“Violet showed up at our place in Manhattan last night and then took off. She was upset,” I explain. “We would like to meet her grandparents and make sure Violet is okay.”
“I have people who can get me the address within the hour, but if Violet is in any danger and we’ve wasted time finding her …” Henry lets the unspoken threat hang in the air, his teeth clenched with frustration.
I give his biceps a warning squeeze. He’s usually smoother than this.
Rhonda’s wary gaze flickers between the two of us, then to the shiny black SUV parked at the curb, Victor sitting in the driver’s seat.
I see the instant her resistance fades. “Give me a moment.”
Audrey’s parents live three blocks away, their street equally quiet and quaint.
“Don’t have the address handy, my ass,” Henry grumbles as we approach the porch. “I could have had this address with one phone call to Dyson.”
“She was just doing her job.”
“By risking the girl’s safety?” Henry is rattled—by Audrey’s death, by Violet’s existence, by all of this, who knows—but he certainly isn’t himself.
“But she gave it to us and now we’re here.” I collect his hand. “These people just lost their daughter, and you have no idea what story Violet gave them about where she was last night, so be nice.”
“I’m always nice.” He shoots me a look of exasperation before he raps his knuckles against the door.
The blinds in the front window move and a moment later the door opens with a creak. A shrunken woman with snow-white hair hides behind the glass storm door, gripping her cane. “Rhonda told us you’d be coming,” she says by way of greeting. “You were old friends of Audrey’s?”
I plaster on as wide a smile as I can to make up for Henry’s stony face. “I’m Abbi. This is Henry.”
“Hello, I’m Gayle.” The woman’s aged eyes flitter over us both as if sizing us up a moment. “Please, come inside. It’s chilly out there.” She hobbles out of the way.
Henry and I step into the cramped foyer. It’s what one might expect of an elderly couple’s home—cozy and lived in, with decades-old furniture, a small television in the corner of the living room, walls that were painted sage at the height of the color’s popularity and not painted since. Nothing that says they have plenty of disposable income or that they care about the latest decorating craze.
There’s no doubt someone died recently. Arrangements of fragrant white lilies and red roses of varying size clutter the table surfaces, each bouquet with a little card poking out to express condolences.
“We’re very sorry for your loss.” I may have arrived on Acorn Way with ire bubbling in my veins, but it has quickly fizzled, replaced by a melancholy—for a girl who has lost her mother, for an elderly couple who have to bury their child. Even for Audrey, who may have done something terribly wrong but didn’t deserve a cruel death because of it.
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.