Promise Not To Tell(15)

“Good therapy,” Cabot said. “Empowering. Gives you a way to release the anger. At least for a while.”

Like he’d read her mind, she thought.

“Is it that obvious?” she said.

“It is to someone who went through what we went through. Why the hell do you think I go to a dojo a couple of times a week?”

“You know, after all these years of trying to let go of the past, it’s sort of a relief talking to someone who was actually there.”

“Must have been tough trying to pretend you’d put it behind you,” Cabot said. “I had the advantage of being able to talk to Anson and my brothers.”

“I’ve had some chats with good therapists but there’s only so much they can do. The reality is that it happened and we were just kids with no power to fight back.”

“We’re not kids anymore.”

“No, we’re not. That’s why we’re here. To get some answers about the past.”

“Yes,” Cabot said.

She realized she suddenly felt a lot better.

“Just so you know, if you really want to annoy me, you’ll have to come up with fancier philosophical sayings than that line about perceiving the metaphysical truth,” she said. “I sell art to a lot of very pretentious art collectors, and I talk to a lot of very snobbish art critics. When we really get going, the bullshit is so thick you need boots.”

“Sometimes you give the impression that you don’t have a lot of respect for the art you sell.”

“I respect any work of art that incorporates some hint of truth, however small, and I am downright fascinated by any artist who can give that little bit of truth a physical reality.”

The corner of Cabot’s mouth may have twitched up a fraction of an inch.

“You’re good,” he said.

“Thank you. I’ve been in the gallery business awhile now. I’ve had lots of practice looking at art and marketing it.”

“Do you date any of those artists who fascinate you?” Cabot asked.

He sounded genuinely curious.

“I learned long ago that it’s a huge mistake to date an artist,” she said. “They only want one thing.”

“Sex?”

“Nope. At least that would be an honest, straightforward objective. The reality is that usually the only thing they want is for me to display their work in my gallery. And if it doesn’t sell, they blame me. So I no longer date artists.”

“Ah.”

She glanced at him quickly and then looked away. “I’m sure you have similar problems in your line of work.”

“Cutler, Sutter and Salinas has a couple of cardinal rules, one of which is, never sleep with a client.”

“Sounds like a sensible policy.”

And it was, she thought, a very sensible policy. What’s more, she had the feeling that it would take something of earthshaking importance to make Cabot Sutter break the rules.

For some obscure reason, some of the edgy excitement she had been experiencing faded a little.

She turned onto the unmarked road that wound along the rocky cliffs. A few miles later she found the graveled lane that led to what was left of Hannah’s cabin. She brought the car to a halt. The only portions of the small structure that were still standing were the stone fireplace and chimney.

Cabot sat quietly for a time, studying the scene. Then he reached into the back seat for his jacket, opened the door and got out.

Virginia undid her seat belt, collected her own coat and got out of the car. A sharp, chill wind off the sound snapped at her hair. She pulled on the coat and went to stand next to Cabot. Together they stood looking at the desolate scene.

“That was one hell of a fire,” Cabot said after a while. “Burned everything right down to the concrete foundation pad. Definitely not a normal house fire.”

“I told you, the authorities who investigated believe that Hannah torched the cabin before she went off the cliff.”

“Do they have a theory about why she would have burned down the house before killing herself?” Cabot asked.

“Rose Gilbert, the woman who took over the Lost Island B and B, told me that the locals believe Hannah felt compelled to destroy her art before she took her own life.”

“If that was the case, why would she send you that camera with the photo of her final picture.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Exactly,” Virginia said.

Cabot walked slowly around the concrete pad, pausing occasionally to pick up a stick of charred wood or a blackened bit of metal.

After a time he rejoined her.

“Do the authorities have any idea of exactly where she jumped?” he asked.

“Or was pushed? I suppose it could have been anywhere along the top of the cliffs. I assume it was somewhere nearby.”

“The cabin faced the cliffs.”

“Yes.”

“Doors?”

“One in the front about where you’re standing and one in back off the kitchen.”

Cabot took up a position at the front edge of the concrete pad and studied the cliffs. Virginia folded her arms and watched him in silence. She sensed that he was going into some private mental zone. It wasn’t an act designed to impress the client. She had seen artists do something very similar when they were deep into their work and wholly focused on their inner vision.