I can’t read his expression—don’t know if he approves or disapproves and why either should matter. Feeling a thread of my earlier pique, I raise my chin in defiance, but the effect is diluted when the sea breeze whips my hair across my mouth. Gathering it in my free hand, I hold it to my neck.

Before I can speak, Jack says in a typically male, typically Jack declaration, “We’re that close. We share everything.” In a gesture of directness, he shifts his sunglasses to the top of his head.

“Including things about Elizabeth,” I add, lest Paul think I’m just along for the ride. Everything about that night concerns me, too. If Jack’s focus is his mother, mine is Tom. With him gone, it’s now about memory. I want to correct whatever parts of that may be wrong. “There’s too much we don’t know. You handled her business affairs. You have answers we need.”

Paul looks like he’s about to object. I’m sure he’d rather be talking with me alone, perhaps explaining himself more or sharing what he wants our future to be. Hell, he may be feeling like my asking him about Elizabeth at this particular time is emotional extortion. But he does owe me.

Jack gets it going. “We know my mother’s business was on the verge of collapse. We know she had a falling out with her brother. Tom rambled about a man named Doe, likely Ronald Doe, the lawyer in Albany who handled her family trust. Doe is dead, or I’d be asking him these questions. My mother was the executor of the estate. I’ve searched her files for information connecting these things, but there’s nothing.”

“Tom talked about robbing Peter to pay Paul,” I say. “You’re the Paul. The Peter is Elizabeth’s brother, but he won’t talk with Jack. Nor will anyone else in the family.”

“Except his granddaughter,” Jack puts in. “She’s here in town for the summer. You’ve probably seen her? Looks like my mother?”

Paul is bemused. “The blonde at the funeral today? I assumed it was coincidence.”

“No. She’s working at Anne’s for the summer,” Jack says and drops the heavy part. “Her college major was investigative journalism.”

His brows knit. “Doing research? For a book, an article, an indictment?”

“We don’t know. But she can’t have gotten far if she hasn’t talked with you. You’re the one with the answers.”

Paul turns to me. “Is this why you called Sunday?”

I feel a moment’s guilt for having an ulterior motive, but the bigger picture has taken over. This isn’t about my parenthood. It’s about a broader set of events that affect us all.