Harbor Island. Carla Neggers

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       8

      Boston, Massachusetts

      Maisie Bristol sank onto a frayed leather sofa in the front room of the classic nineteenth-century bow-front house her family owned on a tree-lined section of West Cedar Street on Beacon Hill. To maintain eye contact with her, Emma sat across from her on an equally frayed wingback chair. Colin stayed on his feet by the foyer door. As they’d arrived on West Cedar, Yank had called them about the attack on his wife at Aoife O’Byrne’s studio in Dublin. It wasn’t something they planned to bring up with the Bristols, at least not right now.

      Danny Palladino had led them inside, explaining the place was getting a much-needed face-lift. Maisie, he’d said, was more Southern California than Beacon Hill and didn’t want the house to feel like a museum. He’d seemed out of place, not sure what he should do with himself, but finally settled on standing behind the sofa where Maisie was sitting. Travis Bristol, Maisie’s father and Rachel’s ex-husband, was pacing in front of the windows overlooking the tree-lined street. He and Maisie were both clearly struggling to come to terms with the news of Rachel’s death.

      “I saw Rachel just this morning,” Maisie said, half to herself. “She was looking forward to our brunch at the marina. She was excited, she said.”

      Maisie grabbed a set of rolled-up architect’s drawings on the coffee table and stood them on the floor. She looked younger than thirty, with her unkempt reddish-blond hair and spray of freckles across her nose and upper cheeks. She wore an unassuming outfit of a green-plaid flannel shirt untucked over boyfriend jeans and dark orange suede ankle boots.

      “Rachel didn’t do anything if she wasn’t excited about it,” Travis said, taking a seat next to Maisie on the sofa. His eyes were the same shade of pale blue as hers, but his hair was gray and he had no freckles. He wore a navy sweater that had to be too warm for the room and wide-wale corduroys a tone lighter than the sofa’s cognac leather. Hours after his ex-wife’s death, he still looked gut-punched, ashen and in shock. “The Rachel I knew could fire up a room with her excitement and passion for whatever she was doing.”

      “That was Rachel,” Maisie echoed with a small smile. “Pushy, intense, generous, formidable, especially when she was convinced she was right.”

      Travis nodded sadly. “She had clarity of vision but she was also tenacious.”

      “She could be exhausting, though. She’d wear you out to get her way. There wasn’t one thing wishy-washy about her.” Maisie leaned her head against her father’s shoulder. “We’re going to miss her.”

      “You didn’t go to the marina together?” Emma asked.

      Maisie sat up straight, shaking her head. “We all had things to do later and went on our own. Rachel left early and said she would meet us there. I didn’t think twice about it.” She raised her chin at Emma. “I told the detectives all of this.”

      “Rachel loved the island and this place,” Travis said. “I invited her to stay here whenever she was in town. Last week was her first time back since we split. I put her in a guest room upstairs. I’ve been back and forth between here and L.A. more often than usual because of the renovations. I used to tease Rachel that she married me because I came with an island and a Beacon Hill house.”

      Maisie nodded to the blueprints. “She wanted to know about the work we’re doing. She’d had her own ideas about renovations when she and Dad were together.”

      Travis glared up at Danny Palladino. “How could you have let this happen?”

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