“Maybe. Maybe not.” Tilting back in the chair, angled just a tad toward me, he pushes both hands through his hair, leaves them on the back of his head, and raises reluctant eyes. “If she committed suicide—” He stops and clears his throat. “If she deliberately jumped from that boat in the middle of a micro-burst, it would have been because she was in mental pain. People don’t do things like that unless they are. But she didn’t have a history of mental illness. She wasn’t in therapy. She wasn’t taking antidepressants. But if she did take money that could have saved her brother, she’d feel guilty. If her brother lost everything because he didn’t have that money, she’d be devastated. If her business failed in spite of what she took, she’d be destroyed.”
“That’s a lot of ifs,” I say, though what he outlines sounds frighteningly plausible. “But could she just take the money? Most estates spell out who gets what and how it has to be distributed. Can an executor just help himself?”
“No. A co-executor, likely Ron Doe, would have a say. In theory.”
I get the “in theory” part. That would occur if Elizabeth committed fraud, but neither of us is going there yet. “Where does my father fit in? Did he know about her family money?”
“He had to. They were too close for him not to.”
“You still think they were lovers.”
He startles me by reaching for my hand. He had held it from the dock to the house, but he isn’t leading me now. He wants the comfort that a link between us brings. I can’t fight that.
“Nah,” he confesses, watching the weave of our fingers. His skin is warm, fingers dwarfing mine in the old protective way. “You’re right. Likely before they were married. Not after.”
It’s definitely a concession. Way back when, he wouldn’t admit to even the slightest chance that my father was anything but the devil incarnate.
We let it sit. After a minute, I squeeze his hand and pull mine free. Passing Guy, who is asleep under the desk, I approach the sleek sofa on the far side of the room, fold my arms, and study the wall. A modern oil hangs there, but I can’t figure out what it is. “A seascape?”
“They say.”
“Remember what used to be here?”
He is beside me now, staring at the wall as I am. “Yup. A real seascape. Painted by Dante Bowen.”
“Local artist.”
“Lots of color and emotion.”
I look up at him. “What did you do with it?”
“It’s in the attic. I couldn’t give it away. Couldn’t give any of them away. They’re part of my childhood.” I expect sarcasm, but hear only sadness. He’s thinking it’s the best part, and how pathetic it is that a piece of art should be that.
Feeling the aloneness that always haunted him, I slip an arm through his. “Joy loved seeing the family pictures climbing our stairs. Remember? Your mom took them.”
He smiles crookedly. “Oh yeah.”
“They tell a story, the psychology of photography and all.” I wasalways on that farthest end from my father. Always. “So what was my father’s role in what happened that night?” I ask, knowing that Jack will follow my thoughts. “If Elizabeth was guilty of something, did he know? If she deliberately jumped off the boat, did he know she planned to do it?”
“An accessory?” Jack asks with a sad-eyed look.
I move my head enough to confirm. “You could say.”
“I can’t. He can. Will he?”
“Talk? I don’t know.”
“Guess.”
I want to punt. In spite of everything, I do feel a loyalty to Tom Aldiss. Sure, Jack has granted him a reprieve from being the bad guy. But if he is trusting me with his worst fears about his mother, I have to do the same. “He mentioned guilt. He said that was why she left. He said they had a pact not to tell.”
“Pact.”
“But was it with your mother or mine? He goes in and out, Jack—is lucid one minute and not the next. The upside of his being lucid is he’ll remember what happened on the boat. The downside is he’ll remember a pact and won’t talk. If he’s half-confused, he might.”
“How can you make him half-confused?” Jack asks with only the smallest quirk of his lips.
“By badgering him. When he gets flustered, he gets confused. I hate to do it.” I put my heart in my eyes. “He’s an old man, Jack. He knows what’s happening to him, and he isn’t happy.” When Jack opens his mouth, I say, “I know, I know. What he’s keeping secret is making everyone elseun-happy. But it’s hard for me.”
