Page 54 of Not a Word

If Gage hadn’t come along, she might have developed that talent, taken it in a different direction by attending a prestigious Toronto university that focused exclusively on art. But it wasn’t to be. Reality had a way, sometimes, of crushing ambition.

She still got out her easel and brushes occasionally, setting up in a corner of the kitchen where the light was good, but I couldn’t actually remember the last time she’d done it.

I guess what I’m saying here is, we just went along, day to day, like most people do, living our lives. And then out of the blue, you hit one of those proverbial bumps in the road that feels more like driving off a cliff.

And what of the Kennards? How was the family of Leah Kennard coping with all this? My thoughts hadn’t turned to them without prodding.

It was Diana who asked, “This woman that your father . . . What do we know about her? Was she married? Did she have children? Has her family been notified? Are they local?”

I felt a sharp pang of guilt that I’d given so little consideration to the others struck by this tragedy.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I . . . the detective didn’t have much information about her, or if she did, didn’t share it with me.”

“Did your mother know her?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Don’t you think you should know more about all this?” Diana asked.

“Last night I got the impression you thought I was letting myself get sucked in. Now you want me to stick my nose into it?”

Diana put down her coffee and leaned in over the table. “Reece,” she said, using my actual name, a sign she had something serious to say, “your father killed a woman. It’s not our fault it happened, but it doesn’t mean there might not be some blowback. Like, I don’t know, maybe her family launches a lawsuit. Or the negative publicity from this affects my work, your chances at finding a new job. What if Leah Kennard had relatives who go to Gage’s school?”

“None of those things are going to happen.”

She nodded. “I hope you’re right. All I’m saying is, your mother can be wrapped up tight. You need to pry as much information out of her as you can.”

Diana sat back, ran her finger across the screen of her iPad, and said, “I rest my case.”

“What?”

“It’s out there.”

One of the Toronto papers had a story. A short piece, quoting police about being called to a home where two people were found fatally shot. There were names, ages, a line that police did not believe there was any further threat to the neighborhood, code for a domestic.

Diana did more searching and found a one-minute news clip on CP24. I’d seen their van at the scene. And something on WorldWide’s website, again not surprising, since their team had been there too. Their item had something a little extra. The reporter said the male deceased was the father of a former WorldWide news writer, although I was not named.

“Jesus,” I said. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Diana said nothing. She didn’t have to.

It was time to go see my mother.

I headed over to the Marriott in the BMW. I considered calling first but figured Mom would tell me not to bother, and I didn’t want to have that argument. Better to show up. And if she wasn’t there, I’d see if she’d gone back to the house.

The Marriott lot wasn’t even half full. I found a parking spot not far from the main entrance and headed inside. Once I was in the lobby, and had checked the dining room to see whether she was there, I called her.

She picked up on the third ring.

“Yes?”

It was just one word, but she sounded rattled.

“I’m at the hotel,” I said. “You here?”

“Um, yes,” she said.

“I’m in the lobby. Gonna get a coffee in the dining room if you’d like to join me.”