“Oh, honey, are you okay? He really clocked you.”
Jack clears his throat, swipes a hand across his face. “I didn’t know he’d gotten so bad. I knew about the dementia, but I didn’t realize how much it had progressed. My parents didn’t tell me. I’m so sorry, darling. I didn’t want you to meet him like that.”
I smooth his ruffled hair, the widow’s peak so reminiscent of his grandfather’s, and kiss the spot where Will punched him. “It’s not your fault, Jack. How old is he?”
“Seventy-eight. God, that was...unsettling. Do I have a bruise? He hit me pretty hard.”
I examine his face. “It’s a little red, but I don’t think it’s going to mar your beauty. Why don’t we get you some ice? That will help so it doesn’t swell.”
“Good idea.” He doesn’t move, though, is staring at the empty doorway like he’s worried his grandfather is lying in wait in the hallway.
I hesitate only a moment. “Jack? Do you know who he was talking about? Who was killed?”
“I have no idea what he’s talking about, Claire,” Jack says flatly. “Why don’t you rest for a few minutes. I’ll grab some ice and go see what my mom needs. Love you.”
And with that, he disappears into the hall, leaving me in our suite, alone.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, kick off my Chucks, and lie back, staring at the wood-beamed ceiling.
What, exactly, was that about?
And what, exactly, am I getting myself into?
12
Bad, Bad News
Jack hurries down the main stairs, swings through the kitchen for some ice, and makes his way to the library. Ana is waiting for him in the hall outside the double doors. Something is wrong, he can see it in his mother’s stance. Her hip is cocked, she is smoking a cigarette. She and Fatima are talking, but at Jack’s appearance, Fatima nods to him and hurries away. He can hear her giving instructions to someone down the hall, her voice fading as she moves toward the kitchens. Jack waits until he’s sure they are alone. He runs a knuckle along his jaw, feeling the rasp of his beard and the lingering soreness of his grandfather’s knotty fist.
“Where’s Claire?” Ana asks.
“I left her to freshen up. I had a feeling you wanted to see me alone.”
“You were right.” She touches his jawline. “What happened to you?”
“I got slugged. Gran attacked me. Accused me of killing someone, in front of Claire, no less.”
“Will attacked you? Whatever for? What did you say to him?”
“It was totally unprovoked. He took one look at Claire standing next to me and tried to pull her from my side, shouting I’d killed someone. Then he lunged in and punched me. Claire was terrified. You said he was in decline, you didn’t say he’d gotten violent. Why didn’t you warn me?”
His mother presses a hand to her forehead. “Oh, Jack. I’m so sorry. I know that must have been very difficult for you. For Claire, too. Will is...challenging right now.”
“If he’s attacking me, what happens when he comes across someone he isn’t familiar with? We have to do something.”
“I’ll speak to your father.”
Jack has heard those words from his mother at least a thousand times over the years. It is the foundation of their family dynamic. Their catchphrase. He and his brothers would come to Ana with their grievances; she’d say calmly, “I’ll speak to your father.” And the grievances would be resolved.
As he’s grown older, he understands the dynamic behind it better. Jack doubts Ana ever actually said anything to Brice unless it was impossible to avoid. Ana didn’t need Brice’s permission or attention to resolve matters with her boys. His dad was constantly consumed by his work, by the company, by his legacy. He was rarely present in their childhood lives in any meaningful way. Oh, Brice was there physically, most of the time, just not emotionally. Who could be present when they were constantly hooked into the office? Granted, he’d been more involved with their lives as they entered their twenties, looping all three boys into the company in various areas, one after another. But could you ever get past that initial sense of abandonment? At least Ana had been there. Always, even though she was running the magazine and traveling, she’d somehow managed to be at nearly everything important in the boys’ lives.
It is hard on her, Jack thinks, having them so distant. Ana is happiest when all her chicks are in the nest.
She doesn’t look happy now, though. Watching her smoke, he is struck for a moment at just how much she’s aged in the past year. At fifty-nine she is far from old, but new lines crease the skin of her forehead and bracket her mouth, and in the right light, sparkles of platinum dust her hair. She’s had extremely discreet work, done, nothing invasive, and, for the most part, looks as graceful and elegant as she had at forty. But there is something else now, a haunted depth to her eyes that ensures that despite age or intervention, she will never be considered a young girl again.
“Anyway, Gran’s nurse said you needed to speak to me?”
Ana smiles, but it’s tremulous at best. “Yes.”
“What is it?”
“I thought you should be made aware of something.”
“What’s that?”
“The body they found? The bones draped at the pier? We believe... It’s her. It’s Morgan.”
Jack is too stunned to speak. Horror sparks, deep in his gut. Now? Of all times, now the bitch washes up?
This is insanity. This is impossible.
This is dangerous.
This is very, very dangerous.
There was a narrative. A well-planned, well-thought-out, well-executed narrative. It had taken extensive effort to make it work. For the media. For the police. For those few outside the small circle of family who knew the truth.
My wife died when she fell off the boat.
My wife died when she fell off the boat.
My wife died when she fell off the boat.
He’d even identified the partial remains of the body months later, for God’s sake.
And now, with the events in Nashville, they have another narrative to keep track of.
Jack finally gathers himself. “How do you know? What makes them think that it’s her, after all this time?”
His voice sounds remote, lost, even to himself.
“The bones of the hands have the deformity she was born with, that bend in her pinkie finger.”
“Fuck.” He ignores his mother’s wince—she hates vulgar language—paces a few steps away, then back, then away again. “There’s nothing that can be done. I have to tell Claire. I can’t keep this from her.”