In the few seconds she had left, Annie figured she had one more chance. “And we’re coming into season,” she said brightly. “It would be a shame if you missed this chance to get your career started. With all the summer people flocking to this ‘weird’ place, it’s a perfect time to sell your paintings and get your work known. Lucy told me that the Sculpin Gallery wants your work. And that it’s going to be at Featherstone. Most artists I know would trip over one another to try to get into either of those venues, let alone both. You’re in the right place, Jonas. The buying power here comes from all over the country; it’s radical in the summer.”

The On Time docked; Jonas’s eyes filled with tears.

“The diner?” Annie asked softly.

He nodded.

* * *

“She killed him,” Jonas said, after Esther—the sweet, soft-spoken waitress—delivered a burger and a Coke to him, and a mug of tea to Annie.

Annie gripped the handle of the mug. “What?” She wasn’t sure she wanted details; she hoped he wasn’t going to tell her something she’d have to tell John, and have him think that she’d been meddling in police business—again.

“My mother killed my father.”

Though Annie didn’t ordinarily use sweetener, she took a packet from a small silver bowl; she needed time to consider her reply. She wanted to sound reasonable. But she wanted to be empathetic. She stirred the tea, reviewing what she knew: Jonas’s life had been challenging. He’d been raised by a financial wizard of a grandfather and a social-climbing grandmother, both of whom had only wanted him in order to hold on to the memory of their son. At some point Jonas had found letters between his birth parents that revealed they’d been in love, and that his grandparents had tried to get between them. And though Jonas then knew who his birth mother was, he’d been afraid to tell anyone. Later, he’d learned that his grandparents were not the upstanding citizens that they’d portrayed. So he’d been living with Taylor for several months, apparently having reconciled himself with the fact that she, too, had been manipulated by his grandparents. But now, for whatever reason, he was convinced his mother was a murderer.

Annie really, really hoped it was not because of Lucy.

“Jonas,” Annie said, “are you sure it isn’t gossip?”

He set down his burger, but kept his eyes fixed on his plate. “I really think she did it.”

Annie stirred her tea again, then sipped. The liquid was hot and bitter. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Lifting his eyes, he looked out the window. “It started with Lucy.”

Oh, Annie thought, a small thud landing in her stomach.

“She’s a sweet kid,” he continued. “Smart.”