Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Gayle’s wrinkled face pinches with a sad smile. “We had almost three years to prepare for Audrey’s death, but it wasn’t enough time.”
“I can’t imagine.” Framed photographs line the walls, of two girls—one, I recognize as Violet, at different ages and stages, from gymnastics, to ballet, and dressed in costume. The other girl is from a different era, sporting everything from puffy bangs to crimped hair, her sequin figure-skating costumes competing with the electric blue eyeshadow when she isn’t sitting primly in front of a piano. That must be Audrey.
“Howard?” Gayle calls out.
“In the kitchen, fixing a pot,” comes a scruffy voice.
“We don’t drink coffee, but would you like a cup of tea?” Gayle asks.
“We’d love one,” I answer, looping a hand around Henry’s arm, squeezing gently. We have no idea what her parents know about their daughter’s past or Henry, but I imagine this will be a hard conversation, regardless.
He clears his throat. “Thank you.”
The kitchen is much like the rest of the house—outdated but charming, with golden oak cabinets and a table that seats six. A basket of flowers adorns it that Gayle shuttles to a nearby counter.
An elderly man with a full head of wiry gray hair hovers by a porcelain pot. He’s the same diminutive size as his wife.
“Howard, this is Henry and Abbi,” Gayle introduces.
He turns to study us over his glasses—first me, then Henry, stalling there a moment too long. Does he recognize Henry’s face from the news? God knows Henry’s been on it enough lately. Or does he see what I saw when I first laid eyes on Violet? The familiarity? “How do you take your tea?” he asks.
“Doesn’t matter. Black,” Henry throws out dismissively. I’ve never seen him drink tea before.
I smile. “Sugar for me, please.”
“Make yourselves comfortable.” Gayle gestures toward the table.
Howard delivers our teacups, his weathered hands trembling as he sets them on the table. “Rhonda mentioned you had concerns about Violet?”
Henry opens his mouth but then falters. “Where did your granddaughter tell you she would be last night?”
“A sleepover at her friend Alison’s.” Gayle and Howard exchange cautious glances. “Why?”
I stifle the urge to grunt an “I told you so.”
“She was not at Alison’s,” Henry says. “At least, not for the entire night. She showed up at our place in Manhattan around midnight—”
“Manhattan!” Gayle exclaims, her expression filled with genuine panic. “How did she get there?”
“My guess would be the train.” Henry’s hand curls around the teacup but he makes no move to drink.
“That girl has always loved the city. Audrey would take her once or twice a year. She knows how the trains work, but to do it on her own?” Howard shakes his head as he settles in a free chair. “Then again, we shouldn’t be too surprised. Violet has always been headstrong. Just like her mother.”
And her father. I purse my lips against the urge to say it out loud.
“Why would Violet come to you, though? How does our granddaughter know you?” Gayle asks.
“She doesn’t know me.”
Gayle frowns. “Then why would she go to Manhattan to see you?”
Howard stirs sugar into his teacup, the silver clanking on the china. “I think it’s obvious. He’s Violet’s father. Aren’t you, Henry?”
I guess that explains the lingering look moments ago. Howard saw it straightaway.
Gayle’s eyes widen with shock.
The wooden kitchen chair creaks as Henry leans back. “Yes, apparently I am. Something I found out twelve hours ago.”
The only sound in the kitchen for several long moments is the slow drip … drip … drip of the kitchen faucet.
Gayle studies Henry’s face. “If you don’t mind me asking, Henry, how old are you?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Thirty-two. But that’s …” Gayle is surely doing the math in her head. “Well, that’s not possible. Violet is fifteen. That would mean …” Her voice fades, unable to utter the words. “That’s not possible, is it?” Again, she looks to her husband for an answer that explains her fears.
Howard reaches over and pats his wife’s hand. There’s no anger in his expression, though. There certainly doesn’t seem to be any doubt either. It’s as if he’s already accepted the disgraceful truth. “Audrey never told us who Violet’s father was, and she said she wouldn’t because it didn’t matter, he would never be in Violet’s life. At first, we assumed it was a married staff member she worked with at that boarding school, but then she bought the house on Acorn Way with cash, which we knew she couldn’t be making at her teaching job.” He shrugs. “I thought she must have had an affair with a student’s father. There’s plenty of wealth at that school.”
“I was her student,” Henry admits, and none of the bravado that laced his words last night—the boy who bagged his smoking hot teacher—lingers today.
Gayle makes a strangled sound, then covers her mouth with a hand. “Good God, Audrey. What did you do?”