I say nothing, picking at the cuticle of my thumb.
“The reason I wanted to speak to you in person, Skye, is to ask if there is any other hard evidence—anything you can think of—that we can add to strengthen our case.” Davis drums his round fingertips across the desk. “The state prosecutor—a guy named Frank Bruno—tells me that with what we have now, and given the defendant’s criminal history, Burke is looking at five years and a substantial fine. In addition to returning what he stole.”
“Five years in prison?” I stare at Davis.
“That’s right,” he replies enthusiastically. “Potentially more, Skye, and that’s why I wanted to see you. If you can think of anything else to contribute to the case against Burke Michaels, the time is now.”
I imagine Burke spending five years in prison and my throat feels tight. I will myself not to cry in front of Davis. I have to find a way to be stronger, to be glad that the sociopath who ruined my life faces five years in jail.
“Skye?” Davis prompts. “Anything?”
“Sorry. Um, nothing that comes to mind,” I answer carefully. “But I—let me give it some more thought over the weekend. If I think of anything, I’ll call you first thing Monday.”
Davis nods slowly, his gaze unflinching. Then he claps his hands together and the pressure in the room dissolves. He and my father make small talk as they politely leave the office before me so I can do my knocks on Davis’s door in psychotic privacy.
My dad turns to me in the elevator. “Lunch?”
I shake my head. “I can’t. I’m so behind on work.”
“Okay.” He looks at the floor as we step into the lobby, and I swallow a pang of guilt. “I want to tell you something, Skye.” He picks his head up.
“What is it?”
“I—I should’ve told you this a few weeks ago, when I first realized that Burke’s wife is Heather, your old babysitter.”
“Okay.” Nerves prick my insides.
“I haven’t mentioned any of this to Davis because I wanted to talk to you about it first.” My father pauses, his jaw clenched. “Your mother became very close to Heather during the year she babysat for you and Nate.”
My head spins. “Mom was close to Burke’s wife? How old was she?”
“Heather was in high school at the time. Sixteen or seventeen, maybe. But it was the year we were living in upstate New York—I was there for a study on the Adirondacks—and the house we rented was in this small, kind-of-run-down town called Langs Valley—where Burke grew up, too, although I only pieced that together recently. I was really immersed in the project and not around as much as I should’ve been. Your mom was lonely, I think.”
I press my tongue against the back of my teeth, a dark, sinister feeling wobbling through me. “So, what are you saying? You think all this is somehow … tied to what happened with Burke and me?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. See, your mom and Heather had a falling-out.”
“What happened?” The sound of heels clicking on marble surrounds us as people enter and exit the bustling lobby. I see now why my father wanted to get lunch.
“Heather had a little brother. Gus.” My dad swallows. “Gus … died. In a drowning accident, when he was five. Long story short, Heather blamed your mom for his death.”
“What? That’s awful. I mean, awful that he drowned. Why did she blame Mom?”
“To be honest, Skye, I never fully understood it. I wasn’t there right when it happened. It was summer and we were picnicking at a lake, and I’d gone for a walk to take some photographs. You got stung by a bee—you were just a baby—and Mom was scared that you were having an allergic reaction. So she sent Heather to go find me. And then I guess she was still preoccupied with you and didn’t notice Nate and Gus drifting out farther into the lake. It was windy that day. And they were only five—Nate wasn’t a strong swimmer and Gus couldn’t really swim at all. Your mom didn’t see the boys until she heard them screaming, and of course she tried to save them. But I guess she couldn’t swim with them both at once, and she could only save Nate.” My father pauses, hesitant, as if the rest is even more difficult to say. “When I got back to the beach, Gus was still in the water, and Heather was back by then, standing on the shore screaming. Turns out she didn’t know how to swim, either. So I jumped in and swam Gus to shore, but it was too late.” My dad closes his eyes and shakes his head softly. “It was horrible, Skye. After that, Heather refused to speak to us. We tried, but she was adamant. We even tried to give her some money, to help with things—she grew up with nothing, as far as I could tell—but she refused it. We left Langs Valley that summer, and we never heard from Heather again.”
My mind is reeling, grasping to make sense of what my father has just described.
“So you’re saying that Heather blamed Mom for saving her own son before Gus?”
“More or less.” My father’s voice is thin. “But like I said, there are pieces missing for me. Your mom hated talking about it—whenever I tried to broach the subject, she’d just shut down or start crying. The whole thing really haunted her, that much I know. I always got the sense that she harbored a great deal of guilt because of it. That in some way she felt responsible. In truth, it put a real strain on our marriage, in the year that followed. I should’ve pressed her to talk about it more, maybe see a therapist. But I didn’t. I just wanted us to move on.”
I swallow the lump that’s formed in my throat. “And you’re telling me this because you think … you think Burke going after my money was all some sort of plan to get back at Mom?”
“Look, Skye.” My father sighs. “I don’t know what I think. I just want you to have all the facts. You deserve that. Burke already pled guilty. He’s admitted that what he wrote in the letters to his therapist is true, and he said that Heather wasn’t aware or involved. But what I can’t quite accept is that this is all a coincidence. Burke randomly meets a girl in Montauk and, upon learning she has a trust fund, decides to go after her money? And that same girl just happens to be the daughter of the woman his wife blames for her brother’s death? It’s a little too convenient.”
My head is a tornado. “So you think Burke is lying?”
“I don’t know, Skye. I think…”
“Just tell me, Dad. Please. Tell me what you think.”
“I think he’s lying, Skye, yes.” His eyes clip to mine. “I think he lied to protect Heather, so that they don’t both go to jail. But I think they were in on this plan together, and that it isn’t random that he met you at all.”
“But—but then how do you explain the letters? They don’t mention anything about Heather’s brother drowning and her wanting to get back at Mom.”
“That’s the part I can’t figure out.” My father pinches his sinuses.
“I don’t understand, Dad. Why haven’t you told Davis about this? I thought you were telling him everything.”
“Because if I tell Davis, he’s going to do what any good lawyer would—advise that we press charges against Heather, too. He’s going to want to look for evidence. And that would drag this whole thing out—it could take years, Skye. And I don’t want to do that to you, sweetheart. I want this to be over, for your sake, so you can let go of this nightmare and move on with your life.”