Chương 6
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I was afraid you'd think I was lying.”
“I do think you're lying.”
“I know.”
His voice broke on the final word.
Claire hated herself for feeling tenderness.
It came anyway.
She knew the shape of his sadness. She knew when his throat tightened before he cried. She knew he hated crying in front of anyone, especially his mother. She knew he had cried through the night when their dog died, then denied it the next morning because his eyes were “allergies.”
Knowing someone was not the same as knowing what they had done.
Daniel took his right hand from his pocket.
There was a faint scar near his thumb.
Claire stared at it.
A memory struck so hard she gripped the chair.
Daniel reaching toward her.
Not in the hallway.
Inside the study.
His watch.
His hand.
“Claire?”
She looked up.
“You were there.”
Daniel froze.
Maya crossed the room.
“What did you remember?”
Claire barely heard her.
She was staring at Daniel.
“You were in the room with me.”
His face went white.
“That night?”
“Yes.”
“What were we doing?”
“I don't know.”
“Try.”
Maya said, “Don't push her.”
Daniel ignored her.
“Claire, what did you see?”
“Your hand.”
“My hand doing what?”
“I don't know.”
“Was I hurting you?”
“I don't know.”
“Was I trying to get you out?”
“I don't know!”
The monitor alarm sounded.
Maya stepped between them.
“Daniel, leave.”
He backed away immediately.
Claire pressed her fingers to her forehead.
The image remained.
Daniel's hand.
His blue watch.
A paper between them.
No.
Not paper.
A photograph.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
A photograph of a woman.
Blonde hair.
No face.
Then nothing.
When she opened her eyes, Daniel was still by the door.
“Who is she?” Claire asked.
Daniel did not move.
Maya looked between them.
“Who?”
“The woman in the photograph.”
Daniel's expression changed.
It was not fear this time.
It was recognition.
Claire felt something inside her fall.
“Who is she?”
Daniel closed his eyes.
Maya whispered, “Daniel.”
He opened them again.
“My sister.”
Claire stared.
Daniel did not have a sister.
At least, that was what she had believed for eight years.
The gangway touched the dock outside with a metallic thud.
The sound seemed absurdly ordinary.
Claire's voice came out nearly inaudible.
“You don't have a sister.”
Daniel looked at her.
“I did.”
Margaret appeared in the doorway behind him.
For once, she had no immediate answer.
That was how Claire knew it was true.
No one spoke while two crew members carried Claire's luggage ashore.
By the time Maya helped her into a dark SUV at the marina, three reporters had identified her despite the baseball cap and sunglasses. Their questions came from behind a security barrier.
“Claire, do you believe your husband caused the fire?”
“Mrs. Bennett, are you cooperating with police?”
“Is Daniel under investigation?”
Maya closed the door.
Claire looked straight ahead.
Her hands were shaking.
“Breathe normally,” Maya said.
“I am.”
“You're breathing like you stole something.”
“That might be my normal now.”
The SUV pulled away.
For the first few blocks, neither woman spoke.
Newport looked indecently pleasant after the storm. Wet sidewalks shone in the morning sun. Tourists stood outside coffee shops. Someone jogged with a golden retriever that pulled toward every tree.
Claire watched the dog until it disappeared behind them.
Maya noticed.
“You miss Henry.”
Claire nodded.
Henry had been dead three years.
The simplicity of missing a dog felt almost luxurious.
“Daniel had a sister,” Claire said.
Maya looked out her own window.
“You knew.”
“No.”
“You didn't react.”
“I was trying not to react.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
“No.”
Claire turned toward her.
Maya sighed.
“Daniel mentioned a sister once.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“And you never thought I should know?”
“He said she died when they were young. I assumed you knew.”
“How did she die?”
“He didn't say.”
Claire looked back through the rear window though the yacht was no longer visible.
“Margaret never mentioned her.”
“Families can become very organized around what they don't say.”
Claire almost laughed.
“You should put that on a mug.”
“I'd lose my license.”
Maya's townhouse sat on a quiet street outside the densest part of Newport, three narrow stories with weathered gray shingles and a front porch that leaned slightly toward the road.
Margaret would hate it.
That improved Claire's mood immediately.
Inside, Maya apologized for laundry on the stairs, unopened mail on the kitchen island and a ceramic bowl full of batteries that apparently had no purpose.
Claire stood in the entryway holding the IV pole while Maya moved a pair of sneakers.
“This is perfect.”
“It smells like coffee.”
“Exactly.”
“There are clean sheets.”
“Luxury.”
“And the guest bathroom door sticks.”
Claire looked at her.
“Does it lock?”
Maya stopped.
The joke died between them.
“I'm sorry.”
“No. It was funny.”
“It wasn't.”
“It almost was.”
Maya carried the medical bag upstairs.
Claire followed slowly, one step at a time.
At the landing she had to stop.
Pain pulsed beneath the bandages.
She leaned against the wall.
A framed photograph hung beside her.
Maya at perhaps twenty-five, standing with two women on a beach. All three were sunburned. One held a cheap plastic trophy.
Claire looked closer.
“You had blond hair?”
“Medical school mistake.”
“You look like a country singer.”
“Keep moving.”
Claire smiled.
The normality of the house pressed around her. Books stacked sideways. A coat over a banister. A dead plant no one had removed.
For the first time since waking after the fire, Claire was somewhere Daniel had not chosen.
The realization nearly made her cry.
She did not.
After Maya changed her dressings, Claire slept for four hours.
She woke to the smell of toast burning.
For several seconds she did not know where she was.
Then the unfamiliar ceiling came into focus.
Her phone sat on the bedside table.
May you like
Maya had returned it that morning.
There were 214 unread messages.
