“Who’s Tiffany?”
Now Liz was just plain mad. “Her daughter!” she said, throwing up her hands. It wasn’t accurate, not quite, but she didn’t want to nitpick with him, to waste time explaining what she knew (and didn’t know) about the situation between Lorelei and the girl who had been, for all intents and purposes, her only family.
But Christopher wasn’t paying attention anyway. He was shaking his head slowly. “There is no daughter,” he said. “Besides her caretakers at Pine Hills, no one has inquired about Lorelei at all.”
For once, Liz was speechless. She was angry and confused and sad. A sadness that settled deep down in the marrow of her bones and made her feel like she could sit on the ugly rug in the foyer and weep. “That’s terrible,” she whispered.
“It is,” Christopher agreed solemnly. And then after a moment he added: “And we still have her ashes.”
Liz didn’t say anything.
“I, uh . . .” Christopher cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose you would like to take them with you?”
Because he looked so hopeful and because the whole situation made her so very outrageously angry, when Liz drove away from Thatcher Funeral Home, the remains of Lorelei Barnes were buckled into the passenger seat beside her. It was absurd. Bizarre. A completely preposterous situation that would require her to single-handedly track down Tiffany, shoulder the young woman’s grief, save the day. It was exactly the sort of thing that Liz excelled at.
In some ways, it was the least that she could do. She owed it to Tiffany. A little recompense for the way her husband treated Nora’s best friend. Although Liz tried to pretend otherwise, the truth was Jack Sr. had been downright nasty to the girl. Stony silences, a cold, hard stare that seemed to have been created for Tiffany alone. Liz had never seen her husband respond to someone the way he reacted to Tiffany Barnes.
“What is your problem?” she hissed one night when his icy dismissal of Tiffany—and the casual demand that Nora give up their pathetic friendship—had sent Nora out the door into a building snowstorm.
“She’ll be fine. She’s going to Tiffany’s house.” Her name sounded ugly on his lips.
“I’m not talking about Nora,” Liz said. “What is your problem with Tiffany? She’s just a kid.”
Jack Sr. snorted. “She’s no kid. She’s a slutty little thing. I don’t want JJ anywhere near her.”
The memory made Liz’s fingers tighten their grip on the steering wheel. That word in Jack’s mouth made her want to slap his face—and she prided herself on the brisk surety of her own self-control. But, of course, she did no such thing. Instead of hitting her husband for his filthy language, his callous treatment of a teenage girl, Liz set her jaw so tight her teeth ached. She turned and walked away.
“I’m sorry,” Liz said, to no one in particular. Or maybe she was talking to the memory of Lorelei, whether or not the poor woman could respond and absolve her from a sin long forgotten.
Of course Lorelei’s ashes were in the ugliest urn imaginable. A brassy gold thing that Christopher Thatcher had undoubtedly chosen and Elizabeth Sanford would definitely replace.
It galvanized her, the urn and the experience. The memories. She slid her phone out of her purse at a stop sign and dialed 4-1-1. If he worked for the city of Key Lake, she would have had him on speed dial. As it was, she knew the receptionist, but not the seven digits that would patch her through. She waited for the operator.
“Marla?” she said, pressing the phone in between her shoulder and her cheek as she clicked on her blinker. “Connect me to the police department, will you?”
And when he answered, she knew his voice. Even after all these years. If anyone could offer a little perspective, change the game, it was him. “Bennet? Honey? I need to ask something of you.”
Friday
2:59 p.m.
Liz
I need to talk to you.
Nora
Now’s not such a good time.
Liz
I never ask you for anything. I’m asking now.
Nora
What is this about?
Liz
We should talk in person. What if I drove up to Rochester on Sunday?
Nora
I don’t know, Mom.
Liz
I’m not sure you have a choice.
QUINN
WALKER WASN’T RESPONDING to her texts. True, Quinn had been subtle all day. Nothing too insistent or alarming. Nothing that really required a response, now that she considered it. But she was starting to get stir-crazy. Her thoughts and the ever-intractable Lucy made for troubling companions. She craved a little adult conversation. Someone stable and supportive and warm. Someone who would listen to all her crazy theories about just who “he” was and why Lucy was so scared of him.
“I think it’s time to start cleaning up,” Quinn said. They were sitting at the round dining room table, the pastels Walker had brought arranged in a cup between them. Paper was scattered across the glass in a carousel of color and would-be art. Among the sheets were Quinn’s feeble attempts at a tree, a sunset in blended hues of red and yellow, and a rainbow-petaled flower.
Lucy’s work was, in Quinn’s opinion, much better—and more disturbing. The little girl had also drawn a tree, but hers was black with spidery, leafless branches. Another piece boasted her own small hand, traced and shaded entirely in a dark, shocking red. But what worried Quinn the most was the picture of Lucy’s family. At least she assumed that’s what it was; the pastel drawing had all the trappings of a child’s homemade family portrait. There were four people scattered across the page, each character drawn separate from the others. Solitary and alone.
Quinn reached for that picture. “Is this your family?”
A shrug.
“Let me see . . .” Quinn studied the drawing carefully, giving it her full, flattering attention. When she was a kid, that kind of fawning made her purr like a kitten. “This is just lovely, Lucy. I’m going to guess that this girl by the fence is you?”
It was little more than a stick figure, but it was smaller than the rest and clearly feminine. But she didn’t look at all like Lucy. The caricature had long yellow hair that hung all the way to the hemline of her purple skirt.
Despite the obvious physical differences, Lucy had nodded almost imperceptibly at Quinn’s assessment. Yes, she tacitly agreed. That’s me.
Quinn felt a burst of triumph as a small piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Lucy’s hair had definitely been dyed. A few short days ago it had been long and blond. And the change had happened recently enough for Lucy to forget as she was drawing that her curls were now Shirley Temple short and ginger.
“How about this handsome fellow?” Quinn pressed. “Who’s this?”