For a long moment, Livia thought the woman was going to close the door in her face. Or maybe sic the dog on her. Then her body seemed to sag. She nodded and opened the door.
Livia stepped inside, the dog’s head swiveling to follow her as she passed. She had been right about the view. The windows in back were massive, and she could see everything—the bay, sparkling in the sun; the bridge spanning it; the green hills of Marin on the far side. She noticed MacKinnon’s bare feet, and that there were shoes lined up by the door. She took off her own. The tile was warm. It must have been heated.
MacKinnon closed the door. “Why don’t we sit in the kitchen,” she said. “Can I offer you something?”
Her tone was so chilly and begrudging, it reminded Livia of Mrs. Lone’s courtesies. Though the kitchen was encouraging. The living room was for putting people off. The kitchen was always where business got done.
“I don’t want anything from you,” Livia said. “Just the truth about your brothers.”
MacKinnon stared at her, then dropped her eyes. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”
“Becky. A minute ago you heard my name and it looked like your breakfast was going to come up. You knew. You learned your brother Fred had taken in a little Thai refugee girl. You knew why.” Her voice started to rise. “You knew what he was going to do to me. You knew what that was like.”
The dog growled again. MacKinnon did nothing to calm it. Livia looked in its eyes. You want to try me? she thought. Come on, then. Let’s see who’s faster. And who has sharper claws.
MacKinnon glanced at the dog. “Easy, girl,” she said. “Easy.”
Livia wasn’t sure which of them she was talking to. She didn’t care. After all she had endured at the hands of MacKinnon’s brother, the notion that the woman would feign ignorance was enraging. “So don’t tell me you don’t know what I mean,” she went on. “You know exactly what I mean. I want to know what happened to you. And to your sister, Ophelia.”
By the time she was done speaking, MacKinnon had lost so much color that Livia thought the woman might pass out. She seemed to wobble for a moment, then righted herself. “Won’t you please sit,” she said, gesturing to the kitchen. “I’ll make some tea. And we’ll . . . we’ll talk.”
Livia sat at a wooden table next to another enormous window overlooking the bay, making sure the handle of the Vaari protruded just slightly from her pocket so she could reach it instantly if she needed to. MacKinnon filled a kettle and put it on the restaurant-style stove. Livia glanced around, taking in the fine cabinets, the high-end appliances. It looked like law had been good to William MacKinnon. Or maybe his wife had built a career, too. Although somehow, Livia doubted it. She felt she was looking at someone who had built a home instead.
Or rather, rebuilt one.
“Green tea?” MacKinnon asked. “I drink jasmine myself, but we have several.”
“Jasmine’s fine. Thank you.”
“Honey?”
Livia wanted to shout, Enough with the stupid formalities, tell me what I want to know!
But she’d interrogated enough suspects, and cajoled enough reluctant witnesses, to understand the value of respect. And patience. This woman was about to discuss matters she had prayed for close to half a century would never catch up to her. She was collecting herself, bracing herself, and it would be foolish not to allow her time to do it.
“Honey would be lovely. Thank you.”
MacKinnon led the dog to another room and closed the door, and Livia had the strangest sense the woman didn’t want it to hear what she might say. Whatever the reason, she was glad it was gone for the time being.
Then the water had to be poured, the tea had to steep, the honey had to be stirred in. And Livia had to take a sip, and acknowledge that it was delicious, thank you. And then she waited again, letting the silence do its job.
MacKinnon took a sip of tea, then set the cup back on the saucer. Livia waited. It was so quiet she could hear the hum of the refrigerator.
MacKinnon put her hands on the table and looked at them. “My father was a monster,” she said quietly.
Livia didn’t speak, or even move. She did nothing except wait.
“He . . .” There was a pause. MacKinnon was still looking down, and Livia couldn’t see her face. But she sensed the woman was crying.
“He . . .” She exhaled sharply, then looked at Livia, her eyes glistening. “Please don’t make me talk about this. Please.”
The woman’s expression was so dignified, and her pain so poignant, that Livia might have felt compassion for her. And maybe she did feel something. But she pushed it away. This woman was the key to Nason. And that’s all that mattered.
“I had a sister,” Livia said evenly. “Her name was Nason. Sixteen years ago, she went missing. I’ve been searching for her ever since. What you know could help me find her. So please. Go on.”