She picked up the Sunday newspaper and organized it on the coffee table. This room needed a good cleaning, too. Maybe she’d do one room a day until the house was sparkling and reorganized. Then she’d hire a cleaning service to keep it up and find someone to cook for her dad.
Heading down the hall, she stopped at the linen closet to grab some sheets and blankets. She was tired of sleeping on the pull-out couch. It was time to brave the memories and make up her old bed.
Stepping inside the bedroom drove the upbeat feeling right out of her. She dumped the sheets on the mattress, already having second thoughts.
She sat on her bed, thinking about all the times she and Abby had talked after the lights went out. They’d speak in whispers, hoping their parents wouldn’t hear them. But eventually someone would say something funny, and they’d start giggling. Then her mother would come down the hall and tell them to be quiet. The silence would last five minutes after the door shut, then they’d break into laughter again.
When Abby got scared, she’d crawl into bed with Lauren, and Lauren felt a wave of sadness as she thought about all those times she’d told Abby it would be fine. There weren’t any monsters, there weren’t any bad guys. They were safe. Everything would be okay. And Abby had believed her. But Lauren had been wrong about the monsters.
What else had she been wrong about?
Lisa had assured her that Abby hadn’t been up to anything, but perhaps Lisa hadn’t known everything, either.
If Abby had had a secret, she would have written about it in her journal—the journal no one had ever found. Had it been in her book bag that day? Or had Abby hidden it as she had done so many times before? After Abby had caught Lauren peeking in her diary, she’d made a game of hiding it all over the house: at the bottom of the laundry hamper, in the back of the linen closet, under their parents’ bed, on a shelf in the garage.
But if Abby had hidden it somewhere, wouldn’t her father have found it in the past thirteen years?
He’d never touched this room, though—and the rest of the rooms were piled high with clutter. Could the diary still be somewhere in the house?
Lauren went to Abby’s desk, where she went through the drawers, then tackled the dresser. Her parents and the police had searched the room after the murder, so it was ridiculous to think she’d find anything now. But she felt the need to do something. After looking in all the obvious places, she found herself slowing down, studying the photos, reading the birthday cards and progress reports.
For the first time, Lauren was starting to remember the good years they’d had together. Abby had been far more than just a tragic victim.
Lauren pulled a yearbook off the shelf and flipped it open. The first few pages were completely blank, which surprised her. Where were all the notes from Abby’s friends? Then she realized the yearbook had come out after Abby died. This yearbook was the one that Abby had most looked forward to seeing, because she’d spent all year working as a yearbook staff photographer.
As Lauren skimmed through the book, she wondered which photos Abby had taken. There weren’t any credits and she knew her sister had taken hundreds of shots at every event, hoping one or two might make the cut.
Hundreds of photos . . . The thought teased at her mind. Abby and the two other staff photographers had loved catching people in candid, often embarrassing moments. It was high school, so the more humiliating the photo, the more fun it was.
Where had all those photos ended up? They would tell the story of the last year of Abby’s life. If Abby had had a secret, a boyfriend no one knew about, was it possible she’d captured him on film? The police might have looked through the yearbooks, but would they have looked through every picture that had been taken?
She’d go down to the school tomorrow and find out if there were any photo archives. It was a long shot, but Mark Devlin’s comments had rattled her, and Lisa’s explanations had given her even more to think about.
She turned to the junior class section and ran down the class photos until she reached Jason Marlow. His face rang a distant bell. He was definitely attractive, with light brown wavy hair, brown eyes, and a flirty smile. Her sister might have had a crush on him, and he was still in town. Perhaps she should pay him a visit, as well. She’d been a fool to think she could come home to so much unfinished business and not want to finish it.
She closed the yearbook and rolled her neck, trying to ease her tight muscles. It was getting late; maybe she’d spend one more night on the couch. There was only so much of the past she could take.
She left the room, shutting the door. The opera music had stopped, and she heard her father bustling around in the kitchen.
When she entered the room, she was stunned by the mess. Her father stood at the stove, whipping eggs in a frying pan. There were bowls all over the counter as well as milk, eggs, flour, and butter. Pieces of bread were sticking out of the toaster. A pot of water was boiling over. Her dad moved to the sink, took out a glass, filled it with water, then put it back in the cupboard.
“Dad, what are you doing?” she asked.
“It’s time for dinner. I’m hungry.”
“We ate two hours ago. I made you halibut.”
Her father laughed. “You haven’t made me fish in years. I bet you don’t even remember how.”
“I made it tonight,” she reminded him. “You said you liked it.”
“How do you want your eggs? Sunny side up or scrambled?” He moved back to the stove and started to whip the eggs. “Do you know the trick to the best scrambled eggs?”
“What’s that?”
“Water, not milk.” He set down the whisk and walked out of the room. She waited a second, then finished scrambling the eggs. When he didn’t return, she turned off the burners and went searching for him. He was in his bedroom and had put on his pajamas. He was fiddling with the TV channels.
“Dad, aren’t you going to eat your eggs?” she asked, feeling a heavy weight in her heart.
He looked at her in confusion. “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?” He jumped to his feet and backed toward the far wall, his eyes growing wide with fear.
“I’m Lauren, your daughter.”
“Lauren doesn’t live here anymore. She hates me. She won’t come home.”
“Dad, it’s me. I’m Lauren,” she repeated, desperate to bring him back from wherever he’d gone.
“Go away. Get out. I’ll call the police.”
It was clear that he had no idea who she was. He was scared of her, and she was terrified by what was happening to him. “Dad,” she said. “Please, try to focus on my face. I need you to remember who I am. I’m your daughter, Lauren. I’ve come home to take care of you.”
Her father looked at her for a long moment. He blinked his eyes rapidly and pressed his hand to his temple, as if he had a terrible headache.
“Dad? Are you all right? Do you want me to call the doctor?”
“Doctor,” he echoed. “What—what are you talking about, sweetheart? What are you doing in here? Did you need something? I was just about to go to bed.”
Did “sweetheart” mean her, Abby, her mother? Who the hell knew? Frustrated tears welled in her eyes.
“Lauren?” he questioned.
The reality of his condition hit her hard. Despite his clear, lucid moments, he was slipping away from her. Someday he wouldn’t come back. Someday he wouldn’t know who she was. Someday she’d lose him forever.
She’d told herself for years that she didn’t need a father. She’d stopped crying when he didn’t call on her birthday or on Christmas, pretending it was fine. But he’d always been alive and well; she could go see him if she really wanted to. But now he was disappearing right in front of her, and it was the most frightening thing she’d ever seen.
“Turn off the light when you go, Lauren,” her father said as he got into bed. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
She watched him settle into the pillows, then she hit the light switch and c
losed his door.
She walked into the kitchen and picked up the frying pan, dumped the eggs into the trash. She put the milk, butter, and remaining eggs back in the fridge. Looking around, she saw not just the mess in the kitchen, but the mess in her life. Her well-controlled existence was in complete chaos, and she had no idea how to fix any of it.
She couldn’t stay in this house. She needed air. She needed to walk off the adrenaline coursing through her body. She needed—something.
Grabbing her coat off the rack, she headed out the back door.
Shane had spent so much time on the water in the past ten years that he’d become accustomed to the roll of the waves under his feet, the slap of water against the boat, the smell of salt in the air, and the moonlight dancing off the ocean. He sat down in a deck chair and opened up a beer, propping his feet on the rail of his boat. He could see Ned Jamison’s boat, dark and empty. Had Lauren managed to convince her father to leave town yet?
He drank his beer, enjoying the cool slide of the liquid down his throat. Lauren had been on his mind all day. Had she gone to the police and told them that he’d broken into the law offices the night Abby was killed? He didn’t know why he’d told her that after keeping it a secret for so many years. Maybe it was the sadness in her blue eyes when she spoke of Abby, or the fear he’d heard in her voice when she wondered if he and Abby had hooked up. Maybe it was just that he’d wanted to tell her.
He’d always wanted to tell her—not just about that, but about everything that had led to that moment. He’d made a promise, though, and too many people would be hurt. There was nothing to be gained by confessing now. It was too late to take back the pain he’d given her. It wouldn’t change anything.
At the sound of footsteps, he looked up. For a moment he thought it was Lauren, but then he realized the woman walking down the dock was his mother. He jumped to his feet. Moira Murray never came to the marina. She was usually found at home, the quilt shop, or chatting with her friends at Dina’s Café. Her red hair gleamed under the light, and she gave him a nervous smile as she asked if she could come aboard.
He offered her a hand, and she got on with a nimble step. Sixty-three years old, she still had the beauty, energy, and athleticism of a much younger woman. Moira had always been a driving force in their family. She ran everything: her husband, her five kids, her home, and whatever else she was involved in. Most people had a great deal of respect for her. Not everyone knew her as well as he did.
Since he’d returned to Angel’s Bay, they’d shared only conversations in the earshot of others in the family, and that’s the way he preferred it. His mother and he shared a history that was not for public consumption.
Moira sat down on the bench. “I went to your sister’s baby shower today.”
“Oh?” He resumed his seat. Maybe this visit had to do with Kara. He could handle that.
“Lauren Jamison was there.”
He stiffened.
“She got into a heated discussion with Lisa Delaney about Abby’s death. Lisa said some very negative things about you.”
He shrugged. “She’s not the first, and I doubt she’ll be the last.”
His mother’s lips drew into a tight line, a battle raging in her eyes. Whatever she wanted to say wasn’t coming easy, which made him sure he didn’t want to hear it.
“Lauren stood up for you,” his mother said finally. “She told everyone in the room that you were innocent, that you didn’t kill her sister—but as far as I’m concerned, it’s too little, too late. She should have stood by you in the beginning.”
“She was seventeen years old. Her sister was dead. She was shattered.”
“And she was willing to let you go to prison. Don’t forget that. Just because she’s standing up for you now doesn’t mean she won’t throw you to the wolves again, especially if this movie gets going.” Moira got to her feet. “I’m worried, Shane. Questions are being asked. Suspects are being lined up. I don’t know where it’s going, but I don’t think it will end well, and I’m afraid for you.”
“I didn’t kill Abby. Mark Devlin can’t prove that I did.”
“He can make his case. It will be hard on you.”
“Don’t you mean it will be hard on you?” he asked cynically.
She ignored that. “Maybe you should leave for a while. If you’re here you’ll be questioned again. I don’t want anyone to twist your words. Just think about it. I have to get back before your father realizes I’m gone.”
“You didn’t tell him you were coming here?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.
“He wouldn’t want you to leave. But I’m looking out for the family, the way I’ve always done.”
His mother had never looked out for him, and he was damn tired of being her partner in crime. “I told Lauren that Abby let me into the law offices that night,” he said abruptly.
Shock whitened her face. “Oh, Shane, how could you?”
“Lauren thought I was involved with Abby, and that we’d betrayed her. She didn’t deserve to live with that for the rest of her life.”
“Did you tell her why you went there?”
“No.”
“She’ll keep asking now that she knows this much. You need to go, Shane. Pull up the anchor and sail out of this harbor, and don’t come back until everyone is gone. I know you think that I’m worried about myself, but that’s not true. Kara’s husband is in a coma—don’t we have enough to deal with? Promise me you won’t say anything else to Lauren.”
He remained silent.
“Shane? ”
“I don’t know.”
She flashed him a disappointed look. “You’re not thinking about getting back together with Lauren, are you? She told everyone at the shower that she’s not staying here. You can’t go back in time. You can’t re-create what you had.”
“You should get home. Dad is probably wondering where you are.”
“Fine. I’ll go.” She rose, then paused. “I hurt you, Shane. It was never my intention. Things just spun out of control.”
“I know. I was just collateral damage,” he said pragmatically.
“You were much more than that. You were my son, and I loved you. I still do.” She drew in a deep breath. “Good night, Shane.”
He raised the beer to his lips and drained it. She hadn’t told him she loved him in years, and was no doubt playing that card to keep him quiet.
Love—a ridiculous ideal that no one could ever live up to, an illusion that people were fools to believe in. He’d learned that a long time ago.
For a while he’d had the crazy thought that he could beat the odds, that things might be different with Lauren. But he’d crashed and burned that relationship. Like mother, like son. Her lies had become his—and there was no changing that.
ELEVEN
Lauren knew she’d end up down on the docks where Shane’s boat was moored. It was almost eleven, far too late to claim she was just passing by. She couldn’t even say she was looking for her father. She was still trying to think of a good excuse when Shane came up the stairs from below deck and saw her. He was barefoot, wearing jeans and a plaid shirt with the top two buttons undone. Butterflies danced in her stomach.
Shane stiffened. “What do you want?”
He did not look happy to see her, and a sudden thought occurred to her. Shane might have a woman in his cabin—talk about embarrassing. “I shouldn’t have come,” she said hastily.
“Probably not, but you’re here.”
“Are you alone?”
“At the moment.”
“Are you expecting someone?”
“Lauren, get on board or go home.”
She hesitated another second, then climbed aboard. “I wasn’t sure if you were living on this boat or staying at your parents’ house. Or maybe you have your own place?”
“I live here.”
“You’ve always felt more comfortable on water than on land, haven’t you?”
He crossed hi
s arms. “Why are you here, Lauren? You didn’t come to chat about my living conditions.”
It had been years since she’d run to him for anything, years since he’d been close enough to run to. Yet here she was. “I need a friend.”
“A friend?” he echoed in surprise. “And you came here?”
“You were once the best friend I ever had.”
“All right. I can be a friend, I guess,” he said somewhat grimly. “What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing is going the way I planned—my father, the movie—I don’t know how to fix things.”
“Who said you had to be the fixer?”
“There isn’t anyone else. I made dinner for my dad tonight, and he was normal. We talked, connecting in a way that we hadn’t done in a long time. I thought everything might work out—I could just get him some help to come in during the day. Then two hours later, he was back in the kitchen making eggs and saying that he hadn’t eaten. He looked right at me, and he didn’t know me. He put up his hand as if I was going to hit him. I’d never seen such fear on his face.” She shook her head in despair. “I’ve been kidding myself, Shane. My father is going to need real help. He’s slipping away, and I don’t know what to do. Tell me what to do.”
He ran a hand through his hair, his expression troubled. “I don’t know, Lauren. I don’t think anyone does.”
“I can’t move back here, it’s not home anymore. I keep telling everyone that, but no one believes me.”
“Maybe you’re the one who can’t believe it.”
“There’s too much pain, too much sadness for me in this town. Everywhere I look there’s a memory. In San Francisco, I don’t see Abby in store windows or skipping down the street. I don’t see you—or anyone else.” She’d almost admitted that some of her memories involved him.
“That would change with time. You once loved Angel’s Bay, Lauren. You used to get up every morning at five to work at Martha’s Bakery. I’d pick you up to give you a ride to school, and you’d have flour on your face, along with the happiest smile I’d ever seen.”
On Shadow Beach Page 13
