Suspicious of the last, I click into the call expecting a robo-silence, and jerk when my name hits me fast.
“Mallory.” Not a question, but a statement in a voice that is deep and tight, familiar but not. The whoosh in my stomach becomes a twist. Rhode Island is a small state, the town of Westerly smaller, its villages even smaller. I tell myself that this voice could belong to any one of the dozens of people I’d known growing up. But my gut says something else.
Standing, I move to the far side of the tripod and say a cautious, “Yes?”
“It’s Jack.”
I know that,I think, and I barely breathe. Jack Sabathian grew up on the shore, just like us. He was my best friend once, but we haven’t talked since I left, and while his voice is older now, I feel the force of memory fighting its way through the tangle of time.
“We have a problem,” he barrels on. “Your father was just over here knocking on my door—bangingon my door, like he’d break it down—and when I opened it, he let me have it.” He raises his voice to imitate. “You no-good bastard, you knew exactly what was going on, didn’t you. You probably planned the whole fucking thing with her—his language, not mine,” he puts in before becoming my father again. “You let me be investigated like I was a murderer, and you didn’t say one word, but we both know she didn’t die. Tell me where she is. I know you know.He had a gun, Mallory. He was waving a gun in my face. He swore he didn’t own one back then. So either he lied to the DA twenty years ago or he bought it after the fact, but a gun is the lastthing a man like that should have. You do know that he’s sick—or are you just leavin’ the whole thing to Anne—who, by the way, is doing a lousy job, and not just with his care. The house is a mess and the bluff is falling into the sea, but unless she told you that, you wouldn’t know, because you haven’t been here to check. It isn’t your responsibility, is it? Well, hello, Mallory, itis.So here’s the thing. You need to step up to the plate. If he’s talking about that night to me, he’s probably talking about it in town. Bay Bluff may be only a tiny corner of Westerly, but the police love the coffee your sister serves in her shop. If he’s blabbing, they’ll hear—and hey, I’m all for it. He killed my mother? I want it coming out. Do you? ’Course not. So here’s a wake-up call,” the slightest pause before an accusatory, “Mallory. Either you do something about him, or they will.”
I’m spared having to respond by a decisive click, not that I could have spoken, I’m so shaken. That quickly the past is here and now. And the lump in my throat? Huge. Of the many things I’ve avoided thinking of since leaving Bay Bluff, John MacKay Sabathian is a biggie, but his angry voice brings everything back. I stand unmoving, looking at the foggy city night but seeing the ocean, the bluff, my father’s boat leaving the dock and taking with it so so so much more than just Elizabeth.
“Mom,”Joy prods with an insistence that says she has called my name several times. My eyes fly to hers. “Who was that?”
I refocus. “No one.”
“No one was shouting. He was using your name. He even saidbastard.I heard it from here.”
Leaving the window, I switch on a lamp. I don’t want to see the ocean, the bluff, the boat. Jack is right. I’m leaving it all to Anne.
But my daughter is mine. I’m raising her to be different from my past. And she isn’t a baby. “It was one of your grandfather’s neighbors.”
“He only has one. Anne was saying that—remember, when she was here last time with Margo?”
Oh, I remember. We were arguing again about that night—aboutwhether Elizabeth had jumped, fallen, or been tossed off the boat by heavy gales, and whether she could have possibly survived. Joy had already known the basics, but my sisters were full-on into bickering about infidelity, deception, and abandonment. And murder. Murder was the conversation stopper, the horror issue, the visit-breaker.
Since Joy heard all that, I figure she’s old enough to hear more. “The guy who called is Jack Sabathian. He’s Elizabeth’s son.”
Her eyes go wide. “What did he say?”
I thumb in Anne’s cell, knowing my daughter will listen in. The phone is approaching its fourth ring when my sister picks up.
“Mal?” Her voice was always higher than mine, perky and bright to my down-to-earth sensible, but here she sounds out of breath. I wonder if she was outside chasing after my father.
“What’s going on?” I ask as casually as I can.
“Uh… now? Not much. You don’t usually call at night. What’s up?” She seems innocent enough, but then, my sister is always innocent, thirty-seven going on twelve. I swear, Joy is more savvy.
“Jack Sab just called.”
Chapter 2
Anne is silent for a beat before sighing an exaggerated,“Oh,God. Jack Sabathian is a pain in the butt. He issuchan alarmist, you know? He’s always telling me what I need to do to the house, and if it isn’t about the house, it’s about Dad. What’s he saying now?”
I relate the conversation, minus the imitation of our father’s voice. By the time I’m done, Joy is leaning in, ear to my ear.
“A gun?” Anne echoes. “I have never seen Dad with a gun. Why would he need a gun?” A mumble in the background tells me she isn’t alone. I’m quickly annoyed, then as quickly contrite. My sister has a right to be with friends.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I thought maybe you would. Where is he now?”
“He was reading in the den.”
When I left,she doesn’t say, but that’s what I hear. So she’soutwith friends. A housekeeper comes mornings, I know that much. But this is night, and apparently Dad is alone. If I ask, Anne will insist—asshe’s done whenever I’ve asked—that he’s fine, that he doesn’t need a babysitter, that he likes having time to himself.
To avoid an argument, I ask, “Is he able to read?”
“Of course he is,” she scoffs. “Well, maybe not for the long periods he used to, but his nose is always in some law journal.”
