When he'd hung up, Annie was relieved to have the young couple with the two small children return, sooner than they'd expected, with a long, welcome list of questions for her. Yes, her gallery did framing. Yes, she'd be happy to help with the placement of artwork in their home. Yes, she was in touch with artists. And on they went, the perfect reminder, even as she thought about Garvin MacCrae, of why she'd come to San Francisco in the first place.
After a cathartic run and an hour in his weight room, Garvin took a shower in one of the downstairs bathrooms because Otto was still in possession of his upstairs bathroom. He peeked in on him when he went up to get dressed. The big, fierce-looking dog was out cold, sprawled in the tub. Garvin decided it was prudent to let him sleep and returned to his bedroom to pull on a pair of jeans and a thick cotton sweater. He'd actually picked up a two-by-four when he went down to the marina. Yuma, who'd been doing more than his fair share the past week, hadn't asked the questions he plainly had, and Garvin hadn't explained.
He'd also placed a chair in front of his refrigerator, just in case. A clever dog, Otto. Much like his master.
Exercised, dressed, and showered, Garvin felt more in control of himself. He checked around his house to make sure it was reasonably Otto-proof. There was only so much he could do. If the big dog woke up while Garvin was gone and was unsure of his surroundings, he could tear up the place.
"Hell," Garvin muttered, "if he wakes up while I'm here, he could tear up the place. Who's going to stop him?"
He would just have to take his chances. He headed outside.
John Linwood was climbing from his car, parked in the shade along the edge of the road. He was alone, no Cynthia. His hand extended, he walked toward Garvin. "I'm catching you at a bad time," he said as they shook hands.
"No problem. What's up? We can go inside—"
"That's all right, I'll only be a minute. I wanted to talk to you after last night. I—it was a shock to see Sarah. I'm sure you understand. The past five years..." He inhaled deeply, his eyes distant. "She's changed so much."
"So it would seem."
He gave Garvin a sharp look. "You think there's any doubt?"
"Outwardly, no. Sarah's very different. Five years ago she wouldn't have been caught dead in bright red corduroy. But inside —I don't know that she's not the same Sarah she always was, just without the Linwood trimmings and inhibitions." He could see John stiffening, resistant, and shrugged. "Not that I really knew her that well."
John relaxed slightly. "Perhaps none of us did. Look, I just wanted you to know that I—that Cynthia and I both—don't hold a grudge against you for springing Sarah on us last night. You were in an untenable position. I can see that. Now with Annie Payne's apartment getting broken into last night and talk of Vic Denardo —" He sighed, looking worn, older than he was. "She's truly an innocent caught up in this mess, isn't she?"
"She doesn't see it that way. She wants to represent Sarah's art."
"So I've gathered. And you think she's that good too?"
"Yes."
He took a breath, kept his composure. "I see."
"Annie was reluctant to ask Sarah too many questions. She didn't want to spook her. So she doesn't fault anyone for her getting involved."
"Well, she's being more magnanimous than I would have been."
Garvin smiled. "Me too."
John ran a shaking hand through his thinning gray hair, his composure fraying. "Dear God, I'd hoped we wouldn't have to open this chapter in our lives again. I'd hoped we could just move on."
"I know, John, but until Thomas and Haley's murderer is brought to justice—"
"Justice be damned!" He lunged in close, his vivid blue eyes intense, his fists clenched. "Garvin, I don't give a damn anymore about justice. My father and daughter are dead. Justice won't bring them back. Justice won't give me any solace, any closure, that I don't already have. I don't owe their memory justice."
"What about yourself?"
"I owe myself peace." The energy had seeped out of him, and he sagged. "That's all. Peace."
And a new life with Cynthia, Garvin thought. "You deserve it, John. God only knows."
Tears clouded his eyes. He turned away. "I don't want to stir up the past. I don't see the point. If I'd known putting that painting up for auction would lead to this, I'd have burned it myself."
"Sarah was already in town. The painting wasn't what brought her back. It's just what clued me in that she was in San Francisco. I just think Sarah believed it was time to come home."
Her older brother shook his head sadly. "She was wrong."
He covered his eyes with one hand and sank backward, almost as if he were reeling. He wasn't sobbing. But Garvin could feel his pain, an anguish so deep it came from the soul.
He went still, staring at his former father-in-law. Suddenly, his blood literally ran cold.
"John?"
"Dear God...I can't..."
Barely breathing, Garvin took a step toward him. "John."
"I can't!"
"Jesus," Garvin whispered. "You think Sarah committed the murders."
John dragged his hand down his face and let it drop to his side. His skin was gray. His eyes were sunken and tortured. His mouth quivered.
Garvin had his answer. It was one thing for him to entertain the possibility that Sarah Linwood had been involved in the murders of her father and niece, quite another for her brother.