“That isn’t fair, Emma,” Dad said. “It isn’t insensitive or selfish to treat an old guy like me like he’s got something worthwhile to say.”
“No, no. Mom’s right,” I said.
My mom nearly dropped the glasses she was carrying. “Really?” she said.
“Yes, and I’m sorry.”
I picked up the two serving trays and brought them into the kitchen, following my mother. My dad started to get up, too, but I told him to stay where he was. “You’ve got to rest that leg,” I said.
“That’s a load of bull.” He struggled to get up, his bodytrembling. Slowly, he eased back into his chair. He gave me a sad smile. “Hey, who am I to argue with the smartest detective I know?” It broke my heart a little.
“Be right back,” I said.
Cody stayed where he was, his entire being absorbed in his iPhone screen. Bombs could have gone off, he wouldn’t have budged. I grabbed the remaining glasses from the table, set them on top of the two trays, and brought them into the kitchen. Elizabeth was sitting on a counter stool, reapplying her makeup. My mother was supervising the housekeeper, Donna, as she loaded the dishwasher.
When I placed the trays and glasses on the counter, my mother stopped and turned to me. “I’m sorry I was harsh with you, Sunny, but I worry about your father,” she said. “He’s so good at taking care of everyone but himself.”
“I get it, Mom.”
She gave my arm a quick squeeze. It wasn’t lost on me that she’d called me Sunny, a nickname I knew she personally loathed. Just like my father, she was changing with age. There was a softness to her now, an awareness and vulnerability that I didn’t want to think too hard about.
When I left the kitchen, my dad was on his feet.
“Dad. You should be resting.”
He ignored the comment. “You know what we would have done,” he said. “We’d have talked to the family of the fugitive. Or maybe the significant other. Someone they cared about. Put them on the five o’clock news.”
I looked at him. “Get them to make a direct appeal.”
“That’s right,” he said. “Thinking about what the equivalent of that would be now, if you got Melanie Joan to make a video and post it on YouTube. Just like that other author did.”
“Leila Donnelly.”
“Yep,” he said, “only it would be an apology. If she wants Book Babe to come forward, Melanie Joan would really have to humble herself.”
I snorted. “That’s a tall order.”
“I know. I’ve met her.”
“She was rather sweet on you, if I recall.”
Dad laughed. I laughed, too. When it came to women who were handfuls, Phil Randall was catnip and he knew it. He leaned on his cane and winced. I told him again that he should sit down.
“You wanna do me a favor?” he said.
“Anything.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“That’s an impossible request.”
“Like asking Melanie Joan to humble herself?”
“Just like that.”
Elizabeth left the kitchen and made her way over to Cody. She sat in his lap. He didn’t look up from his phone. “Isn’t he wonderful, Sonya?” she said.
And then my phone rang. I’d never been so happy to take a call. I didn’t check the screen. For all I cared, it could have been a scammer or a heavy breather. (Did people heavy-breathe into phones anymore?) But when I heard Desmond Burke’s Irish lilt, I was doubly glad to have answered.
