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“Yes.” The light changed, and he let go of her to ease the car forward. “But as you’ll recall, she supported your decision. Practically the only one who did. If she was afraid of what might come up, she would have shot down your idea.”
She thought about that for a moment. “At the point she spoke up, I’d been discussing memorials and benches and fountains. Not reviewing the archives for a video about his time at St. Andrew’s.”
“Trust me, she still would have found a way to end the whole thing if she’d been the least bit concerned. You don’t know my mother.”
Trust him? Not likely. “Did you tell her anything about the box that was delivered to me? About the letters?”
He was quiet.
Her anger simmered into fury. “I’ll take that as a yes. So, she knew I’d recently come into possession of those letters. And she needed to get rid of them to protect her secret.”
“My mother is a lot of things, but she’s not a cold-blooded killer. She didn’t kill Mr. Williams. I know this. You have to trust me.”
Silence reigned between them for two stop signals.
She clenched her jaw. “Okay, let’s say I go along with you, hypothetically. Then what about your father? Could he have discovered the affair? Maybe he found out his wife was screwing around with his son’s soccer coach and—”
“He’s dead now, Allie.”
Her head was beginning to pound, and she really regretted not taking a couple of Tylenol before they left. She couldn’t think clearly. “We should just tell the police everything we know and let them sift through it. We’re both too close to everything about this to be impartial. If your parents are innocent, the police will figure that out with time—”
“Time isn’t something my mother has in large supply. She’s sick.” He looked straight ahead through the windshield. She’d been so caught up in their conversation, she hadn’t realized they’d reached the school. They were parked next to her car.
She suddenly remembered Tiffany asking about his mother’s health. And also how thin and pale the normally stately Mrs. Fratto had looked at the planning meeting. Her anger slowly deflated. Ah, crap.
“What’s wrong with her?” she asked him, softer now.
“Stage three breast cancer. She had a double mastectomy a few weeks ago, which was when she finally told me what was going on.” He took a deep breath. “That’s why I’m here. She’s gone through radiation, has a few more rounds of chemo left.” He turned to Allie, imploring her with his dark gaze. “If you tell the police my mother wrote the letters, she’ll be a suspect. When the details of the police investigation becomes public knowledge, she’ll also be exposed as an adulterer. Even if the police end up concluding that she and my father were innocent, the stress of interrogation and the public humiliation could, quite literally, kill her.”
She noted the shadows again under his suddenly shiny eyes. She understood now the stress and pressure he’d been under. Her heart ached for him. “So…what are you asking me?”
“I will find out who’s behind this murder. I promise. Because I have to. I’m not letting my mom—or dad—be accused of killing her lover. Or letting their memories be tainted by suspicion.”
“Sam—”
“I just need a little more time. Maybe if I talk to Tiffany again, she’ll tell me what we need. Give us some leads. A week, Allie. That’s all I’m asking for. If I can’t turn anything up in a week, we’ll both go to the police with everything we know.”
She didn’t know what to think or even what she knew anymore. She didn’t know the Frattos. Didn’t know what Elizabeth Fratto was capable of. How important was her social status and the respect it gave her in the community? What would she have done to save herself from a fall? To save her name and her family from scandal?
But this was Sam. And he was pleading with her.
Who could she trust?
Especially when the one person whose reputation and integrity she once would have bet anything on wasn’t who she thought? She’d been doing all of this to honor Mr. Williams and his memory. And for what?
Damn, she needed that Tylenol.
Finally, she nodded. It wasn’t like they actually knew who the killer was, or had hard evidence. Everything was just supposition. “Okay. You have a week. But if anything else happens, all bets are off.”
…
The thunder overhead filled Allie with dread as she tried to focus on her book, rereading the same passage a fourth time. After the game, the weather had deteriorated. It was now after dark, and it was pouring rain again. And it didn’t look as though it would improve any by tomorrow—which left her with the realization that tomorrow she would be hosting a barbecue with thirty people crammed into her tiny home. She briefly considering canceling, but knew her daughter would be brokenhearted. Allie had no other choice. She’d have to deal with the crush of people.
She felt like she was in a holding pattern. Waiting for things to happen. The rain to stop. Meredith to approve her video. For Sam and her to find the killer.
She gave a silent groan. Why was she doing all of this again?
A knock on her door nearly sent the book flying out of her hands. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Normally, she’d go to the window and peer out. But with the rain, it was extra dark outside, and with the inside light on, she’d be exposed to…whoever was out there. She crept to the front door instead and stood on tiptoes to look through the peep hole.
