So am I,I think but don’t follow her. Rather, sinking down near the water line, I ruffle my hand over strands of eelgrass to expose the tiny stones and shells beneath. My thumb and forefinger single out an oyster drill. Cupping it in my palm, I brush off bits of dark sand, and trace it from its pointed spire, over its small ribbed shell, to its flared outer lip. When the snail is alive, its tongue reaches out past that lip to drill into oysters and suck out the meat. I cringe thinking about it—would never tell Joy that these sweet little snails are vicious predators, though, even here in the eelgrass, I see shells with tell-tale round holes. That said, this one’s swirls of amber and white are definitely something to photograph.
I’m wishing I had my camera with me now, when my phone vibrates. Pulling it from my pocket, I look at the screen. The good news is, no one else sees it this time. The bad news is, well, bad news.
Chapter 15
Cops know. Where are you?
I stare at the words for a frightened minute, then type,Know what?
Lily, you, Tom’s mind. Can we talk?
We’re at Gendy’s. Twenty minutes?
On the beach.
Though Anne doesn’t see my screen, she knows the texts are from Jack. Trusting from his earlier one that my meeting him is necessity rather than choice, she challenges Joy to a game of Scrabble. I remain in the living room long enough to see my delighted daughter open the ancient board with reverence, and to warn Anne that Joy is good at the game, before heading to the beach.
Jack is sitting at the far end of the dock, his back to me, legs hanging over the edge. Leaving my flip-flops at the stairs, I cross thesand and am about to step onto the wood planks when time pauses. Jack, the dock, the breeze in his hair, the low near-night light, the sea—nostalgia hits me hard. When he and I were a thing, I never felt alone. If life was about taking sides, he was always on mine. I may be stronger now, may be my own woman, but I feel a wanting that I haven’t felt in years. Yes, it’s physical. Ofcourse,it’s physical. When they talk about chemical attraction, Jack Sabathian is it for me. Beyond that, though, the wanting I feel now is emotional.
But not to be explored here. This meeting is about business.
To drive that point home, I leave a fair space between us when I sit. “What happened?”
He flicks me a glance. Enough of twilight remains to shadow the grooves between his eyes. “Nick White quit. He called to say he couldn’t work for me—conflict of interest, and all. He also said he’s being watched by our men in blue.”
“Watched?”
“Questioned. They think it’s suspicious that all of a sudden Lily is here, he’s here, you’re here. They know Tom’s mind is failing. They think something’s going on, and they want to be in on it.”
“Like, reopening the investigation?” I ask in alarm.
“If warranted,” Jack says.
“Whatever would warrant it? Whatever is new?”
“You tell me.”
“Absolutely nothing. I haven’t found any sign of a gun—and, okay, I’m sure he has one if you saw it,” I add, because Jack wouldn’t imagine something like that, “but if he used a gun on your mother, would he have kept it all this time? Really? He was bullheaded, not stupid. He knew the penalty for murder, so even if he shot your mother, he would have ditched the gun. If he has one now, it’s new. Maybe he bought it to protect himself. Maybe he imagines that a defendant he once sentenced to jail is out now and hell-bent on revenge. He rambles. He talks about old cases. He carries on about John Doe, like he’s reliving his time on the bench.” I search Jack’s face. He isn’t disagreeing with anything I’ve said. “Has Nick learned something?”
“That he’s willing to share?” he asks dryly. “Only that it’s about family money.”
“It?”
“The reason my mother and her brother were estranged.” His hands grip the edge of the dock as he stares out into the darkness. “Lily isn’t as innocent as she looks. Seems her specialty in school wasn’t just journalism, it was investigative journalism. She tracked her grandfather’s problems to the collapse of the family estate. It was supposed to have money in it but did not.”
The estate. I feel a niggling. “Nick told you this?”
“Yeah. He said it was on my dime, so he owed it to me.” He exhales a vexed breath. “Not that it tells me much.”
“It may.” I zero in on the niggling. “My father mentioned her family estate. That’s when he went off about John Doe. John Doe? Albany?”
His head turns fast. After staring at me for a minute, he swears softly, yanks his legs from the water, and, grabbing my hand, pulls me up. I have to scramble as he walks full stride down the dock and across the beach, but I’m willing to do that if something I’ve said helps.
The closer we get to his house, though, the greater my qualms. This isn’t where I want to be—not with my memories, not with Jack in the flesh. But I can’t quite pull my hand free. I know what he wants and right now, it isn’t me. It’s his computer. And I want to see what he finds.
The Sabathian stairs are at the far end of the bluff. Not straight like ours, they tack midway around a scrub pine. Same pine as twenty years ago? Looks it. Same stone path leading to the same back stairs, same open deck, same kitchen door. But that’s where same ends. The kitchen, once as traditional as ours, is now white and steel. Also redone, the hall is pale gray and mirrored, and the living room’s cushiony upholstered furniture has been replaced with pieces that are modern and sleek. Shelves piled with books offer the only warmth, but they’re tiny islands in a sea of gloss.
The wife,I think, looking around in dismay.
