All the Beautiful Lies(65)

“That sounds suspicious.”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense to me that either of them had anything to do with what’s happened. It could be that Lou Callahan killed my father out of jealousy and anger, but why kill your sister?”

“I don’t know,” Caitlin said. They were both silent for a moment, Caitlin staring into the fireplace as though there was a fire in it. She found herself suddenly saying, “Do you know that the first time I ever saw the ocean was when I was fifteen years old?”

“Which ocean did you see?”

“The Atlantic. I’d gone to Washington, DC, for a school trip, then went to visit an aunt who lived in Ocean City, Maryland. She took me on a whale watch. And this is the first time I’ve been to Maine, even though I’ve been living in Boston since college.”

“Sorry that you had to come up here for the reason you did,” Harry said.

“Me too.”

“There’s a pretty walk right near here. Along the cliff. It’s actually where my father was killed.”

“Let’s go,” Caitlin said with mock enthusiasm. They both laughed.

“I’ve already been out there. Someone left a bouquet.”

“Where your father died?”

“Yeah, I guess. Maybe it had nothing to do with him, but . . . we can walk there if you like, I don’t mind. Even though it’s where my father died, it was still his favorite place.”

“Okay,” Caitlin said.

They left the bar and crossed the road to a bluff that overlooked a small half-moon beach, then cut north and picked up a path built into a cliff. Harry took Caitlin’s hand to help her over a wide, slick slab of shale, and then held on to it as they continued to walk. It was a perfect day, the air crisp and the sun warm, and no one else was on the path. They ducked to go through a tunnel of stunted trees that had been twisted by the wind, and when they emerged on the other side, Harry bent and picked up a bouquet of berry-covered branches tied together by a strand of grass.

“See?” he said.

“Is this where your father—”

“I’m pretty sure. It’s the highest point, and I know that he went over the edge and landed down below. Someone hit him first, though.”

“That was how Grace was killed as well. Someone hit her on the head.” Caitlin looked out toward the shimmery line where the ocean met the sky. “They didn’t suffer, I guess,” she said.

“I don’t think so.”

They walked a little farther, Caitlin taking Harry’s hand again. The path twisted inland around another copse of wind-gnarled trees, and Harry turned to Caitlin and they began to kiss, only stopping when Caitlin realized she had begun to cry.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry said.

“No, don’t be. It’s just confusing, but the kiss was nice. It was intense.”

“It was, but maybe we shouldn’t be doing this.”

“I’ve heard it’s a reaction to grief. To feel—”

“To feel horny?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t going to say it, but—”

They kissed more, their bodies pressing together, and Caitlin knew that if they’d been alone in a room their clothes would already be off. The feeling unnerved her, and she pulled away fractionally. He immediately did, as well.

“Should we keep walking?” he asked.

“Okay.”

They continued to the end of the cliff walk, then turned and walked into the wind back to the Kennewick Inn. There, at her car, Harry kissed Caitlin again, but briefly. He put a hand on the side of her neck.

“What now?” she asked.

“Maybe I could come see you at your motel room later? I could say good-bye.”

“Okay. I’m in 203.”

“It might be late. Alice is making dinner, and like I said, she likes to have me in the house.”

“Whatever. I’ll be there.”

Back in her room, Caitlin lay on the freshly made-up bed and stared at the ceiling, striped with the low sun coming in through the motel’s cheap venetian blinds. She wanted to talk with Grace and found that she couldn’t, that the words in her head weren’t coming. The thought that she’d never talk with Grace again swept through her, and she cried again, then napped, waking in the dark. She was hungry and remembered that there was half a Monte Cristo in the minifridge from one of her meals at the diner. She ate two bites of the cold, congealed sandwich, then threw it out. Her stomach felt as small as a hard rubber ball.

She switched on the television, found a station that was playing a Modern Family rerun, and left it there, the volume turned low. She answered texts from friends, from work, and from her mom and brother. She saw that her father had called and not left a message. It pissed her off. Why wouldn’t he leave a message after his daughter, her twin sister, had died? Why wouldn’t he tell her to call him immediately? She could hear his voice—I didn’t want to upset you more, Caity. I know what you must be going through—and decided to not call him back.

The Modern Family episode ended, and another one immediately began. She was tired again, and almost texted Harry to tell him not to come over. But no, she did want to see him one more time. But she wouldn’t let him in. That thing that had happened on their walk now seemed like lunacy to her. Was she drunk from two beers? Yes, he was handsome, and sweet, but her sister had just been killed, and he was somehow involved. When and if he came by, she’d say she was exhausted (not a lie) and just say good-bye.