. Her silence was dignified—not the fluster of someone caught off guard, but the thoughtful pause of someone recalling details. Her gaze drifted slightly upward and to the left, and her fingers unconsciously traced the wedding ring on her right ring finger.

"No," she finally said. "Only my mother. A neighbor might have seen my car parked outside her house. It was a blue Toyota Corolla. It was parked there all night."

Denise nodded. Evelyn provided details in her answer, such as the color of the car and how long it was parked there. A liar wouldn’t voluntarily provide so many verifiable details. Either she was telling the truth or she was very clever.

“Did your husband exhibit any unusual behavior lately? Did he mention any strange people or occurrences?”

Evelyn’s finger paused. Her wedding ring spun around her knuckle. Denise noticed the faint white mark on Evelyn’s right ring finger. It wasn't from the ring’s pressure; it was an old injury. The scar was shallow and had flattened over time. Unless you looked closely, you might mistake it for normal skin texture.

“He’s been under a lot of pressure lately.” Evelyn's voice dropped even lower, as if she were sharing a secret that couldn't be spoken aloud.

"Work-related. Someone anonymously reported him for accepting bribes. He’s furious. He says someone’s trying to ruin him. I asked if he’d offended anyone, and he said…” She bit her lower lip.

"He said everyone wants to ruin him. Including me.”

Denise leaned forward slightly. "He said that?"

"He's been in a bad mood lately." Evelyn’s eyes reddened again, but this time, there were no tears; just a faint pink flush around her eyes like smudged watercolor.

"He wasn't like this before. He used to be so gentle. In the first few years of our marriage, he’d make me coffee every morning. He knew I only took half a spoonful of sugar, so he’d measure it out every time. Then...”

She paused, took a deep breath, and her chest heaved slightly.

"Then the pressure at work got worse and worse, and he changed. He started saying hurtful things. But he never—"

She suddenly looked up at Denise, her eyes holding a fragile resolve.

"He's not a bad person. He’s just so tired. Please don’t portray him as that kind of person.”

That was a well-chosen phrase.

Denise made a mental note of it. It made Evelyn appear to be a wife who loved her husband deeply—a woman who stood by him even after he changed.

Perfect.

Too perfect.

Denise stood up. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Caldwell. If I have any further questions, I’ll be in touch.”

Evelyn walked her to the door. As they walked through the hallway, Denise caught a glimpse of a mirror out of the corner of her eye. At the end of the hallway, the door was closed, and there was no dust on the doorknob.

The mirror, in a gold frame, hung on the wall opposite the door, with a crack in the lower right corner. It had been struck by something; the crack extended from the edge toward the center like a frozen bolt of lightning.

“That’s the storage room,” Evelyn said from behind her.

Denise turned around. Evelyn stood two paces behind her with a faint, sad, dignified smile on her face. She was a woman who had just lost her husband and was still struggling to maintain her composure.

“May I take a look?”

“Of course.”

The storage room was small and piled high with cardboard boxes, old furniture, and out-of-season clothes. Evelyn stood in the doorway and didn’t follow her inside. Denise scanned the room. The boxes were stacked neatly with the labels facing out. They read, “Winter Sweaters,” “Brian’s Old Uniforms,” and “Christmas Decorations.” Every item was exactly where it belonged.

Denise’s gaze fell on the mirror. Its surface was clean, as if it had just been polished. A crack in the frame ran from the lower right corner to the center. She reached out and lightly touched the edge of the crack with her fingertip.

The paint had lifted slightly along the crack, proving that it had been there for several months, not just recently.

“How did this mirror get broken?”

"I accidentally knocked it over," Evelyn said softly. "Last winter. I was using a ladder to reach a box on the top shelf when the ladder tipped over and hit the mirror. Luckily, no one got hurt.”

“Were you home alone at the time?”

“Yes.”

“Where was your husband?”

“He was at work.”

Denise turned around. Evelyn stood in the doorway, the light from behind her streaming in and casting her face in half-light and shadow. In the shadows, her eyes weren't gray-green; they were a deeper color, like the bottomless sea beneath the docks of Innsmouth.

“Thank you, Mrs. Caldwell. That’s all for today.”

Denise walked out of the white house. The November wind blew in, carrying the saltiness of the sea and the smell of fish. Instead of getting into her car right away, she stood across the street and glanced back at the house one last time. Behind the white curtains, Evelyn’s silhouette stood motionless.

Back in her car, Denise started the engine but didn’t drive off immediately. She opened the Notes app on her phone and began typing.

Evelyn Caldwell

— So proper.

Every word hit the mark. Every tear fell at the right moment.

Her eyes were red even before I walked in. How did she know it was the state police and not reporters?

"Please don't portray him as that kind of person." Her husband had just died, and she was worried about how the media would portray him?

The storage room was too tidy to look lived in. The crack in the mirror was real, but the "ladder fell over" part was made up.

She said "last winter," but her hand paused for half a second as she touched her wedding ring. She was checking to make sure there were no holes in her timeline.

The scar on her right ring finger. Not from a ring. From being pried open.

Denise stared at the last line for a long time.

Then she added another line:

She isn’t a grieving wife. She is a woman playing the part.

She’s acting too well.

So well, in fact, that if I weren’t a cop, I’d believe her.

If I were on the jury, I’d shed tears for her.

She put down her phone and started the car. In the rearview mirror, the white house grew smaller and smaller. The curtains shifted slightly. Evelyn was still standing there, watching her car drive away.

Denise suddenly thought, If Evelyn Caldwell was acting, what was she trying to hide? If a woman could behave so perfectly after her husband’s death, then what must she truly be trying to hide?

Fog rolled in from all directions, engulfing the white house in the rearview mirror.

The answer lay with a woman named Mara. Denise pressed the accelerator, and the tires crunched through the fallen leaves on Laurel Street, producing a fine, crackling sound.