“You and Margo can make fun of those words, but he lived and breathed them. If he said he didn’t have a gun that night, he didn’t have a gun. Jack has it in for us, is all. Okay, okay, his life changed that night. But so did ours.”

“He lost his mother.”

“Our parents broke up.”

“At least we knew where they were,” I reason and am gratified when Anne concedes.

“True. Not knowing what happened to her has to be bad. But at some point, you accept and move on. Jack spends hours on the beach near his boat. It’s like he wants to be ready in case he sees his mother in the waves—can you imagine, after twenty years? I feel sorry for the guy. He’s delusional. And he says Dad’s demented? Sheesh.”

“Jack can’t be all that demented if he’s a successful veterinarian.”

“Who told you he is?”

“You. How else would I know about Jack?”

“Margo,” Anne says. “She always liked him.”

I sigh. “Annie, Margo is living very happily with her husband and sons in Chicago. I doubt she’s keeping up with Jack. By the way, the Sun Times loves her. Her blog is huge. Do you ever read it?”

“No.”

It is a period meant to end the discussion, and even though I want to pursue it—to pursue anything that might bridge the gap between my sisters—this isn’t the time. “Jack said Dad was referring to Elizabeth. Does he ever do that when he’s with you?”

“No.”

“What about the house? Jack said it needed work.”

“I’m telling you, Mallory, Jack is as clueless as Dad. The house is fine. I have someone who does upkeep. He was in last week working on the plumbing, which, of course, good ole Jack Sab can’t see because no way would I let him in the house. My guy can do anything.” There is another murmur in the background, then Anne’s muffled, “You can,” before she tells me, “He’s a jack-of-all-trades, Dad would say.”

The murmur had been male, and unless my inference is all wrong, the male Anne is with is her jack-of-all trades in the flesh. That thought, paired with her breathlessness at the start of my call, brings a more worrisome one. When it comes to men, my sister Anne has notoriously poor taste.

Trying to tease, I say, “Okay, Annie, who’s there?”

“No one.”

“Bill,” comes the low voice, apparently with an ear to Anne’s phone as Joy’s ear is to mine.

“Bill who?” I ask.

“Houseman,” Anne says a little too innocently and adds, “Do you remember him?”

“Billy Houseman?” How can I not? Billy Houseman had been bad news around town from the time we were kids. “Anne,” I warn.