There are many expensive houses here in Brecken Hill, an enclave on the edge of Aylesford, in the Hudson Valley. Situated on the east side of the Hudson River, about a hundred miles north of New York City, it’s like the Hamptons, but slightly less pretentious. There’s old money here, and new. Down the long private drive, past a clump of birches, there it sits: the Merton home, on its vast expanse of lawn, presented like a cake on a platter. A glimpse of a swimming pool to the left. Behind is a ravine, and thick trees on either side of the property guarantee privacy. This is prime real estate.
It’s so still and undisturbed. A weak sun is out, interrupted by scudding clouds. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon on Easter Monday; elsewhere, children are greedily finishing off their chocolate bunnies and foil-wrapped eggs, gauging what’s left and eyeing how much remains in the baskets of their siblings. But there are no children here.
The children have grown up and moved away. Not far, mind you. They were all over just yesterday, for Easter Sunday dinner.
The place looks deserted. There are no cars in the driveway—they are shut away behind the doors of the four-car garage. There’s a Porsche 911 convertible; Fred Merton likes to drive that one, but only in the summer, when he throws his golf clubs in the back seat. For winter, he prefers the Lexus. His wife, Sheila, has her white Mercedes with the white leather interior. She likes to put on one of her many colorful Hermès scarves, check her lipstick in the rearview mirror, and go out to meet friends. She won’t be doing that anymore.
A house this grand, this polished—glossy white marble floor beneath an elaborate, tiered chandelier in the entryway, fresh flowers on a side table—you’d think there must be staff for upkeep. But there’s only one cleaning lady, Irena, who comes in twice a week. She works hard for the money. But she’s been with them so long—more than thirty years—that she’s almost like family.
It must have looked perfect, before all this. A trail of blood leads up the pale, carpeted stairs. To the left, in the lovely living room, a large china lamp is lying broken on the Persian rug, its shade askew. A little farther along, beyond the low, glass coffee table, is Sheila Merton in her nightclothes, utterly still. She’s dead, her eyes open, and there are marks on her neck. There’s no blood on her, but the sickening smell of it is everywhere. Something awful has happened here.
In the large, bright kitchen at the back of the house, Fred Merton’s body lies sprawled on the floor in a dark and viscous pool of blood. Flies buzz quietly around his nose and mouth. He’s been viciously stabbed many, many times, his fleshy throat slit.
Who would do such a thing?
Dan Merton shrugs on a navy blazer over an open-necked, pale-blue dress shirt and a smart pair of dark jeans. He studies himself critically in the full-length mirror in the bedroom.
Behind him his wife, Lisa, says, “Are you okay?”
He smiles wanly at her via the mirror. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
She turns away. He knows she doesn’t relish the prospect of Easter dinner at his parents’ house any more than he does. He turns around and looks at her—his pretty, brown-eyed girl. They’ve been married four years, and in that time there have been challenges. But she has stood by him, and he knows he’s lucky to have her. She is his first experience of unconditional love. Unless you count the dogs.
He tamps down a twinge of uneasiness. Their financial troubles are a source of stress, a constant subject of discussion. Lisa always talks him around, though, and makes him believe things will turn out all right—at least while she’s still in the room. It’s when she isn’t there that the doubts creep in, the crippling anxiety.