I know, I wanted to say. “That must be nice.”
“Good fishing. And quiet, especially this time of year. Betsy spends more and more of her time up there. She tears through three or four books a week, mysteries and romance and that type thing. And of course the dog loves it. He keeps the squirrel population of Rabun County pretty much terrorized to the point of extinction.”
“And you? Do you make it up often?” Were you there last month, like your wife says you were, that night when someone broke into my house?
“Every chance I get. These gadgets make it easier, don’t they?” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and laid it on the counter. “Client has no idea where you are, whether you’re in the office or out tying fishing lines on your dock.” He smiled again. His face was tanned and cleanly shaven, if thinner than the last time I’d seen him. He was still a handsome, handsome man. You didn’t have to work hard to imagine how attractive Ethan Sinclare must have been in his prime.
“But enough about the lake. What brings you to Atlanta? You look ravishing, if you don’t mind an old man saying so. I was glad to read your surgery went so smoothly.”
“Thank you. I’m doing well. And I never had the chance to thank you for your generosity at the St. Regis. Picking up my hotel bill. That was incredibly kind.”
He waved his hand in a think-nothing-of-it gesture. “Least I could do for the daughter of Boone Smith.”
“It’s funny, though. At breakfast . . . when we had breakfast that morning, you never mentioned that you also know my family in Washington. The Cashions.”
For a fraction of a second, Ethan looked taken by surprise. Then he turned to the fridge and pulled out a pitcher of what looked like lemonade. “Here, set this on the table, would you please? Let’s get these sandwiches unwrapped.”
I walked the pitcher to the table and filled two crystal goblets, then used a tea towel to wipe the condensation from the sides and handle. When I turned back around, he was at the counter, watching me with an expression I could not read. The atmosphere in the room had sharpened, as though we both sensed that the pleasantries were concluded, and from this moment forward it would be important to pick each word with care.
“My mother—Frannie Cashion, I mean—recognized you in a -photograph. She says you’ve known each other since I was a little girl.”
“It’s a small, small world, isn’t it? That’s right. It’s been years since we saw them. Thomas and Frannie. Used to bump into them every now and again at legal conferences.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew them?”
“Never crossed my mind. Didn’t make the connection until later.”
I frowned. “At breakfast we talked about how my father and brother are lawyers in Washington. Cashion is an unusual name. You send my family a Christmas card every year. How could you not—”
“Just didn’t. Guess I’m getting old. I was caught up in the fact that I was sitting there sipping coffee across from Boone’s daughter, all these years later. Didn’t give any thought to the name of the family that adopted you. I mean, what are the chances I’d know them, too?”
“Exactly. What are the chances?”
“Small world.”
I started closing in. “You called our house last month. You talked to Mom—”
“That’s right. I called as soon as I figured out the connection.”
“But you didn’t mention it. You didn’t tell her that you and I had met. You didn’t tell her we’d just had breakfast together in Atlanta. You acted like it was just a casual phone call to say hello—”
“Caroline.” His voice had an unmistakable edge. “You’ve had a hell of a month. I’m sure it’s been hard on you. Shall we get these sandwiches out on plates? Or do you maybe want to wrap yours up to take with you?”
“I went to Nantucket,” I whispered. “As I think you know, since you called my hotel twice, looking for me. I talked to Verlin Snow. He wasn’t with you the day that Boone and Sadie Rawson died.”
“I beg your pardon? What are you talking about?”
“Not the whole day, anyway. You made him lie to the police for you.”
Ethan stared at me. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you needed an alibi.”
“Now listen here. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, what all this nonsense is.” As his mouth shaped the words, before I understood what was happening, he was around the counter and on me. With one hand he pinned both my arms behind me, and with the other he pressed down on the stitches on my neck, hard.
I cried out in pain.
“Are you wearing a wire?” he hissed in my ear. His hand moved down my neck to my back, searching under my arms, around the -underwire of my bra, around the waist of my skirt, down the backs of my thighs. At last he released me and stepped back.
“Why did you come here?” he panted. “What is it you want?”
I had so many questions. What had happened that day on Eulalia Road, I mean what exactly? Why hadn’t he killed me, too, finished me off when he’d had the chance? And last month, in my home in Georgetown—what had he planned to do, if my bedroom door hadn’t held? If I hadn’t leapt from the window and run? Would he have killed me first, or would he have dug the bullet from my neck while I was still alive?
What I heard myself ask was this: “Did you love her?”
His eyes had gone cold. “Sadie Rawson Smith was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. You don’t hold a candle to her, if you want to know the truth.”