“Dad,” she had said. “Don’t. Talking will just make it all worse. I have to go; I told Isabel I’d meet her.” And she’d run out the door.
Now, on her mother’s birthday, she stood in Mathilda’s living room, looking at him with sad eyes.
“That scar,” he said, pointing, “looks better.”
“I call itMemory of Moonlight,” she said.
“Maybe it’s better you just forget it.”
“Forgotten Moonlight?” she asked. “Don’t you think that’s impossible, considering what I did?”
“I suppose it would be.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell Mom?”
“Because I wanted to protect you.”
“She would have been mad.”
“You taking the painting off the wall, putting it in the hall closet. Didn’t you think you might trigger her? Make her relive that earlier time? Didn’t you think it would hurt her?”
Sam stared at the small white scar. “I bled on it too. I didn’t mean to do that. I felt horrible. The painting’s so valuable.”
“It was just a tiny smudge on the back of the canvas,” he said. “And the painting’s value is nothing compared to you, Sam. You’re who we love, who matters, not some piece of art.” He swallowed. Had she come in here to confess something else about the painting? He knew the police had found the canvas rolled up in the gallery basement, the back scrawled with a blood heart. “Honey, did you take it this time too?”
“No, I swear,” she said, shaking her head hard.
“Okay, I believe you. But why did you do it before?”
“Because everything was falling apart,” Sam said in a low voice, not meeting Pete’s eyes. “I wanted you to think someone broke into our house, so you’d pay attention. So you’d stay home. We’re a family.”
She walked toward him then, banged right into his chest and let him hold her while she cried, rock her while she said, “I’m sorry; I’m so sorry I hid the painting. I want her back, Dad. I want you to be together—I want us all to be together.”
“I want that too,” he whispered. More than he had meant anything in his life, he meant that, which was why when Sam tilted her head back and asked her question, it cut him like a knife.
“Dad, you have to tell me. Promise me you’ll tell me the truth. Did you kill her? Did you kill Mom?”
56
The sky was white, and snow was intermittent. Scotty’s cheeks stung from the cold, and Kate’s were bright red. She watched Lulu stomping her feet to keep them from freezing. Scotty bundled both Isabel and Julie close to her. Everyone faced the house.
“She must have gone inside,” Lulu said.
“To talk to her father?” Scotty asked, giving an exaggerated shiver. “Let’s get her out of there, away from him, and go warm up somewhere.” She hoped it would be someplace with a full bar. Surely drinks all around would be welcome—they could toast Beth for her birthday.
“I’ll go get Sam,” Isabel said, striding away toward the front door. Julie trailed after her.
“Girls!” Scotty called.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Lulu said, grabbing her arm. “Pete’s not going to do anything, and Sam will be more likely to come with Isabel than a bunch of ancient aunties.”
Scotty instinctively recoiled from Lulu’s touch. It was something about the pointed look in Lulu’s eyes, as if she were staring into Scotty’s soul, trying to put the puzzle pieces together, or possibly wanting to rewrite her own history, wiping out the parts that Scotty knew. She glanced at Kate, who seemed not to notice the interaction.
“What’s your problem?” Scotty asked.
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Lulu said.
“You’ve been acting weird toward me,” Scotty said.
