might have hurt during my lifetime.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked him. I wondered if he had cancer. He was so thin. “Are you sick?”
He shook his head, brushing my question away with his hand. “I lost Joan last year,” he said, then looked away from me, toward the pictures on the mantel. “And Ned…Ned died just a few weeks ago.”
“Oh,” I said. I understood then how his world had been altered. Ned must have been close to sixty, but that didn’t matter when it came to burying your child. “I’m sorry, Ross.”
“It gave me a new understanding of how you felt when Isabel died.”
“Yes,” I said.
“So, I wanted to talk to you about…I just wanted to apologize.”
“And now you have and that’s fine and enough,” I said. I didn’t like the sympathy I felt for this old man. He was a politician, first and foremost, capable of talking out of both sides of his mouth.
He looked at me so long and hard that I had to look away. I knew he wanted to say more, but whatever it was, I didn’t want to hear it. So I stood up.
“Come on,” I said, holding my hand out to help him from the chair. He’d hardly touched his water, but he had not come here for the refreshments.
He clutched my hand hard as he struggled to his feet. I let him hold on to my arm as I walked with him back down the front steps and out to his car. Neither of us spoke, although I knew there was a lot we could have said if we’d had the courage. I opened the driver’s-side door of his car for him. It made me nervous to think of someone in his condition driving. I had not even asked him where he lived, how far he had to drive.
“What did Ned die from?” I asked, before closing the car door.
“Drinking,” Ross said. “Drowning his sorrows. I don’t think he ever got over losing Isabel.”
I winced at that, then closed the door. I watched him drive away before returning to my seat in the garden. I pulled on my gloves and drew the trowel through the soil, barely able to see what I was doing for the tears.
“Neither have I, Ross,” I said out loud. “Neither have I.”
CHAPTER 9
Shannon spent most of the afternoon with me as we talked about her dilemma. It was a strange experience for me, watching her shift between tears of anxiety and worry and joy over the new love in her life. She had always been a very grounded, sane person, even as a young child, but listening to her talk about Tanner, I had the odd feeling that she had been taken away by some cult group, brainwashed and returned to us a different person. It was the same Shannon sitting there in my living room, the same beautiful girl who’d brought such joy into her family, but words were coming out of her mouth that were decidedly un-Shannon-like. I felt as though we needed a deprogrammer.
She left about four, saying she had a cello lesson to give at the music store, and she’d been gone no more than fifteen minutes when Julie showed up at my door. I’d tried to reach her on her cell phone to see how the lunch with Ethan had gone, but was only able to get her voice mail, so I’d pulled out my violin, planning to practice for an upcoming ZydaChicks concert.
“I’m interrupting your practice,” Julie said, glancing at the violin in my hand. There was a damp flush to her cheeks that made her look pretty, if uncomfortably warm. I knew she was grappling with hot flashes, something that was still in my future.
“Haven’t even started,” I said, taking her hand with my free one and pulling her into my apartment. “So, how did it go?” I asked, as I put my violin back in its case.
“Not bad.” Julie flopped down on my sofa. The two empty glasses of lemonade were still on the coffee table and I scooped them up and carried them into the kitchen before she could ask who had been there, but she didn’t even seem to notice them.
I glanced at her when I returned to the room. “Are you okay?”
She pressed her hands to her cheeks, which were nearly the color of her red shirt. “I’m just…” She smiled a sort of goofy grin. “Just freaking out, I think,” she said.
“Hot flash?” I asked, although by now I’d guessed it was more than that. She’d just had a conversation about Isabel’s murder. That alone would have been enough to freak her out.
“What?” she said. “Oh, maybe. I don’t even know.” She slipped off her sandals and stretched her legs out on the couch. “I convinced Ethan to take the letter to the police,” she said.
“Oh, that’s excellent.” I felt relieved. I sat down in my armchair again, drawing my legs onto the seat cushion, covering them with my skirt. “Did he take a lot of convincing?”
She nodded. “It took a lot of discussing,” she said. “It was hard and I felt sorry for him.” Julie watched her feet as she flexed them up and down. Then she looked at me. “He just can’t handle the fact that his brother could be guilty after all these years.”
“Of course he can’t,” I said. “What do you think the cops will do with the letter?”
“That’s the scary part,” Julie said. “Ethan has a friend in the police department and he sort of ran it by this guy—in a hypothetical way—to get a sense of what would happen. His friend said they’ll probably start fresh, which I figured they would do. But that means interviewing everyone involved again. I’m guessing that would be me, which is fine, of course. Maybe Ethan and Ned and Izzy’s friends. Mr. Chapman, which worries Ethan.” She bit her lip and looked at me squarely. “And possibly Mom.”
“Ugh,” I said.
“Right. I hope it doesn’t come to that. I’d love to keep her from knowing this is even going on. I could see them badgering her with questions and then she has a heart attack or a stroke or—”
