“Uh-huh. My father believed that our education needed theater and museums and history, so we’d take ‘culture trips,’ he called them.” The memory opens. “We were packed in a Jeep Wagoneer. It had wood on the sides, a really pretty car. The three of us were in back, me in the middle so those two didn’t fight. We didn’t have movies to distract us.”

“What about music?”

“Nope. Dad said that was for a concert hall. So we’d play games, like I Spy, or looking for license plates from different states. Margo was always testing him, laughing or singing, and we’d be giggling, so he’d end up yelling at us anyway. Mom would tell him we weren’t doing any harm, so he’d yell at her. It went downhill from there.”

Joy considers that as we pass a horse trailer with two tails hanging out the back. She turns to follow, looking for horse eyes through the narrow slats. “So those trips weren’t fun?”

“Actually, they were,” I recall. “It was backseat against front, three of us against Dad.”

She thinks about that to a quieter Brahms as we pass Norwalk. Then, sounding unsure, like she’s only now considering what we might find when we arrive in Bay Bluff, she says, “But being old and all, he’s mellowed, right?”

“Anne says he has,” I grant, though, that wasn’t my takeaway from Jack’s call. If Dad is worse—if he’s irrational, or, God forbid, does have a gun—

But those are ifs, and Anne has said no to them all. If I seriously thought Joy was in danger, we wouldn’t be headed to see the man now.

“I’m starved,” she announces. The avocado wrap we’d shared before leaving, which would have spoiled if left behind in the fridge—has clearly worn off. “How much longer?”

“Ninety minutes, give or take. I can stop—”

“No. I want to wait. You said Bay Bluff has great places to eat.”

“It does.” I’ve Googled it. Of course I have. My favorite eatery is still there. “Great fried clams.”

“Fried is bad.”

“This fried is good. Trust me, babe.”

She doesn’t argue, mainly because she is checking her phone again, which she hides behind a show of changing the station. Her hand is quickly tapping the beat of Maroon 5 on her thigh.

The rain has let up, but the sky remains thick. “So,” she invites, “what did Margo say?” When I’m silent, I feel her stare. “You didn’t call her?”

“I decided not to. I didn’t want to argue with her. You want to go, and that’s that. Besides, it’s not like we’ll be there long.” One week. I’m booked for a job in the city the Saturday after this one.

“She’ll be angry if she finds out. Won’t Anne tell her?”

I hesitate several seconds too long.