At six o’clock that evening, Verraday pulled up in front of his sister Penny’s house. It was a Frank Lloyd Wright style stone-and-cedar bungalow in Ballard, on a hill overlooking Shilshole Bay. There had been a break in the relentless October cloud cover, and the entire hillside and the bay below were bathed in golden-hour light from a sun that for once wasn’t obscured by cloud cover. Verraday started up the walkway, then paused and turned toward the setting sun. He luxuriated in the sight of Bainbridge Island and the Olympic Mountains backlit, the sky deep indigo above him, and to the west, a bank of clouds tinged pink and red. He closed his eyes, breathed in the sea air, and savored the warmth and light on his skin.
When he had absorbed as much of it as he could, he reluctantly let go of the moment and continued up the path to Penny’s house. He passed her Zen garden with its neatly trimmed junipers and gravel artfully raked to create the sense of water flowing down a riverbed. Penny was the more financially successful of the two of them by a considerable margin. Like her brother, she was a doctor of psychology. But she had chosen to specialize in clinical work rather than the research branch to which Verraday had been drawn. Academia didn’t interest her in the least. She had her own private practice specializing in cognitive behavioral therapy. Her clients were either wealthy or covered by insurance, which brought her an income that dwarfed her brother’s. She had also made some very shrewd investments in Seattle IT start-ups that had paid off spectacularly.
Her house had originally been built for an executive at Boeing in the 1950s, and Penny had had it renovated to be fully wheelchair accessible. A ramp led to Penny’s front door, with a narrow set of stairs beside it. Verraday reached out to ring the bell, but before he could touch it, the door swung open, revealing Penny in her wheelchair, smiling.
“Fantastic sunset, isn’t it?”
“Were you watching me?”
“Not watching. Observing. I observe everything. I’m very, very good at it. Don’t ever forget that, little brother,” she said in a mock-menacing tone.
Verraday smiled. “You must be pretty good at it to be able to afford this place.”
“I like to think so. And I observe that you’ve got something on your mind.”
“How can you tell?”
“Sorry, trade secret. Come on in.”
Penny wheeled herself easily through the wide foyer into the open-concept main floor. There was a spacious living room with a large fireplace and a low bar area that separated it from the kitchen beyond. In one corner of the living room was a small shrine with a stone Buddha, a hand-painted Tibetan prayer on parchment, and beneath it, a photo of the Dalai Lama. In another corner, water splashed across beach stones in a fountain, bathing the room in gentle white noise. Penny’s home was an oasis of calm and sanity. Verraday knew his house would never be like this.
“Do you still meditate?” he asked.
“Every day. Would you like to try it with me?”
“Sure. We could do that sometime, I guess.”
“Did you ever listen to that meditation link I sent you?”
“Not yet. But I will.”
Penny smiled knowingly. She could always read him, and he knew it. “You look like you need a glass of wine. I’ve got a Walla Walla Cab or a Willamette Pinot Noir.”
“You going to have some?”
“No, but be my guest.”
“I’ll have the Cab, please,”
She rolled over to the mostly empty wine rack, where she kept a couple of bottles on hand for the benefit of her guests. She pulled out the Cabernet and handed it to her brother.
“I’ll let you do the honors. There’s a corkscrew in the cutlery drawer.”
Verraday examined the label. “Wow. 2008 Leonetti Cellars. This is a spectacular bottle of wine. Not cheap, either. You sure it’s okay if I open it?”
“I’m never going to drink it, so knock yourself out. I’ve got one of those Coravin argon gas gizmos that will preserve whatever you don’t drink—and I won’t let you drink it all, since you’re driving.”
He uncorked the wine and poured some into one of the large crystal wine glasses. He swirled it around, savoring the deep garnet color and the earthy, fruity notes on the nose. It was so full of sensual nuances that revealed themselves only gradually that he closed his eyes and inhaled it without actually bringing the wine to his lips. At last, he took a sip.
“My God, that’s unbelievable,” he said. “Are you sure you don’t want some?”
“Positive. There’s a bottle of elderflower pressé in the fridge. You can pour me one of those with some ice while I check on the dinner.”
“Whatever floats your boat.”
“It’s delicious. You should try it instead of the wine.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” he replied.
Over dinner, as she always did, Penny gently probed his affairs like the protective older sister that she was.
Finally, she said, “So listen, I’m curious. If you didn’t have a hot date lined up for our usual dinner night, why did you ask to see me now instead of next week? I know you. Something’s up.”
Verraday nodded. His expression became serious. “Yeah. You’re right. Something’s up.”
Penny looked alarmed. “What? It’s not something with your health, is it?”
“No, no, I’m fine. It’s about Robson.”
Penny’s face tightened. “Robson? What about him?” The words came out of her like they’d been stuck in her throat.
Verraday looked his sister straight in the eye. “He’s dead.”
Penny didn’t say anything at first. Just took a long breath.
“Dead. You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“The coroner says it was a gun-cleaning accident.”