“Yeah, I called them last week.” Jesse came around his desk, but his brother stopped him, hand to his chest.
“Are you sure you want to see them? Last time they—”
“I have to try.”
“What do you hope to accomplish?”
“Nothing.” Everything. “Let’s go.”
Dan refused to let Jesse pass. “They’ll mess with you. Get you upset again. I can’t have you running off to LA this time, Jess.”
“Give me a break, Dan.” Jesse pushed past him, past the fact his big brother’s concern might be rooted in truth. “Come on, let’s get to this.”
The long shadows of sunset fell on the row houses of the old Boston neighborhood of Charlestown. A few minutes before seven, Jesse turned down the street given to him by Mrs. Brant. They’d moved from the suburban residence where they raised Loxley to an up-and-coming historical neighborhood.
Reading the house numbers, he parked his truck along the curb and cut the engine, ignoring every urge to drive on.
He needed to be here. He wanted to face them. LA, for all its pretentiousness, had been the perfect hiding place.
Mrs. Brant, smiling and wearing an apron tied about her waist, opened the door when he was still on the sidewalk. She looked more like a fifties housewife than an executive director for a charity organization.
“It’s been too long.” She embraced Jesse as he entered. “You look well. How long has it been? David, Jesse is here.”
“Eight years.” Apples baking in cinnamon perfumed the house.
David Brant came from a back room, hand outstretched. “Jesse, good to see you.”
“You too, sir.” Jesse’s hand clapped into the police captain’s broad mitt with a sense of relief.
If they were still angry with him, this was an Oscar-winning performance.
“How do you like this place? Barbara has been wanting to move to this neighborhood forever. We found this house already renovated and couldn’t pass it up.”
“It’s nice. I remember you talking about moving here one day.” Jesse followed Mr. Brant toward the kitchen, trying to be at ease, but feeling more like an interloper.
“Death has a way of putting life in order,” Mrs. Brant said, standing in the stainless steel and white-tile kitchen, cutting large slices of apple pie. “Do you like your pie á la mode?”
“S-sure. Thank you.” He didn’t need to watch his diet now that he was no longer in Hollywood. Not that he ever watched his food intake that much.
“Have a seat, Jesse.” Mr. Brant motioned to the table where a fork rested on a cream, linen napkin and a china cup waited for coffee.
“Cream with your coffee?” Mr. Brant asked.
Jesse nodded, a burning beginning in his chest. Why were they being so nice? Kind? Mentioning Loxley’s death without a flicker of ire?
Mr. Brant set a matching china creamer on the table and filled Jesse’s cup. “We heard you were back from LA,” he said. “Don’t tell me you missed our winters.”
“I needed to take... a different... My life... my path... changed.”
Mrs. Brant set a pie plate in front of him. “Did you miss engineering? I know Loxley would’ve never given up—”
Jesse shoved away from the table and fired to his feet. “Death...Loxley... you talk as if it’s all okay. What happened. As if she didn’t drown. As if I weren’t responsible. I’m sorry, but... I have to say this. I expected you to be cold and rude and bawl me out. I sent you ten thousand dollars for your scholarship fund, and you sent it back.” His skin prickled hot under his T-shirt despite the cool breeze blowing through the open window. “There aren’t even any pictures of her on the wall.”
Mr. Brant touched his shoulder. “Follow me.”
He led Jesse to a small room off the kitchen, perhaps once a servant’s quarters, and clicked on a lamp.
“We call this our Loxley room.” The room, furnished as a den, contained one wall of photographs and awards. “When we sold our house to move here, we knew we had to move on, but didn’t want to forget our girl. So we set this aside for us, for family and friends. We can come here any time we want. But out there”—he pointed toward the kitchen—“we can live the life we’ve been given.”
