"But it gives you a frame of reference, a way into what I'm feeling right now. Walking around those silent rooms..."
She swallowed, choking back any open display of emotion. She was a woman who didn't easily express her feelings except in her work. Annie's gaze drifted to the canvases leaned up against a cheap kitchen cabinet. In her work, Sarah Linwood held nothing back.
When she went on, her voice was calm, quiet, tortured. "I could feel my family in a way I never have before. The empty rooms, the distance of five years. My father, my mother, John. Haley. Even my grandfather, who built the house. I remember he had a great booming laugh. Mother thought him coarse. Father despised him. But they were all there today. I felt them." She swallowed again and fumbled for another cracker, her eyes unfocused. "I'll never go back there."
Annie ventured forward, moving closer to this woman she found so compelling, so solid and strong one moment, so conflicted and sad the next. "Because it's been sold?"
"It wouldn't matter. I know who I am now. I'm not the woman who lived in that house, who once belonged there and nowhere else. Who knew her place. But I—" She shut her eyes, squeezing back tears; in spite of her best efforts, a trickle found its way down her pallid cheeks. She looked homely and pathetic, no longer at peace with herself or her life. "Dear God, I wish I could have found out who I am without having abused the people I care about in the process. I brought tragedy and terror into their lives."
"But if you didn't kill anyone—"
Sarah's eyes opened, clear and focused. "I didn't."
Annie nodded. "I know. Then the murders aren't your fault."
"Vic. I brought Vic Denardo into their lives."
"Actually," Annie said carefully, "from what I understand, you didn't. Garvin did. He invited him to crew for him. Vic Denardo had already sailed with Garvin, Ethan Conninger, your brother— even your father—before you met him."
Sarah frowned. "I never thought of it that way."
"Which isn't to blame them, either. If Denardo did commit the murders—if he was determined from the start to wreak havoc on your lives—he'd have found another way into your circle."
"Perhaps."
"I'm not saying that's the case. I have no idea. I wasn't there."
Calmer now, Sarah studied her guest a moment. "I've been blathering. You came here for a reason, didn't you, Annie? What is it?"
"There's no need to trouble you right now—"
"It's Vic?"
Annie shook her head.
"Garvin," Sarah said with certainty. She folded the ends of her sleeve of crackers, her movements neat and precise, her cashmere-and-pearls self perhaps not as dead as she believed. "Sit down. We'll order in Chinese and talk."
"Sarah, I don't want to inflict myself on you if you're tired—" Sarah shook off her protest. "You're a charming and insightful young woman, Annie. I need your company. I don't want to become a morose old crone. And I know I can't run from my problems. The past has its obligations—and a hellishly long reach into the-future. Now. Order dinner." Her smile was soft, almost beautiful; the demons were at bay. "Then let's talk about Garvin MacCrae and why he thinks I might have talked Vic Denardo into killing my own father and niece."
"So she in trouble or what?" Michael Yuma asked.
"I don't know if she is or not," Garvin said.
Yuma had spent most of the last twenty minutes grilling Garvin on Annie Payne with limited success. Garvin was helping him work on his much-patched, much-abused launch, which had started taking on water again late yesterday, probably while Garvin was out on his deck kissing Annie. It was a bright, brisk morning. A perfect day to be out on the water. But he had work to do at the marina, and running would only postpone the inevitable reckoning he and Annie Payne had coming.
"It's the hair," Yuma said. "You know what I mean?"
Garvin sighed. "No."
"All those blond wisps. Makes her seem vulnerable, you know? And those big blue eyes—"
"Yuma, the woman drives around town with a rottweiler."
"So?"
"She also grew up in Maine. Her father was a fisherman who died when she was a baby. Annie Payne can take care of herself."
Yuma grinned. "Who you trying to convince?"
"Michael, you're being—"
"Sexist," he supplied easily.
"Yeah, I'd say so."
"Well, I'm only half serious. If she were a man, I'd still say she's probably in a heap of trouble, never mind whether or not she can handle it on her own. Am I right? She's in trouble and you want to help?"
Garvin threw down an undershirt-turned-rag. If only all he wanted was to help Annie Payne. But that wasn't the case. He wanted to know what she knew about Sarah Linwood, and he wanted to kiss her again.
He wanted more than just to kiss her again.
"Hell, Yuma, if you're implying I'm being sucked into something because Annie Payne has wispy blond hair, you're even crazier than I thought."
"Okay, my man. If you say so. You don't have an urge to protect this woman, you don't. Won't catch me saying otherwise. What I'm thinking, though, you can't do nothing about."
"One more word, Yuma, and I swear—"