Only a counter separates the diner from the kitchen, and I can hear pans clanging and the sound of grease popping in the fryer. “We’re always interested in locals who are doing amazing things,” I say over the noise.
He shrugs. That defeated look has not left his eyes and he sits with his elbows slumped over the table. “I’m not sure how amazing this is.”
“To be close to winning a city council election? That’s quite an accomplishment!” I keep my voice light.
McGregor—or John, as he insisted we call him—doesn’t answer.
“John?” I prod.
“What?” He jerks his head up. “I’m sorry. I’ve been out of it the past few days.”
If John ever had a politician’s charisma it is gone now, replaced with a melancholy sullenness. I glance over at Wes, but he is staring at the wall, seemingly lost in thought. It’s like I’m the only person at the table who’s even here.
“You seem a little distracted,” I say to both of them pointedly.
Wes shoots me a look, but John just sighs. “I really am sorry. I had some distressing family news in the past few days. Maybe this isn’t the best time to do this.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, are you all right?”
“I . . . yes.” He looks up and attempts to smile. Even as I watch, it crumbles, falling away from his face. “No. I’m not.” He drops his hands down onto the table, tossing the sugar packet aside. “I found out a relative of mine is . . . going through a rough time. It hasn’t been easy.”
“I’m really sorry.” I reach across the table and squeeze his hand briefly. “That must be difficult. If you want to talk about it . . .”
He huffs and shakes his head. “You’re a reporter. The last person I should be talking about my personal life with.” But he is clearly itching to tell someone, because he leans forward slightly and drops his voice. “This is off the record, right?”
“Of course.”
“A cousin of mine is in the psychiatric ward at Bellevue. It’s hitting me harder than it should.”
I make a sympathetic noise. “What happened?”
“I don’t know.” He sits back in the booth. He hasn’t touched the coffee in front of him, but it’s still hot and the steam curls up into the air between us. “We haven’t spoken in years. A mutual acquaintance told me what happened to him. Apparently he went crazy. His family has stopped visiting him. It’s a goddamn mess.”
“I’m sorry.” More than he knows; I hate the idea of my grandfather being alone with his own thoughts. My father must be so angry to abandon him in that place.
Wes shifts in his seat, and rests his hand next to mine on the table. I look at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s staring down at our almost-touching hands, but at least he seems to be listening now.
“It’s awful. I should have found out about it sooner. I should have done something. We grew up together. He always had these crazy ideas, but it was just part of who Peter was. To see him like this . . .” John rubs a hand over his mouth. He has two days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks and chin.
“No one in your family told you about him before now?” I ask.
“I had a falling out with my father, and my mom died when I was a kid. I haven’t even been back to Montauk since I left six years ago. God.” He shakes his head. “Poor Peter.”
“What was he like, when you saw him?”
“Delusional. Rambling. He gave me this computer disk, told me to give it to his family. I guess I should mail it, I don’t know . . .”
I sit up a little. “A disk?”
“Yeah.” John reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a black floppy disk. He slaps it down onto the linoleum table. “I’ve just been carrying it around with me.”
I stop myself from reaching out to touch the square piece of plastic. “I could bring it back to Montauk for you, if you want. I’m headed there later.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re a reporter. A stranger. I don’t even know what’s on here. I haven’t had the chance to open it yet.”
“I am a reporter, that’s true,” I say slowly. “But I’m also from Montauk, and that makes me a neighbor. You know what it’s like to be a local out there. I’m not some cutthroat journalist. Please let me help.” I give him my best trustworthy look. “I promise to keep this safe, and make sure it ends up in the hands of Peter’s family.”
He stares at me for a moment, then pushes the disk across the table toward me. “He’s a Bentley. You can find his son at the local hardware store.”
I close my fingers around the floppy disk. “I know where that is.”
“Thank you.” He smiles, and it’s the first real one since he arrived. “I was dreading dealing with this. I’m not . . . ready to go back there yet.”
“I understand.”
He gets up from the table. “If you’ll excuse me. I . . . I need to go. Feel free to contact my campaign manager about rescheduling that interview. And thanks again.” He touches his forehead, then leaves the small diner.
“I think it’s safe to say that your grandfather is responsible for McGregor losing focus,” Wes says as soon as the door closes behind John.
“That’s probably a safe bet.” I hold up the disk. “What do you think is on this?”
“I don’t know. Maybe something about ‘the mark of the traveler?’” He turns to face me, none of that former detachment in his face. I frown. It’s not like Wes to just drop out of a moment like that.
“You did a good job of convincing him to give it to you,” Wes says.
“My journalistic powers at work. How are we going to open this? Do libraries
