“You’re shaking.” He checked around, seeming to know instinctively that she wouldn’t want to run into Aunt Kate just now. “Come with me.” He led her into the front parlor, closed the door and nearly shoved her into a chair.

  He sat down opposite her, holding her hand wrapped in his. “Talk. What’s going on?”

  “I should go upstairs. I don’t want Aunt Kate to see me. She has enough prejudice against my work already.”

  “Something happened at work. Tell me. Is it the case you were working on with the teenage girl?”

  Clearly she wasn’t getting out of the room without telling him something. “She agreed to see us again. This time…” She tried to control the shudder that went through her. “I can’t explain it. Sometimes I just get so close to the witness that I react as much to the things they don’t say as to what they do.”

  To her surprise, he nodded. “I know. That happens to me sometimes when I’m questioning a witness or a client. You just know, even before you reason it out.”

  “You understand. That makes it easier. Some of the detectives look at me as if I’m crazy.”

  “They do the same thing, probably. They just call it a hunch, or a gut instinct.” The gentle movement of his fingers on her hand soothed her. “So you identified the guy. That’s good.”

  “Not so good. It was her brother.” Her fingers strained against his. “I can’t help but wonder if I did the right thing. What that family will go through—”

  “Don’t, Dinah, don’t. It’ll be rough, but they’ll be able to heal now, don’t you see?”

  “I suppose. What a sad Christmas they’ll have.” Her eyes were hot with unshed tears. She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I need to go upstairs and lie down for a bit.”

  She stood, and he rose, too, his face drawn with concern.

  “Believe it, Dinah. The truth is always better. Always. You were able to help that girl face it. If you—”

  He stopped abruptly, but she knew what he wanted to say.

  “Why can’t I do the same for myself?” She swung away, hands clenching so tightly her nails cut into her palms. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

  “I guess I do.”

  She couldn’t bear the pity in his voice. “I didn’t see anything!” She heard an echo of Teresa’s words in her own. “I didn’t!” She bolted from the room, running up the stairs as if something chased her.

  By the time she reached the top she was breathless. She hurried into her room, shut the door and turned the lock. She never locked herself in her room. Never. But she had to be alone.

  The impulse to throw herself on the bed and weep had been displaced by anger. She paced across the room. How could he do that to her? He’d seen how upset she was already. How could he try and make her face that again?

  She stalked to the window, staring down at the street. Marc came out of the gate and walked across toward his house. His shoulders were stiff with tension.

  She turned away, hot tears spilling onto her cheeks. Her anger slipped away, leaving in its place a frightening emptiness.

  She sank into her desk chair, fingers touching the objects on the desk at random. She hadn’t even asked him how it went with Draydon. She should have.

  Burying her face in her hands, she reached out to God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Taking my fears out on Marc isn’t fair. He just wants to know the truth. But I can’t. I can’t.

  That was what Teresa had said. She hadn’t accepted it from the girl. She’d forced her to go deeper than she’d wanted to do, because they had to know the truth.

  Justice. Tracey wouldn’t use the word, but that was what drove her. The need for justice in a messy world.

  Marc needed justice, too. He was in danger. Feelings didn’t matter. She hadn’t spared Teresa’s feelings, had she? Why was she so protective of her own?

  That’s different, Father.

  But it wasn’t. It wasn’t, was it? She picked up a pencil, fingers moving aimlessly. How did she justify sparing herself from pain?

  She’d spent the past ten years praying to God to let her forget. For now we see in a glass dimly…She’d wanted to go on seeing dimly. Not knowing.

  Was there anything to know? She took a deep, shaking breath. Please, Father. If there’s anything to remember, please let me remember. Let me see clearly.

  She probed delicately into her mind, as carefully as a surgeon with a scalpel. Was there anything? That day—the memories came slipping back as she opened the door to them a crack.

  Annabel, irritated at Marc for working late. Irritated at everyone and everything, it seemed. Scolding Court for some small infraction until Dinah had scooped him up, carrying him upstairs for a bath and a story, snuggling with him as if that would make up for Annabel’s mood.

  Standing outside Court’s door, listening. Annabel had been in the parlor. She hadn’t wanted to see Annabel again, angry that her grown-up cousin had acted so childishly.

  Why are you being such a nag? Marc had to work late. He couldn’t help it. You shouldn’t act that way toward Court. Don’t you realize how sensitive he is?

  Shocking, to think those things about Annabel, beautiful, loving Annabel, whom she’d idolized.

  Her tears had spilled over. She could feel them on her cheeks now, hot and salty. She’d run into her room, thrown herself on the bed, cried out all the frantic, fervent emotions that tumbled inside her.

  Later, much later, something had wakened her. She’d opened the door, standing there with her bare feet on the wooden floor, hesitating. Voices. Someone was with Annabel. Had Marc come home? Were they arguing about his working so much?

  She’d crept to the stairs, her hand gripping the railing. She’d leaned over. And then…

  Nothing. Her mind shrank back, wincing, closing over the wound. Don’t go in, don’t go in, don’t go in.

  She clenched the pencil so hard it snapped off in her hand.

  Please, God. She stopped, not sure what to pray. And then she knew.

  Please, Father. If it’s Your will, let me remember. I’m open to whatever You have for me.

  Slowly, very slowly, the tension drained out of her. She straightened, wiped her eyes then looked down at the paper on the desk in front of her. And saw what she’d drawn.

  It was the Citadel crest, drawn over and over again across the page.

  Marc pushed back from the computer, looking out the study window. It was getting dark already, and he was sitting here with only the glow of the laptop screen for company. He’d managed to lose himself in work for over an hour. He’d managed to forget so easily the pain he’d caused Dinah.

  Rotten timing, that’s what it had been. He’d known for days that he had to talk to her again about what she might remember from that night, but he’d kept putting it off, not wanting to cause a breach between them.

  And now, because he’d been frustrated after that futile conversation with Draydon, he’d brought it up to Dinah at the worst possible moment. She’d already been used up by what must have been a terrible experience for her with the girl, and he’d barged in and trampled on her feelings.

  He leaned back, rubbing the nape of his neck. Dinah was stuck in the past, able to help other people bring the memories out and face them, but unable to do the same for herself.

  I’d like to believe I did it for her sake, Lord, but I know that’s not true. I chose that moment because I’m desperate for something that will clear me. If I’m charged, what will happen to Court?

  No excuses. He was making excuses, and there weren’t any. I was wrong. Forgive me. And please, show me what to do, because I’m at the end of my rope. I thought I knew what was right. Now I just don’t know.

  He heard a key turn in the lock of the front door. Court, coming in ravenous for supper? Or Dinah? She was the only other person with a key.

  He had reached the doorway when Dinah met him. She shoved past him into the study, thrusting a sheet of paper at him. Her face was nearly as white as the page.

  “Dinah? What’s happened?” He looked at her, not the paper in his hand.

  “I tried.” Her voice shook. “I tried to do what you wanted, and that’s what happened.”

  He glanced down at the sheet. It was an image of the Citadel crest, done over and over in Dinah’s delicate pencil drawing, some a simple doodle of a couple of lines, others shaded and rounded.

  “I don’t understand.” Instinct told him not to approach her. She looked as if she’d shatter like crystal at an unwary touch.

  Her eyes, dark with shadows, focused on his face. She took a ragged breath and seemed to search for calm.

  “I tried to remember. I opened myself to whatever memories I might have hidden away about that night.”

  Excitement surged through him, but he forced his voice to remain calm. “Did you remember anything?”

  She was looking into the past, her eyes wide, the pupils dilated. “Playing outside with Court on the swings after supper. It was so hot, but he had to be outside. I pushed him. He kept saying, ‘Higher, higher.’”

  “What happened when you came inside?” Gently. Don’t startle her out of the memory.

  “He was all sweaty, his hair wet and curling on his neck.” She smiled slightly. “I hugged him. We were laughing.” The smile slipped away. “Annabel was upset. Angry with you, for not coming home. Angry with me, for letting Court run around outside in the heat. Angry with Court, for putting his dirty hands on her clean skirt.”

  “It didn’t mean anything, sugar. It was really me she was annoyed with, not you and Court.” She was hurting. He didn’t want her to hurt. But he needed her to remember.

  “I know.” She shook her head a little, seeming to come back to the present. “But I got mad at her. It seems so wrong, that I got mad at her and a few hours later she was dead.”

  “We all felt that way.” He longed to put his arms around her in comfort, but he didn’t dare. “Did you yell at her?”

  She looked shocked. “No, of course not.”

  Of course not. Shy little Dinah would never have yelled at the grown-up cousin she adored.

  “What did you do?”

  “I took Court up and gave him a bath. We played, read stories. Afterward…” She hesitated for a long moment. “Usually, if you weren’t there, I’d go down and watch television with Annabel. But I was still angry with her. So I just went in my bedroom, found a book to read and went to bed.”

  That explained why Annabel had been alone downstairs. But why had she been in the front parlor? That had never been explained. Then, as now, they used the family room almost exclusively unless they were entertaining.

  “You woke up,” he said quietly. “At some point, you woke. Do you know what woke you?”

  She shook her head, black hair moving against the white cashmere sweater she wore. She’d come out without a coat.

  “I was just awake. I thought I heard someone downstairs, so I went to the door. Opened it. I went to the top of the stairs.” She stopped. “That’s all. That’s all I could remember.” She closed her eyes for an instant. “But there’s something else. Something Aunt Kate told me yesterday.”

  His heart thudded. He’d been convinced Kate was hiding something from him. He’d been right. “What? What did she say?”

  Her lips pressed together, as if she didn’t want to let the words out. She swallowed, the muscles in her throat working. “She overheard Annabel on the phone. Talking to a man. She said…” She stopped, her mouth twisting.

  Shock and pain clawed at his chest. “It can’t be.”

  “She blames herself for not confronting her.” Dinah’s voice was thick with tears. “She’s sure it’s true that Annabel was involved with a man that summer.”

  Another man. How could he have not known, not guessed that something that serious was wrong?

  “What about you?” The words came harshly. “Did you know?”

  “Of course not. I never imagined anything of the kind.”

  There was something in her voice that caught at him. He grasped her hands, swinging her around to face him. “Tell me the truth, Dinah.”

  “I am! I just—” She wrenched her hands free, wiping at her tears like a child. “Ever since you came back, I’ve felt as if I had to protect her memory. Maybe, somewhere deep, I suspected. I don’t know!”

  He struggled to stop reacting and start thinking. A man. “Who? Who was around that summer?” He knew the answer to that. The usual group of friends—people he knew well, people he’d never dream would betray him. “This is crazy,” he muttered. “She must have been wrong. Aunt Kate. She must have misunderstood.”

  “I’d like to believe that.”

  “But you don’t.” He shot a look at her, irrationally angry with her, as if she were to blame.

  She shook her head tiredly. “I don’t know, Marc.” She nodded toward the crest. “But that has to mean something.”

  He finally got it. “You think this points to me, don’t you? With Annabel’s affair providing the motive.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  His stomach churned, his finger curling into fists, crumpling the paper. “You didn’t have to.” He shook the paper at her. “Your drawing says it for you. You identify me with the crest.”

  She seemed to be looking at him from a great distance. “You used to wear a Citadel tiepin whenever you wore a tie. It was gold. Annabel gave it to you.”

  “And you’ll convict me on that.” He wanted to shake her.

  Anger flamed suddenly in her eyes. “You’re the one who wanted me to remember. I tried, and that’s what happened. Don’t blame me because I couldn’t come up with the answer you wanted.”

  He wasn’t sure when he’d been this angry. Dinah, the one person he was sure believed in him, thought he was guilty.

  Carefully he put the paper down on the desk. “You’d better keep this safe. Draydon might want to see it.”

  “Marc—”

  He shook his head, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. “I’m going out. Tell Court I’ll pick him up later.”

  Later. As in after he regained control of himself. Without looking at her, he stalked out of the room and out of the house.

  Fifteen

  When the door slammed behind Marc, the house seemed to shudder in response. Dinah sank down in the desk chair and leaned back, head throbbing. Raw emotion still hovered in the tightness of her throat.

  But she couldn’t cry anymore. She was all cried out. She closed her eyes, tried not to think. She was tired, so tired. Too tired to get up, cross the road to Aunt Kate’s, deal with the questions Aunt Kate and Court would have.

  So she sat, unwilling to move, unwilling even to think. She’d just rest for a while. Try not to think. Just rest, until she felt able to cope again.

  She wasn’t sure how long she sat there before the images started to form in her mind. Against the blackness of her closed lids, she saw her bare toes curling into the stair carpeting. Saw her hand reach for the railing. Felt herself lean against the railing, looking down at the hallway.

  The white tiles glowed softly in the dim light of the small lamp Annabel kept burning. Voices murmured. The door to the front parlor must be ajar. She couldn’t see it from where she stood, but light streamed out in a pale yellow band, crossing the tiles, touching the table, the jasmine, the mirror.

  She shot bolt upright, a shudder working its way through her body. She was remembering. After all these years of insisting she’d seen nothing, knew nothing, she was remembering.

  She was alone in the house for the first time in years, if ever. Was that why? She gripped the leather arms of the desk chair, holding on as if afraid she’d fall.

  Alone in the house. Once this had been a second home, but after Annabel died she’d avoided it as she’d have avoided walking through a cemetery at midnight.

  Then Marc and Court came back. That sense had faded, a little painfully, perhaps, but it had gone. She wasn’t afraid here any longer.

  Because of Marc. That was it. Because at the deepest level of her soul, she wasn’t afraid of him. She knew he hadn’t been with Annabel in the parlor that night. He hadn’t struck out at her.

  Whatever that image of the Citadel ring meant, it didn’t mean that. Marc had jumped to the conclusion she was accusing him, but—

  Wait. Why had she thought of it as a ring? She’d identified it to Marc as the crest, which could have been on any piece of jewelry or clothing.

  The paper lay on the desk, where Marc had thrown it. She snatched it up and smoothed it, peering at the drawing in the glow of the computer screen.

  She touched the most developed of the drawings, probably the one she’d done last. There—was that the suggestion of a curve, as if the crest were set in a curving band?

  It wasn’t evidence. Even if she generated a complete memory, which she had no idea if she could do, that wasn’t evidence. But to her, it was better than evidence. It was proof. Marc hadn’t worn any ring except his wedding ring. So whoever the drawing pointed to, it wasn’t Marc.

  She pushed herself out of the chair, and moved silently over the soft carpet. She’d go home, pull herself together and find some way of making Marc understand.

  Judging by the way he’d rocketed out of the house, that wouldn’t be easy. For the first time she realized she was standing in near-dark, with only the glow of the computer screen for light.

  She reached toward the lamp, then drew her hand back. Go home. Marc would have to go there to pick up Court. She’d talk to him then.

  She went quietly to the door, her feet making no sound on the soft carpet. She opened it and stopped, heart in her throat.

  There was a light on in the front parlor. The door was ajar, sending a band of yellow light across the tiles.

  A shiver went through her. No voices, not this time. But noise. Someone was in the room, moving around.

  Marc? Could he have come quietly back to the house without her hearing him? Well, obviously someone had.

  Somehow she didn’t want to click across the tile floor in her heels. She slid out of her shoes and picked them up. Then stood, torn with indecision.

 

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