Back Where She Belongs(18)

She would do the same with Dylan. She sighed, ducking under the water, letting the bubbles roar in her ears.

The sexual attraction was a problem. But she was mature enough to handle that. There was that pesky feeling of being safe and cared about and understood.

You’re lonely. That’s all.

Busy with her career, Tara had set aside her social life. She’d handle that when she got back to Phoenix. Lonely people took rash actions, like jumping into bed with a memory.

Now she knew. Now she would be prepared. Whew.

She made a mental list of what she had to do: locate the Tesla, check her father’s phone for messages or calls that night, figure out a way to talk to his poker buddies, go to Vito’s to see if anyone saw or spoke with Faye that night.

When she pushed to the surface, her phone was buzzing. She got out of the tub, grabbed a towel and picked up the phone from the hamper lid. “Hello?”

“Harold McAlister, Tara. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Dr. McAlister. I appreciate that. You’ve taken care of all of us over the years.” Even her father, now that she thought about it.

He assured her that Faye was getting the best of care and that her neurologist was top-notch. Tara thanked him, then eased into her real questions. “Faye was taking medicine for anxiety and depression.” She named the pills. “Could they have had any effect on her driving?”

The doctor was silent for a few seconds. “I’m not the prescribing physician, Tara. I couldn’t—”

“Hypothetically. How about that?”

More silence. “If used as prescribed, they shouldn’t interfere with normal activities, but there could be other factors—”

“Like if she’d been drinking?” Tara threw in. “You’re not supposed to mix those meds with alcohol, I know. It’s important to be sure she hadn’t been drinking that night. Don’t you agree?”

The doctor didn’t speak, so she rushed on. “You could look at her hospital chart, right, and check that?”

When he finally spoke, the words seemed to be dragged from him. “Even if I could arrange to see her records, I couldn’t discuss it with you because of—”

“Patient privacy laws. I know. But there are rumors that she was drunk, Dr. McAlister. I can’t let that stand.”

He blew out a breath. “I can’t help you. I’m sorry. The law is quite strict. However, a family as prominent as yours surely has endured gossip over the years. You know your sister. She is a smart, responsible woman. Trust what you know about her and ignore the rest. That’s my advice.”

Her heart sank. He’d say the same thing about her father’s chart, she knew, so she thanked him and hung up, no better off than before.

Tara dressed and made a few client calls. She’d asked her old boss to be her backup with current clients while she was in Wharton, so that would relieve some of the pressure, though she would have to scramble to make up for lost income when she returned. That was a worry for down the line.

Next, she needed to call the insurance agent. Her mother was napping so she couldn’t ask her for the name and number. Tara decided to look through her father’s files, since he handled all the bills anyway. Plus, his phone cord would likely be in his study.

Stepping into her father’s sanctuary, Tara caught her breath at the familiar scent—her father’s pungent aftershave and the hot-metal smell of the factory floor. It was like he’d just left the room.

She braced against the stomach punch of sadness, closing her eyes until it passed. When she opened them, she saw first the floor-to-ceiling shelves full of her father’s books on history, philosophy, science and technology.

She pictured the shelves in the sleek new condo she’d purchased five months ago. Her books were the one personal element. She had tons of nonfiction like her father, though she preferred biography, sociology and psychology to his hard science choices. Also, she liked fiction—especially stories of transformation and redemption.

Behind her father’s massive antique desk was an impressive shelf of ships in bottles. Faye had helped him build them, Tara remembered. As a little girl, Tara had memories of playing on the floor with LEGO while her father and Faye worked with tweezers and string and glue, talking softly, heads close.

Feeling left out, Tara had once tried to help, but she’d messed up the sails using too much glue and her father had snapped at her, sending her to her room.

Faye came later to console her. She promised their father would forgive Tara, though it would take time. When you love someone you forgive them, she’d said, as if it were as automatic as breathing. It was to Faye. Whatever capacity Tara did have for love had come from her sister.

Her father’s study was a man’s room, for sure, painted hunter green, dark wood everywhere, a wet bar, guns in a display case.

She went to sit in the leather chair, which squeaked in complaint. Like the desk, and the Tiffany lamp she clicked on, it had been passed down from his grandfather, who’d had it shipped from Ohio when he’d founded Wharton Electronics in 1950.

The new Mac computer looked incongruous, surrounded by so many antiques. Her grandfather’s fountain pen lay beside the sleek mouse.

On the wall to her left was a sepia-toned photo of the Wharton foundry in Ohio, the source of the family’s wealth. Beside it was a large oil portrait of three generations of Wharton men. Where were the women? In the background, of course, managing the households, hosting gatherings, leading charity drives, all in service to the powerful men they’d married.

Her mother had a college degree, though she’d never used it in the workplace. She’d met Abbott at the college bar where she worked to support herself at the state college. She’d come from a working-class family of seven children, which seemed to shame her, since she rarely spoke of them and never visited.

Tara couldn’t imagine living in a man’s shadow like her mother did, glorying in the role. Had her parents ever been in love? Maybe in the early years. Tara hoped so. A loveless marriage seemed so bleak. Would Tara ever marry? It seemed impossible at times. Marriage required faith and trust. The whole idea of love made her uneasy. She didn’t understand it. She might not be capable of it. That thought made her ache, like ice on a sensitive tooth.

There were two books on the desk—probably the last two books he’d read. The Selfish Gene, by Richard Dawkins, and a more scientific-looking book about genetics. Shifting them to one side, she noticed a photo under the glass that protected the desk’s surface. It was her favorite picture of her father. He and Sean Ryland grinned at each other over the Wharton assembly line, where they held up the jet engine part they’d built together. They looked so young, so excited, like the future before them would be forever bright.

It hadn’t turned out that way for Dylan’s father when his business failed. Had her father exploited him, paid too little for his company? She didn’t want to believe that. He’d bailed out a friend, risked money that could have gone down the drain. Besides, the feud was over, thanks to Dylan. No matter what Dylan might have done in the larger world, that was a remarkable feat. He’d healed a decade-long wound between two old friends. And he’d managed it before her father was killed.

Tara reached for the file drawer, where she expected to find insurance papers, then saw deep gouges around the lock. The drawer had been pried open. She pulled it open quickly. It was empty inside save for some loose paper clips, a restaurant receipt, a blank message slip and a business card for Randall Scott, ESQ. Where were the files? Had her mother taken them out? Why? Very odd.

Stymied, she checked the drawers for a Rolodex or datebook that might have the insurance agency information. She found nothing but unopened office supplies. She turned on the computer, but it was password protected.

Beneath the desk, she saw a phone charger plugged into a power strip. At least there was that. She attached the cord to her father’s flip phone and activated it.

On the screen was a text message from Faye the day of the accident.

Nothing changes. Let it go.

Tara’s heart raced. Here was a clue. What had her father been doing that Faye wanted him to stop? Or had she been discouraged that he’d failed to make a change? She had no idea. Her father had not replied to the text. She checked his voice mail. There were no messages, new or old.

She really needed to check Faye’s phone. Where was it? In her office? She’d look when she went to Wharton on Wednesday. It might have fallen out in the car during the crash. When they located the car, she’d check.

First, she find the number of the insurance adjuster. She’d have to ask her mother when she woke up. Rachel had been sleeping a lot—drugging herself to escape her grief and worry about Faye. Tara would try to talk to her mother more, share the sadness somehow. That had to help, didn’t it?

“You into his liquor again?” Judith leaned against the doorjamb, her arms folded, a half smile on her face. “Stay away from the guns this time.”