In the Waning Light (26 page)

Meg’s mouth went dry. “But you just said, on the record, that maybe Sherry went with Ty for a ‘lark,’ a joyride on his bike. Now you’re saying it was to buy ‘e.
’
”

“I didn’t want to implicate Emma. But . . . but this is looking serious now. Everyone needs to tell the truth now.”

“And not back then?”

“Like I said, I didn’t know about the lie until years later, when Emma let it slip during a fight.”

Meg stared at him, her brain reeling.

“It wouldn’t have changed anything, Meg. The evidence still all pointed to Ty Mack, no matter the reason Sherry went with him.”

“But you do know for a fact she lied to the cops?”

“Unless she was lying again during our argument.”

“Will you say this on record?”

“You can ask her yourself.”

Meg held his eyes, a dark feeling rustling around the edges of her mind as she mentally ran through her interview with Emma, weighing Tommy’s words against hers.

CHAPTER 19

“So, I picked up where Mom left off with her investigation,” Meg said to Irene as she turned into the marina driveway, relieved to have her aunt with her this evening as a buffer between her and Blake. “I’ve been going through the files, reading her journal.”

“Journal?” Irene said.

“Yes. Looks like Mom might have been on to something.”

“What journal?”

Irene was not having such a great day, so Meg dropped it. When she’d arrived at Chestnut Place earlier to pick Irene up, her aunt had been focused solely on food, and what they were going to get to eat at the marina tonight. Meg was just happy to have this time with Irene. There were only so many growing seasons in a life—Jonah had said that. The lost time was something she’d never get back, but she had the present.

As she drew into the parking lot, Blake was getting out of his truck with Noah. The bed of his truck was loaded with construction supplies.

She pulled in alongside his vehicle.

Geoff’s Jeep was parked at the far end of the camper sites. The cops must have returned it to him, and speedily so. Meg would have expected them to hold on to it longer if they’d wanted to properly examine it for trace evidence. Then again, it was just vandalism, not a murder. And this was not television. She knew well enough those kinds of CSI resources were not applied to minor crimes. Geoff was busy unloading grocery bags from his Jeep.

Blake opened the door for Noah, but he watched his brother intently. His body was wire tense.

“Would you take Noah inside?” he said quietly as Meg alighted from her truck. He nodded a hello to Irene, but his attention remained fixed on Geoff. “Make him a snack or something?”

“Sure,” she said, following Blake’s gaze. “Have the police cleared him, then?”

“I don’t know what’s going on,” he said quietly. “Could you give us a minute, Meg, please?”

“Hey, Noah,” Meg called. “How about a snack? Got anything good inside?”

Noah eyed her warily.

“This is my aunt, Irene.” Meg smiled. “I think she’s hungry, too.”

“Sure,” Noah said, scuffing his feet as he led them reluctantly toward the office door.

Meg and Irene followed Noah into the building. Through the window Meg saw Blake was waiting until they were properly inside. When the door swung shut behind them, he marched over to Geoff, like an angry bull.

Geoff rose to his full height as his brother approached. Words were exchanged, brother to brother, Geoff’s dark hair and Blake’s sandy blond darkening as a soft Pacific Northwest drizzle soaked them.

A dark sense of foreboding settled on Meg’s shoulders.

“What happened at the station?” Blake demanded as he reached the Jeep.

Geoff’s spine stiffened as he faced his brother square on. “They took my fingerprints, rehashed my movements during the night.”

“And?”

“And what . . . they’re not going to be a match. I didn’t do it.”

“Where’s the rifle?”

“I don’t know,” he snapped, flinging open the back of his Jeep. “See for yourself. The lock has been jimmied. Rods in their cylinders were stolen as well as the rifle, and I don’t know where it happened along my drive up. Could have been in California. Could have happened outside the Whakami hotel or down the beach, for all I know.”

Blake met his brother’s eyes. Mistrust swirled in with the mist. Who was Geoff Sutton, really? How far could he be trusted, this own flesh and blood of his, this brother for whom he’d always covered.

The secrets we keep for love . . . the lies we tell ourselves . . .

Geoff stepped closer to Blake. They stood toe-to-toe in the rain. Wind was starting to whip. It was getting dark, clouds boiling low. “Trust me, please,” Geoff said. “I went to meet someone that day. It had nothing to do with Sherry, or what happened.”

“Why did I find your sack—the one you used to gather flotsam—near Meg’s unconscious body?”

“There are only a few spots you can put ashore on the point. That was one. That’s where I went in with the boat. I must have dropped it there.”

His gaze bored into his brother’s. “I need to tell Meg.”

“Has she asked?”

“Not yet. But I’m going to tell her before she does. Tonight.” He paused. “I’m not going to lose her, Geoff. Not this time. Not because of this stupid secret.”

“Give me one more day. Just one.”

“Why one more day?”

He cursed, looked away, palmed his hand over his wet hair. “Because Meg will go looking for him. People will put two and two together about us. This man has not come out, and if he’s outed, it
will
destroy his marriage. It . . . it’ll kill him. Trust me. I . . . I need one more day to talk to him, allow him to prepare. To maybe tell his wife himself.”

Wind gusted. The swell in the bay surged on the incoming tide.

“What is this truth worth, Blake, honestly? A man’s life for Meg’s book?
Especially
if our presence on that strip of land had
nothing
to do with what Meg is after. Think about it.” He paused. “I wish you could just drop it entirely.”

“The longer I leave it, the more gnarly it gets.”

“It’s not a big deal to sit on it. I keep telling you.”

“It is a big deal. It’s a trust deal. Meg has not trusted anyone since she was fourteen. I need her to trust me now.”

The drop cloth, ladders, and scaffolding had been cleared out of the Crabby Jack cafe. The walls were gleaming white and freshly painted. Tables had been moved back in. On one of the tables near the glass doors that opened onto the deck was a giant puzzle-in-process that Noah had been working on. It fascinated Irene. And she was now sitting at the table happily working on the puzzle. Unsure of how to best handle her aunt, Meg had temporarily left her there with a promise to bring tea and cookies.

“You must have been really busy with your dad after school today,” Meg said to Noah as she fetched mugs down from the kitchen cupboard. “The Crabby Jack is looking as though it could open for business any day now.”

Noah perched on his stool, watching her in the kitchen. His vantage point also afforded him a peekaboo view of his dad and uncle Geoff through the side window. “Dad said he wants to open the cafe in the spring. I can help in there in the summer,” he said, his attention going to the window. “What are they fighting about?” Noah said.

“Probably brother stuff. Oh, yesss! Nutella!” She held her find high in the air, like a trophy—the answer to all kid woes. And some adult ones, too. She could handle a dose herself about now, on fresh bread with a mug of hot tea. She filled the kettle. “Siblings do argue, Noah—it’s totally normal. You like Nutella?”

Consternation creased his brow. He eyed the jar, nodded. Then his features crumpled and he looked up at Meg, an imploring look in his eyes, tears pooling. Her heart crunched. She set the kettle down quickly. “What’s the matter, Noah?”

“My dad said I shouldn’t eat junk when I come home.”

She bent down, leaning her elbows on the counter, looking dead in his eyes, and she put her finger to her lips. “Shh. It’s our little secret, then, ’kay?” she whispered. “Besides, what’s he doing with chocolate spread in the cupboard anyway, if it’s not for eating?”

A tear plopped. “That’s what Mom used to say.”

“Oh, hon, come here.” She moved quickly around the counter and hugged the little body tightly against her own. And it stirred a deep power in her. A kind of energy. A drive. To help this little boy. And it struck Meg square and hard in the face.
This
is who she was. It cut to the heart of why she’d loved Sherry, tried to save her. Why she hadn’t been able to bear her own failing to do so. She
needed
to protect, to save, to nurture the vulnerable. She’d kill to do it. And the realization was profound. She’d lost this part of herself. She’d left it behind in Shelter Point. And she was reconnecting with it in holding Blake’s sad little boy. Allison’s son. Regret washed through Meg. And love. For this boy’s father. This place. The Sutton men. Home. Ocean and sky and rhythm and tide—it all overwhelmed her in the scent of this child against her body. The feeling of his warmth, the sensation of his soft hair under her palm, the beat of his heart.

She blew out air as she rocked him, overwhelmed by the tidal wave of emotions.

She moved back, held his shoulders. “You going to be okay?”

He nodded. “Why’re
you
crying?”

“Oh, God.” She wiped her eyes, laughed. “Silly, huh?”

He stared, waiting in his innocence for an answer.

“
’Cos I love you, Noah.”

He frowned.

“I know. It seems odd. But here’s the thing. You’re kinda like family to me. You’re part of this place, and part of your dad. And . . . my roots go deep here. It’s . . . I thin
k I need some Nutella.” She smiled, and swiped at her tears. “Our secret, okay? No telling I was crying. I’m not a wimp. I don’t cry.”

A tentative smile tempted his lips. “My mom used to say it was good to cry sometimes.”

“Yeah. My mom used to say that, too.” Meg set the kettle boiling and went over to the hearth in the open-plan living room. “Can you show me how to fix this fire, Noah?”

He hopped down from his stool and the little man got busy handing her kindling first, then bigger logs. The fire grew to a crackling roar. Meg smiled inside as she watched him, awash with affection she didn’t quite understand. But she was in no mood to fight it right now. No mood to fight herself any longer. Engaging him was her plan.

The kettle whistled and Meg made tea for herself and Irene, and poured a glass of milk for Noah.

“Can you take this mug and plate of cookies through to Irene?” she asked.

“Sure.” He hesitated, his mouth pulling into a crooked moue. “Is she . . . okay?”

Meg grinned. “Yup. She just forgets things. Sometimes her memory is worse than others. You need to go easy on her. It’s called dementia, and it can happen when you get old. Ask her if she wants to join us in the kitchen, will you?”

Noah scuttled off with the tea and cookies while Meg slathered fresh bread with creamy Nutella, thinking she had not eaten this stuff since she left Shelter Bay.

Noah returned and hopped back onto his stool, a fresh energy in his eyes. “Irene said no, she wanted to work on the puzzle in peace.” He sipped his milk, and took a voracious chomp of his chocolate-topped bread. He grinned.

“You got chocolate in your teeth,” Meg said.

He chuckled. Meg took a bite of her own slice and bared her chocolate-coated teeth like a monkey.

Noah guffawed, collapsing and slapping his hand onto the counter. Then, tears of mirth glistening in his eyes, he took another bite, and made a monkey face back. Giggling, they settled into an easy truce, munching their snack and sipping their drinks as the fire crackled and popped. Lucy appeared from nowhere and flopped down onto her mat in front of the flames. Outside, the light and sky darkened. Wind began to press against the marina buildings, creaking moorings and bumping buoys. Rain streaked down the windows facing the sea.

Noah began to swing his little legs. “My mom used to sit with me after school.”

“She sounds like a very special mom. You must miss her awfully.”

He nodded, jaw stiffening. He looked down at his last bite of sandwich.

“Your dad misses her very much, too.”

Slowly, he glanced up, met her eyes. Meg could see Blake’s eyes in there, among Allison’s coloring and features.

“He said that?”

“He did.”

He stared at her a long while. Lucy groaned and rolled onto her back, lips falling back from her teeth in a grimace that belied her contentment.

“Your parents were lucky to share the years they did have together. And to have you.”

“My dad wasn’t here most of the time. He only quit the army after she died, and only because he had to look after me.”

“That’s the rough thing about the army,” she said. “About serving your country. You’re a hero—people all over the nation, and right here in Shelter Bay, can sleep safe in their houses because the enemies are being kept at bay. The borders and the night skies are being kept safe. They’re heroes, all. But at the same time, those soldiers cannot fight and protect without being away from their own families, their own loved ones. They must spend birthdays and holidays away from home when they’re on a tour. At Christmas they might have to hide in bunkers, under enemy attack, thirsty and hungry, and all they have is a turkey dinner in a dehydrated little ration packet.”