Bridges shook. “Cool. Thanks.”
He left after that, he and Dad exchanging nods as Bridges got into the Jaguar, apparently one of his grandfather’s lesser rides. Pearl stepped back from the screen door before Dad turned toward the house, feeling like a coward, knowing she should go out there now and face up to whatever he had to say. She couldn’t; she felt drained, nothing left.
She curled up on the couch with her tablet until Dad came inside. She kept tabs on him from the corner of her eye, listening to him wash his hands at the kitchen sink. Had Bridges smelled alcohol coming from his pores after last night’s six-pack, like she could? Or was Reese right, it was an acquired skill? Dad turned, leaning against the counter. “What’s going on, Pearl?”
She sat up slowly, looking at him over the arm of the couch. “He’s a friend.”
“Since when do you have friends from the Row?” Dad didn’t sound angry, exactly; his speech was slow, measured.
“I met him in the dining room. He comes in a lot.” She waited to see if Dad knew who Bridges ran with, if he’d mention Tristan’s name.
“I thought you were too busy working to be meeting boys.” She flinched a little; he saw it, looked down, scuffed his thumb against his jeans. “What happened to Reese?”
“Nothing happened to him. He’s around.”
“Not like before. You’re telling me that’s got nothing to do with this Spencer kid?”
“I’m telling you that Bridges is a friend. He wanted to talk.” She didn’t know how much longer she could keep her voice steady when he wouldn’t look at her, when this whole thing felt like losing Reese all over again, times ten. “Dad? Are you listening? I’m not—” Switching sides. Turning on you. I haven’t forgotten. “Just please trust me. Okay?” He didn’t answer. “Okay?”
It was such a lame note to end on, but exhausted tears were threatening now. He nodded a little, looking around the kitchen, maybe noting her hasty attempt at straightening up. “The Cat sold.”
It took her a moment to understand. “What?” The word escaped on a breath. “When?”
“Yesterday. A guy pulled in, made me an offer after I got off work. I was going to tell you about it last night.” The implication was clear, that she’d been out too late and he wasn’t happy about it; like she was the one always gone, spending half her life at the Tavern. “He’s coming by with a trailer tomorrow.”
Pearl set her jaw, but it still trembled. “Oh.” She took a short breath through her nose. “You’re really going to—”
“Don’t have a lot of choice, do I?” He left the counter and went out the door then, leaving her sitting there with no reason to stop the hot tears from tracing down her cheeks.
Seventeen
THE NEXT DAY was humid, hot, sunlight flashing through trees as Pearl navigated the road into Winter Harbor. Reese sat beside her, texting, finally putting his phone down to look out the windshield. “Okay. Got directions. Indigo told her grandma that we’re coming.”
“So she’ll definitely talk to us?”
“I don’t know. But Indy told her we’re on our way.”
Pearl nodded, tapping her fingertips on the steering wheel, trying to keep her nervousness under wraps. It stung to need Indigo’s help, but in this case, there didn’t seem to be any way around it; Pearl trusted Reese not to tell the other girl any more than the bare minimum about why they were asking for this favor. That in itself—Indigo helping him out at the first word, without needing details—implied a closeness that Pearl didn’t like to think about.
A couple of minutes later, as they approached a street sign reading Gull Reach, he said, “Turn here. It’s a blue trailer on the left.”
The trailer sat on a neat square of lawn with a mailbox that read Whitley in hand-painted script, the property yards away from a spit of sandy earth that fed into the bay, bordered by wild rosebushes. Pearl parked beside a gray sedan, wishing her mouth wasn’t so dry.
Reese followed her, hands in his pockets, whistling faintly, tunelessly; it would’ve been maddening if she didn’t know him so well, that he was holding silence, his natural enemy, at bay. She led the way up the steps and knocked. Through the glass panes in the door, she could see sunlight gleaming on bare countertops, the chrome of a sink. She shifted, knocked again.
Pearl didn’t hear so much as sense the woman off to her right, watching them from the stretch of town between the trailer and a small storage shed. Marilyn Whitley looked much the way Pearl remembered from the few times she’d seen her, barely five feet tall, her graying hair chopped bluntly to her chin. She wore a faded blue gingham shirt and jeans and held a fitted bedsheet balled in her arms. Her gaze was sharp, and she wasn’t smiling.
“Hi.” Reese rocked back on his heels.
Pearl waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, she cleared her throat and walked down a few steps. “I’m Pearl Haskins. I think you know my dad, Win?” The woman continued to watch her. “Indigo said she called you about us coming.”
Marilyn’s gaze shifted over Pearl’s shoulder to Reese. “You I know. Indy brought you by back in the spring.” It didn’t necessarily sound like a vote of approval. She glanced back at their car. “She’s not with you?”
“Not today.”
The woman worked her lips over her dentures, then gave an almost imperceptible shrug. “I’m hanging laundry.” She went back around the trailer. Pearl and Reese glanced at each other, then followed.
Marilyn pulled clothespins out of the bag suspended from the line, keeping her back to them. “You were wondering about the Garrisons. Is that right?” Snap, she shook out the sheet. “That don’t really make you special. I’ve gotten enough phone calls about that since December. Haven’t had anything to say yet.”
Pearl swallowed, watching as the woman’s hands continued in their task. “So you did clean for them?” No response. “I guess you know my dad worked for them, too. I just wondered . . . what you thought of them. How they seemed to you.”
“Seemed?” She put the last pin on the sheet and bent to grab pillowcases.
“I mean, were you surprised when they were killed?” The chapped hands continued moving, but there was a listening quality to her movements now, a deliberateness. Pearl took a step closer. “I’m asking because I’m scared for my dad. He did everything he could to help them that night. He still lost all his caretaking clients. Nobody trusts him now.”
A silence. “Wasn’t his fault what happened.” Marilyn tsked faintly. “What’s he supposed to do against somebody with a gun, for chrissake?” When she spoke again, the gruffness was back. “I’m sorry to hear about your troubles.”
Pearl pressed her lips together. She wasn’t going to get anywhere with this woman by hedging. “I’m trying to find out who did it. If there’s anything you can tell me, I’d appreciate it. So would my dad.”
“Ain’t that what the cops are for? Finding killers? I already answered all their questions.”
“I haven’t heard anything about them making an arrest, have you?” Pearl waited. “I know Tristan, a little bit.”
Marilyn finished pinning a T-shirt, then smoothed her hand over the damp cotton slowly, letting her arm fall to her side. When she turned, her eyes had changed, gone distant. “If you’re smart, you’ll keep it at that. A little bit.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
Glancing over at the neighbor’s house, Marilyn wiped her palms on her jeans, released a short burst of breath. “Better come inside.”
The kitchen was spotless, silent except for the humming of the fridge. Lace curtains sucked and gusted with the breeze, and Marilyn watched them move. The three of them sat at the table, each with a glass of iced tea in front of them.