Henry appears then, freezing momentarily as he spots Violet, mid-flip with a pancake. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“I had no idea you were here,” he says slowly. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Henry blush, but his cheeks are flushed red.
“Obviously not.” She wrinkles her nose as she returns to her pancakes. “I guess we’re not eating at the counter. Is the table safe?”
He shoots me a “Thanks for warning me” look.
“Welcome back.” I overcompensate with a wide smile. “I hope you’re hungry!”
“So that’s how you two ended up here, in matching pajamas?” Henry asks between mouthfuls. Violet may be messy in the kitchen, but she makes perfectly round and tasty dollar pancakes.
“Yeah. The first half is due on Monday. We worked on it last night. I think I’m halfway done?” She says it like it’s a question rather than a fact. “As for the matching pajamas, that was all Abbi. Your fiancée is odd.”
“What? I liked them! The material is so soft!” I emphasize that by smoothing my palm over my sleeve.
Henry smirks. “It’s a little early for Christmas, isn’t it?”
“Christmas?” Violet peers at her pajamas, not understanding.
I laugh. “They’re red and blue, Henry.” To her, I explain, “He has a hard time with blue and green.”
“Huh. Really …” She cocks her head and looks at him as if this tiny bit of information is fascinating.
“Why?” Henry pauses, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Do you too?”
“Nope. I’m normal.” She bites off a piece of her bacon.
Henry snorts. “You like your school?”
“It’s fine.” She shrugs, chewing. “It’s school.”
“Violet is playing the Queen of Hearts,” I chip in.
“Who’s that?”
“You know, Alice in Wonderland? Girl falls down a rabbit hole?”
“Oh. Right. A fairy tale.” Henry frowns, and it dawns on me that Crystal McGuire was probably too busy spending her husband’s money and embezzling from a children’s charity to read bedtime stories to her kids. “So you like acting?”
“I guess.” Another shrug. Did I shrug so much when I was her age?
Henry studies her for a long moment as she eats. “Your mother was involved with the school plays at Hartley.”
Violet nods. “She used to put me in drama camp every summer. She insisted I had natural talent.”
“She played the piano.” He says this more to himself, as if his memory is jogged.
Violet’s eyes wander to the baby grand. “Yeah. She did the music for our plays when I was in middle school.”
“Do you play?”
“Nope.” Violet’s mood is souring quickly with talk of her mother.
Henry’s phone chirps and he reaches for it without hesitation. I’ve gotten used to this—his tether to his company—but I reach out beneath the table with my foot to nudge his shin. A silent plea for him to ignore it.
“It’s important. Just a sec,” he murmurs, his focus already on the screen.
As important as getting to know your daughter?
“So, when is this play?” I ask.
“Beginning of December.”
“That’s only a few weeks away. Are there tickets left?”
“Uh … I don’t know. Why?” Violet stammers.
“Because we want to come. Right, Henry?”
He’s scowling at his phone.
I nudge him under the table with my toe again. “Violet’s play is in a few weeks. We’ll go and see it, right?”
“Right, yeah,” he says, but he’s distracted. A curse slips from his lips. “Abbi, you and I need to talk.”
The hairs on my neck prickle from his suddenly serious tone.
My phone rings then, and Mama’s name shows up on the display.
“Don’t answer that,” he barks, spiking my anxiety.
“What is going on, Henry?”
Smoothing his palm over his mouth, he hands me his phone.
I read the headline, and my stomach drops.
CHAPTER 18
“How did they get these!” I scroll through the myriad of pictures from Wolf Cove, printed in the front-page tabloid article that’s now gracing magazine racks all over the country. And here I was, wondering why I hadn’t heard from Luca/Frank/Hank/Satan in weeks. It’s because he was pulling together this story.
These are stills of security camera recordings, and there are many, all the way back to the very beginning, the night a bearded Henry carried my drunk ass back to my cabin.