When we reach town, Dad bears left and I feel myself relax. I don’t think I could handle coming back at all if he and Nancy still lived in our old house, the big Dutch Colonial in the other direction—overlooking the water—the house where she lived and loved and deteriorated.
The Tahoe crunches over the gravel driveway and slows to a stop in front of a modern-looking taupe bungalow. After he and Nancy got engaged, my dad put our old house on the market and moved in here with Nancy and the twins. I know Mom would’ve hated everything about the midcentury house, from its oversize windows to the horizontal roof. Sometimes I think my dad was so sad after Mom died that he looked for her utter opposite. Someone to whom he’d never be able to compare her.
“Nancy’s at a dinner tonight,” my dad says, as if reading my mind. “And I doubt Aidan and Harry are coming home anytime soon.”
“Being home on a Friday night as a teenager is a death sentence, if I remember correctly.” I’m suddenly overcome with the memory of how Andie, Iz, Lex, and I used to spend our weekends in high school. We’d gather at someone’s house—usually Lexy’s because she had the best clothes—and get ready for whatever party was happening that night. Something was usually “going on,” and if not or we hadn’t gotten the invitation, we’d pout for an hour and then end up having the best night anyway. Lexy would steal a bottle of wine from the cellar and sneak it upstairs, and back then a single bottle was enough to get the four of us toasted. We’d laugh so hard there’d be tears streaming down our cheeks, and when our stomach muscles hurt too much to laugh any longer, we’d fall asleep in Lexy’s king-size bed. Two of us could have stayed in the guest room, but we never did. We always liked cramming into Lexy’s big bed together.
The Blanes got divorced Lexy’s freshman year of college and sold the house, and now the memory of spending all those carefree nights there feels like one from another world. But then I think, at least I still have them. At least after all these years I still have Lexy and Andie and Isabel. That’s something.
“Can I get you anything?” My father’s voice pulls me from the well of my nostalgia. He runs a hand through his light brown hair, flecked with grays but not bad for a man in his sixties. “Tea? Water? Wine?” He shifts his weight to one foot. Something about our interaction feels oddly formal, and I can’t remember if it’s always been like this. Maybe it has.
The kitchen is all sleek stone countertops and flat-panel cabinets—another look Mom would’ve hated.
“I’m okay. Thanks.” I slide onto one of the raised metal stools in front of the center island.
“You look tired, sweetheart.”
“I am tired, Dad.”
“Do you—do you want to talk in here?”
My father has never been good at navigating emotional conversations. That was Mom’s forte. His emotion goes into his art, and nowhere else.
I shrug. “I think it’s as good a place as any.”
“Okay.” He exhales. “Tell me what’s going on, Skye.”
I open my mouth to speak and realize I should have thought this through. My throat is so tight it hurts, and I have no idea how to explain any of this to my father. The furrow of his brow—so intense with concern—fills my eyes. Even though he’s terrible at expressing it, I know my father cares deeply in his helpless way. My mother was the best at getting him to open up; I suddenly hope Nancy is, too.
“Skye?” he presses, his voice a whisper.
The tears are too heavy behind my eyes as something breaks loose inside me.
I tell him everything. I tell him what’s happened since Burke and I got back from Italy—the misdirected email to Andie, the sham of our marriage, the stolen two million dollars—all of it. I can’t bring myself to look him in the eye until I’m finished.
I can feel his rage first; I feel it before I drag my gaze up to see an expression on my father’s face that I’ve never witnessed.
“And this—” His voice cracks. “This happened nearly two weeks ago?”
I brace myself for his recriminations, my face hot with shame. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. I wanted to, I just—I needed some time. But I canceled all the credit cards, and I took him off the bank account. And I changed the locks. I’m so, so sorry, Da—”
“Stop.” He holds up a hand, and I see that his fingers are trembling. He walks around the island and covers me in his arms, squeezing me closer than he has in years. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Skye. Nothing. This is—this is my fault. I’m your father. I knew there was something off about that man. I sensed it. I just—I guess I just—I wanted you to be happy. And you’d been so, so happy. Oh, Skye. This is not your fault. I’m so terribly sorry.”
Tears stream loose down my face, so many the world blurs. A hardness inside me crumbles, and I realize how badly I’ve needed to hear these words.
“I don’t know what to do, Dad.” My voice is muffled in the soft flannel of his shirt.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” He smooths the back of my hair, and I can’t remember the last time we were this physically close. “I’ll take care of everything. Everything is going to be okay. I promise.”
“But what does that mean?” I pull away, wiping my cheeks. “What’s going to happen? Will Burke go to prison?”
“If I have anything to do with it, he’ll go to prison for a long time.” My father’s voice stiffens, color flushing to his face. “What he’s done is illegal on so many levels, Skye. I’m going to call Davis tomorrow morning. He’ll probably need you to come in and … provide some information. When you’re ready.”
I nod. Davis is our family lawyer. He’s got the bearing of an old New England WASP and the ruthlessness of a mafioso.
“There’s probably something else you should tell Davis,” I say. “When you talk to him.”
“What is it?”
“Burke—Burke went to prison. When he was twenty-four. It was for something white-collar. He said he was the fall guy for something that happened at work, but he spent a year behind bars. He told me some of the details, but now I—I don’t know what’s true. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you, Dad.”
“What?” Anger flushes my father’s face, but his expression quickly softens. “Oh, Skye. It’s okay. I don’t—I’ll fill Davis in on everything. I’ll have him look into it. I wish you’d told me, but I—I understand your instinct. To protect someone you … love.”
I say nothing.
“And I need you to forward me the bank account statements. And the email. The one Andie got from Burke with the diary attached.” My father begins pacing the kitchen. “Skye.” He pauses. “Is there anything else you’ve found—aside from this digital journal—that incriminates Burke? Not that we need more, but it can’t hurt. Maybe a social media profile? Photos of his—God—his fucking family?” My father’s eyes are hard, two bolts of anger that soften when they land on mine. The color of the ocean when it rains. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know this is—”