“So, who said they saw him?”
“My…” The anger leeches out of my voice, leaving behind nothing except a quivering sort of confusion. “My mother did. My mother said she saw him… She said… She said…”
“Okay, Jo,” Ophelia says gently. “Maybe we’re wrong. There’s no need to cry, honey.”
“I’m not crying,” I tell her. But when I reach up and touch my face, I find that I am. Tears are dripping down my cheeks, leaking in a stream I cannot seem to stop. “I’m fine. I’m just confused. None of this makes sense.” My voice cracks, breaks open. Anguish pours out of me in a flood. “Nothing has made sense in so long. I don’t even remember what my life felt like when things were normal. No matter where I turn for answers, I hit another roadblock. It’s like I’m trying to put together a puzzle, but someone’s thrown away the box and I’m missing half the pieces and—”
The rest of my words are overtaken by jagged sobs, the force of them rocking my body back and forth. As I fall to emotional pieces, the twins get up off the sectional and move to sit with me on the loveseat. It’s only built for two, but they cram their bodies in beside mine anyway, pressed close with their heads on my shoulders and their arms wound tight around my back.
“Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out,” Ophelia whispers from my left side. “We’ll help you find out what really happened last summer. We’ll make Chris cooperate, even if he’s reluctant.”
“Yeah,” Odette agrees from my right. “I mean, if there’s one thing we’re good at, it’s getting what we want out of unwilling men.”
“And in the meantime, we have plenty more champagne.”
Laughing through my tears, I extend my empty glass for a fresh pour. “Bottom’s up.”
TWENTY
archer
I siton a weatherbeaten bench by the harborside, nursing a strong cup of coffee from the cafe on the corner and watching the boats pass by. The local sailing school is in full swing — grade-schoolers in fluorescent life jackets pepper the waters, their Optis and Lasers racing back and forth in jagged tacks as they head out for the day. The fleet is chased by a hard-bottomed inflatable with two high-school aged instructors at the wheel, yelling out directions that carry on the wind.
Hold your tiller like a microphone, Max!
Anya, your sail is luffing! Pull it in!
Patrick, we aren’t in international waters — peeing off the stern is public indecency!
A ghostlike smile pushes at my lips as I remember the first time I went sailing. I was ten. Seasick as a dog, but entirely under Jo’s spell as she barked orders at me like a tiny drill sergeant. She was so thrilled to share her biggest passion with me; she radiated so much joy, it made me happy just to be around her.
“Whatever you’re smiling about right now doesn’t take away from that ugly black eye,” a wry voice announces.
In the days since the fight, my bruises have worked their way through half the color wheel, fading from mottled purple to puce green and finally to the sallow shade of yellow-brown I now bear. Draining the final sip of my coffee, I toss the empty cup into a nearby trash bin before glancing over at the man who’s just taken a seat beside me on the splintered wood bench.
“Whose fist did you run into?” Tommy asks.
“My brother’s.”
“I hope you returned the favor.”
“More than once.”
He nods in approval. “Good. From what you’ve told me, he had it coming.”
“This and more.”
“Wanted man, isn’t he?”
“Last I checked.”
“No wonder he’s working on a long-hauler. It’s much easier to stay in the wind when you’re offshore three weeks out of the month. No parole officers on the high seas.”
I cut a sharp glance at Tommy. I never mentioned where Jax was working. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Word gets around.” He shrugs. “Not many secrets on these docks. At least, not when you’ve worked them as long as I have.” He pauses, laughing lightly. “Make thathad, seeing as I’m officially retired.”
“How’s it feel?”