WILL’S FATHER DROVE him ten minutes north of Poughkeepsie for lunch.
Douglas pored over each wordy dish on the menu like there’d be a pop quiz later. For his part, Will didn’t know whether it would be ruder to ask the waitress to hold the truffle spread on the grilled cheese or to go with the macaroni and try to substitute cheddar for Gruyère.
After Douglas ordered braised short ribs and iced tea, Will felt his shoulders relax. He’d been worried that his dad was going to order scotch.
At the table beside them, a waiter was reading the specials with the gusto of a celebrity chef. Watching him, Will’s father leaned back in his chair. “Sometimes I wish I’d gone to culinary school,” Douglas said. “I love food. There’s just not much point in making it anymore. Your mother’s such a superior cook.”
Will didn’t know what to say. He tried to imagine his father whipping up dishes instead of computer code. He’d never seen him so much as boil an egg.
On second thought, Will seemed to remember, years ago, his father going on an ice-cream-making kick. One summer, before Rose left, Douglas had made giant batches of challenging flavors—white wine sorbet and jalapeño gelato. But in mid-August, his beloved ice cream maker accidentally found its way into the display at a Hurst family yard sale. If Will remembered right, it was sold for fifteen dollars and was never replaced.
“You know, we met in a kitchen.” Douglas looked down at his stemmed water glass. He started spinning the liquid into a fury the way Will often saw him swish and whirlpool red wine.
“You and Mom?”
His father nodded. “We both had jobs at the same steakhouse. We were working our way through school. My mom had just died. Jo’s mom had thrown her out.” Douglas cast a sad look at the plate of heart-shaped garlic butter. “When I met your mother, she was so flirtatious, so enthusiastic. She was a waitress, I was a busboy. She wore this red lipstick; you never saw her without it. She used to be a nude model for life drawing at her art college.”
“You took life drawing?”
“No, she told me about it.”
His father was opening up—this was rare—so Will didn’t want to break the spell by letting on that his mother had also told him about her modeling before. Perhaps other mothers would conceal the fact that they had once sprawled naked before a wolf circle of strangers, but Will’s mom was unique. Josephine had said it was a powerful thing, having all those eyes on her. It was a chance to “show her stuff” without being sexual. Even then, she said, she was being an educator—teaching one-day Raphaels about the human form.
“So you were boyfriend and girlfriend when you worked at the restaurant?” It occurred to Will that any inside scoops about his parents’ romantic life could be helpful to his investigation.
Douglas sighed. “It took at least six months to convince your mother to go out with me. She didn’t say yes until her boyfriend broke up with her. Clyde.” The face he made told Will he would still murder Clyde if given the chance. “Your mother was devastated. I found her crying in the walk-in refrigerator one day, and she told me all about how this guy had just packed up and told her she’d changed. And I said, ‘No, Jo. You haven’t changed. That guy just didn’t know you, that’s all.’ We were so young. Now that I’m older, I think both things can be simultaneously true.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dad.”
“No one changes quicker than a person you never knew to begin with.” His eyes dropped to the napkin in his lap. His voice sounded sad, but his expression said he lacked energy to carry the emotion through.
Will nodded like he had a vague idea what Douglas meant. He didn’t. In fact, the whole conversation made him feel off-kilter.
Will’s father rarely waxed philosophical. And he certainly never did it without a supersized bottle of wine at hand. For a second it occurred to Will that his father might have been drinking at work, but then Douglas didn’t have any of the other telltale signs. No red cheeks, no hairline sweat.
Will acted interested. A spy’s acting skills were his number one weapon. “So you cooked in the restaurant?”
“Only for a little while. I had just been promoted to line and prep cook when I quit. I used to love making soup. You can always tell how much work someone’s put into a good soup. You have to use bone stock. Gives it depth of flavor. My potato leek soup was like nothing you’ve ever tasted.”
“Why’d you stop working there?”
“The manager had some kind of problem with your mother. When he fired her, I left too.”
Douglas remained lost in thought as the waiter set the plates down with fussy precision.
Will had a flash of his mother as a big-eyed, leggy waitress with a tinkling laugh and a clever comeback for everything. His dad was a fool to think he’d find anyone—Carrie included—who was better than her. Carrie was a nupson. Carrie was a nothington.
“I’m glad I decided on grilled cheese,” Will said. In his few days of wearing a hand splint, he’d gotten better at manipulating a fork with his left hand. But he still wasn’t good. He wasn’t restaurant-ready.
His father was salting his food before tasting it—a nervous tic. “Oh yeah?” he said, trancelike. “Good, is it?”
“I meant I only need one hand to eat it.”
Douglas looked up from his side of butternut squash. “Oh,” he said with a small exhale. “Oh of course, your hand. I keep forgetting how disruptive that must be.”
To Will, his hand splint had become a near-constant reminder about the upcoming meeting with Trina. It was less than two days away. Somewhere, in the farthest recesses of his mind, a digital clock was counting those fifty hours down to the half second.
But instead of mentioning this to Douglas, Will continued: “I’m glad I only have to wear the splint for a couple more weeks. It makes my hand look like the metal claw in one of those arcade games.”
“I used to try to teach Rose how to beat those games. Skill has nothing to do with it, you know.” Typical Douglas, cutting straight to diversion. Straight to science. “The machines are programmed to allow someone to win every number of games. You just have to watch for a while, and count the number of losers in between two winners. But Rose never had the patience for it.”
“Maybe she wanted to earn her prize.”
“Maybe. Or maybe Rose was just used to being showered with the things she wanted. No work required. You know Rose.”
No, Will thought. He wasn’t entirely sure he knew Rose. There was a ten-year age difference between him and his oldest sister. If the Hurst family was like a troupe of actors, then, in her time, Rose had been the star. The rest of the family hushed in respect when Rose entered a room. They stole glances. They followed her cues and avoided troubling her with mundane questions like, how was she feeling and what was new in her life? But no matter how much they paid attention, who Rose was on the inside remained a mystery.
Since they were already talking about Rose, Will decided to begin his interrogation in earnest. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the authority of a bona fide cop. Will was going to have to use the fact that someone had already talked. That was what investigators were always doing on TV police shows.
Will put down his sandwich. “The night I got hurt, Violet said Rose was there.”
Douglas’s head jerked back slightly. He stopped chewing.
“Don’t you remember?” Will continued. When it came to controlling his emotions, Douglas was a Jedi. Will thought his dad looked taken aback but wouldn’t bet his life on it. He was going to have to apply some pressure, hint at Douglas’s drinking. “I mean, I know it was after work and you were groggy—”
“Will, Violet wasn’t in her right frame of mind. She’d taken drugs. You’re old enough to know that. She took the kind of dangerous, illegal drugs that make people imagine things. Some people see snakes or flying monkeys. Violet thought she saw Rose.”
A tingle ran up the back of Will’s arms. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done something to upset his dad. In truth, he’d never really thought it was possible.
Douglas flexed his jaw. The flicker in his eyes was almost anger. His gray eyes looked hard and dark as asphalt; they pinned Will to the curlicued back of his café chair. “Rose had nothing to do with that night, Will. And I won’t let you or anyone else try to bring her into this. I won’t stand by and let her become a convenient scapegoat. Are we clear, here? Are we? I need an answer.” Will nodded, his eyes downcast. “Excellent. Now excuse me while I make a phone call.” Douglas’s water glass jittered as he slammed down his fisted napkin. He strode out the restaurant door, bumping into people as he dialed his cell phone.
“How is everything?” the waiter asked with impeccable timing.
“Exceptional,” Will said, because it was the kind of answer his mother usually gave.
“Well … great.” The waiter looked a little stunned. Will had a talent for bringing out the awkward in people. His mother told him it was because people found his intellect intimidating.
Through the window, Will could see his father pacing the parking lot. His collar was turned up against the wet wind and his phone was pressed to his head, cowlicking the hair above his ear. Whoever was on the other end of the line seemed to be doing a decent job of calming him down. Douglas’s shoulders had slumped back, and he seemed to be primarily listening, opening his mouth only to make short, desperate blurts that could be either questions or complaints.
Will touched his splinted hand. Carrie or not, he knew, just knew, in his Gruyère-filled guts, that his father was protecting Rose. Rose was the one person who could hurt Will’s mother, and thus him, the most.