The Lies They Tell(50)
A silence. “Wasn’t his fault what happened.” Marilyn tsked faintly. “What’s he supposed to do against somebody with a gun, for chrissake?” When she spoke again, the gruffness was back. “I’m sorry to hear about your troubles.”
Pearl pressed her lips together. She wasn’t going to get anywhere with this woman by hedging. “I’m trying to find out who did it. If there’s anything you can tell me, I’d appreciate it. So would my dad.”
“Ain’t that what the cops are for? Finding killers? I already answered all their questions.”
“I haven’t heard anything about them making an arrest, have you?” Pearl waited. “I know Tristan, a little bit.”
Marilyn finished pinning a T-shirt, then smoothed her hand over the damp cotton slowly, letting her arm fall to her side. When she turned, her eyes had changed, gone distant. “If you’re smart, you’ll keep it at that. A little bit.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
Glancing over at the neighbor’s house, Marilyn wiped her palms on her jeans, released a short burst of breath. “Better come inside.”
The kitchen was spotless, silent except for the humming of the fridge. Lace curtains sucked and gusted with the breeze, and Marilyn watched them move. The three of them sat at the table, each with a glass of iced tea in front of them.
“I’m not trying to get into your business. I got no interest in that. But I raised girls of my own . . . and Win’s a decent kind of guy.” Marilyn watched her. “Does he know you’re spending time with Tristan?”
Only a few minutes into their acquaintance, there was no lying to this woman: Pearl shook her head. Marilyn leaned back, folding her skinny, freckled arms. “I worked for them for three years. Gave the house a light turn twice a month in the off-season, and cleaned regular for them all summer.” She turned her glass on the tabletop. “Not because it was a place I liked to be.”
“I’ve heard things.”
“Whatever you heard ain’t likely to be the truth. I don’t think anybody left alive knows the truth, except that boy.” She glanced over at the wall, where gold-tone picture frames held photographs of a little blond girl who Pearl recognized after a moment as Indigo. Elementary school pictures, her hair in braids or cut painfully short, face full of tender openness, the kind of pictures you wouldn’t want just anybody seeing. “I’ve been making my living cleaning for nearly twenty years now.” She flicked her hand at Pearl. “You know how it is with summer people. After a while, most of them stop seeing you, don’t even notice when you run the vacuum through the room. I’ve seen some things maybe I wasn’t meant to.” Her gaze sharpened. “And you don’t get recommendations by running your mouth.”
“I’d never gossip about this. I swear. No one will ever know we were here today.”
Marilyn raised her brows at Reese. “What about him?”
Reese held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor. Or something.”
“Still a smart-ass. Glad to see nothing’s changed.” Marilyn exhaled, examined them for a beat. “I guess Indigo wouldn’t have asked if she didn’t trust you two.”
Pearl sat forward in her chair, gripping the edge of the seat.
“The reason I told you that I’ve raised girls is because I think most of us women got a gut instinct to mother. Some of us want to mother our men. You can throw your whole life away taking in strays, trying to fix the damage that some other woman did to him while he was still in diapers. Plain truth is, some men are just broken.”
“Is Tristan broken?”
“I never got a handle on what he is. But there’s a piece missing, all right. He might look like a big success, collecting trophies and degrees, but when it comes down to it, he ain’t nothing but a little boy who didn’t get what he needed from the people who were supposed to give it to him.”
“David and Sloane.”
“You hear about black sheep. That was Tristan. Cassidy and Joe, they acted close. Always sharing secrets, had heads for puzzles, games. I remember Cassidy used to plan these scavenger hunts for Joe, get him roaming all over the property and beach, looking for stuff she’d hidden. Tristan wasn’t home much, but when he was, he was alone. I’d have to put off straightening his room until last because he was usually locked up in there. Them other two kids steered clear of him most of the time.”
More otherness, more separation. “I’ve heard things were bad between him and David.”
Marilyn shifted, glanced at the door, as if someone might be peering in through the panes, eavesdropping. “I can’t say what was between them. But I saw David punch Tristan once.”
Pearl stared at her, a little surprised by her body’s sympathetic reaction: tightening stomach, clenching fists. “God. Really?”
“I was cleaning the third floor, the loft. Looked out the window to see Tristan leaving by the back door, David right behind him, carping on him about something. Tristan wouldn’t stop, so his dad pulled him around by the shoulder, popped him one in the eye.”
Reese spoke up. “What’d Tristan do?”
“Nothing. Took the punch. David sort of braced up, like he thought maybe they were finally going to have it out or something. Tristan was taller than his dad, too, old enough to stand up for himself. But he didn’t. He got back through the partying, I guess. Tearing the place to pieces with them other rich kids whenever his parents went away for the night. I’d show up in the morning and find kids still passed out drunk, sleeping it off. Had to flush them out of the bedrooms sometimes. Sent Cassidy’s boyfriend packing once last summer. Never seen a couple kids so embarrassed.”