It was going to be a long run.
* * *
"You should go after him, Patrick," Eleanor said.
"He doesn't want to talk to me," Patrick said gruffly. His gaze moved to Olivia. "Did you get what you wanted?"
She didn't know how to answer that question. She was still trying to process what they'd each said, and while they'd both made lengthy explanations, she still felt like she was missing something. "Molly's son Peter thinks that Molly killed Stan. Eleanor says that she did it. And you now take responsibility for it." She paused. "I honestly don't know who to believe."
"You can believe me," he told her forcefully. "I was there that night. I was the last one to see Stan." He glanced back at Ellie. "You know that's true, sweetheart."
"I know you went there after me," she said, her gaze troubled. "But—"
"That's all you need to know," Patrick said, cutting her off. He looked back at Olivia. "What are you going to do with this information?"
"I don't know." She licked her lips. "I understand that in the terrifying, adrenaline-charged moments of that night that decisions were made in a split second, and fear was driving those decisions, but I don't understand how no one asked any questions later. A man was dead. He was a horrible man, apparently, but he was a police officer, and surely someone cared that he'd died under what it sounds like were suspicious circumstances."
"The police were satisfied with their investigation," Patrick said. "So was the fire department. Molly and her children were safe, and Stan wasn't going to hurt anyone ever again."
She wondered if that made everything all right in his mind. It certainly sounded like it. "I have more questions," she said.
"They'll have to wait," Patrick said. "We're not going to speak any further about any of this without consulting our attorney."
"I'm not the law; I'm Molly's granddaughter."
"Until you have proof of that, I don't really know who you are," he said.
"Olivia, you should go after Colton," Eleanor said. "He's upset, and he needs someone. He needs you."
"I don't know about that," she said softly. "I'm the one who started all this, who ripped his world apart." She stared at his grandparents, seeing guilt and pain in Eleanor's eyes and anger and frustration in Patrick's gaze.
"Then help him put it back together," Eleanor said.
Patrick stood up. "I'll see you out."
The last thing she wanted was another private conversation with Patrick Callaway. "No need. I know the way out."
When she got to the street, she looked around for Colton. His car was still there, but there was no sign of him. She called his phone, but he didn't answer. She waited another five minutes, then decided to catch a cab back to her hotel. Who knew how long it would be before Colton came back, and she didn't want to stand in front of his grandparents' house all day. She needed to do what she'd told Patrick and Eleanor she would do—figure out the truth.
Despite Patrick's claims, she wasn't buying his story. There were holes in it, for one. Eleanor had said that sparks were flying when she got to the house. By the time she and Molly would have run down the street and sent Patrick back, a few minutes would have had to have passed. Yet Patrick claimed the fire had started while he was there. Maybe it was a small thing. Perhaps the fire didn't really take off until Patrick arrived, but her instincts told her that tiny hole in the story would rip the fabric of lies apart.
She was inclined to believe Eleanor's side of the story. It made far more sense that Patrick was just covering for his wife.
But she also couldn't discount the possibility that Eleanor was covering for Molly.
It always came back to Molly.
* * *
Colton finally arrived back at his car, sweaty, tired, and a little less crazed after his hour-long run. He pulled out his phone and saw the missed call from Olivia. She hadn't left a message, but he was quite sure she'd found her own way back to the hotel. He felt guilty now for leaving her with his grandparents and taking off without a word.
He punched in her number. She answered a moment later.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Are you feeling better?"
"Not really." He leaned against his car and looked back at his grandparents' house. "But I shouldn't have ditched you."
"I understood, Colton. You were in shock."
"Now I know how you've been feeling the last few days."
"We can spin together," she said lightly.
His hand tightened around the phone. "You're pretty amazing, you know that?"
"Well, I like to think I am, but what have I done that's so amazing today?"
"You stood by me," he said.
"You've been standing by me all week," she replied. "It was my turn to pay it back."
"You do realize that my grandfather killed your grandfather?"
"I know that's one of the scenarios."
"Well, if it wasn't him, then it was my grandmother, which doesn't make it any better."
"Or it was Molly," she reminded him. "And that doesn't make it any better, either. It's weird that the one person who's dead was a horrible person and all the people suspected of killing him are good. It doesn't seem right."
"No, it doesn't. Did my grandparents say anything important after I left?"
"Your grandfather said he wouldn't speak any further with me until he consulted an attorney."
"Great. That's just great. Calling an attorney certainly implies guilt."
"Your grandfather is not trying to
imply
anything, Colton. He's falling on his sword. He's quite willing to go to jail for Stan's death."
"Well, maybe he should."
"You don’t mean that."
"I might," he said, wishing he'd actually said he was sure he did mean that, but as usual Olivia was reading him a little too well. "I always thought he was an honorable man. He was the person I shaped my life around. How stupid was that?"
"It wasn't stupid. And your grandfather is obviously a complicated man, a man I don't think you know very well."
"That's very true. And what I thought I knew is a lie."
"You need to talk to him again. You need to talk to both of them."
"I can't right now. I'm too wound up. I need to calm down, get some perspective. I need to see you, Olivia. Where are you now? I'll come and meet you."
"I just got to Molly's house."
His nerves tightened. "What are you doing there? We already know what happened the night of the fire. In fact, we have too many suspects. Why go looking for more?"
"Because I'm not entirely convinced that any of our suspects is guilty. We have three people willing to take blame or give blame, but I don't think we've gotten to the truth yet."
He ran a hand through his hair and wished he could disagree, but he couldn't. "I'll come and meet you then. I don't think you should be there alone."
"I'll be fine."
"I'm still coming. Be careful. I'll see you soon."
As he ended the call, his grandfather walked out of the house and down the steps. He could have met him halfway, but he decided to let his grandfather come to him for a change.
"You're back," Patrick said, stopping a few feet from him.
Looking at his grandfather now, Colton felt like he was seeing the man through new eyes, and he wasn't sure what he saw. His grandfather had always been his hero, right up there with his father—maybe even higher than Jack, because Patrick had been a legend in the fire department, the kind of man who would push every boundary to the limit, who risked his life over and over again to save people from the worst kind of death.
But he hadn't saved Stan.
Colton blew out a breath and said, "I don't think we should talk right now. I'm angry."
"I know you are. I'd feel the same way in your shoes."
He'd said he didn't want to talk, but he couldn't stop the question from slipping through his lips. "Why didn't you save him, Grandpa?"
Patrick looked him straight in the eye. "Because I couldn't. If he'd survived, the repercussions would have been horrific for Molly and her kids, your grandmother, our whole family."
"You don't think the law could have handled Stan Harper?"
"He
was
the law."
"No, he was only one man. You had power. You had friends who were cops. Why didn't you talk to them? Why didn't you go to them before the whole thing escalated? You must have had some idea what was going on. Grandma would have told you that Molly was being hurt."
"Actually, she didn't tell me for a long time. She'd made a promise to her friend, and she'd kept it until she realized Molly was in a lot of danger. That was only two weeks before the fire. We were talking about a way to help Molly, but she was not being cooperative. Molly would go back and forth about what she wanted to do. Sometimes she wanted to send Stan to jail. Other times she was worried about how she'd survive without her husband. She was a homemaker with two kids and no job."
"You would have helped her I'm sure."
"I would have, but that opportunity didn't present itself in time."
Colton gave his grandfather a hard look. "You don't seem particularly upset about what you did. Did you have no remorse whatsoever?"
"Well, it's been a long time, Colton—over forty years. I learned to live with what happened. And I know in my heart that I did the right thing at that time, the only thing I could do. Maybe if I'd had more time to think about it…" He shrugged. "But I only had seconds."
He was disappointed in his grandfather's answer. "You have always been so sure of what is right and what is wrong. Growing up, you were the benchmark for all of us kids. We had to live up to you. That was our duty—the Callaway tradition."
"And now you've discovered that your hero is just a flawed man," Patrick said, resignation in his voice. "There's nothing I can say to change that. But I want you to know one thing, Colton. Your grandmother was incredibly brave that night. She stepped into the middle of a battle zone without a second thought. She put her own life on the line for her friend. If you want someone to live up to, live up to her."
With that, Patrick walked back into his house and shut the door.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Olivia wandered through Molly's house with a weary frown. She'd rechecked the upstairs bedrooms and closets but found no other items of interest. Done with the upstairs, she returned to the first floor, using the flashlight feature on her phone to illuminate her way. She didn't want to turn on a lot of lights and broadcast her presence in Molly's house—just in case anyone was watching. And she really hoped no one was watching, but she was a little nervous being in the house alone, especially after what had happened at her hotel room.
But she had to believe that anyone could have gotten into Molly's home at any time, so there was no reason for someone to come now. Whoever had wanted what she'd taken from the house could have just taken the information to keep it out of her hands, afraid that she might use the information in a book. And she couldn't help remembering the dissenting opinions among the ladies at the senior center when Eleanor had first offered her the key to Molly's house.
As she went down the long narrow hallway on the first floor, she entered the laundry room to take a quick look. She opened a narrow door, thinking it would lead to a pantry and was surprised when she saw stairs going into a basement.
Her heart sped up as she turned on an overhead light and went down the stairs. When she got to the bottom step, she felt a surge of excitement. A very old sewing machine was in one corner of the room and next to it was a rack of costumes. On the floor were clear plastic bins filled with material, pins, buttons, zippers, sequins and other accessories.
She wondered why Molly had moved all of her supplies down here instead of using the extra bedroom upstairs, unless she didn't sew anymore?
As Olivia walked around the room, she saw dozens of framed photographs of men and women in beautiful costumes. These had probably come from Molly's community theater days, and there were a few familiar faces: Ginnie, Eleanor and Constance, all dressed up for whatever part they were playing.
They'd been beautiful, courageous women, she thought again. And hardly anyone had known that.
She turned away from the wall of fame and her gaze fell on another box upon which one word was scrawled in green marker—
Francine
.
Her heart skipped a beat and her breath caught in her chest as she squatted down in front of that box. For some reason, she felt almost afraid to open it. She'd been concentrating so much on Molly being her grandmother and Peter being her very cold and unwelcoming uncle that she hadn't spent a lot of time thinking about the woman who might be her mother.
She pulled apart the edges of the box and looked inside. The first thing she saw was a beautiful music box. The tarnished silver was engraved with Francine's name, and swirls of hearts were etched on the lid. She opened it up and a tiny ballerina popped up as the music began to play.
She looked at the dancer for a long minute, letting the melody of the song wash over her. She felt inexplicably close to Francine right now, knowing that this was her music box, that she'd probably played this song and watched this dancer a million times.
The music box reminded her of one she'd had as a little girl. There had been no dancer, but it had played a lovely tune, and having that box had made her feel very grown up. It was where she had stashed her first pieces of costume jewelry.
With that thought in mind, she lifted the velvet platform and saw a bunch of girlish rings and bracelets and a heart necklace. At the bottom of the box was a thick square piece of folded paper.
She carefully opened it, feeling as if she was about to get another glimpse into the past.
The note was written on two pages of lined paper, and her heart skipped a beat as she read the first few words.
I'm sorry baby girl. I had to give you away. I didn't want to, but I had to do it. I knew in my heart that I couldn't give you the life that you deserved, a life that I hope will be much better than mine. I know you're with a good family now and that they can take care of you. But I still miss you terribly. I hope that one day you'll find me, and I'll be able to give you this letter, so that you'll know how much I loved you.