That got his attention. “Define delicate.”
“Something I don’t want to blow out of proportion.”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
I took a breath. “Pull up what you can find on Hollywood producer, Sean Hale. He died last night.”
“Sure. Give me a second.” He opened his laptop and typed for a moment. His expression changed from curious to disgusted. He read at superhuman speed. “Okay, so this was a terrible man. Now he’s dead. What does that have to do with us?”
“Not us,” I said. “But maybe Grady.”
His eyes widened, and for once he had nothing to say.
“He acted weird when the news of his death came on the news last night,” I said. “After you went to bed. He charged out of here afterward.”
“Thatisodd.” Robbie’s brow crinkled. “You were having wine. And doing that thing where you act like a married couple.”
I flinched but nodded. “That’s right.”
“Which means he usually stays for approximately two more hours,” Robbie said. “Based on previous visits.”
It was true. Grady and I spent several nights a week watching television together after the kids went to bed. Or spent hours talking, depending on our moods.
“Agree,” I said. “I thought we were hanging out—and suddenly he was gone. He’s never done that before.”
Robbie nodded. “Yes, it’s contrary to his behavior before you got home. He kept looking at his watch. I don’t know how many times exactly. But he asked me four times if I thought you should be home by now. Furthermore, he mumbled under his breath three times about how he hoped you were safe with this guy and that he couldn’t wait for you to get home.”
“Which means something about the news upset him,” I said. “And I want to know what it is.”
“I, too, want to know.” Robbie returned his attention to his laptop. “Give me a moment to see if I can find any connection.”
“I think he knew one of the victims, and it really hit him hard,” I said. “My guess anyway.”
“That’s a possibility.” Robbie glanced up, that impatient glint in his eyes that meant he wanted me to be quiet so he could do his thing.
I poured myself a cup of coffee, and made some scrambled eggs, so Madison would have something in her stomach besides bran flakes before she left for school.
Fifteen minutes passed. I got Madison ready, braiding her hair, supervising toothbrushing. On Fridays, Robbie’s STEM high school started two hours later than Madison’s elementary school, so I left him to his work on the computer and walked her to the bus stop on the corner. When I returned, Robbie was still on the computer, but he looked up at me.
“Mother, I believe I’ve found the connection. You should sit. This is going to come as a shock.”
I didn’t argue. I pulled out the chair and sat, my second cup of coffee untouched. “Okay.”
Robbie turned the laptop toward me. “I started with older articles. Not the recent ones. Before the arrest. Before the exposé. Back when the coverage was still sycophants discussing the brilliance of his studio’s films, etcetera.”
My stomach tightened. “Go ahead.”
“There wasn’t much there, until I found an article about the death of his wife,” Robbie said. “Celeste Hale. Died seventeen years ago of cancer. They had two children. A son and a daughter, ages sixteen and fourteen at the time of their mother’s death. Jefferson Hale and Mara Hale.”
I leaned closer. “I vaguely recall that he had a family, but they didn’t talk about that much when all of it came out about the women.”
“Yes, it got buried under everything else that came later.”
Another click as Robbie pulled up something else.
“His wife’s maiden name was Nash.”
“Nash,” I repeated. “Like Grady?”
