By the time Victoria Beaumont’s smile finally began to falter, I had already learned one of the most difficult truths of my adult life. People like Victoria only appeared powerful as long as the people around them were still willing to play along with the charade.
She had been smiling when I pulled into the gravel driveway of the beach house just after sunrise, while a soft blue light stretched over the dunes of Cape Crescent. The porch boards still looked like weathered silver under the heavy salt air that rolled in from the Pacific.
The hydrangea bushes my mother used to care for had grown a little wild around the front walk, and their pale blooms were heavy with the morning dew. A police cruiser was parked to one side, and Victoria stood in the middle of the porch in a cream cashmere sweater with her hair perfectly coiffed.
Her gold hoops caught the early light as she rested one hand possessively on the railing, acting as if she had personally built the house from driftwood. She had always loved that specific pose, using it at charity events and during every Christmas dinner we had shared over the years.