Livia Lone (Livia Lone #1)(83)

The dog growled again. MacKinnon did nothing to calm it. Livia looked in its eyes. You want to try me? she thought. Come on, then. Let’s see who’s faster. And who has sharper claws.

MacKinnon glanced at the dog. “Easy, girl,” she said. “Easy.”

Livia wasn’t sure which of them she was talking to. She didn’t care. After all she had endured at the hands of MacKinnon’s brother, the notion that the woman would feign ignorance was enraging. “So don’t tell me you don’t know what I mean,” she went on. “You know exactly what I mean. I want to know what happened to you. And to your sister, Ophelia.”

By the time she was done speaking, MacKinnon had lost so much color that Livia thought the woman might pass out. She seemed to wobble for a moment, then righted herself. “Won’t you please sit,” she said, gesturing to the kitchen. “I’ll make some tea. And we’ll . . . we’ll talk.”

Livia sat at a wooden table next to another enormous window overlooking the bay, making sure the handle of the Vaari protruded just slightly from her pocket so she could reach it instantly if she needed to. MacKinnon filled a kettle and put it on the restaurant-style stove. Livia glanced around, taking in the fine cabinets, the high-end appliances. It looked like law had been good to William MacKinnon. Or maybe his wife had built a career, too. Although somehow, Livia doubted it. She felt she was looking at someone who had built a home instead.

Or rather, rebuilt one.

“Green tea?” MacKinnon asked. “I drink jasmine myself, but we have several.”

“Jasmine’s fine. Thank you.”

“Honey?”

Livia wanted to shout, Enough with the stupid formalities, tell me what I want to know!

But she’d interrogated enough suspects, and cajoled enough reluctant witnesses, to understand the value of respect. And patience. This woman was about to discuss matters she had prayed for close to half a century would never catch up to her. She was collecting herself, bracing herself, and it would be foolish not to allow her time to do it.

“Honey would be lovely. Thank you.”

MacKinnon led the dog to another room and closed the door, and Livia had the strangest sense the woman didn’t want it to hear what she might say. Whatever the reason, she was glad it was gone for the time being.

Then the water had to be poured, the tea had to steep, the honey had to be stirred in. And Livia had to take a sip, and acknowledge that it was delicious, thank you. And then she waited again, letting the silence do its job.

MacKinnon took a sip of tea, then set the cup back on the saucer. Livia waited. It was so quiet she could hear the hum of the refrigerator.

MacKinnon put her hands on the table and looked at them. “My father was a monster,” she said quietly.

Livia didn’t speak, or even move. She did nothing except wait.

“He . . .” There was a pause. MacKinnon was still looking down, and Livia couldn’t see her face. But she sensed the woman was crying.

“He . . .” She exhaled sharply, then looked at Livia, her eyes glistening. “Please don’t make me talk about this. Please.”

The woman’s expression was so dignified, and her pain so poignant, that Livia might have felt compassion for her. And maybe she did feel something. But she pushed it away. This woman was the key to Nason. And that’s all that mattered.

“I had a sister,” Livia said evenly. “Her name was Nason. Sixteen years ago, she went missing. I’ve been searching for her ever since. What you know could help me find her. So please. Go on.”

MacKinnon took a deep breath and let it out. She adjusted herself in the chair. “My father. He believed . . . daughters belong to their fathers. Do you understand?”

Sometimes, euphemisms and other vague references could help a reluctant victim give a statement. This time, Livia sensed brutal truth would be the better tool. “Your father believed fathers should be able to f*ck their daughters.”

MacKinnon winced. “He believed a daughter’s body was her father’s right. Until she was married, when her body would belong to her husband. And he believed . . . that brothers, also . . .”

“He believed brothers should be able to f*ck their sisters.”

MacKinnon sobbed. “Please don’t make me talk about this,” she whispered.

“Your father. Your brothers. They were abusing Ophelia, weren’t they?”

MacKinnon got up and tore off a length of paper towels from a rack on the counter. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, wadded up the towel, and threw it into a garbage container under the sink. Then she grabbed another length and came back to the table.

“My father started abusing Ophelia when she was thirteen.”

She paused for a moment, as though collecting herself.

“Your mother?” Livia said, already knowing the answer from having worked too many cases of fathers raping their daughters and stepdaughters.

MacKinnon shook her head. “She was terrified of my father. And she blamed Ophelia for what was happening.”

She paused again, then said, “When Ezra turned thirteen, my father made Ophelia service him, too. And when Fred turned thirteen, it was the same. All three of them.” Her voice cracked. “Using her. Whenever they wanted. However they liked. Her father. And her brothers.”

She wiped her eyes. “Then, when I turned thirteen, it was my turn to be put to use. And . . .”