Leaving the window, I switch on a lamp. I don’t want to see the ocean, the bluff, the boat. Jack is right. I’m leaving it all to Anne.

But my daughter is mine. I’m raising her to be different from my past. And she isn’t a baby. “It was one of your grandfather’s neighbors.”

“He only has one. Anne was saying that—remember, when she was here last time with Margo?”

Oh, I remember. We were arguing again about that night—about whether Elizabeth had jumped, fallen, or been tossed off the boat by heavy gales, and whether she could have possibly survived. Joy had already known the basics, but my sisters were full-on into bickering about infidelity, deception, and abandonment. And murder. Murder was the conversation stopper, the horror issue, the visit-breaker.

Since Joy heard all that, I figure she’s old enough to hear more. “The guy who called is Jack Sabathian. He’s Elizabeth’s son.”

Her eyes go wide. “What did he say?”

I thumb in Anne’s cell, knowing my daughter will listen in. The phone is approaching its fourth ring when my sister picks up.

“Mal?” Her voice was always higher than mine, perky and bright to my down-to-earth sensible, but here she sounds out of breath. I wonder if she was outside chasing after my father.

“What’s going on?” I ask as casually as I can.

“Uh … now? Not much. You don’t usually call at night. What’s up?” She seems innocent enough, but then, my sister is always innocent, thirty-seven going on twelve. I swear, Joy is more savvy.

“Jack Sab just called.”

Chapter 2

Anne is silent for a beat before sighing an exaggerated, “Oh, God. Jack Sabathian is a pain in the butt. He is such an alarmist, you know? He’s always telling me what I need to do to the house, and if it isn’t about the house, it’s about Dad. What’s he saying now?”

I relate the conversation, minus the imitation of our father’s voice. By the time I’m done, Joy is leaning in, ear to my ear.

“A gun?” Anne echoes. “I have never seen Dad with a gun. Why would he need a gun?” A mumble in the background tells me she isn’t alone. I’m quickly annoyed, then as quickly contrite. My sister has a right to be with friends.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I thought maybe you would. Where is he now?”

“He was reading in the den.”

When I left, she doesn’t say, but that’s what I hear. So she’s out with friends. A housekeeper comes mornings, I know that much. But this is night, and apparently Dad is alone. If I ask, Anne will insist—as she’s done whenever I’ve asked—that he’s fine, that he doesn’t need a babysitter, that he likes having time to himself.