“We have a problem,” he barrels on. “Your father was just over here knocking on my door—banging on my door, like he’d break it down—and when I opened it, he let me have it.” He raises his voice to imitate. “You no-good bastard, you knew exactly what was going on, didn’t you. You probably planned the whole fucking thing with her—his language, not mine,” he puts in before becoming my father again. “You let me be investigated like I was a murderer, and you didn’t say one word, but we both know she didn’t die. Tell me where she is. I know you know. He had a gun, Mallory. He was waving a gun in my face. He swore he didn’t own one back then. So either he lied to the DA twenty years ago or he bought it after the fact, but a gun is the last thing a man like that should have. You do know that he’s sick—or are you just leavin’ the whole thing to Anne—who, by the way, is doing a lousy job, and not just with his care. The house is a mess and the bluff is falling into the sea, but unless she told you that, you wouldn’t know, because you haven’t been here to check. It isn’t your responsibility, is it? Well, hello, Mallory, it is. So here’s the thing. You need to step up to the plate. If he’s talking about that night to me, he’s probably talking about it in town. Bay Bluff may be only a tiny corner of Westerly, but the police love the coffee your sister serves in her shop. If he’s blabbing, they’ll hear—and hey, I’m all for it. He killed my mother? I want it coming out. Do you? ’Course not. So here’s a wake-up call,” the slightest pause before an accusatory, “Mallory. Either you do something about him, or they will.”

I’m spared having to respond by a decisive click, not that I could have spoken, I’m so shaken. That quickly the past is here and now. And the lump in my throat? Huge. Of the many things I’ve avoided thinking of since leaving Bay Bluff, John MacKay Sabathian is a biggie, but his angry voice brings everything back. I stand unmoving, looking at the foggy city night but seeing the ocean, the bluff, my father’s boat leaving the dock and taking with it so so so much more than just Elizabeth.

“Mom,” Joy prods with an insistence that says she has called my name several times. My eyes fly to hers. “Who was that?”

I refocus. “No one.”

“No one was shouting. He was using your name. He even said bastard. I heard it from here.”