“What did you do?”

“I hid,” she said.

“Where?”

“Behind the couch in the living room.”

“Okay. Then what happened?”

“Dad . . . he hit Mom.”

Campus life was all around them. Students laughed and strolled the grounds. Two boys with their shirts off threw a Frisbee. A dog barked.

“My dad, he didn’t drink a lot because when he did”—again Francesca closed her eyes—“it was awful. I had maybe seen him drunk three or four times. That’s all. It was always bad. But not like this.”

“So what happened next, Francesca?”

“Mom called him some horrible names. She ran out into the garage and got in her car. Dad . . .”

She stopped again.

“Dad what?”

“Dad ran after her,” she said. Her words came slowly now, measured. “But before he did, he put down what he was holding in his hand.”

Their eyes met.

“What did he put down?” Myron asked.

“A gun.”

Myron felt the chill tingle up toward the back of his skull.

“He ran out the door after her, so I stood up. I came out from behind the couch.”

Francesca’s eyes were wide. She was back in that house now.

“I started toward the kitchen. The gun was sitting there. On the kitchen table. I was shaking just looking at it. I didn’t know what to do. Dad was so angry. He was drunk. I couldn’t just leave the gun there.”

“What did you do, Francesca?”

“Please,” she said. “I didn’t know until now. You have to believe me. They lied to me all these years. I didn’t know until Patrick came home.”

“It’s okay,” Myron said. He put his hands on her shoulders. “Francesca, what did you do when you saw the gun?”

“I was scared Dad would use it.” Tears rolled down her cheek. “So I took it. I hid the gun upstairs in my room.”

“And then?” Myron asked.

“And then Patrick found it.”

Chapter 33

I drive Brooke across the Dingmans Ferry Bridge.

Zorra has stayed behind. I can handle this myself. He has matters to attend to.

I glance at my cousin. She is staring straight ahead. I remember a family holiday when we were both teenagers. We were staying on our grandfather’s estate on Fishers Island. Fishers Island is nine miles long and one mile across. It’s off the coast of Connecticut but is technically part of New York. You probably haven’t been. It’s not a place that welcomes strangers.

One night, Brooke and I got both stoned and drunk on the beach. I have rarely gotten stoned. Myron does not approve and there are very few other people I trust enough that I am willing to lose control in front of them. At one point, Brooke suggested we take a night canoe ride.

So we did.

It was late by then, probably approaching midnight. We paddled and then started drifting. Both of us lay back. We talked about life. Even now I can remember every word. I stared up at the sky. The stars were out in full force.