"Good God, John. Do you think she actually pulled the trigger?"
"I hope I'm wrong." His voice was a croak, more that of an old man. "You can't know how much I hope I'm wrong."
He knew. He'd had similar suspicions himself. "Do you have any reason—"
He shook his head. "Nothing specific."
Garvin acknowledged John's words with a nod; there was nothing to agree on, nothing to understand. "Do you suppose that's what Vic Denardo believes? If he's innocent—"
"It's possible, I don't know." He cleared his throat, composing himself. "I don't know anything except that this family's suffered enough. I've suffered enough."
He'd lost his father and his only child, and, at least in his own mind, he'd lost his only sister: an affair with Vic Denardo, gambling, debts to loan sharks, a five-year disappearance, and now the homecoming of a woman he no longer recognized.
"Does Cynthia know this is what you believe?" Garvin asked quietly.
"No, I can't bring myself to tell her. But I think—I wonder if she hasn't had the same thought."
"What if you're wrong and it's not Sarah?"
"Drop it, Garvin, please. Either way, just tell Sarah to go back where she's been living these past five years. I won't stop her."
"John—"
His head jerked up. "Haley wouldn't want this. She wouldn't want to see either of us tortured this way."
"John, this isn't about Haley. It's about the truth."
"God damn the truth!"
Linwood that he was, he quickly reined in his emotions, dropped the mask of dignity back into place, composed himself as if he hadn't just accused his sister of murder. He squared his shoulders and sniffed. When his gaze again met Garvin's, it was focused and steady. "I'm sorry. Do what you must do, Garvin. I won't stand in your way. You've your own principles and conscience to satisfy. But in this case, I don't know that justice hasn't already been rendered."
Garvin pictured Sarah Linwood hobbling into the private dining room last night in her red corduroy jacket, her face gaunt, her pain so obviously chronic and debilitating. He understood what John was saying, but still shook his head. "Justice isn't about punishment," he said.
John had started back to his car. He turned on the stone walk, his own face gaunt. "I can't handle any more truth, Garvin. I just can't."
A fine mist started to fall. Garvin waited until his father-in-law had left before heading out himself. He felt chilled and uneasy. John Linwood thought his own sister not only capable of murder but capable of murdering members of her own family. Not just hiring Vic Denardo to do it, doing it herself, then cleverly making sure the police believed the killer was her lover.
What a hellish state of affairs. Garvin knew he could do as John asked and probe no further, demand no further answers, ask no further questions. He could turn away from the truth, even run away from it.
John was right about one thing: the truth wouldn't bring Thomas Linwood or Haley Linwood MacCrae back.
In practical terms, Garvin thought, he had only to back off and leave Annie Payne, Sarah Linwood, and Vic Denardo to their own devices. Let them get on with their lives. Ease back into his work, the life he'd had before Saturday's auction.
But Otto was in his bathtub, and Annie Payne awaited him, and Garvin couldn't turn back now.
Late on a winter Saturday afternoon, Union Street was packed, forcing him to wander around for twenty minutes before finding a parking space. He had to walk three blocks to Annie's Gallery. Its fair-haired owner was briskly sweeping the brick courtyard. Even in the gray light, her hair shone, half pulled back, half blowing in her face. Garvin suppressed an image of her last night. He had to or he wouldn't be able to function.
"Almost done?" he asked.
She turned with her broom and smiled. "Almost. Zoe and I have had a ton of people come through here today."
"Maybe you won't have to sweep and tend pots much longer."
"I don't mind. My landlord gave me such a good deal. There are worse things than keeping flowers alive."
She'd already brought them in, he noted. Most of her sweepings seemed to be leaves, twigs, and dirt rather than cigarette butts and litter. She scooped up her pile into a dustpan and returned with it and her broom to her gallery, dispensing with them in the back room. Garvin could see empty spots on the display walls and shelves and assumed she'd had a profitable day.
He started to ask about it when Ethan Conninger burst into the gallery. "Garvin—Jesus, I just heard about the break-in last night." He was dressed casually in twills, a long-sleeved polo shirt, and loafers, but he looked shaken and agitated. "Annie's all right? I'd never have left her if I'd had any idea what she was walking into."
"She's fine," Garvin said.
She emerged from the back room, rubbing a white cream into her hands. "You couldn't have known."
Ethan shook off her words. "I feel awful about leaving you. How's your dog?"