If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1)(28)

“Lyle hasn’t stolen anything”—when that deed hit my inbox, I would prove that—“and going public before I know the fate of my marriage is not an option.”

“I don’t get protecting Lyle just because you’re afraid of gossip.” She shook her head. “Then again, maybe gossip would bother me more if I had your perfect track record.”

Perfect? I’d had plenty of disappointments, including the way the baby sister I’d adored couldn’t run far enough away from me our whole lives. Or how I always remained an outsider—with my dad and sister, my sorority, even with acquaintances like Hannah . . . and now with my own husband.

She scratched her head. “But, man, I’d be stoked if you’d give Lyle his due and move on to find something or someone better.”

I wouldn’t let Erin—whose choices rarely made sense to me—bully me into publicly shaming my husband or embarrassing my mother by prematurely involving the police.

“Like your provocateur way of life is working for you?” I raised one brow and glanced at the police station.

“‘Provocateur,’” she mimicked with a smile. “I like that.”

Naturally.

Then she shrugged, kicking the toe of her boot against the pavement. “Maybe I don’t live a life you’d be proud of, but at least I face my mistakes head-on.”

I stroked my stomach, thinking of the precious life born of my marriage. Her existence alone meant my marriage could never be considered a mistake.

From what I could tell, my sister had no idea what it meant to love someone more than she loved herself. No idea what real commitment—real strength—required. No concept of self-sacrifice. She’d dumped Max when that got boring or hard or whatever it was that had made her choose to walk away—quite easily, I might add. And as recently as my baby shower registry day, she’d picked the fun of Max’s dad’s birthday over the chore of doing something she didn’t enjoy (shopping). “I’ve got enough to deal with without your judgment.”

“Well, then don’t nearly kill yourself while hunting me down, assuming the worst of me . . .” She crouched to unlock her bike without sparing me another glance.

She wasn’t wrong about that part. I’d started this argument before learning about the albums, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to apologize again. “I hope they find Dad’s records. I mean it.”

She hitched one leg over the bike. “Oh, trust me. Max had better hope they find him before I do. But either way, I will get those records back.”

She winked and then pedaled away, strong and sure like she attempted most things in life, despite being single and broke, with no firm or immediate prospects of improvement in either category. Amazing. A demoralizing flicker of envy struck. For all my accomplishments, that confidence eluded me. It was the one trait I hoped my daughter would inherit from my sister.

I slipped back into the driver’s seat and slammed the door, praying Stan was a kind man.

Five minutes later, I pulled into my driveway. A man who looked remarkably similar to Uncle Bob—my dad’s brother, who lived in North Carolina—got out of the silver Ford Focus parked along the curb. Barrel-chested, a shock of salt-and-pepper hair, caramel-colored eyes. Slightly bowlegged, too, with a neatly trimmed beard. The sight of him—and the inescapable reality of my life—made me want to cry all over again.

As the investigator made his way toward me, Michelle Callow eyed him from across the street while she retrieved her mail. The social-butterfly mother of superstar twin middle schoolers, she had a habit of being the unofficial “authority” on everything to do with motherhood, education, and sports training. She also didn’t shy away from gossip. Wearing a bright smile, I waved at her as if there were nothing at all remarkable about this burly older man visiting me in the middle of the day.

“Mrs. Foster?” The man extended his hand. “I’m Stan Whittaker.”

“Hello.” The formality seemed silly given the intimacy of his mission. I shook his hand, trying not to stare too closely at him. “Please, call me Amanda.”

His kindly eyes sparkled. I restrained myself from seeking a hug. After all, he was not my uncle, and now wasn’t the time to indulge a longing for my father. Blinking to clear my misty eyes, I gestured for him to follow me inside while clearing my throat. “Can I get you some water or iced tea?”

“No thank you.”

“Okay.” I set my purse on the kitchen counter. “Shall we sit at the table, or do you prefer the living room?”

He scanned the house as if he were memorizing everything, keeping hold of his soft-sided briefcase. “Actually, if you have an office, let’s begin there.”

“That’s fine.” I led him through the house to Lyle’s office, checking my emails for the deed Lyle had promised to send.

We’d been so proud of this small, walnut-paneled room, with its french doors and built-in bookshelves that currently displayed Lyle’s real estate broker awards. How different it all looked to me now—the liar’s den. Those late nights “working” in here had probably been a cover for private messaging and phone or FaceTime sex.

Bile rose up my esophagus—a bitter punishment for my oblivion.

“Do you mind if I sit at the desk?” Stan asked.