Whiskey Beach

Chapter Twenty-five

ELI EXCHANGED E-MAILS WITH HIS INVESTIGATOR, DEVOTED an hour a day to researching Esmeralda’s Dowry and dived into his book. He put Abra off on the trip to Boston as the book was running hot for him. He craved those hours inside it, and the possibility, tantalizingly close now, of truly redefining his life.

He also wanted time to prepare. If he seriously meant to meet Eden Suskind, to try to talk to her about very sensitive areas of their personal lives, he needed to do it right.

Not so different, to his mind, from questioning a witness at trial.

And he wouldn’t mind another day or two testing out the video camera and nanny cam he’d bought.

In any case, he found himself reluctant to leave Whiskey Beach, even for a day. Periodically he wandered out to the terrace, took a look through the telescope.

Sherrilyn’s brief daily reports told him Justin Suskind remained in Boston, going about his business, living in an apartment near his offices. He’d visited his home once, but only long enough to pick up his two children to take them to dinner.

Still, he could return anytime. Eli didn’t want to miss him.

He tended to walk the dog north on the beach in the afternoon, and twice did his run with Barbie past Sandcastle, climbing up the north beach steps to return by the road route.

It gave him a closer look, a casual study of the doors, the windows.

The blinds on Sandcastle remained firmly shut.

He told himself he’d take a few more days, let everything settle, let it all simmer in his head.

And, if part of the simmering, the settling led to the remote possibility he’d run into Suskind on one of his walks, have the satisfaction of confronting him face-to-face.

Eli felt he’d earned it.

When he knocked off for the day, he let himself think of Abra. He went downstairs, put Barbie out on the terrace as they’d both learned she’d stay and enjoy a little sunshine before their walk.

Then he checked Abra’s daily schedule. Five-o’clock class, he noted. Maybe he’d cook something.

On second thought, a much safer, more palatable thought, he’d get pizza delivered. They could eat outside in the dusky spring evening with the pansies and daffodils. He’d stick a couple of candles out there. She liked candles. He’d turn on the strings of glass balls he’d found in his search-and-rummage through storage and managed to repair and hung on the eaves over the main terrace.

Maybe he’d steal some of the flowers around the house and put them on the table. She’d appreciate that.

He’d have time to walk the dog, put in an hour or so in the library, even set a nice outdoor table before she got home.

Got home, he thought. Technically, Laughing Gull was her home, but for all intents and purposes she lived in Bluff House, with him.

And how did he feel about that?

Comfortable, he realized. He felt comfortable about that. If anyone had asked him a few months before how he’d feel about being in any sort of relationship, he wouldn’t have had an answer.

The question wouldn’t have processed. There just hadn’t been enough of him to form any part of any relationship.

He opened the refrigerator, thinking Mountain Dew or possibly Gatorade, and saw the bottle of water with its sticky note, one he’d ignored that morning.

Be good to yourself.

Drink me first.

“Okay, okay.” He took out the water, peeled off the sticky note. It made him smile.

Did he say comfortable? True enough, he decided, but more than comfortable, for the first time in a very long time, he was happy.

No, there hadn’t been much of him at the start of things, but there’d been plenty of her. She filled the spaces. Now she made him want to do the same, even if it was only fumbling through a repair of a string of lights and hanging them because they’d made him think of her.

“Coming along,” he murmured.

He’d walk the dog, drink the water, then shift to research mode.

At the knock on the door, he detoured to the front of the house.

“Hey, Mike.” He stepped back—more progress, he thought. It pleased him to have a friend drop by.

“Eli. Sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier. We’ve been slammed. Housing picking up, and rentals, too. The spring season’s rocking it.”

“That’s good news.” Still he frowned.

“What?”

“The tie.”

“Oh, yeah, pretty cool, huh? I got it at the consignment shop. Hermès,” he added with a tony accent. “Forty-five bucks, but it’s good for impressing clients.”

“Yeah.” Eli had thought the same once. “Yeah, I bet.”

“So I looked through my files on Sandcastle, refresh my memory, you know. I can give you what’s public record, and some impressions. Some stuff, you know, falls into confidential.”

“Got it. You want a drink?”

“Could use something cold. It’s been a long one.”

“Let’s see what we’ve got.” Eli led the way back to the kitchen. “Did you get the impression Suskind wanted it for a residence or an investment property?”

“Investment. The purchase was through his company, and there was some talk about company use. There wasn’t a lot of talk,” Mike added as they reached the kitchen. “Most of the deal was long-distance. E-mail, phone.”

“Mmm-hmm. We’ve got beer, juice, Gatorade, water, Mountain Dew and Diet Pepsi.”

“Mountain Dew? I haven’t had that since I was in college.”

“Super juice. You want one?”

“Why not?”

“Let’s take this outside, keep Barbie company.”

Mike spent a moment giving the delighted dog a rub before sitting down, stretching his legs out. “Now this is what I’m talking about. The flowers look good, man.”

“Credit Abra. I’m on watering detail though, so that counts.”

He liked doing it, liked watching the colors and shapes she’d crowded into pots grow, the shrubs along the edges of the stone flower. Occasionally he considered working out here, but realized he’d never get anything done. He’d just sit as he was now, listening to the wind chimes play their tune along with the whoosh of the sea while he looked out at the water, with his dog sitting beside him.

“Have you seen any scantily clads yet through that thing?”

Eli glanced at the telescope. “Oh, one or two.”

“I should get me one.”

“Sad to say I’ve spent more time looking north. I’ve got a good view of Sandcastle from here.”

“I was down that way today. It looks closed up.”

“Yeah. He hasn’t been there for a while.”

“Damn shame to see it sit empty. I could rent it in a heartbeat—by the week, a long weekend.”

Interested, Eli shifted. “I bet you could. Maybe you should give him a call, see if he’s interested.”

After another swing of Dew, Mike nodded. “I can do that. Do you really think this guy’s been breaking in here, that he killed that PI?”

“I’ve been going at it from every angle, circling around. That’s where I keep coming back.”

“Then he’d be the one who hurt Mrs. Landon.”

“I can’t prove it, but yeah. If the rest fits, that fits.”

“Son of a f*cker,” Mike muttered, and opened his briefcase. “I’ve got his cell number in the file. Let’s see what he has to say.”

After opening the file, Mike punched the number into his phone. “Hey, hi there, Justin. It’s Mike O’Malley, O’Malley and Dodd Properties up in Whiskey Beach. How are you doing today?”

Eli sat back, listened to Mike do his chatty salesman patter. And, he thought, the man he believed was responsible for death, for pain, for fear was speaking on the other end. The man who’d taken lives, and broken his own to bits.

And he couldn’t reach him, not yet. Couldn’t touch him, couldn’t stop him. But he would.

“You’ve got my number if you change your mind. And if there’s anything I can do for you down here, you just give me a call. We’re having some beautiful weather this spring, and it promises to be a terrific summer. You ought to come up, take advantage of us. . . . Oh, I know how that goes. All right, then. Bye.”

Mike clicked off the phone. “Just as stiff and unfriendly as I remember. They’re not interested in renting the property at this time. Some noise about possible company or family use coming up. He’s a busy man.”

“How’d he find the property?”

“The Internet, bless it. He hit our webpage. He had three places earmarked to start. One’s a block back so you lose the oceanfront, but it’s a nice quiet street, and an easy walk to the beach. The other’s just south, closer to our place, but the owners decided to pull it off the market, let it ride for another season. Good move, because we’ve booked it solid this summer.”

Mike took a long pull of Mountain Dew. “Man, this takes me back. Anyway, we made an appointment. He wanted either me or Tony—Tony Dodd, my associate—to show the properties. Insisted it had to be one of us. I got a note right here in the file because I got attitude right off the get-go from him. No problem, a sale’s a sale.”

“He doesn’t have time to waste on underlings. He’s too important. I get him.”

“Yeah, he made that clear,” Mike agreed. “So, he comes in later that week. Expensive suit, two-hundred-dollar haircut. He’s got that entitled, prep-school superiority all over him. No offense, you probably went to one.”

“I did, and none taken. I know the type.”

“Okay. He doesn’t want coffee or small talk. He’s on a schedule. But when I’m driving him down to look at the two properties, he asks about Bluff House. Everybody does, so I didn’t think anything of it. I remember we had one of those smoky skies that day, cold, gloomy, and the house looked like something right out of a movie. Some old gothic film, you know, the way it sits up here. I give him the spiel, the history, the pirate deal because it always grabs a client’s interest. And Christ, Eli, I hope to God I didn’t say anything to bring this on.”

“He already knew. He was here because he knew.”

“I didn’t like him, but I didn’t jump to homicidal maniac or anything. Just tight-assed rich prick. I showed him the place a block back first. Sandcastle’s newer, bigger and a bigger commission. Plus I tagged him as going for the bigger. But I took him through the other. He asked what most people ask, did the wandering through, and out on the top deck. You can see the ocean from the deck.”

“And Bluff House.”

“Yeah. He wasn’t too happy about the proximity of the other houses, wanted to know which ones had permanent residents, which were rentals. But that’s not an unusual question. I took him down to Sandcastle. It’s got some nice features, and the other houses aren’t as close in. He spent a lot of time outside again, and yeah, you can see Bluff House from there.

“He met the asking price on the spot, which isn’t usual. In fact, actually pretty damn stupid in this market, since the sellers were prepared to go lower. But I just figured he thought dickering was beneath him. I said how I’d take him to lunch, and we could deal with the paperwork, and I could contact the owners. Not interested.”

With a sour look, Mike tapped the face of his own watch. “Tick, tick, tock, you know? I had to put the contract together quick and fast. He wrote a check for the earnest money, gave me his contact information. And took off. It’s tough to complain about an easy sale, but he irritated me.”

“And the rest? Did it go as fast and smooth?”

“Settled in thirty days. He came in, signed the papers, took the keys. He barely said anything more than yes or no. We do a nice welcome basket for new owners—a bottle of wine, some fancy cheese and bread, a potted plant, some coupons for local shops and restaurants. He left it sitting on the table. Couldn’t be bothered to take it.”

“He had what he wanted.”

“I haven’t seen him since. I wish I knew more, but if you figure out how to catch the bastard, you let me know. I’m all about being in that.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I’m going to get going. Look, why don’t I throw some burgers on the grill tomorrow night. You and Abra come on over.”

“It sounds good to me.”

“I’ll see you then. Thanks for the Dew.”

After Mike left, Eli laid a hand on Barbie’s head, scratched gently behind her ears. He thought about the man Mike had just described.

“What did she see in him?” he wondered. Then he sighed. “I guess you never know who’s going to pull at you, or why.” He shoved to his feet. “Let’s go for a walk.”

He gave it a few more days, just a few more days. The routine lulled him. Morning runs on the beach with the dog, or yoga if Abra charmed him into it. Solid blocks of writing time, with the windows open, the balm of sea air now that May blew sweetly through.

Reading out on the terrace with a dog sprawled at his feet, he learned more about the history of the house and the village whiskey built than he’d ever expected to.

He’d known the original distillery had expanded in the late 1700s after the war. He hadn’t realized, or retained, in any case, that the extensive expansions on the once modest house had begun shortly after. They’d added a bathhouse at considerable expense, according to his source, the first in Whiskey Beach.

Within twenty years, Landon Whiskey, and Bluff House, expanded again. Landon Whiskey built a school, and one of his ancestors caused a scandal by running off with the schoolmistress.

Before the days of the Civil War, the house stood three elegant stories tall, tended by a small army of servants.

They’d continued their firsts. The first house with indoor plumbing, the first with gaslight, then with electricity.

They’d weathered Prohibition, cagily running whiskey, supplying speakeasies and private customers.

The Robert Landon his father had been named for bought and sold a hotel—and then a second in England—and married a daughter to an earl.

But no one spoke, unless in joking terms, from what he’d found, of pirate treasure.

“Finally!” Abra swung her purse over her arm as they walked out of the house. She’d dressed conservatively—to her mind—for their trip into Boston in black pants, strappy wedges, a poppy-colored floral blouse with some flounce. Long, multi-stone earrings danced as she tugged at Eli’s hand.

To Eli she looked like an updated and sexy flower child, which, he supposed, wasn’t far off the mark.

When they reached the car, he glanced back and saw Barbie staring at him from the front window.

“I just hate leaving her.”

“Barbie’s fine, Eli.”

Then why was she giving him the sad-dog look?

“She’s used to having somebody around.”

“Maureen promised to come down and walk her this afternoon, and the boys will come down, take her to the beach and play with her.”

“Yeah.” He jiggled his keys in his hand.

“You have separation anxiety.”

“I do . . . maybe.”

“And it’s incredibly sweet.” She kissed his cheek. “But this is a good thing to do. It’s a step, and steps have to be taken.” She slid into the car, waited for him to get in beside her. “Plus I haven’t been in the city for over three months. And never with you.”

He shot one last glance back at the window, and the dog framed in it.

“We’re going to try to shoehorn our way into a conversation with the wife of the man we think committed murder in addition to breaking and entering. Oh, and adultery. Let’s not leave that one out. It’s not exactly a pleasure trip.”

“That doesn’t mean it can’t be pleasant. You’ve thought for days about how you’re going to approach Eden Suskind. You’ve worked out approaches depending on if she’s at work or at home. You’re not the enemy, Eli. She can’t possibly see you as the enemy.”

He drove along the coast road, wound through the village. “People treat you differently, even people you know, after you’ve been accused of a crime. Of killing. They’re nervous around you. They avoid you, and if they can’t avoid you, you can see on their faces they wish they had.”

“That’s done.”

“It’s not. It’s not done until the person who killed Lindsay is caught, arrested and tried.”

“Then this is a step toward that. He’s going to come back to Whiskey Beach. When he does, Corbett’s going to talk to him. I wish we didn’t have to wait for that.”

“It’s tricky for Corbett to go into Boston on this. And he doesn’t want to pass it to Wolfe. I’m grateful for that.”

“We’ve got Suskind’s address now, his office and his apartment. We could cruise by, watch him for a change.”

“For what?”

“Curiosity. We’ll just put that on the back burner.” Switch gears, Abra decided. She could all but see the tension twisting up the muscles in the back of his neck. “You were up late with all your books last night. Anything interesting?”

“Yeah, actually. I found a couple that go pretty deep into the history of the house, the family, the village, the business. How they’re all connected. Symbiotic.”

“Such a nice word.”

“I like it. Landon Whiskey got a boost during the Revolutionary War. With the blockades, the colonists couldn’t get sugar, molasses, so no rum. Whiskey became the choice for the colonial army, and the Landons had their distillery.”

“So George Washington drank your whiskey.”

“Bet your ass. And after the war, they expanded both the business and the house. A big deal on the house, too, because Roger Landon, headstrong Violeta’s and possibly murderous Edwin’s father, who was in charge then, had a rep for being a cheapskate.”

“A good, frugal Yankee.”

“A notorious skinflint, but he put what was pretty serious money into the house, furnishings, and into the business. When he died, his son took over, and since good old Rog didn’t give it up until he was near eighty, Edwin Landon had waited a good long time to take the reins. He expanded again, everything. He and his wife, the French émigré—”

“Ooh-la-la.”

“You bet. They were the first to start holding big, elaborate parties. And one of their sons, Eli—”

“I like him.”

“You should. He built—had built—the first village school. His youngest brother fell for the schoolteacher, and they ran off together.”

“Romance.”

“Not so much. They were killed heading west to make their own fortune.”

“That’s very sad.”

“In any case Eli continued the tradition of expanding the house, the business, and the parties continued—with some scandals and tragedies thrown in—up to Prohibition. If things got lean, you wouldn’t know it by the way they lived. The twenties roared into the thirties, and the government realized they had screwed up and banning whiskey was costing them one hell of a lot. People bellied back up to the bar, in the open, and we opened another distillery.”

“The whiskey empire.”

“Through it, we’ve had art connoisseurs—and those reputed to have had affairs with artists—suicides, two who spied for the Allies, and plenty who died in various wars, a dancer who soared to fame in Paris, and another who ran away with the circus.”

“I like that one especially.”

“A duchess through marriage, a cardsharp, a cavalry officer who died with Custer, heroes, villains, a nun, two senators, doctors, lawyers. You name it, they’re probably in there.”

“It’s a long line. Most people don’t—or can’t—trace their family back that far, or have a place that’s been in that family for so many generations.”

“True enough. But do you know what’s missing?”

“A suffragette, a Playboy bunny, a rock star?”

He laughed. “We had some of the first. I didn’t come across any of the other two. What’s missing is Esmeralda’s Dowry. It’s mentioned along with the Calypso, the wreck, some speculation on Broome—did he survive or was the survivor a simple seaman? Speculation again on the dowry: Did it survive? But in these two most in-depth and sensible histories I’ve come across, the weight’s on no.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re right. I prefer believing it survived, just like in my version, the young brother and schoolteacher made their way west and plowed fields and made babies.”

“They drowned when their wagon tipped over crossing a river.”

“They planted corn and had eight children. I’m firm on that.”

“Okay.” Either way, he thought, they’d been dead a very long time. “On the dowry, it makes me wonder, again, what information Suskind has that I don’t. What makes him so sure that he’d risk so much, that he’d kill? Or is it all just bullshit?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if it has nothing to do with the long-lost treasure? I just jumped there, automatically. Somebody digging in the basement. What else?”

“Exactly, Eli.” Puzzled, she turned to study his profile. “What else?”

“I don’t know. Nothing I’ve found takes me anywhere else. But nothing I’ve found, realistically, takes me there either.” He glanced at her. “I think he’s just f*cking batshit.”

“That worries you.”

“Damn right it does. You can’t reason with crazy. You can’t predict it. You can’t really plan for it.”

“I’m going to disagree.”

“Okay. And?”

“I’m not saying he isn’t twisted. I think anyone who takes a life, unless it’s in defense of self or another, is twisted. But you know, it’s verified that he and Lindsay were involved.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” he repeated. “And she wouldn’t go for crazy. Not overtly crazy. But people can hide their nature.”

“Do you think so? I just don’t, at least not for long. I think what we are shows. Not just in our actions, but in our face, our eyes. He’s worked on this for more than a year and a half—closer to two years now—as far as we know. Getting close to Lindsay, talking her into driving to Whiskey Beach when she didn’t like it. So there’s probably some charm in there. He’s also juggling a wife, children, a job. Twisted, I think, yes, but not batshit. Batshit’s out of control. He’s still maintaining.”

“Twisted’s bad enough.”

When they fought their way into Boston traffic, he turned to her again. “You’re sure about this?”

“I’m not sitting in the car, Eli. Forget that. I think we should drive by her house first. If there’s no car, we can check her work. She’s part-time, so it’s a toss-up. So much energy in the city! I love it for a day or two, then, boy, I want out.”

“I used to think I needed it. Not anymore.”

“Whiskey Beach is good for a writer.”

“It’s good for me.” He laid a hand over hers. “So are you.”

She brought his hand to her cheek. “The perfect thing to say.”

He followed the GPS, though he thought he could have found the house. He knew the area, actually had friends—or former friends—who lived there.

He found the pretty Victorian, painted pale yellow, with a bay window on the side where stairs led down from a deck.

A BMW sedan sat in the drive, and a woman in a wide-brimmed hat was watering pots of flowers on the side deck.

“Looks like she’s home.”

“Yeah. Let’s do this.”

The woman set down her watering can as they pulled in behind the BMW, and came to the edge of the deck.

“Hello. Can I help you?”

“Mrs. Suskind?”

“That’s right.”

Eli walked to the base of the steps. “I wonder if you have a few minutes to talk to me. I’m Eli Landon.”

Her lips parted, but she didn’t step back. “I thought I recognized you.” Her gaze, calm and brown, slid to Abra.

“This is Abra Walsh. I realize this is an intrusion, Mrs. Suskind.”

She let out a long sigh, and sadness moved in and out of her eyes. “Your wife, my husband. That should put us on a first-name basis. It’s Eden. Come on up.”

“Thank you.”

“There was an investigator here last week. And now you.” She pulled off her hat, ran her hand over a sunny swing of hair. “Don’t you want to put it behind you?”

“Yes. Very much. I can’t. I didn’t kill Lindsay.”

“I don’t care. That sounds horrible. It is horrible, but I can’t care. You should sit down. I’ve got some iced tea.”

“Can I help you with it?” Abra asked her.

“No, that’s fine.”

“Then would you mind if I used your bathroom? We drove down from Whiskey Beach.”

“Oh, you have a home there, don’t you?” she said to Eli, then gestured to Abra. “I’ll show you.”

It gave Eli a chance to gauge the ground. An attractive woman, he thought, an attractive house in an upscale neighborhood with well-tended gardens, a thick green lawn.

About fifteen years of marriage, he recalled, and two attractive kids.

But Suskind had tossed it all aside. For Lindsay? he wondered. Or for an obsessive treasure hunt?

A few moments later, both Eden and Abra came out again with a tray holding a pitcher and a trio of tall, square glasses.

“Thanks,” Eli began. “I know this has been hard for you.”

“You would know. It’s terrible to realize the person you trust, the person you’ve built a life with, a home with, a family with, has betrayed you, has lied. That the person you love betrayed that love and made a fool of you.”

She sat at the round teak table under the shade of a deep blue umbrella. Gestured them to join her.

“And Lindsay,” Eden continued. “I considered her a friend. I saw her almost every day, often worked with her, had drinks with her, talked about husbands with her. And all the time she was sleeping with mine. It was like being stabbed in the heart. For you, too, I guess.”

“We weren’t together when I found out. It was more a kick in the gut.”

“So much came out after . . . It had gone on nearly a year. Months of lying to me, of coming home from her to me. It makes you feel so stupid.”

She addressed the last directly to Abra, and Eli saw Abra had been right. Another woman, a sympathetic one, made it all easier.

“But you weren’t,” Abra said. “You trusted your husband, and your friend. That’s not stupid.”

“I tell myself that, but it makes you question yourself, what do you lack, what don’t you have, didn’t you do? Why weren’t you good enough?”

Abra put a hand over hers. “It shouldn’t, but I know.”

“We have two kids. They’re great kids, and this was devastating for them. People talk, we couldn’t shield them from it. That was the worst.” She sipped at her tea, fought visibly to conquer tears. “We tried. Justin and I tried to hold it together, to make it work. We went to counseling, took a trip together.” She shook her head. “But we just couldn’t put it back together. I tried to forgive him, and maybe I would have, but I couldn’t trust him. Then it started again.”

“I’m sorry.” Now Abra squeezed her hand.

“Fool me once,” Eden continued, blinking her eyes clear. “Late nights at the office, business trips. Only this time, he wasn’t dealing with someone ready to be stupid or trusting. I’d check on him, and I knew he wasn’t where he said he’d be. I don’t know who she is, or if there’s more than one. I don’t care. I just don’t care anymore. I have my life, my kids—and finally a little pride. And I’m not ashamed to say when I divorce him, I’m going to gut him like a fish.”

She let out a breath, a half laugh. “I’m still pretty mad, obviously. I took him back, after what he’d done, and he threw it in my face. So.”

“I didn’t have time to make that choice.” Eli waited until Eden looked back up and over at him. “I didn’t have much time to be mad. Someone killed Lindsay the same day I found out what she’d done, what she’d been doing even when I thought we were trying to make our marriage work.”

Sympathy covered Eden’s face as she nodded. “I can’t imagine what that’s like. When I was at my lowest, when the news seemed to be round-the-clock about her death, the investigation, I tried to imagine what it would be like if Justin had been the one murdered.”

She pressed her fingers to her lips. “That’s terrible.”

“I don’t think so,” Abra said quietly.

“But even at my lowest, I couldn’t imagine it. I couldn’t imagine how I’d feel in your place, Eli.” She paused a moment, sipped her tea. “You want me to tell you I lied to protect him. That he wasn’t with me that night. I wish I could. God, I wish I could.” She closed her eyes. “I shouldn’t think that way about him. We made two beautiful children together. But right now I wish I could tell you what you want to hear. The truth is, Justin came home that night, about five-thirty, no more than a few minutes after that. It all seemed so normal. He even kept his phone out, as he’d started to do the last several months. He said he was expecting an important e-mail from work, and might have to grab his overnight bag and head out. But it wouldn’t be for a couple hours anyway, if that.”

Eden shook her head. “I realized later, of course, he was waiting for a message from Lindsay, that they’d made plans to go away for a day or two. But that night, I thought it was just the usual. The kids were both at school—a rehearsal for a play they were both in, and pizza after. It was nice, just the two of us, and the rain. I made dinner—chicken fajitas, and he made margaritas. We just had an easy evening, nothing special. Just enjoying ourselves as a couple before the kids came home, and the noise came back.

“We were doing just that when the phone rang. It was Carlie from the gallery. She’d seen a bulletin on TV. She told me Lindsay was dead, that they said it might be foul play.”

A calico cat padded up the steps, leaped into her lap. Eden stroked it as she finished. “I should’ve known then, right then. He was so shaken. He went white. But I was so shocked, too. And I was thinking about Lindsay, so I never thought . . . I never would have believed they’d been involved. When the police came, when they told me, I didn’t believe it. Then . . . I couldn’t not believe it. I’m sorry, Eli, I’m so very sorry I can’t help you.”

“I appreciate you talking to me. It can’t be easy.”

“I’m putting it behind me. All of it, though it takes some doing. You should do the same.”

When they were back in the car, Abra rubbed a hand over his. “I’m sorry, too.”

“Now we know.” And still something troubled him.