Chương 3
“I know.”
He looked toward Conrad.
Then everything inside me became very quiet.
“What happened?”
Julian’s eyes stayed on his grandfather.
“Someone made sure my messages never reached you.”
Conrad placed his glass on a nearby table.
It rattled against the metal surface.
“That is not what happened.”
Julian gave a humorless laugh.
“Then tell her what happened.”
I looked at my father.
Twenty-one years earlier, he had thrown two suitcases into the rain and told me never to come back.
Until that moment, I had believed the cruelty of that night was the worst thing he had done.
Conrad looked at the letter in Julian’s hand.
Then he looked at me.
And for the first time that evening, what I saw on my father’s face was not anger, contempt, or embarrassment.
It was fear.
For a long moment, the only sound on the terrace was the muted bass from the ballroom and the steady hiss of the patio heater above us.
Conrad recovered first.
He always did.
“You’re making this uglier than it is,” he said.
Julian’s mouth tightened.
“That’s your defense?”
“My defense is that you are speaking about matters you do not understand.”
“Then explain them.”
“Not here.”
I held out my hand.
“Give me the letter.”
Julian placed the envelope in my palm.
It weighed almost nothing.
That annoyed me.
Twenty-one years of silence should have weighed more.
Conrad moved toward me.
“Elise, listen to me before you read that.”
I slid one finger beneath the flap.
“No.”
His hand stopped halfway between us.
“Your mother was ill.”
“I know.”
“You knew?”
“I knew she died.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
The paper inside made a soft tearing sound against the envelope.
My pulse had begun to pound in my injured wrist, which was impossible and yet somehow exactly where I felt it.
Julian stepped closer, not touching me.
Conrad stared at the folded pages as though they were a weapon.
There were four of them.
My mother’s handwriting covered both sides in narrow blue lines.
The date at the top was six weeks before her death.
My dear Elise,
I stopped.
Not because of the words.
Because she had written dear.
My mother had always written Dear Elise on birthday cards, thank-you notes, school forms, everything.
Even when we lived in the same house.
It was the sort of habit a daughter remembered without wanting to.
I read on.
I have started this letter nine times.
Eight beginnings are in the fireplace because each one sounded like an excuse, and I have made enough excuses for one life.
The terrace blurred for a second.
I blinked until the letters sharpened again.
Conrad said my name.
I raised one finger without looking at him.
He went silent.
I was not brave enough to read every line in front of them.
That surprised me.
I had read casualty reports under fluorescent light while officers twice my size waited for orders.
I had called mothers, fathers, husbands, and wives to tell them someone they loved was not coming home.
I had stood on steel decks while alarms sounded and people around me moved because my voice told them where to go.
Four pages from a dead woman made my knees feel unreliable.
I folded them again.
Julian looked worried.
“Do you want to sit down?”
“No.”
“Yes,” Conrad said.
I turned on him.
He actually stepped back.
“I wasn’t asking you.”
He looked old then.
Not frail.
Conrad Voss would probably manage to appear formidable at his own autopsy.
But old.
There were yellow shadows beneath his eyes I had not noticed in the ballroom.
His left hand trembled slightly when he adjusted his cuff.
“Did you stop Julian’s messages?” I asked.
He glanced at my nephew.
“I instructed my office to handle an inquiry.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Your contact information was not public.”
“It was available through the Navy’s public affairs office.”
“I did not want him bothering you before I knew what he intended.”
Julian made a sound of disbelief.
“You told your assistant she was estranged from the family and wanted no contact.”
“That was true.”
“You didn’t ask her.”
“I didn’t need to.”
That sentence reached somewhere the letter had not.
I looked at Conrad carefully.
“What else didn’t you need to ask me?”
He frowned.
“I’m not doing this on a hotel terrace.”
“You came out here.”
“To prevent a spectacle.”
“Then you chose poorly.”
The terrace door swung open behind him.
Damian appeared, followed by a woman carrying a clutch and looking as if she regretted every decision that had brought her within twenty feet of us.
My brother’s wife, Marlene.
She had been twenty-seven when I last saw her.
Now her blond hair had silver near the temples, and the hand gripping her purse was thin enough that her wedding ring slid loosely against the knuckle.
She looked at me with open shock.
“Jesus,” she whispered.
Damian glanced at Julian.
“What did you do?”
Julian laughed once.
“That’s becoming a family slogan.”
“Inside.”
“No.”
Damian’s expression hardened.
“This is your wedding.”
“Exactly.”
“And you’re standing out here stirring up twenty-year-old garbage.”
“Twenty-one,” I said.
He looked at me.
“Thanks for the correction.”
Marlene touched his arm.
“Damian.”
He shook her off.
The motion was small.
Her face changed anyway.
I noticed because I had spent most of my adult life noticing what people did before they said they were fine.
“Grandma gave me a letter for Aunt Elise,” Julian said.
Damian went still.
Unlike Conrad, he did not hide his reaction quickly enough.
I turned toward him.
“You knew.”
“No.”
“You knew there was a letter.”
“I knew Mom was upset before she died.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Marlene closed her eyes.
That was answer enough.
I looked at her.
“What do you know?”
“Elise,” Damian warned.
Marlene opened her eyes.
“Don’t.”
He stared at his wife.
May you like
She looked exhausted rather than frightened.
“I am so tired of being told what not to say.”
