ANNASOPHIA
Sympathy rolls off Satish like raindrops off glass. My legs, tucked under my hips, spasm. It takes all my willpower to stay in the wing chair. I imagine jumping up and putting my arms around his neck and melting into him until the dread stops gnawing my insides.
“What have you decided about telling the kids?” He studies me as if I might break. “What can I do?”
“Do I sound like an idiot if I say I don’t know?” The sun glares off the turquoise water in the pool and brings another of those snapshots of Maverick toe-walking the perimeter in the moonlight. My stomach rolls.
That poor young man. In the wrong place … I close my eyes. Jennifer, in the wrong …
Heart thudding, my eyes snap open. “Do you have contacts in San Francisco? Anyone who can give you details about Jennifer’s hit-and-run?”
His eyebrows come together, but he says, “Let me make a few calls.”
*****
The melancholy in Benazir Patel’s navy-blue eyes gives her a luminescence that reminds me of my mother. Jennifer can’t be the cause of her sadness so the source must be regrets for the mess she fell into. She must regret volunteering to care for two kids now infatuated with her.
My lips contract. Muscles refuse to lift in a faux smile.
Anastaysa and Magnus talk over each other, their cheeks red, eyes bright. They clutch Benazir’s hands as if she’s their grandmother—her sumptuous sari and shiny black hair a contrast with their shorts and tees. They hang on her every word and movement. Dry-mouthed, I swallow, feeling awkward. Tongue-tied. Incapable of bringing up the news conference. Paralyzed by the thought of Jennifer.
Benazir drops her chin and points to a spot in the middle of her chest. “My double-dip cone turned on me. May I bother you for a damp cloth?”
Anastaysa releases her hand, darts for the kitchen, and orders Magnus to get a towel from the hall bath. “A clean one,” she adds over her shoulder.
“Thank you,” Benazir calls, then says under her breath, “I hope Satish told you I’m glad to stay through the news conference—if you’re comfortable—”
“Yes. Please.” She doesn’t even know Jennifer. Tears clog my throat. “Thank you.”
Anastaysa returns. “Mamá, you look funny with your mouth open.”
Benazir takes the cloth, dabs an invisible ice-cream spot, and lies with the polish of an adept liar. “I offered to make dinner tonight and caught your mother by surprise.”
“I’m a great sous chef,” Anastaysa says. “What can I do? Using spices—”
“Hold on, honey,” I interrupt before Anastaysa becomes rapturous. “Mrs. Patel, if you’re sure staying isn’t an inconvenience.”
Inconvenience? I bite the inside of my jaw. Do I have to be more stupid than necessary?
Mimicking a gesture I’ve seen scores of teen-age girls use, Anastaysa holds her hands under her chin as if praying.
“My pleasure.” Benazir accepts the hand towel from Magnus and smiles at all of us. “I’m happy to help.”
We stand there smiling as if we’ve orchestrated world peace. From across the room, Satish holds his phone away from his ear, raises his wrist, taps his watch. Pain slices my lungs. Praying Rachel Hamilton’s theories about telling the truth work outside her office, I heard everyone except Satish toward the sofa and pick up the TV remote.
“The police are going on the noon news about Maverick O’Rourke,” I say. “Remember I told you about him?”
Anastaysa nods. Magnus shakes his head.
“The boy killed after he left our house.” Thanks to Benazir Patel, I suspect, Anastaysa speaks with the barest hint of impatience. Her father declared she was too emotional. Too passionate. Too irrational. Now, she sounds distant. Cold. Detached.
That whispery hint drops over my head and tightens around my neck like a noose, but I add, “The boy in Alexandra’s bed.”
Magnus’s eyes widen. “Will they say that on TV?”
Anastaysa makes a noise—like a volcano ready to erupt. She snaps, “Of course they will. People love dirt.”
My chest constricts. I clench my hands at my sides but hold her gaze. “Not all people. Not the people who care about us.”