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Dad shrugs. There’s another awkward silence.
He glances out the windows to where Alistair lounges in the sun. “Your brother seems to think there’s merit to this whole sustainability idea.”
“There is,” I say defiantly.
He turns to me, his dark eyes flashing. “And you know how to implement that? You’ve been working all those jobs you say you have?”
“I’ve never lied to you, Dad,” I snap.
My father’s brow creases. He suddenly looks much older than I’ve ever seen him. He rubs his temples and leans back against the kitchen counter.
“I know,” he says. He takes a deep breath and his gaze drifts out to Mom’s garden. The huge rhododendrons are bursting with color. “Perhaps a shakeup is what the company needs. So. I would…very much like…to hear some of your ideas.” It sounds like each word pains him. “That is, if you really think they will benefit Everton.”
My father has never,ever, asked to hear my ideas. I always thought he was allergic to the word recycle. The longer I stare at him in disbelief, the tighter his expression becomes.
“You were right,” he says tersely, and this time I think I might fall over from shock.
“About what?” I ask.
“Business hasn’t been the same since she…” There’s a flicker of pain in his eyes but it’s gone as quickly as it appears. “Everton needs a fresh start. I would…appreciate any advice you have to give.”
“Okay,” I say.
The hardness around Dad’s mouth and eyes returns, his posture straightening. He’s back to being Russell Everton, billionaire businessman.
“Good. I’ll have Roger put something on the schedule,” Dad says brusquely. There’s the father I’ve known my whole life. Scheduling time with his son via his business manager. “I assume you have a business plan in order? Pricing? Construction? ROI? The board will need to be thoroughly briefed.”
“The board?” I thought this was going to be a talk just the two of us.
What a foolish assumption.
“I’ll take that as a no,” Dad says dryly. “Very well. I’ll give you…” He takes out his phone and checks his calendar. “Three weeks to prepare.”
It feels like the responsibilities are piling up. But this is my chance to prove how sustainability can work for Everton.
“Sure,” I say, then grab my espresso and stalk past him out of the kitchen.
I’m not sure I like this new Dad any more than I liked the old one.
I get to the blue study and turn on the computer. It hums to life and I putMarion Everton murderinto the search bar. Immediately all the articles I found at the library pop up on the screen. I quickly print them out then find a highlighter in one of the desk drawers. I spend the afternoon highlighting any pertinent information. The ones about me aren’t helpful, since I know I didn’t kill my mother. I feel a surge of gratitude toward Isla for protecting me, and for the sheriff’s department for protecting her, and keeping her identity a secret.
I look over Fred’s files as well—I still can’t bring myself to look at the autopsy or the crime scene photos, no matter how non-explicit Fred claims the photos are. I search the desk for more supplies—the bottom drawer is locked, but I find some index cards and thumbtacks and Post-its in another drawer. I start to make notes. I pull one of the paintings down and begin to tack my notes to the wall, like I’m making some sort of police murder board.
I put the burglar theory on one side and the Carl Fillion/Elsa Lowendale on the other, along with a note that saysEverton Enemies.
I flip through Fred’s files, past the interviews with my family members, and the transcript of Dad’s 911 call. He’s got a list of the items that were taken from the shed—a few pieces of Mom’s pottery and some framed photos and a couple of old trinkets. Anything with blood spatter on it, apparently. The thought makes my mouth go dry. Nothing seems to have come from that, and I quickly move on. Fred did talk to some of Dad’s employees but not Carl or Elsa. I wonder if Dad trusted the sheriff had done his job there and didn’t want to dredge up the past. Or tarnish the brand, more likely—the Fillion scandal really made Dad angry and he wanted it over and hushed up as quickly as possible, as I recall. Fred did track down some local small-time criminals, people with records for theft or burglary. But none of that led anywhere either.
The burglar theory just isn’t flying with me. Noah was right—how would a random drifter know to go through Mom’s garden to get to the back of the house? The only other way to access the back of the house is through the bay. I can’t imagine some thief showing up with his own boat. And wouldn’t it make more sense for a burglar to go around robbing the Way on the night of the actual party, rather than the morning after? Everyone was at Everton. A lot of mansions were empty.
I check one the of the articles from theNew York Timesand see that Mom was shot at approximately six twenty-four the morning of June 22nd. I see that the cops knew the precise timing because someone reported hearing the gunshot. Was it Finn? I read further and see that no, it was a “neighbor” who didn’t want to be named. We don’t really have neighbors—our house is pretty isolated, surrounded by woods on either side. But people sometimes fish on the bay in the early morning hours. I check Fred’s notes but he doesn’t have anything in there about this mystery neighbor. I put up a Post-It withNeighbor?on it.
I turn to my other theory—Carl or Elsa killing Mom as a revenge plot against Dad. A quick Google search shows me that Elsa moved to California and started a new job there six months before the shooting. I remember Elsa as kind of a ditzy woman, always forgetting things, her desk cluttered. She does not seem like the ideal candidate for this sort of thing.
Carl is a much stronger suspect. The strongest one I’ve got. He hated Dad—he lost his job and his credibility when Dad fired him. We couldn’t prove he was embezzling money, but Dad sure as shit went after him. You don’t cross my father like that. He left Carl blacklisted and bankrupt. That’s bound to cause some resentment and rage. And Carl had been to the house on more than one occasion. He would know about the garden.
My pulse kicks into a sprint. I Google Carl’s name but there’s not much—just a Facebook page that hasn’t been active in years and an old wedding announcement from over a decade ago.
I pick up my phone and call Fred’s number. It rings a few times then goes to voicemail.