“I know it looks like he’s guilty,” Justin responded. “And he probably is to blame. But it’s possible he might not have been the one who killed your sister.”
I thought of the photos he had spread across my coffee table and the picture of Stella at her party next to the dark-haired man with the intense eyes. “You mean Adelmo Balsuto?” I asked.
He nodded. “If Ben somehow crossed him, it stands to reason a revenge motive is a good possibility. Or maybe Stella’s death was a warning.”
“He has a point. Balsuto is dangerous,” Harry added.
“I guess there’s only one thing to do. I have to go straight to Ben and ask what happened to Stella.”
“Hold on, Grace.” Justin leaned forward in his seat. “That might not be such a great idea. If he killed your sister, we can’t be sure he won’t hurt you. And if Balsuto had something to do with it, you could be the next lesson he decides to teach Ben. Even if neither of those possibilities exists, what makes you think he would tell you the truth? He doesn’t have much of a track record in that department. And how would you know if he was lying?”
It was true Ben and Stella blindsided me, but I had to admit I hadn’t been clueless. How many times had I sensed something was off? Moments when he had said he was golfing with a buddy or getting a drink with the guys, and a tiny alarm had sounded way, way back in the primitive part of my woman brain. But I ignored it, preferring to reside in my own special fairy tale. I had no explanation for why I was so sure I would know if he was telling the truth this time. Hell, I didn’t understand it myself. But I was certain if I stared into his eyes and asked if he’d killed my sister, I would know beyond certainty if he was telling the truth.
“I just will.” I dismissed Justin and faced Harry. “Besides, he might have a copy of the pictures missing from her file. Can you call and set up a meeting? If I do it, he’ll start denying shit over the phone, and we’ll lose the chance to catch him by surprise.”
He looked at Justin, who shrugged and shook his head in what I took as a gesture of defeat. Or maybe he was secretly okay with me seeing Ben. If I told him I was sure of Ben’s guilt, wouldn’t that make taking him out easier for Justin? Taking him out? My mother’s mob boss mentality seemed to be taking root.
Harry agreed to set up the meeting, then hopped out and walked around to open my door. Justin stood by the car, holding the manila envelope Cordoza had provided. I had forgotten about it after leaving the embassy, descending instead into a mental horror show where images of flames engulfed my sister’s body.
“If it’s okay with you, Grace,” Justin began, “I’d like to check this out before, well, uh…”
Harry took my elbow and eased me out of the car. “He’s right. There’s no need for you to read the report until we vet the information.”
Of course, I knew vet the information meant screen it to make sure the contents wouldn’t throw me into another fit of despair, but I was too tired to protest.
Even though it was past lunchtime, I wasn’t hungry. I needed time to process Stella’s letters. Harry promised to get in touch with Ben after lunch, and the three of us made plans to meet for dinner.
The windows in my room opened to brilliant sunlight sparkling on the river below. There was no evidence of the sprawling poverty hovering on the hillside. Red umbrellas sheltered diners at the outdoor restaurant. Couples walked hand in hand along the brick walkway or rested on wooden benches under trees that provided the illusion of shade. Well-dressed children in varying shades of neon-colored tennis shoes ran in and out among the adults, climbing on artistic structures of metal and stone.
I sat cross-legged on the bed, opened the packet containing Stella’s letters, and removed the third one in the series so carefully cataloged by our mother. I imagined there had been little doubt in her mind I would someday read them and forgive my sister. I suspected she never considered Stella wouldn’t be around when I did.
She had written it in early June. There was no mention of Ben or sunrises. She spoke of long walks alone on the shore and tossing stranded starfish back into the ocean the way we’d done as children. She asked me if I remembered our family vacations, knowing full well I would never forget them. We stayed at Seagrove Beach between Destin and Panama City because it was cheaper if you were okay being a few blocks from the water.
In her letter, Stella reminisced about the days Mom would slather us with sunscreen. She reminded me of the way Lesroy always got burned in strange places, like behind his ears and under his armpits, because he was unable to stand still enough for his mother to even out the thick gooey lotion over his wriggly little body. She wrote of the times we spent all day at the beach constructing sand cities, designed to Lesroy’s specifications, and roasting marshmallows over the fire Gran built.
She spoke of the bunk beds in the hallway and of Lesroy curling up in a sleeping bag on the floor. And sneaking out after dark to chase crabs and tell ghost stories.
I closed my eyes and for a minute I saw us throwing ourselves into waves bigger than we were. Lesroy would almost always go under, and we’d scream and laugh until the surf tossed him onto the shore where he’d shake himself like a wild little terrier. I wondered if Stella had been recalling happier days or if she had been playing me, knowing the effect
