Sweet Water(71)

“Things could’ve been so different,” I blubber.

“And then the baby came swiftly, and once that happened . . .”

He trails off, but he doesn’t need to fill in the blanks. Dad would never break up a family.

He leans into the table and grabs my hands. “Your tuition was all I had to give you, baby girl. I didn’t have the money to buy you a fancy car or pay for an expensive wedding, but I could give you a free education. The best. I couldn’t let them take that away from us.”

“So that’s why you hate them?” I ask.

“Yes. That’s why I hate them. Not because they have money but because of what they choose to do with their money.”

For the first time, I agree. It’s the exact reason I hate them too, I realize—even my own husband.

“Oh my God, Dad. How . . .” I grip the edge of the counter, and Dad doesn’t say anything. My belly rumbles, and the back of my throat burns. I run back over to the sink.

“Sarah . . . ,” he tries.

“Don’t!”

I open my mouth and lean over, but I can’t throw up, and a string of spit escapes my mouth and falls into the sink. I rinse it down with the suds. I take a deep breath to calm the sick.

So sick.

Jesus Christ. To think Martin’s brothers could just stash the cash under their mattresses and move on. Who are these people? Who is my husband, really?

I wipe my mouth and realize it’s what Martin is trying to do now—with the journal. I need to find that damn journal before history repeats itself. I’ve been part of the Ellsworth reign of terror long enough.

“I’m sorry I yelled. I may need to come home for a bit to sort this out. Looks like you could use the help around the house and with your back too.”

Dad shifts uneasily at the breakfast island, but he looks relieved to hear this. “Of course. You know you never need to ask.”

And I do know that. It’s just good hearing it, considering I spent all my time nurturing the wrong relationships and ignoring the right ones. It’s a hard reality. One I’ll make up to Dad.

Now, to deal with the other men in my life and their half-truths.





CHAPTER 18

The Sewickley Heights police station is located on the same property as the country club. In order to become a member of the club, an application is required, as well as a sponsor and cosponsor and four supporting members, all of whom are closely associated to the applicant. When I was knighted with my membership, I remember feeling esteemed yet unworthy. The country club sits on a plot of the golf course so verdant and landscaped in the summertime, I dare not tap my toe on it with the wrong shoes.

It’s too bad the moral high ground of the members doesn’t match the course. Since we found Yazmin in the woods, it’s my presumption that when a member makes a mistake, they walk directly across the street to find the right person at the police station to compensate for their error.

Sewickley Heights has a population of only a thousand. Sewickley Borough is an entirely different district. The park falls under the jurisdiction of the Heights, where Alton is in charge. I imagine he doesn’t have much to do other than monitor the park.

He probably knows every square inch of it, exactly where the kids had been hiking, the fastest way to cover up their tracks. My stomach knots as I think that if Finn committed a crime and can’t remember it, he did it in the perfect place.

I stop walking at the thought, steadying myself on the police station railing. It’s a real possibility now, isn’t it? Finn could be involved in this girl’s death just as Martin was involved in Tush’s. I was naive to this kind of behavior once before.

Martin gave Tush the order to take his last drink.

He drove that boy to his death, yet he was able to wake up the next day, brush it off, learn the script his father had taught him to keep him out of jail, repeat it—believe it. Did Finn do the same? Have we taught him to do the same damn thing?

I blink my eyes back into focus. My throat burns again, and I swallow the stress.

Yazmin’s death couldn’t have been on purpose, because that would mean it was premeditated, and as much as I believe Finn might not be telling the whole truth, I don’t believe he’s a murderer.

At least not that kind. He’d be more like the kind Martin was.

“Oh God.” I heave and then fight to keep everything in my stomach, steadying my breath. This can’t be real.

Breathe. I stop and concentrate on nothing else except my own breath. Slowing it. Savoring it. Knowing that these moments of freedom with my family could be my last if I don’t figure this out. But not truly wanting to, because if I do, I might discover truths about my son that will kill me.

Alton Pembroke knows where that journal is, and I’m fairly certain the answers to my questions are inside. Why would he hide it if they weren’t? Alton’s Range Rover is parked outside the station, and it must annoy the other officers that he can afford one, although his immediate family well runs low on sweet water.

Aunt Olivia is ten years younger than William. He doesn’t often refer to her as his sister—just Livvy. She was the forgotten Ellsworth sibling who went to art school and got tangled up with an English professor who specialized in lyrical poetry, only reintroduced into the family after she had a baby boy around the same age as Martin and Bill. That’s when the misadventures of Billy, Marty, and Al began.