"They're good people." His tone softened, his mind sliding into the topic. "It hurts them to—well, they've seen me in better days."
When his wife was alive, Annie thought, suddenly struck by how alone he was. Having family nearby didn't in and of itself alleviate that sense of isolation, of removal. It was a choice, an attitude on his part. Although she had no real family left in Maine, Annie knew that her decision to leave had been a choice, the logical outcome of the attitude she'd had at the time. It had been an essential ingredient in redefining herself and moving on with her life. But a cottage swept out to sea and the death of a grandmother from old age and disease had a finality to them that an unsolved murder, by definition, didn't. She could move on. Garvin couldn't.
"Sometimes I find it easier not to inflict myself on the people I care about," he went on, not looking at her.
It wasn't a self-pitying statement, just a declaration of fact. "What about Michael Yuma?" Annie asked.
Garvin gave a short laugh. "Yuma'd make friends with a shark if it suited him. So would you."
"Me?"
"Look at Otto."
"Otto was a drenched, adorable little puppy when I found him."
"How little?"
"Fifteen weeks."
"That's not that little. And he was still a rottweiler. You take everybody—animals, people—as they come, without much of an agenda, without judging. You just dive in and find out who they are, what they're about." He went silent a moment as they headed back up the stone steps to Sarah's house. "That can be dangerous."
Annie shrugged. "I don't know how else to be."
"I know."
Something in his tone made her hesitate. He walked ahead of her, taking the stairs slowly, one at a time, his body stiff, his manner quickening her pulse and tightening her throat. She twisted her hands together, feeling sick at what she was thinking.
"Garvin," she said.
He glanced back at her.
And she knew what she was thinking was on target. "My God," she whispered. "You really think Sarah..." She couldn't go on, couldn't bring herself to articulate the terrible thought. "That's absurd. It's—it's crazy."
He remained calm, but she could tell he knew what she was implying. "Maybe. And it's not what I think, Annie. I'm trying to keep an open mind. I don't want to miss an important fact because I was too blind to see it. This is something that's within the realm of possibility. I have to accept that."
"It's not possible." She spoke with certainty, her shoulders thrown back. The mist dampened her hair, brought out the smells of the lush greenery that encroached on the narrow steps. Garvin didn't move; he was two steps above her, a dark silhouette. She didn't back down. "I'd have seen it in her work. It would be there, Garvin. I know it would. She couldn't have killed her own father and niece and not have it be there."
"Denial's a powerful force."
"Do you believe she killed your wife?"
"I can't afford to believe or not believe anything just because I don't want it to be true." His voice was chillingly calm. "I didn't want Haley to be dead but she was. It was there, and I had to believe it."
Annie shivered, hugging herself to ward off the cold, her mind drifting back, far back—before the cottage, before Gran's death. Her mother. Dead. Not wanting to believe. Her father. Too long dead. Never having known him, coming to realize she never would. Trying to come to grips with the reality of him.
"Annie, I'm sorry."
His voice was soft, hoarse, pained. She shook her head. "No. It's all right. You're..." She gulped in the damp air. "You're right. I don't really know Sarah—any of you. I—maybe I need to keep an open mind too."
This time when they entered the house, Sarah was washing her hands in the sink, her brushes soaking in a coffee can, root vegetables covered with a tattered white sheet. She didn't acknowledge Annie or Garvin in any way.
"Vic Denardo called me today," Annie said. "He still wants to see you. You pick the time and the place, and he'll be there."
She turned from the sink, wiping her hands with a frayed dish towel, carefully getting in between her gnarled fingers. When she finished, she tossed the towel into the sink and reached for her walker. She moved slowly, painfully. Every fiber of her being seemed concentrated simply on getting to her chair at the kitchen table. She must have been painting for hours, Annie thought.
Finally, she sank into her chair, sighed with relief, and cast aside her walker. Annie noticed that both she and Garvin had remained on their feet. Sarah didn't invite them to sit. She pushed back her disheveled hair with both hands, more a gesture of self-composure, Annie thought, than an effort to improve her appearance.
"I called the paper this morning," she announced. "I used a pay phone at the market. They sent out a reporter. My whereabouts will be in the morning edition." She paused, fastening her vivid blue eyes on her two guests. "No more secrets."
Annie was shocked—and a little annoyed. "Why didn't you tell us?"
"I just did."