“He’s a private investigator.”
“She hired an investigator?” I ask in alarm.
“She didn’t. I did.”
I lean away. “You? To pin something on my father?”
“Nah. I’ve hired snoops before to do that, and they’ve come up with zip. I hired this one to follow her.”
“And how’sthatworkin’ for ya?” I mutter. When Jack snickers, I add, “Looks like they’re a pair. Is that the way he works?”
“No. That just happened. I’m not supposed to know the extent of it, but Christ, they were all over each other at the beach the other day.”
“Which you know how? Ah. Spies. Right. Is he still on your payroll?”
Eyes smiling, Jack bobs his head side to side. “For now.”
“What does that mean?”
He sighs. “It means, Mallory, that I’m not a total shit. If they’re together, he’s not going to give me anything of value. If they’re together, they’re together.” He sits forward again, putting his forearms on his thighs and linking his hands.
“And you don’t want to ruin it?”
“Why would I? I’m not a monster. I just want to make sure she’s not here to make trouble for me. If she wants to make trouble for your father, great.”
I ignore that. “She seems guileless. If she likes to talk and may not have much more of a filter than her uncle—”
“Cousin.”
“—cousin, wouldn’t she have already spilled something to someone if she was here to nose around? She knows that she looks like your mother, so yes, she may be sticking it to my dad, but maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maybe it’s just another way of jarring his memory so that something spills out.”
There is no change in Jack’s body. I would know. Our arms and thighs are touching. But I do sense a shift in mood. Sure enough, when I look at him, the grooves on his forehead are deep. His eyes meet mine, but only long enough for me to see the shadows there, before he looks away. He seems to be considering what I’ve said—something about my father’s memory or about Lily’s motives—no, not either of those but something else—actually considering whether to broach it, because he’s chewing on the corner of his mouth again. I’m watching that when he murmurs, “Maybe my mother sent her.”
My eyes fly to his. The words don’t fit a man who is an educated professional, who has established a successful business and screamssurvivorfrom every pore. That man should have accepted what logic insists. And still, I sense that he needs me to say it.
I jiggle my leg against his, just the tiniest bit. He is wearing shorts, and his skin is warm, not gorilla hairy but enough to add abrasion. I always liked being able to feel that difference between us. “Oh, Jack,” I say softly, “you know that’s not true.”
“You think she’s definitely dead,” he whispers, eyes haunted.
Hope dies hard, I know. But I’ve never seen this vulnerability before in Jack Sabathian. Add the sun glinting off unruly hair, and he could be ten years old. My heart breaks as I nod.
He nods back. After a minute, he returns to rubbing the dog’s earwith his thumb. I think of the soothing that comes from touching a rabbit’s foot, a lucky penny, even rosary beads. He clearly gets something from Guy’s silky ear. When he finally speaks, his voice holds surrender. “She drowned. It’s the only thing that makes sense. The question is how she got in the water.”
And there we are, back at Square One. I don’t look at him, don’t want to see accusation. It’s been nice sitting here talking with him.
“I’ve missed this,” he says quietly. “Never had it with anyone else. The easy talk. The honesty. The silence.”
“Not even your wife?” I ask.
He seems startled by the question, perhaps uncomfortable, like he’s cheated on me and is caught, which is both sad and adorable at the same time. “Anne told you?” he asks.
I nod. “With pleasure.”
“It didn’t last. Did she tell you that, too?”
I nod again. “What happened?”
“You.”
