The Sight

  I just catch a hint of a smile as Jeff bends down to knock some dirt off the rubber boots he’s wearing. Could it be that Jeff is amused at the thought of his prissy father getting hives? He slides a look at me. “You know Mason Patterson, right?”

  “My cousin goes out with his sister, so yeah, I guess so.”

  “He’s a good kid,” Jeff says neutrally. He doesn’t fool me. He’s wondering if I’m in with the crowd who’s vandalizing the development. So is his dad, who clears his throat and looks away. “So. How’s the house?”

  “Still standing. Did you hear about Hank Hobbs?”

  Jeff nods. “Freaky, huh? My loss—he’d just gone to contract on this house. I had lunch with him right before he died. I mean, I guess I did. They found him the next day.”

  “I don’t know why,” Franklin Ferris says, “everywhere I go, I have to discuss this.”

  “Dad sold Hobbs his first house on Beewick. A big sale for us, back then.”

  “Did he seem depressed or weird or anything?” I ask Jeff.

  “No. Why? Do they think he committed suicide?”

  “They don’t know.”

  “Well, neither do I. He seemed fine. But you never know what’s in someone’s head.”

  Jeff doesn’t look too thrilled at discussing a former client with a teenager. I have a feeling I’m at the end of my conversational rope with him. His dad has decided to ignore me. He’s wandering over to look in the windows.

  We hear the noise of a car door slamming. Footsteps head toward us. This time I’m not scared. I have a feeling I know who it is.

  Joe Fusilli heads toward us. He steps in an enormous mud puddle on the way, which really pisses him off. He should have worn a pair of rubber boots. He shakes off some of the mud and keeps on coming.

  “Gracie. What are you doing out here?”

  “Checking out the view,” I say.

  He gives me that Joe-probe, the look that’s supposed to make me squirm, but I don’t react, so he turns to Jeff and his father. “Hi, Jeff, Franklin. Glad I ran into you—I left a message on your cell. I wanted to look around a bit.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  Joe notices that I’m still holding the Starbucks bag. “What’s that?”

  “I found it here,” I say, pointing to the stairs. “I think Hank Hobbs left it here.”

  “Why do you say that?” Joe asks.

  I shrug. Joe sighs.

  He whips out a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and takes the bag from me. He lifts out first one cup, then the other. He bends down to look. “Lipstick stain,” he says.

  He turns to Jeff. “Did Hobbs come here with his wife?”

  Jeff looks uncomfortable. “You know, a realtor is like a psychiatrist, in a way. We know everybody’s secrets.”

  “Like who’s getting divorced?”

  Jeff shoves his hands in his pockets. “I heard him talking to a Betsy on the phone. His wife’s name is Pam.”

  “Jeff, that’s gossip,” Franklin Ferris says disapprovingly.

  “Actually, it’s not,” Joe says. “I’m investigating a death. Go on, Jeff.”

  “I was struck by the conversation, because I thought he was talking to his wife. He had that tone in his voice. And whenever we talked about this house, he never mentioned her. So I just kind of assumed that maybe,” Jeff looks at his father nervously, “there was someone else. But of course I don’t know anything for sure.”

  Joe is writing in his notepad. “There’s no Starbucks on the island,” he says. “Whoever this Betsy is, she could be from the mainland.”

  “Well, Hank Hobbs lived in Seattle,” Jeff says. “I mean, you know that, of course. I’m just trying to be helpful.”

  Joe puts the cups and the bag into a plastic bag and seals it. “Can you show me around?” he asks Jeff.

  “Sure.”

  Nobody pays attention to me, so I tag behind them as Jeff opens the door and punches a code into the keypad to turn off the alarm.

  “Never thought I’d have to use an alarm on Beewick,” Jeff says. “That’s a sad thing.”

  “We sold houses with alarms twenty years ago,” Franklin Ferris says. “I hate this false sentimentality.”

  “These days, we have to remember so many codes and passwords, it’s a wonder our heads don’t explode,” Joe says as he pokes around the empty kitchen. “My secret system is to code everything on my dog’s birthday.”

  “You remember your dog’s birthday?” Jeff asks, amused.

  “No. That’s the problem,” Joe says, bending down to open the cabinet under the sink.

  “Ha,” Jeff chortles appreciatively.

  We follow Joe around the house. I can tell he’s disappointed by the lack of clues. The house is not only empty, it’s clean. There are amazing views from all the bedrooms, and each bedroom has its own bathroom. That would sure cut down on arguments in Shay’s house, let me tell you.

  “Let’s take a look at the dock,” Joe says when he’s finished.

  “I was hoping we could get back to town,” Franklin Ferris says.

  “Just another few minutes,” Joe says. It’s clear they can’t say no.

  Franklin Ferris’s face is flushed as we walk out the door. He doesn’t like being told what to do, that’s for sure.

  I’m keeping very quiet, hoping they’ll just forget I’m there. Nobody suggests it’s time for me to get lost, so I trail behind them down the incline to the dock. Jeff punches another keypad, and the gate swings open. Our footsteps thud along the wooden dock as we walk down toward the end.

  Joe stops at the pilings and runs his fingers along one. “Someone tied up a boat here.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Jeff says. “Folks like to come into this cove to fish. Some of them probably use the dock, even though they’re not supposed to.”

  “Did Hobbs ever come to the house by water?” Joe asks.

  “He never mentioned it.”

  Suddenly, I notice Joe’s body stiffen. He’s seen something. He squats and plucks something that had been wedged into the dock boards. He holds it up. It’s a small capsule.

  “Vitamin?” Jeff asks.

  Joe slips it into a ziplock bag. “We’ll see.”

  Joe looks around some more, but the light is fading. Franklin Ferris looks at his watch in an obvious way.

  “Well, I guess it’s time to shove off. Thanks for your time,” Joe says. “Gracie, I’ll give you a ride home. We’ll throw your bike in the trunk.”

  We walk back down the dock and up the hill to the house, then tromp through the mud back to the driveway. Joe looks mournfully at the state of his shoes. While Joe puts my bike in the trunk, I watch as Jeff and his dad sit in his car with the doors open. Together, they take off their rubber boots and put on their shoes. Jeff takes the boots and puts them in the trunk. He waves as he drives off. Franklin Ferris stares straight ahead.

  I slide into the front seat. Joe just drives for a while.

  As he hits the main road back toward Shay’s, he nods a couple of times, as if to give himself courage.

  “I spoke to your dad.”

  Somehow I don’t like hearing the word dad associated with him. “Nate,” I say.

  “I think I scared him when I showed up. He seemed to want to defend himself from me, as if I was going to arrest him for being a deadbeat dad. I could have. I wanted to.”

  I have to admit I get some pleasure out of that.

  “I didn’t think that’s what you or Shay would want.”

  “No. I don’t want him in jail. Mom never cared about the child support payments. She was lucky she didn’t have to. She just divorced him and never tried to find him.”

  “I just want you to know that I’ll do whatever I can for you, Gracie. That’s all. That includes running him out of town if you want me to.”

  Well, here it is. I could make him disappear. All I have to do is say a word.

  “That’s okay,” I say.

  “There’s nothing wrong
with spending a bit of time with him, and then sending him on his way.”

  I twist in my seat to face Joe. His expression is stern as he drives. “You don’t like him,” I say.

  “Men who abandon their children are the worst sort.”

  “He was sick. He thought we were better off without him.”

  Joe’s mouth twists. “They all say that, honey.”

  “Is he a suspect?”

  “Well, he didn’t know Hank Hobbs. Never met him, he said. Shay backed him up.”

  You might think Joe is finished, but I know something else is coming. He pulls into my driveway.

  “Are you coming in?” I ask. “I’m sure Shay wants to see you. Even if she’s still mad at you.”

  He shakes his head. “Stay out of the Hobbs case,” he says.

  “I am out of it.”

  “I mean it, Gracie,” Joe says. “Don’t forget what happened last time. You started poking around, and the next thing you knew, you were kidnapped by a seriously disturbed guy. We’re talking about a murderer here.”

  “But you don’t know Hank Hobbs was murdered for sure.”

  “I know he was.”

  “You got the autopsy reports?”

  “He was smashed on the head and pushed into that water when he was still alive,” Joe says. “Whoever did it is dangerous. Are you getting this now?”

  “It’s just hard,” I say, “when I see things…”

  “What do you see?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing that would help you.”

  I get out of the car and lean in the open door for a minute. “Thanks for looking out for me,” I say.

  “Just doing my job,” Joe tells me. “Now do yours. Be a kid. Not a detective.”

  Once I get my bike from his trunk, he pulls out and drives away. The evergreens look black, with spiky tips brushing the darkening sky. I shiver, thinking of what I saw. I had stood behind a killer’s eyes and watched him kill.

  I wish I could stay out of it. I wish I could. I wish I could turn off the visions.

  If only.

  TWELVE

  After my mom was killed, after I got over the shock of it, I discovered parts of me I wish I hadn’t. I didn’t know I had it in me to be mean. I didn’t know that I could turn away from someone trying to help me, and not even care. I didn’t know I was capable of so much anger at the world.

  I look back on that time, when I shut the door in my grandmother’s face, when I told my best friend in Maryland that she was stupid, when I hated Shay whenever she smiled or laughed, hated her for breathing when her sister was dead… Well. I’m just grateful that everyone forgave me.

  Of course my friend Jessie back in Maryland may have forgiven me, but our friendship will never be the same. Still, I’m grateful to her for trying. Grateful to her for sending me e-mails, photographs of the friends I used to have, so I don’t feel completely lost in the world.

  A river of pain still cuts a path through me. Sometimes I get pulled under. When the people who love me say “it’s okay,” I feel lucky.

  I stare down at the thirteen birthday cards I’ve laid out on my bed.

  I get that my father did a very bad thing. But part of me remembers that time in my own life, and part of me wonders: When everyone has forgiven me, why can’t I take even one tiny step toward forgiving him?

  He waits for me again after school. Hands in the pockets of his jacket, looking like another teacher, a new history teacher who all the girls have secret crushes on. I notice how the other students are trying not to watch as I come up and we fall into step together.

  There is no problem with rhythm. Even though his legs are long, he matches my stride. I look down at us, our legs, both in jeans, walking. Is there a secret rhythm that fathers and daughters have, no matter what?

  “Want me to carry your backpack?”

  “I’ve managed to do it myself since I was seven.”

  He breathes in and out. “I just have to make a personal observation,” he says. “When you’ve screwed up as badly as I have, there’s about a million minefields in every ordinary conversation. And I keep triggering every single one. Pow.”

  “I’ve noticed that,” I say.

  “Do you admire me at least for trying?”

  “Actually, no.”

  “Pow. There goes another one.”

  We’re quiet for a while, but it’s a better silence.

  “I thought I’d leave,” Nate says. “I think it’s better for now. You have my address and phone numbers and e-mail. Can I write you once in a while?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Gracie.” Nate stops, so I stop, too. On him, my unruly hair makes sense. He looks so ordinary, a handsome guy who’s just a little careworn, who’s seen a little too much sun and hard times. I see that his eyes aren’t quite as dark as mine. They aren’t the same color, after all. I note a thousand details of his face in one small moment, and the living reality of him makes me feel disoriented, as though I’d made him up and he suddenly appeared. “What I would really, really like is to take you to dinner tonight.”

  Everything I’ve been thinking, everything I’ve been feeling, tugs me into different directions. But there is one through line: I’m hungry to know him. If he leaves tomorrow and I don’t do this, I’ll regret it.

  He sees the answer on my face, and he smiles.

  “It occurs to me that I didn’t tell you that I loved your mother,” Nate says. “I should say those words out loud. Just because they hurt doesn’t mean I shouldn’t say them. I let her down so badly. But she was the love of my life.”

  We’re sitting in the restaurant that’s in the Greystone Inn. We have a quiet table against a wall. Candles are lit. The potato-leek soup was awesome. My dad is nursing a glass of wine. We both have ordered the lasagna.

  Just a father-daughter dinner.

  “It was love at first sight,” Nate says. “That old corny thing. I was about to back out of the deal to buy the house with Shay, to tell you the truth. I don’t know why I agreed to go in on it in the first place. I inherited some money from my aunt, and I was afraid if I didn’t invest it, I’d blow it, I guess. I was regretting it until Carrie walked through the door. I even remember what she was wearing, that sweater…the color of cornflowers.”

  He isn’t here anymore. He’s back in the past. His eyes suddenly have a light in them.

  “What was it like, that summer?” I ask.

  “Crazy fun. I have to admit, I went to Beewick because it would be free. The group back in Seattle was picking up expenses, and we were camping out in summer. We’d swim at midnight—man, it was cold. I’m not much of a swimmer, so splashing around made sense, just to keep warm. We had some wicked softball games. One night, I crashed a big society party at the country club. One of the locals sneaked me in. It was all such a blast. And then it all went bad. Billy disappeared, and we were all worried about him. Shay thought Hobbs had done something to him, but I thought it was more likely that Hobbs paid him off. Billy hated his family—I wouldn’t blame him for disappearing.”

  “You think that’s a solution? Disappearing?”

  He comes back to the present and looks at me across the table. He doesn’t flinch. “Honey, I didn’t hate you. I didn’t hate your mom. Sometimes you leave because you love your family so much. You don’t want to keep hurting them.”

  I push my food around, not answering. It’s not enough, and he knows it.

  “Ohh-kay, maybe I should stick with the past. Shay just couldn’t believe that Billy would run out on her without a word. She was in love with him, after all.”

  “Shay was in love with Billy?”

  “Well, sure. They were a couple. They came up to Beewick together. Then she broke up with him, and he was destroyed. I guess Billy thought he didn’t have anything to lose, confronting Hobbs.”

  This was news to me. Shay had never mentioned being in love with Billy. What else was she concealing?

  Nate doesn’t notice my sur
prise.

  “Did you ever meet Hank Hobbs?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head. “We were fighting this abstraction—the Big Evil Corporation. We didn’t know any of the executives. Billy was the one who found out somehow that Hank Hobbs was leading the cover-up—or that’s what he thought, anyway. Then, for a brief period, Shay herself was under suspicion,” he says. “That’s why Carrie came out. It wasn’t just to help with the house. She wanted to protect Shay. When Carrie and I fell in love, Shay wasn’t crazy about it. I guessed at the time that she had feelings for me. She was upset about Billy, maybe she was looking for something to help her…maybe she wanted something to happen with us, and I fell for her sister instead.” Nate shrugs. “She didn’t come to the wedding. Carrie was devastated. They were very close, and Shay’s disapproval really hurt her.”

  “Of course,” I point out, “it turned out that Shay was right.”

  “Yeah, that’s the irony, isn’t it? Shay was right. Maybe I suspected that she was, even then. I never felt good enough for Carrie.”

  “You weren’t good enough for her.”

  “Believe me, muffin, I know.”

  He keeps talking, but I’m not there anymore. The word muffin spirals me out, away from the table, into a past. His past. Or is it his present? His future?

  The light is so bright, summer light. I see him handing something to a little girl, a stuffed rabbit. “There you go, muffin,” he says. “Good as new.”

  The girl is blond and wearing a white dress. I am her negative image. I am a dark spot and she is shining light.

  When I return to the now, he’s talking, and I struggle to focus. “I’m betting that Shay wasn’t devastated when I left. I’m sure she thought you two were better off. I’m not good enough for Rachel, either. I’m just lucky she sticks around.” Nate grins. “The woman loves a project.”

  He leans over the table. “I look at you, my beautiful daughter, and I think—everything you are is perfect.”

  I’m not about to buy that. I’m still thinking of the pale little girl. “You don’t even know me.”