Winter's Rage 5sy7

Winter’s Rage

A Paula Savard Mystery

Susan Calder

Digital ISBNs EPUB 978-0-2286-1773-0 Kindle 978-0-2286-1774-7 PDF 978-0-2286-1775-4

Print ISBNs Amazon Print 978-0-2286-1776-1 BWL Print 978-0-2286-1777-8 LSI Print 978-0-2286-1778-5

Copyright 2021 by Susan Calder Cover art by Michelle Lee

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

Dedication

For families

Acknowledgments

Thank you to Judith Pittman and BWL Publishing Inc. for your of my Paula Savard mystery series and to the Alberta Foundation for the Arts for ing this book. To my astute editors Nancy Bell, Erin Celovsky, and Rachel Small, and my thoughtful and encouraging manuscript readers Will Arnold, Maryann Breukelman, Deborah Donnelly, Pat Griffiths, Jean Humphreys, Bernice Pyke, and Alice Daneal Wilson.

Thanks to Joe Bellusci, Brad Moore, and Clive Don Zuber, for answering my questions about insurance claims adjusting. Any errors are mine. Numerous sources helped me understand the recovered memory controversy of the early 1990s. These include books: The Courage to Heal by Ellen Bass and Laura Davis (originally published by Harper and Row, 1988), My Lie by Meredith Maran (Jossey-Bass, 2010) and Memory Warp by Mark Pendergrast (Upper Access Books, 2017); and magazine articles: “The Nightmare” (Canadian Living, March 1991), “Child Abuse” (Newsweek, April 19, 1993), “Presumed Guilty” (Changes, April, 1993), “A Hint of Evil” (The New Yorker, May 24, 1993) and “Freud’s Final Seduction” (Saturday Night, March 1994). And my warmest thanks to my family: Will, Dan, Matt, Anne and Vivienne. I couldn’t do this without you.

Chapter One

January 2020

Paula Savard followed Mr. Odell down his front hall. He held on to the railing and paused to catch his breath. A crackling sound drew Paula’s gaze to the wood burning fireplace in the living room. She rubbed her cold hands together. The afghan draped over the back of the sofa looked similar to the one her mother knitted for her in the eighties. Paula had lost it in the move after her divorce five years ago. She turned toward the console table down the hall. In the painting above it, kids played hockey on a frozen river, a spaniel chased the puck, and a blue jay watched the game from a tree. If she had to describe the décor in one word, it would be homey. Mr. Odell shuffled to the conversation nook in the living room. “You caught me in the throes of dusting.” Four framed photographs sat on the coffee table. He leaned over, picked up a rag and a bottle of glass cleaner, and sprayed the cloth. He exchanged the bottle for one of the photos. His hands trembled as he angled the picture of two girls toward Paula. “My daughters, at age ten, on a family vacation.” They wore sundresses and held hands. One girl was a few inches taller. “They look happy,” Paula said. The tall girl with the wider grin had her father’s long face and nose. “You told the police your daughter Cheryl has been staying with you.” “Off and on. She went to her own place Monday night.” Without wiping the glass, he placed the photograph on the fireplace mantel, adjusting its position several times. Monday, two days ago, around 7:45 p.m., a hit-and-run driver had struck two

pedestrians, killing the woman and injuring her husband. The man phoned 911 and muttered the street name before falling unconscious. Yesterday, the police checked several home surveillance systems on the street. One camera picked up the licence plate number of a car driving by at the approximate time of the call. The vehicle’s ed owner was Francis Odell. When officers came to his house, they found his Subaru in the garage, the bumper, hood, and windshield damaged. “Do you want to sit at the dining table or here?” Mr. Odell asked. The fire was making Paula toasty. “Here is good,” she said, but he’d take forever to dust the photos. “There’s plenty of space on the coffee table. No need to clear it.” He dropped to the recliner chair, as though grateful not to stand for another minute. According to his insurance agent, Francis Odell had undergone triple by surgery a few days before Christmas. He’d turned eighty-five yesterday. His cheekbones were gaunt, his skin pasty. Paula settled on the plush sofa, facing the fireplace. She slid a few frames out of the way to make room for her papers. One of the black-and-white photos showed a couple in profile, cutting a wedding cake, the man presumably Francis Odell. Young Francis had sideburns and wore his hair combed up in waves like Elvis Presley. At well over six feet tall, he towered above his petite wife. His youthful pompadour was now shrivelled to white threads; his lean physique had fleshed out. He wore sweatpants, which didn’t conceal his paunch. His insurance agent, who’d assigned Paula the claim, didn’t know if he was a widower or divorced. From her briefcase, Paula took out Mr. Odell’s initial report to the agent, the police report, and her notes from her conversation with the traffic officer in charge of the case. She set them beside her phone on the coffee table. “Do you mind if I record our conversation, Mr. Odell?” “Go ahead,” he said. “Call me Francis. Sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.” “Paula.” “I can’t tell you more than what I told the police. Them showing up at my door yesterday was the first I’d heard of anything.”

“Our insurance perspective is different from that of the police.” She then repeated what she’d told him over the phone, that she was the independent adjuster representing his automobile insurance company. He leaned forward; his thick eyebrows raised. “Paula, when they talked about my car being in an accident, you could have knocked me down with a feather. I haven’t driven for two months. Doctor’s orders.” He rapped his chest with his gnarled hand. “I was sitting right here, reading, that whole evening until I went to bed.” Paula looked at the slim book on the table beside his chair. “What time was that?” “About nine-thirty, my usual these days.” “I’m told you went out to the garage with the police to examine the car.” “I insisted on seeing for myself,” he said. “They took the car for forensics.” She nodded. “That’s right. It will be some time before the police share the results with your insurance company—and longer until they release the car for repairs.” “No matter, since I don’t drive.” He slumped back into his chair. Light from the fire flickered across his face. “Your garage is detached from the house?” she said. He pointed behind her, his finger shaking. “It’s in the backyard and opens to the lane.” “Do you keep all the entries to it locked?” “There’s a combination on the garage door. Easier than taking out the remote each time.” “Who else knows the combination?” “It’s an easy one to guess, Cheryl says. My daughters’ birth date and month, 2411. She’s always after me to come up with different and complicated numbers for my s and codes, but how would I them all?”

Paula smiled. Her mother had the same complaint. She used her birth year, 1937, for everything. According to the reports, Cheryl, Francis’ daughter, was sixty years old and staying with her father part of the time. “Why didn’t Cheryl come to your place Monday night?” Paula said. “She told the police she went directly from her work at the South Hospital to her own home.” “She’s getting her house ready for sale and had started sorting some boxes on the weekend. She wanted to finish them.” This jibed with Cheryl’s statement. Her father had called her at work yesterday about the officers’ visit, prompting Cheryl to stop at the police station on her way to his house. The police had also spoken with Francis’ tenant, who rented a basement suite in his bungalow. The tenant said he was home alone on Monday night, watching TV, and heard no sounds from upstairs or outside. “Has Cheryl ever driven your car?” “Now and then, to take things to places like Goodwill. She finds the hatchback handy. That’s why we didn’t cancel my liability and collision insurance when I took sick last fall.” Paula glanced at her notes. “Your tenant stated he takes you to appointments. Does he use your car?” “He prefers his own for easier parking. The last time he drove mine was to pick up a recliner chair he bought on sale after Christmas.” Francis gripped the chair’s armrests. “Excuse me. I forgot my manners. Can I offer you a drink?” She’d had enough coffee that morning. The fire was making her throat dry, but getting a glass of water would disrupt her questioning. She shook her head. “Where do you keep your car keys?” “In the kitchen, on a hook by the side door. I forget to lock the door sometimes. That’s why I think the culprit was a teenager who snuck in. My neighbour’s son took his parents’ car for a joyride last summer without permission. His father grounded him for a week.” Borrowing a family car without consent was a long way from doing this with a

neighbour’s vehicle. Since Cheryl had driven his car in the past and had access to the keys, she’d be considered to have his implied consent to drive and be covered under his policy. The tenant might have this too. He and Cheryl both denied they were driving that night. Francis hoisted himself up and edged toward the fireplace. He took a poker from the tool rack. Paula looked at the photo of the girls on the mantel. “Does your other daughter live in Calgary?” “Gloria?” He poked the fire. “She lives not far from where the accident took place.” “Has she driven your car?” “A few times, over the years, for the same reasons as the others. Once to take her grandchildren and their playmates to the science centre.” A third person who possibly had implied consent. Paula’s information didn’t include a statement from Gloria. The logs in the fireplace sparked and flared. Francis returned the poker to the rack, juggling the piece to get it in place. “Cheryl and I looked at a map last night on the computer,” he said. “We realized that Gloria used to live on the street where the accident happened. We hadn’t recognized the street name from the news. Cheryl and I both got there by landmarks. This was in the nineties.” He turned away from Paula, his hand resting on top of the poker. She moved to the next cushion for a better view of his expression but only glimpsed his profile, his long nose with a bulb at the end, thin lips turned down. He let go of the poker. “I wondered if Gloria knew the people who were hit, but today’s paper says their names are being withheld pending notice of next of kin.” “Yes,” Paula said. Although, the traffic officer had given her their names, so she could the husband. Their daughter was an archaeologist at a site in South America with no cell phone or internet service. The police were trying to reach her through an emergency number supplied by a family friend.

“I feel bad for that couple,” Francis said. “They say the man’s in intensive care. Is he expected to recover?” “He’s doing reasonably well and might be released from hospital as early as this weekend.” Francis nodded. “That part is good. The paper also mentioned a dog. Is that why they were out walking on that miserable night?” “The dog was found nestled under the man, where it had buried itself for warmth. The vet managed to save its sprained leg.” Paula coughed to moisten her dry throat. “Now, about the insurance, I can explain how it works in cases like this.” “We’ll need fortification before grappling with these intricacies.” Francis looked down at her from across the coffee table. His eyes crinkled. “Care to me in a mug of hot chocolate?” Paula’s mouth watered. The rest of her morning was clear, and she might learn a relevant thing or two from the extra time with Francis. “That would be delightful.” She closed the recorder app on her phone. The recording would provide enough detail for the office to draft a statement for Francis to sign. He lumbered to the far end of the conversation nook. It would take a while for him to reach the kitchen. “I’ll check my messages and catch up with you.” Paula picked up her phone and found a text from Sam. Client cancelled meeting. Leaving work early. I’ll start supper. She typed Fabulous in reply and then texted her late-afternoon whiplash claimant to confirm their meeting, hoping he’d also cancel so she and Sam could both get home early. How often did that happen? The claimant replied instantly, OK. She sighed. So much to do this coming week. The recent snowy and icy roads had resulted in abundant collisions, which increased her workload right before her brother’s visit. He’d arrive tomorrow from Montreal, and she hoped to take time off work to show him Calgary. She tucked her phone into her purse and ed Francis in the kitchen. The room

startled her with its greenery. Pots of ferns dangled from ceiling hooks in front of the bow window. African violets, spider plants, and a poinsettia sprouted on the window ledge, along with glasses of water nursing baby spider shoots. A grow lamp shone down on the indoor garden, radiating light to an orchid blooming on the counter beside the sink. “A birthday present from my daughter,” Francis said, following her gaze. “Your plants really cheer things up.” “Especially in the dead of winter.” He looked at the window. “This north spot doesn’t get any sun, but the lamp does miracles. Can I tempt you with a piece of birthday cake? We celebrated on the weekend.” Half a chocolate cake sat next to the orchid. The red letters thday Dad remained on the icing. “Thanks, but I’m already ruining my diet with the hot chocolate.” “At my age, it’s too late to fret about weight.” He grabbed a knife from the butcher block, cut a large square of cake, and set it on a plate. “Can I help?” He held up the knife. “You can wash and dry this right away. The blade could slice through steel but rusts quicker than me these days.” Paula smiled. She took the dishcloth draped over the faucet and cleaned the knife. Outside the window, the snow fell lightly, as it had for days, almost continuously. The garage stood at the rear of the lawn. Anyone could have come in from the lane and taken Francis’ car without him seeing from here. He bent to take a pot from a lower cupboard. Beyond him, she noticed the rack of keys by the side door, the exit to the backyard and garage. She offered to get the milk from the fridge. “Good thinking,” he said. “Those jugs are heavy. I’m forbidden to lift more than ten pounds.” She took out the half-full jug and scanned the containers of leftovers in the fridge and the crispers full of vegetables and fruits. Francis was eating healthily. An open bottle of wine and a case of beer sat on a shelf. Drivers often fled

accident scenes to escape a breathalyzer test. Francis shouldn’t be drinking, but people didn’t always follow doctor’s orders, and the liquor could be Cheryl’s. “Is your daughter staying here tonight?” Paula asked. “She won’t leave me alone with this ruckus going on.” He placed the pot on the stove, got two mugs from an upper cupboard and held one out to Paula. “You pour, to measure the right amount.” She tipped the jug, filled the mug twice and added a quarter cup. “For good luck, my father used to say. Where do you keep the chocolate?” “In the pantry, on your right. The tray’s underneath. Don’t forget the marshmallows.” Paula opened the door to the pantry, which also served as a mudroom and broom closet. Jackets, boots, and a pair of snowshoes were nestled along the left wall; cleaning supplies were stacked at the end. She found the can of chocolate powder, the marshmallows, and a tray, and carried them to the counter. Francis shook some powder into the milk, turned on the burner and stirred. This could be her with her father, Paula thought, if he had lived this long. He’d died fifteen years ago, when she was forty. No one suspected his coronary artery blockage until her mother found him in his garage workshop, slumped over his worktable, dead. At the funeral, Paula had brooded on his doctor’s suggestion that her dad had probably had symptoms he dismissed, but she’d come to accept this was part of his optimistic and easy-going nature that she loved. Francis stirred until the mixture produced a bubble. He raised the wooden spoon to test the milk’s temperature. “Perfect. Unless you like scalding.” “You can’t beat perfect.” She set the mugs on the tray and decided to let Francis do the pouring, if he wanted. Her mother hated people babying her. Francis clutched the pot handle with shaking hands. Paula held her breath while he filled the mugs with hot liquid. Drops spilled onto the tray, and Paula wiped them with the dishcloth. While returning it to the faucet, she looked outside at the garage again and hoped it was teens who’d taken Francis’ car and not someone who’d betrayed his trust—a daughter or his tenant. And that Francis wasn’t lying.

He dropped a marshmallow into each mug. Dementia was a possibility. He could have driven his car and had no subsequent recollection. So far, though, he’d struck Paula as mentally adept. “I’ll carry the tray,” she said. “You’re forbidden to lift more than ten pounds. This drink will add that much to my waistline.” Francis chuckled at her joke. He led her out of the kitchen to the ageway between the dining table and china cabinet. His glacial pace allowed her to take in the items behind the cabinet’s glass, a Royal Albert dinner set, Bohemian crystal wine and whisky glasses, several Royal Doulton figurines. A laptop sat open on the dining table, which was otherwise clear aside from two placemats. Paintings of farms flanked the window behind the dining table. Shelves along the wall below the window were filled with board games and photos of children of various ages. In the conversation nook, Francis sank to his armchair. Paula noted the book on his side table was Hamlet. “I had to read the play in high school. All I are a few famous lines and that everyone died by the end.” “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” he quoted a line she’d forgotten until now. While physical effort seemed to exhaust Francis, it spoke well for his mind that he could read Shakespeare. She moved her papers to the sofa and set the tray on the coffee table. The fire had burned down to an orange glow, making her glad she’d kept on her sweater. She resettled on the sofa. Both picked up their mugs of hot chocolate. “About your insurance,” she said, “the police investigation will determine if your vehicle was stolen or borrowed without your consent. In the latter case, we would settle it as a collision, with a higher deductible.” She waited for him to question why it wasn’t necessarily theft if a person drove a car without express permission. Francis leaned his head back for a long drink and then lowered the mug to his lap. His features looked softer now, perhaps due to the shadows from the fading fire. “My deductible is small potatoes in the grand scheme,” he said. “I’d like my insurance company to provide for the woman who died through no fault of her own.”

Unfortunately for the victim, that wasn’t his call. “We’ll see what the police find.” “I know it won’t make up for losing her, but it might ease her husband’s expenses.” The husband could have greater expenses of his own if his injuries disabled him for a long time. Francis’ insurance company was more concerned about Kevin Eddison’s potential claim for loss of income and pain and suffering than they were about their payment for Denise Young’s death. Paula turned toward a rustling noise at the front entrance. The door shot open, and a woman wearing an ankle-length overcoat strode in. Francis craned his neck toward the entry. “Cheryl,” he said, “what are you doing home?” “I arranged to have someone take over my work.” Cheryl looked over the railing at Paula. “Who’s your company? I saw the car parked out front.” Paula rose. “I’m your father’s automobile insurance adjuster.” Cheryl knit her brow. She stamped her boots to get rid of the snow, pulled off her gloves, and unzipped her coat. As Paula downed the last of her warm drink, Francis set his mug on the coffee table and pushed himself up. He started for the hall. When he reached the end of the railing, he swayed sideways. “Dad,” Cheryl said. Paula dashed to catch him, but Cheryl got there first. She seized his arms. He struggled to shrug her off. “I’m fine,” he said. “A momentary drop in blood pressure.” Cheryl held on. “Are you sure you’re okay?” “Tired, that’s all, from this blasted ordeal.” Cheryl let go of his arms. He gripped the railing but looked steady.

“We’ve covered all that’s needed for now,” Paula told them both. “I’ll be in touch with the next step. Could you give me your email address?” “I don’t use it much,” Francis said. “I’ll give you mine,” Cheryl said. “Dad, why don’t you go lie down? I’ll see the adjuster out.” Francis looked at Paula, his face pale. “We’re good?” “Yes.” She glanced at Cheryl, who nodded. Cheryl’s ash blond hair was matted from the falling snow. Her pageboy haircut and scooped-neck shirt accented her long neck. She had her father’s bulb-tipped nose like the taller sister in the mantel photograph. Paula estimated she was about five foot eleven. Paula returned to the sofa to collect her briefcase and purse. Cheryl followed her. “He likes to be independent,” she said. “It can be a problem. I told him to arrange his car insurance meeting for a time I could be here.” “I suggested that when I called this morning to make an appointment. He said he wanted to handle it on his own.” “See what I mean about independent?” Cheryl smiled wanly. She supplied her email address. Paula added it to her phone. “I could go over the basics with you now.” “All right, but I need to grab a bite first. With the rush today, I skipped breakfast.” The granola bars Paula kept in her car would have to tide her through her first afternoon meeting. Cheryl looked down the hall, toward her father’s bedroom. “Since I’ve got you alone, there’s something I’d like to explain. It will take a little time. If you’re ready for lunch, we have plenty of food here.” An odd invitation from a claimant, but Paula saw no reason not to combine

insurance talk with lunch. The police had already questioned Cheryl. Listening to what she had to say shouldn’t compromise their investigation.

Chapter Two

January 1990

Gloria Wilson usually relaxed a few minutes into her therapy session, but this afternoon she couldn’t sit still. She shifted in her chair, which was angled toward her psychologist. Their knees were inches apart. Dr. Denise Young leaned forward, waiting for Gloria to speak, encouraging, not pushy or impatient. Gloria stifled an urge to fill the silence with babble. She dropped her gaze to Denise’s pantsuit tros, the creases ironed with precision. At her first two sessions, Gloria had so much to say that she’d hated when the fifty minutes drew to a close. Now, she couldn’t think of where to start, but didn’t want to waste the time. She launched into describing her progress since the previous week. Denise nodded approval at Gloria’s report that the nightmares which had plagued her for over a year, continued to diminish in frequency and intensity. Three straight nights of dreamless sleep had left her hoping she was cured. Until the dream last night. Gloria brushed away the thought and said that improved sleep made her energy during the day amazing. She enjoyed her ing work again. For the first time in months, the Saturday board games with her daughters and husband were fun, not a chore. She stared at Denise. “You’re a genius.” “You’re the one who did the work.” Gloria rubbed the patch of dry skin on her hand. She couldn’t skirt the awful dream. At their initial meeting, Denise had said the work depended on Gloria being honest with herself.

“I was sure I was past the worst.” Gloria stopped herself from scratching her hand. “Then a setback. Another nightmare, different from the rest, and more terrible.” Denise’s face darkened with concern. Gloria looked away at the window behind Denise’s desk. Outside, the snowfall was getting heavy. Calgary’s roads would be slick on the drive home. Gloria’s older daughter would be leaving school now for daycare. Melissa had turned seven last month and insisted she could walk the two blocks alone. But what if this snow turned into a blizzard? “In what way was it different?” Denise said. Goosebumps prickled under Gloria’s sweater. “It’s cold in here.” “I’d thought we cranked up the furnace too high.” Gloria raked hair from her damp forehead. Last night, she’d woken from the dream shivering and drenched in sweat. Her husband snored beside her in the darkness. Rather than disturb him, she’d slipped into the spare bedroom and left the light on until morning. She readjusted her position in the chair. Had Denise replaced the softer chairs from the first sessions, their comfort a gimmick to ease people into treatment? “I told you before about my nightmare phase when I was five or six years old,” Gloria said. “I asked my mother about it this week, and she said I also had a fear of the dark. I don’t that, specifically, but I do recall my little nightlight, a plug-in Cinderella princess. My sister, Cheryl, used to tease me about needing one.” Gloria ed the nightmares mainly from family lore—her parents’ references to her waking from bad dreams when she started school and got her own bedroom. Her arms were warm now. Blood bubbled on the skin she’d evidently scratched. She dropped her hands to her thighs. “My mother said, in hindsight they should have left Cheryl and me together at night for a longer time. But Mom had to share a bedroom with her sister all her life, and she wanted us to have our own space even though we were twins. She didn’t dress us alike either. We don’t look alike.” Gloria’s voice cracked. She wished Denise kept a jug of water on the

desk in addition to the box of tissues. “Does this mean you’ve told your mother you’ve started therapy?” Gloria shook her head. “It would worry her if she thought I was unhappy. I brought it up as a general conversation about nightmares and kids.” She coughed to clear her throat. Her husband was the only person she’d told about Denise, so he could claim the expense through his insurance. Otherwise, Gloria would have said she went shopping on Tuesdays after she finished work. Arthur was ive, but he questioned her need for help when her problem, in his view, was due to their babies growing up and Gloria’s taking on more clients. She knew it was more than that but couldn’t explain what or why. Trust your feelings, Denise had advised. Gloria rolled up the sleeves of her sweater. The room was steamy now. Denise had been right about the furnace. Gloria squirmed in the rock-hard chair and looked out the window again. The snow blew sideways. Melissa should be safely at daycare, playing with her younger sister. Or had the daycare owner been trying to phone Gloria? From here, she could get to the daycare in fifteen minutes, even on icy roads. Gloria had chosen Denise randomly from the phone book because the office was nearby. It was even closer to Gloria’s parents’ house—the home she’d grown up in. Cool, she’d thought, when she discovered that Denise operated out of a bungalow instead of a commercial building. The former living room was the reception area. The senior psychologist used the master bedroom as his office. Denise’s smaller office was roughly the size of Gloria’s childhood bedroom. Focus, Gloria reminded herself. Stop digressing, evading. Where had she left off? The nightmares, childhood fears of the dark. Denise had asked how the last nightmare was different. Gloria noticed her sweater sleeve had slipped to her wrist in the sauna-like heat. “It wasn’t the usual falling nightmare or something chasing me until I jolted awake.” She pushed the sleeve up, but it slid down, again and again. “I was in a room much like this. My parents’ place is a bungalow too. It was dark. A shadow appeared in the doorway.” She glanced back, over her shoulder, at the door Denise always closed after Gloria entered. “I don’t know if my door was left open or shut. I’m sure it was my bedroom from when I was a kid.” She rubbed her now-freezing arms. “I see this figure, a big man, filling the door frame. He

moves closer toward me. I shrink into the bed, wanting to disappear. I don’t know if I try to get by him and can’t, but he’s on me now.” She forced her shrill voice steady. “I woke up in a cold sweat.” She gripped her arms to her body, tight. Hot, cold. Why is this dream different? Denise stared at her from behind her glasses. Be honest. “I think he’s my father.” Denise didn’t flinch. “Then I ed things.” Blood beaded on Gloria’s hand. She grabbed a tissue to blot the crimson dots. “It’s hard to pinpoint my age, but I think I was five or six years old, around the time of my nightmares. I can vividly picture my father standing in my bedroom doorway. I’m on my bed, shaking in terror. And another memory, a different night or the same one. He’s sitting beside me on the bed, his arm over my shoulder. His warmth oozes into me, but I’m frozen with fear.” Cold, hot, damp, dry. “Do you think he came into my room to comfort me after he heard my nightmare scream?” “That’s possible,” Denise said. “Did you ask your mother what she re about this?” “I haven’t had a chance yet. Funny, I don’t have memories of her in my bedroom at night. That’s typically the mother’s role, especially in those days. She probably took her turn.” Gloria looked down at the stain on her sweater sleeve. Blood. She must have scratched her arm through the cashmere. It would need to be dry-cleaned, but she didn’t care. Her mind relaxed and she let it go to her childhood bedroom, her father on the bed, his arm wrapped around her, in the dark. He eases her close to his body, pulls her onto his lap. His skin against hers, warm, damp. “Princess,” he says. His pet name for her. Thick fingers crawl under her nightie. She’s shaking all over and tries to cry out, but her mouth freezes. His fingers beneath her clothes, pushing, probing.

No. Don’t. Daddy.

* * *

Cheryl Odell sat on her bed, nursing her infant son. Such a good baby. He fed eagerly, slept most of the day, and, at one month old, usually woke up only once during the night. What luck after her colicky daughter. Zach’s one flaw was clinging to her breast after he’d drank enough. She pressed her fingers under his lips to shift him to her other side. His mouth gripped her nipple like a set of mini-pliers. Male voices flowed from the next room, her sister Gloria’s former bedroom, now being converted to a den for their father. Their mother had taken over Cheryl’s old bedroom for sewing. Cheryl glanced at the sewing machine on the desk she’d never used for doing her homework. While Gloria had worked diligently in her bedroom, Cheryl had rushed through her assignments at the dining table so she could get outside to play with friends. She extricated Zach’s lips and settled him on her other breast. Hearing the voices in the soon-to-be den made her long to re her father’s birthday dinner. Her husband, Wayne, was showing his brother-in-law the shelves, he and her dad finished that afternoon. No doubt Arthur was rolling his eyes at Wayne’s detailed of measurements and options for brackets and mounting. Arthur had no interest in handyman work. He connected with her dad through books and with Wayne on the squash court. Aside from the sewing machine and fabrics strewn over her chair and dresser, Cheryl’s teenage bedroom had barely changed since she moved out ten years ago. Her three medals for high school swimming competitions were still pinned to her bulletin board. Her mother had kept the poster of Nancy Garapick’s bronze medal win in the backstroke at the Montreal Olympics, but Cheryl had made her take down the poster of John Travolta disco dancing in Saturday Night Fever. That crush had been embarrassing and short-lived—in favour of boys Cheryl could physically touch.

The voices from next door faded as the brothers-in-law made their way back to the dining table. Cheryl gazed down at her son. “Enough,” she said, and pried him off. A downside of nursing was a sense that her breasts were milk machines rather than sex objects. Wayne insisted he didn’t view them any differently and teased that he objectified her body as much as ever. She looked forward to getting her body back after weaning this second and last child. She was glad it was a boy, so Wayne wouldn’t try to coax her into baby number three. When Gloria’s family had arrived for the birthday gathering, Arthur had cooed at Zach and said he and Gloria might try for a son too. It was hard to tell when Arthur was joking, but Gloria’s face had darkened. Cheryl empathized. Why would her sister want to go back to diapers when her youngest had already started kindergarten? Cheryl placed Zach on the bed—nice not to worry yet about him rolling over— and scurried through the hall and living room to the dining table, where the adults sat drinking tea and eating cake. Her mother rose from her chair. “I’ll get the ice cream for Cheryl and refresh the teapot.” She carried the china pot into the kitchen. Cheryl took her seat next to Wayne. “Where are the girls?” “Playing in the basement,” he said. Cheryl looked at Gloria across the table. “Isn’t it great they have cousins who are good friends? Our cousins all lived too far away.” Arthur nodded. “Every time they meet it’s like they saw each other yesterday.” “Except when they squabble and form alliances,” Gloria said. The rare times that happened, Cheryl’s daughter would side with one of her cousins, a benefit of being the non-sister. “A small piece, Dad,” Cheryl said to her father, who had picked up the cake knife, “I can’t seem to lose my pregnancy weight.” “Cutting back on your glass of evening wine might help.” Wayne nudged her

arm. “It relaxes me for nursing.” She laughed. “Helps the milk flow.” Gloria glowered. Why? Gloria had discussed lactation and other bodily functions at the table when her girls were babies. She also kept glancing at the kitchen. Normally she’d be in there helping their mother make tea. “What did you think of the den job?” Cheryl asked Arthur. He chewed and swallowed while her father handed her a wedge of birthday cake twice the size she wanted. “Super,” Arthur said, “I might hire Wayne to build shelves in the girls’ rooms.” Wayne looked at him. “I’ll charge you the family rate. Beer and pizza.” “Done. But don’t expect me to let you win at squash.” “I beat you easily already.” Wayne grinned. Arthur grimaced. Cheryl knew her brother-in-law lost more than half the games, but Wayne had to sweat for every win. It was fine for Wayne to work for free for her parents, but Cheryl would make sure Arthur kicked in a bit more than the family rate. Arthur was a geologist who had weathered the oil-patch bust in the eighties. With his salary, combined with Gloria’s income as an ant, they’d been able to buy a big house from an engineer who’d been laid off, in a classier neighbourhood than Cheryl’s or their parents’. “I’ll write Wayne a glowing recommendation,” her father said. “I foresee spending hours in my new den.” “My childhood bedroom has disappeared,” Gloria said. “Maybe that’s for the best.” Cheryl heard a sigh in her sister’s voice and looked up at her. Gloria’s face held an expression of... Cheryl didn’t know what, but it made her stomach turn. Was this twin intuition? She’d never felt that before, nor had Gloria mentioned experiencing it. They weren’t identical. Sharing a womb didn’t count, Cheryl told everyone. Nor did growing up together in parallel. Gloria agreed they

weren’t more than sisters. Their mother returned with the refreshed teapot and took her place at the end of the table, her daughters’ husbands on either side. Sometimes Cheryl wondered if her parents thought of Wayne and Arthur as the sons they’d never had. Gloria glanced at the kitchen. “Before the girls come back, I have something to tell you all.” Her gaze ed from her mother to Wayne and Cheryl and then to her father, seated at the head of the table. Gloria scanned Cheryl again and settled on the window behind her and Wayne. Cheryl stared over her teacup at Gloria and Arthur. They were going to announce a new baby. Arthur hadn’t been joking earlier about going for a son, although he would say that gender wasn’t important, that all he wanted was a healthy child. “As I’ve been telling Mom,” Gloria said, “for more than a year I’ve been bothered by nightmares. They got worse this past fall.” “Gloria,” her mother said. “I’ve been thinking. Could you cut back on some clients you’ve taken on, to reduce your stress?” “It’s not that, Mom.” Gloria continued staring out the window into the darkness. “I started seeing a psychologist.” “Oh, Gloria.” “It’s not bad, Mom. A lot of people go.” Gloria turned to her mother. “It is bad, though, in a different way. Much different. Really horrible. This is harder to say than I’d thought.” Cheryl’s chest hurt, as though her breasts were filling with milk. But only minutes ago, her baby had drained them. Arthur draped his arm around the back of Gloria’s chair. Gloria’s gaze returned to the window. Arthur squeezed her shoulder. “All I can do is spit it out.” Gloria’s eyes narrowed. “Dad abused me when I was a child.” Silence. A whoosh rose in Cheryl’s ears. She set her teacup on the table; the china clinked against her plate. “What do you mean?”

“He molested me.” Gloria looked at Cheryl. “Did he do that to you too?” “No.” Cheryl’s chest tightened. “What are you talking about?” Their father’s deep voice wavered. Gloria whirled toward him, her nostrils flaring. “You touched me inappropriately.” “When?” “I don’t every time. Maybe it was all through my childhood, even into my teens. I think I was about five when it started.” “Gloria.” Her mother’s face had gone pale. “Your father would never do such a thing.” “What did he do?” Cheryl picked up her teacup, then put it down. This couldn’t be happening. “What’s inappropriate?” Gloria stared at her. “If you have to ask, you know it was wrong.” “I don’t know anything.” Cheryl turned from her sister, from them all, and looked at the living room. She ed a game they’d often played after dinner. Their father would chase her and Gloria and then cover his eyes while they found hiding places. The thrill and terror of crouching behind a piece of furniture, waiting for him to catch her—Cheryl had loved it. She’d assumed Gloria had as well. In their twenties, though, Gloria told her she’d hated that dreadful feeling of being caught. Cheryl thought that was Gloria being a wimp, but now…? “Cheryl,” Gloria said. “What?” Cheryl blinked. Gloria came into focus and then grew fuzzy. “We don’t have to hide it anymore,” Gloria said. “Hide what?” Cheryl squinted beyond her at the china cabinet filled with their mother’s treasures, none of them important.

“I denied it too, all these years.” “This is impossible,” their mother said, her tone sharp. Gloria looked at her. “Did you see it, Mom, or did you close your eyes?” Cheryl turned toward a clatter at her father’s place. He’d dropped his fork to his empty plate. “See what?" He scanned them all, his eyebrows so low they almost hid his eyes. “Will somebody please tell me what I did?” Footsteps pounded through the kitchen. Heather, Cheryl’s six-year-old daughter, appeared in the doorway. Gloria’s daughters pushed past her and slammed into Arthur, who removed his arm from Gloria’s chair. He’d evidently known about Gloria’s announcement. When had she told him about this? Arthur’s manner toward his father-in-law had always been friendly, with no hint he thought his wife’s dad had done anything despicable. Heather raced around her grandfather’s end of the table. “Can we have more cake?” Cheryl grabbed Heather and lifted her onto her lap, grateful for the return to normalcy. “Grandpa gave me too much.” Cheryl looked at the cake smeared with melting ice cream. “You can share mine.” She hugged her daughter close, willing this moment of respite to last.

* * *

“So, what do you think of that mess at my parents’ house?” Cheryl asked Wayne in their bedroom. She’d been dying to bring it up since they left her parents’ house but had had to wait until they’d tucked in the children. Wayne yanked his T-shirt over his head. “It was weird, the way things went on as usual after Gloria’s, ah, news. Your mom talking about her knitting group.”

“Dad going on with you and Arthur about the den shelves.” “But what else could we do with the girls there?” During the drive home, Heather chattered about playing dress-up in the basement with her cousins while Cheryl’s mind looped through her sister’s words. ‘Abused’ and ‘molested’ were abstract . Gloria must have ed concrete details first and then applied these general labels. Wayne went into the bathroom to brush his teeth, and Cheryl put on her sleep pants and shirt. When he returned, she stared across the bed at her husband. “All Gloria really said was that Dad touched her inappropriately.” “I’m sure I’ve bumped into Heather in ways she didn’t like, when she was in one of her cranky moods.” Cheryl shook her head. “Gloria meant more than that, like him fondling her.” Wayne wrinkled his nose, as though sniffing a foul odour. “You didn’t know anything about this?” “No.” She’d mulled the question a hundred times. “It’s the last thing I’d think of.” “Me too.” His tone was firm. “I’ve spent hours with your dad. I’d know if he was a pervert.” “Would you?” She loved Wayne’s certainty, but how could either of them be sure? The abuse, whatever it was, or Gloria thought it was, had taken place in private, years ago. Wayne turned down the duvet. “Gloria must be wrong; that’s all. She imagined it.” “How could she imagine something beyond imagination?” They crawled into bed. Wayne switched off the bedside light and pulled the duvet over their shoulders. She spooned into him for warmth. “Dad was cuddlier with Gloria than with me,” Cheryl said in the dark. “They’d

sit on his armchair and read books all the time. With me it was more games, roughhousing.” “You can touch someone as much then.” She drew back. “What are you saying?” “That he’d have had the same opportunity with you as with her.” He rolled toward her. She stared into his silhouetted face. “He didn’t with me.” “And he didn’t with her.” Wayne stroked her arm. “Gloria made it up.” “Why would she do that?” “I agree it makes no sense.” He kissed Cheryl’s lips. “Let’s get some sleep before the kid wakes us up in a few hours.” Her jaw tensed. “He doesn’t wake you up. You sleep through his whole feeding.” “Not always. Look, don’t worry about this Gloria thing. It’s a misunderstanding or something that will blow over.” She hoped he was right, but this wouldn’t blow over for her until she knew what Gloria specifically meant. “I should phone her tomorrow.” “Good idea.” Wayne rolled over. Cheryl turned the other way but couldn’t get comfortable. She shifted from side to side. Could she handle a heavy talk with her sister that soon? When would she find the time tomorrow? In the morning, it was Cheryl’s turn to host her weekly moms and kids group. She’d have to call everyone and say she had to cancel because...? She’d come up with a lie, but what she loved about these friends was their honesty with each other about the problems of kids, husbands, and families. After lunch, one of the moms had agreed to babysit while Cheryl went to her dentist appointment and ran the errands that had been piling up. Looking after Heather and Zach and making supper would fill the rest of the afternoon. Excuses?

Yes. She dreaded the discussion. Wayne’s breathing became even and slow. Asleep already. The lucky creep. It wasn’t his father who was the pervert. Easy for Wayne to shrug this off and say Gloria had misconstrued an innocent action, or imagined it, or made up this wretched thing. Cheryl rolled over again, purposely digging her elbow into Wayne, who rested so complacently. Dad. Her dad. She pictured him at family dinners, sitting tall at the head of the table; reclined on his favourite chair, reading a book; hammering nails in the den, proud of his and his son-in-law’s handiwork; debating politics with Arthur; puttering in the garden with her mother. Dad, molester of her sister. Impossible. This was crazy. Untrue. And yet, what about the special connection between Gloria and their father? Cheryl recalled feeling left out at times. She’d assumed it had developed from their mutual love of books, which Cheryl didn’t share. Was it a result of something else? Something awful? In her teens, Gloria had spent hours behind her closed bedroom door, playing her favourite songs over and over. Several times, their mother had coaxed Cheryl to invite her sister along with her to a party or a movie with friends. Gloria would say no, once adding she preferred her own company. The snotty remark had ticked Cheryl off. Had she misinterpreted her sister’s pain? Cheryl rolled away from Wayne to the edge of the bed. She’d never felt twin intuition before, but she was certain about one thing: Gloria wasn’t lying.

Chapter Three

January 2020

Paula slapped bacon, cheese, and lettuce on the toasted bread. Cheryl sliced a tomato for the sandwiches then crossed the room to the fridge and took out the opened bottle of wine. “None for me, thanks,” Paula said. “Half a glass?” Paula shook her head. Alcohol and work didn’t mix. “I can’t drink alone before six p.m.” Cheryl exchanged the bottle for a pitcher of water and set it on the counter. She went into the pantry and returned with a jar of pickles. “That’s a handy room for storage,” Paula said. Cheryl glanced at the pantry door. “The stairs to the basement used to be here. When Dad turned the basement into a rental with a separate outside entrance, my ex-husband built this all-purpose room. Dad calls it his best reno ever.” “When did he do the conversion?” “About fifteen years ago. After my mother left, the house was too big for Dad, but he couldn’t see living in a condo or apartment. My ex suggested the basement suite to bring in income.” Cheryl’s brow knit. Was she thinking of her former husband? “Dad got off to a rough start with his tenants; they either skipped out on rent or left the place wrecked. Luckily my ex is good at repairs.” Paula wanted to learn more about this ex, especially since she had an ex herself.

She and Gary both had new partners and had moved on to separate lives, but with two daughters they’d never be totally disentangled. She was also curious about Francis’ wife. Neither departed spouse was relevant to her insurance business. Cheryl set the pickle jar on the counter and twisted off the lid with a quick snap. In addition to her father’s height, she’d inherited his robust build. Paula helped her set the food, water, cutlery, and napkins on two trays that they carried to the dining table. Cheryl walked around the end to a seat facing the china cabinet and hall, perhaps to keep an eye out for her father emerging from his bedroom. Paula sat across from her. She scanned the dozen photographs on the shelf under the window. Most were photos of girls. “Do you and Gloria have other siblings?” Cheryl shook her head, her mouth full of sandwich. She glanced back at the photos. “Those are our kids. Dad displays the great-grandchildren pictures in his den. Gloria’s up in Edmonton this week looking after her granddaughter. She hadn’t heard about the car accident until we called her last night.” While Cheryl ate her sandwich, Paula summarized the insurance details she’d explained to Francis. Outside the window, the light snow persisted. She hoped it would quit in a day or two, so her brother would have sunshine during his week in Calgary. Cheryl picked up a napkin and wiped crumbs from her lips. “Theft or driving without consent sounds like a quibble to me.” “Legalities turn on quibbles.” She looked over Paula’s shoulder, toward the hall. “What I mainly want to know now is, how does the insurance work if Dad unknowingly lied about driving his car?” Paula considered her next words to not offend Cheryl. “You mean, if he didn’t driving due to dementia or something like it?” “Or different,” Cheryl said. “It’s not lying if a person has truly forgotten everything connected with the

incident,” Paula said. “Years ago, a colleague told me about a claim he adjusted that involved a woman who drove into a parked car and had no recollection of driving. They discovered she had a benign brain tumour. She credited the accident with doctors finding it in time to operate.” “That could be the case with Dad, but I woke up today with another idea.” “Go on.” Paula started her sandwich. The toast was already getting cold. Cheryl speared a pickle and explained that she was a magnetic resonance imaging technologist at the new South Health Campus where she’d worked since fall. Prior to that, she was a technician at Foothills Medical Centre for thirtyeight years. “This morning, I ran my theory by a neurologist at work,” she said. “He thinks it’s plausible. Have you heard of transient global amnesia?” Paula shook her head. “It’s fairly rare, but we run into a couple of cases a month in Calgary. The person blanks for a period of hours. We had a man who drove all over town during an episode, did his banking and shopping. He realized something was up when his wife questioned a batch of purchases. His MRI and other brain scans showed nothing, and they typically don’t. It’s almost always benign and a single episode and could happen to anyone.” Paula squinted at her. Amnesia? Like a soap opera? Cheryl glanced at the laptop at the end of the table. “We can look it up. I guarantee we’ll turn up pages of sites.” “I trust you it exists, but I’ll check on my own later.” “When Dad gets up, I’m going to badger him into making an appointment with his family doctor. I’ll go with him to make sure she orders an MRI as soon as possible. This would also show a tumour or mini-strokes. It’s possibly a mental disturbance following his by surgery, which might make him more susceptible to TGA. No one really knows what causes it.” Paula washed a bite of sandwich down with some water. She wanted to make sure she’d grasped the point. “You’re suggesting your father took his car keys, got his car from the garage, and drove to your sister’s former street in a kind of

fugue state?” “He told you Gloria lived on that street?” Cheryl’s eyebrows rose into her feathered bangs and resettled close to her eyes. “The fact that he ed that shows he’s not as out of it as the police think. At the station yesterday, they fluctuated between accusing him of dementia or lying to cover his tracks.” She reached for the pickle fork. “I’d rather you not mention TGA to the cops until we have the test results. They’d take it as an ission I think he was driving and am looking for excuses.” She jabbed the fork into the jar. “Do you think he was driving?” Cheryl stared into the jar, fishing for a pickle. “I think he truly believes he wasn’t.” Paula took this as implying Cheryl leaned toward believing it. “You say this TGA can’t be confirmed by tests?” “Basically.” Cheryl drew the pickle to her lips which were a little chapped. She wore no lipstick. “The accident happening on Gloria’s old street makes me think Dad went there subconsciously, whatever the cause. Otherwise, it’s a coincidence.” “I agree,” Paula said, “but amnesia sounds convenient.” “The cops would see it that way.” Cheryl wrinkled her nose. “Assuming it was Dad’s car in the accident. Maybe I’m jumping the gun?” “We’re still waiting for the forensics report on the vehicle.” Paula looked past Cheryl’s shoulder, at a head outside the window. “Someone’s in your side yard.” Cheryl turned around, but the person was gone. “Probably Troy, Dad’s tenant, on his way up here. I asked him to find excuses to look in on Dad while I’m at work.” The doorbell rang from the direction of kitchen. Cheryl rose. “Dad and I have told Troy to let himself in, but he rings anyway.” She stared down at Paula. “I brought all this up so I could ask that you hold off on any insurance payments for Dad’s car damage until we have the MRI result.”

“No problem,” Paula said. Delay would suit her investigation. Cheryl left to answer the door. Paula checked her phone again. Sam had texted to say he was running late but would still be home in time to make supper. She pursed her lips, which felt as dry as Cheryl’s looked. Knowing Sam, he’d get caught up in work and arrive home after her, when she wanted to talk to him tonight without her brother around. Sam seemed on edge the past few days, probably over an issue involving his architectural work. Mumbled voices from Francis’ kitchen prompted her to postpone reading the two emails from whiplash claimants so she could meet the tenant, who had access to Francis’ car. Troy would know or could easily find out the garage lock combination. Cheryl had also implied he had a key to Francis’ premises. In the kitchen, she found Cheryl with a man dressed in only a cardigan and shorts for his hop upstairs from his side entrance. Cheryl held a glass casserole dish. Paula inhaled aromas of garlic and onion. Cheryl introduced her to Troy Mendes. “He made dinner for Dad and me to cook tonight. Aren’t we lucky to have a chef living downstairs?” “A sous-chef in a family restaurant.” Troy looked at Paula. “Cheryl says you’re the insurance adjuster.” “That’s right.” “I hope this gets cleared up quickly.” Troy rubbed his shorts. “If you ask me, it’s nuts for anyone to think Francis was out driving on the coldest night of the year. He still needs help getting to my car when I take him to appointments. Which reminds me, Cheryl, does he have a checkup with the cardiologist tomorrow? I think he does but I didn’t put it in my phone.” Cheryl set the dish on the counter. “I’ll check his calendar in the den, and also look in on him. This is a long time for him to nap.” She hurried out of the kitchen. Troy shifted from side to side. He wasn’t much taller than Paula, who was five foot five. His bald crown ringed with a fringe of grey hair made him look older than Cheryl’s sixty years. “For what it’s worth,” Troy said, “if Francis tells you he wasn’t driving his car,

he wasn’t. It’s as simple as that. He’s the most decent person I’ve ever met. Gave me a chance when others wouldn’t.” A little probing wouldn’t hurt. “What did he do?” Troy scratched the tip of his pointed nose. “Cheryl and I go way back. When the restaurant I worked for closed, she asked her father if he’d rent me the basement for a reduced rate in exchange for doing yard work and repairs. Francis agreed in a flash. I eventually found work part-time as a cook, and supplement it with math tutoring. Together the jobs pay enough to keep me going.” Sous-chef now sounded a tad elevated. He strode to the fridge, opened the door, and shuffled items on the shelves to make space for the casserole. “I gather you’ve been doing more for Francis since his health problems began last fall,” Paula said. “Cooking meals, driving him to doctors, checking in on him.” “Francis lowers my rent accordingly.” Troy spun around. “The goal is for him to stay home as long as he can. He dreads going into an institution. Who wouldn’t? The deal suits us both.” He grabbed the casserole dish from the counter and shoved it into the fridge. “If Francis wasn’t driving, who was?” Paula asked, wishing Troy didn’t have his back to her. He turned, but too late for her to catch his immediate response to her question. “Well, in the eyes of the police, I’m one suspect.” His face flushed. “They questioned me pretty good yesterday. What could I say? My Monday-night student cancelled—came down with the flu. I stayed warm inside, watching TV. As I told them, I don’t recall hearing Francis’ footsteps above me, but can’t say he wasn’t home either. These floors have good soundproofing, and after ten years, you tune out the odd step—or absence of them.” Paula relaxed into the counter, to give a sense this was casual conversation. “I understand Cheryl went directly to her own home after work that night.” “I didn’t see her car parked out front.” Troy glanced at the doorway exit to the rest of the house. “If Cheryl says she wasn’t driving. I believe her too. She’s a straight arrow.”

But he wouldn’t have seen Cheryl come in by the lane. “What about Gloria, her sister?” Troy’s eyes flickered. “She doesn’t come here often.”

* * *

“Then Cheryl and Francis walked in,” Paula told Sam over dinner that evening. To her surprise, he’d beaten her home and was slicing mushrooms when she arrived from her afternoon claimant meeting. She wrapped up her story of her visit to the Odell house. “My business was done, and I had no excuse to stick around. But Troy’s remark about Gloria was curious.” “I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of it,” Sam said. “Coffee?” While he put on the carafe to brew, Paula finished her creamy mushroom chicken and rice. She’d spent the whole meal talking about her day. Sam had seemed attentive, but now and then she’d sensed him drift. She decided to plunge into her concerns about him, in case a phone call or email distracted one of them later. “Has something been on your mind lately?” she asked. “A problem at work?” “Not at work.” He got two mugs from the cupboard. “It’s about Marcus. Feel like biscotti with your coffee?” She started at the non sequitur. “Sure,” she said to be agreeable. He crossed behind the island and reached into the cupboard above the fridge. Sam was closer to Troy’s height than to Francis and Cheryl Odell’s. Judging by Troy’s outdoor wear, he and Sam also shared a tolerance for cold. Paula didn’t understand how Sam could go barefoot on the cold kitchen tile in winter. While he arranged the biscotti on a plate, Paula waited by the drip coffee maker. She’d heard a lot about Marcus lately. Almost two years ago, Sam and his architecture partner, Henry, lost their bid for a shopping centre complex design

in the Czech Republic. Sam had been depressed for weeks afterward. He’d complained his career was wasted on piddling, insignificant projects. Paula reminded him he’d won a couple of awards for commercial building designs. He countered that the last one had been twelve years ago and wondered if he’d made a mistake leaving a large firm to start a business with Henry. They’d missed out on the big Calgary projects. His spirits had lifted when Marcus, an architect from Hamburg who’d been on the Czech project jury, called him to say their proposal had blown him away. It was his clear choice, but the other jurists outvoted him. The encouragement renewed Sam’s ion for architecture. He was impressed with Marcus’ innovative ideas, and they emailed regularly. “I told you about the HafenCity redevelopment,” Sam said when they resettled at the table with their coffees and biscotti. Paula nodded. He’d raved to her several times about the largest urban redevelopment in Europe. Four hundred acres of prime harbour land in Hamburg being built from scratch into a mixed-use area. Marcus’ firm had several HafenCity projects on the go. “They won a bid on a huge residential/commercial complex.” Sam’s face lit up. She warmed from Sam’s happiness as much as from the coffee. “Good for them.” “They need new staff.” Sam bent forward and met her gaze. “Marcus asked me to them.” “In Hamburg?” Paula’s stomach quivered. “?” “I told him I’m not available, of course.” “He offered you a job?” Sam set down his mug. “Contingent on our reaching an understanding, their getting the employment visa and so on. I made it clear I can’t go.” He blinked a few times. “Unless you want to move overseas.” “My work is here.” “They have insurance adjusters in , I’m sure.”

Chills rose up her arms. She placed her mug on the table but held on to the handle. “Adjusters who speak German.” “Most people in the cities are fluent in English.” It wasn’t like Sam to be unrealistic about the world of work. “People want their claims settled in their own language. Besides, no company there would get me a visa, and my life is here; my daughters, my mother. What about your father, Sam?” “He doesn’t need me as much anymore.” Paula wondered if this was true. They both picked up biscotti and munched. Two and a half years ago, Paula’s mother had come to Calgary for a visit and developed a friendship with Sam’s prickly father. She sold her home in Montreal and moved in with Paula’s younger daughter in Calgary. There was no talk of her mother living with Sam’s father, but the two saw each other frequently. Paula and Sam avoided speculating whether they had progressed beyond friendship. Before Paula’s mother had come on the scene, Sam had seen his father weekly. Now he visited once every couple of weeks, or less. His father never showed an ounce of appreciation. “I can’t plan my future around him,” Sam said. “But for you, yes.” He touched her knuckles on the coffee handle. She drew her hand away. They had to discuss this rationally. “But you’d go if you were single.” “I might consider it.” “Might?” His eyes grew wide. She read ‘yes’ in them. “From my end,” he said, “there’s the complexity of dissolving the partnership, but Henry’s on board with my going. He’s also fed up with the smallness of our operation and ready to move to a big firm. But they want someone to start right away in Hamburg. Marcus suggested I fly out this weekend.” Paula leaned back in her chair. “So soon?”

“Just to check things out before I decide.” “So you haven’t decided.” “I have. Marcus insists I need to be certain.” Sam smiled wanly. “It would be a free trip to Hamburg.” She wasn’t fooled by his feigned indifference. Years before they’d met, Sam had worked in the United States and returned to Calgary for family reasons. He occasionally spoke with regret about giving up the opportunities in the US. If he turned down this second chance for a larger stage, she could see him growing to resent her. Like Marcus, she wanted Sam to be sure of his choice. She took a slow sip of coffee. “I suppose we could try a commuting relationship.” “That’s a challenge.” “Others make it work.” Sam took another biscotti, presumably to reflect while he finished it. “I’d fly back to Calgary a few times a year, and you’d come to Hamburg.” His face brightened with each word. “Travel is easy and cheap within Europe. We’d take holidays in Spain, Italy, Istanbul.” They would, if he could tear himself away from his exciting, innovative, huge projects. Her coffee was lukewarm and bitter. At this point, her live-in lover had a choice. She didn’t. “You have to go, Sam, to check out all the variables.” “Not this weekend. I want to finally get to know your brother.” Paula still found it hard to believe she and Sam had been together over three years and he’d never met Ron. Her brother hated air travel and let his Calgary relatives visit him. Paula had ended up going alone on the trip she’d planned with Sam to Montreal, after he cancelled due to a work deadline. She found herself chewing another biscotti, despite her vow to cut back on food and drinking before the inevitable excess with her brother. “Ron and I will enjoy the alone-time,” she said with a shrug. “Sibling bonding.”

“I had a look at flights to Hamburg, in case.” Her stomach tensed again. “So much for your decision not to go.” He looked sideways, at the front window. Guilty. “The best option would be to leave on Friday round six p.m. and fly back Monday morning. That would give me two full days to see the site and the city and discuss the project and other details about the job. But I’d be jet-lagged the whole time.” Paula took the last biscotti then dropped it to her plate. She had no appetite for more. Sam rubbed his empty mug against his chin. “I’ve been thinking. This Hamburg offer is a lot about pride. I’m fifty-five years old. It’s a last chance to leave my mark. But my love for you is more important.” “Thanks for saying that.” She hadn’t intended the slight edge in her words. “It’s true.” She knew he loved her, but Sam’s identity and purpose in life were tied up with his work. His ion for architecture was one thing she loved about him. During his spell of job despair, they’d been testy with each other, and distant. Losing Sam to another work slump was a risk, especially one that would be caused by his sacrifice for her. “I’m not sure it’s the job I want,” he said. “Or the city. Or all the rest of it, not the least of which is dragging you into something you don’t want.” “That’s why you’re going to Hamburg this Friday.” She forced enthusiasm into her voice. “To explore the opportunity. See what it means for you and us, and gather the information you need to make up your mind.” “Our minds. It’s your decision equally.” Sam extended his arm to her again. She let him caress her hand. “When you’re understanding like this, it makes me want to stay here with you.” “That’s the plan,” she teased and felt more chipper. If she didn’t believe Sam would consider her needs and wishes as equally as she would consider his, what was their future?

They collected the dishes from the table. While Sam loaded the dishwasher, Paula checked her phone, which had pinged a few times during dinner. The traffic officer handling the hit-and-run case emailed to say Kevin Eddison, the surviving victim, had discharged himself from hospital against doctors’ orders. Paula debated arranging a meeting with Kevin now to gain control of his claim, or waiting until she was certain Francis’ car had been involved. She emailed the officer back. When do you expect the auto forensics report? Ten minutes later, he phoned her. “Off the record,” he said. “Forensics confirmed Odell’s car struck the property owner’s rock. The damage is a perfect match.” The officer paused. “Moreover, cracks halfway up the windshield suggest the vehicle was accelerating at the time. The driver hit the gas, not the brake. Could be the old guy’s reflexes, but we’ve alerted homicide.” The chills returned to her arms. After she signed off, she looked up Kevin Eddison’s phone number but decided not to disturb him tonight in case he was resting. Instead, she emailed Mike Vincelli, her and friend in homicide, to let him know she was handling the Odell insurance claim. Seconds later, Mike replied, Homicide watching from the wings. Keep in touch.

Chapter Four

January 1990

After a sleepless night, Gloria struggled to concentrate on her ing work. Outside the window of her home office, the blue sky called her for an afternoon walk. That might perk her up, but she sadly dismissed the idea. She had to stay home in case her mother or sister called. All morning she’d waited in hopes they would, also fearing the inevitably painful conversations. She gave up on her client’s tax form, left her desk, and crossed the hall to the kitchen. Tea would warm her and provide a boost of caffeine. While the kettle heated, she stared out the window at her yard, which was backdropped by the golf course. Sun glistened off the snow-padded evergreen trees. A pair of squirrels chased each other down a poplar. The telephone rang. She jumped. Her mother? Cheryl? “Gloria?” her father said. Her knees wavered. She leaned into the counter. The kettle whistled. She pressed the phone to her ear so she could hear him above the sound. “I have a gap before a meeting,” he said, his tone measured and low. He’d be calling from work and wouldn’t want his colleagues in the nearby cubicles to overhear. “I wanted to talk to you about that display last night.” Display? To stop the noise, she stretched the phone to the far counter and switched off the kettle. “What exactly do you think I did?” he said. Think? “You should know, Dad, you were the adult. You were there.” She jabbed

her index finger into a coil in the phone cord. “I touched you when you were five? That’s normal.” “Not when it’s not normal.” Stupid. Her mind was churning too much for her to explain coherently. “If you won’t answer me, tell your mother.” “I will.” She wrapped a coil around her finger, then another, tight. It dug into her skin. “I don’t owe you answers.” “Yes you do, Gloria, when you accuse me.” He spoke louder. “Where did this idea come from? You said a psychologist?” She looked at her finger, squeezed purple from the cord. “I can’t talk to you while you’re in this mood.” “It’s a pack of lies.” “Bye Dad.” She unravelled the cord, freed her finger and slammed the receiver down. Her arms shaking, she paced to her office and back through the kitchen to the hall. Work would be impossible now. She threw on her coat, grabbed her house keys and stepped out into the blinding sun. The nightmares, she should have told him. Images of you sneaking into my bedroom, on my bed, the mattress sinking under your weight, pulling me onto your lap, my body quaking all over in fear. She halted at the end of her driveway, her legs too wobbly for the ice. If she walked farther, she’d surely crash to the ground.

* * *

After dinner, Gloria drove to the group at her psychologist’s office on Elbow Drive. Gloria had grown up in this neighbourhood. She’d have ed the bungalow on her way to high school, but the house meant nothing to her then.

Tonight, she’d wanted to arrive early; but as she was leaving her home, Melissa announced she couldn’t find her homework sheet. Only a rotten mother would run out on a crying child. Gloria rummaged through her daughter’s backpack and eventually found the paper tucked in the math book Melissa had sworn she’d checked. Kids. At the entrance of the split-entry bungalow, Gloria yanked off her gloves, scarf, coat, and boots to the hum of voices wafting from the reception room where the meeting was held. When they’d discussed her plan to confront her family, Denise had said she’d call on Gloria first tonight to share the outcome, to get it over with. Gloria raced up the stairs and took the last chair in the circle, between Brenda and a man. Another man sat across the circle from Denise. Gloria leaned into Brenda and whispered, “Two men in group?” “Who knew they were allowed?” Brenda giggled, as she did half the time she spoke. “Let’s begin.” Denise scanned the circle. The talking ceased. “We have two additions to our group.” She nodded to her left. “This is Dr. Jeffrey Szabo. He was a student in a class I taught at the university and ed our practice six months ago. I invited him tonight to observe.” Jeffrey nodded at everyone. He wore round glasses and had a beard. A brown blazer, black turtleneck sweater, and smart cream pants completed his shrink look. “I have no doubt Jeffrey will fit in,” Denise continued. “But if you find it uncomfortable with him present, please speak to me privately.” Her gaze landed on the man across from her in the circle. “Our other newcomer is Jeffrey’s client, Kevin Eddison.” Kevin raised a hand in greeting. A blush rose up his face, perhaps due to all the eyes fixed on him. He was dressed in jeans and a lumberjack shirt. Was he an incest survivor? Denise looked at Kevin. “We’ll begin as usual, with everyone sharing their experiences of the past week, but only if you wish. There’s no pressure to share until you’re ready and no judgment. This is a safe space.”

Laurie, seated across the circle from Gloria, leaned forward, no doubt wanting Denise to call on her first. Laurie always had plenty of news, often horrific. Her father and grandfather raped her when she was a child. Last year, she’d confronted her family , one by one, in the order she thought they’d be receptive. All of them denied her memories and cut her off. Gloria’s back stiffened in the hard chair. Would that happen to her? No more with her mother or sister? Laurie’s response to her situation varied week by week. “You learn how to accept it,” she’d said one time. And then the next, “It’s painful, the isolation.” Denise’s gaze swept past Laurie. “Gloria, would you like to start?” Gloria gulped down the lump in her throat. Denise’s expression grew soft. She raised her chin a centimetre, urging Gloria on. “I...” Gloria rubbed the dry skin on her knuckles. “I... I told my family last night, at my father’s birthday party.” “Good timing,” Laurie said. Denise turned from Gloria and glared at Laurie. Interruptions during the initial sharing weren’t allowed. Jeffrey leaned forward for a better view of Gloria. Brenda touched her hand. “Maybe it was a mistake to spoil the party.” She laughed; her nerves close to overwhelming her. “Or I should have told them individually.” She looked at Laurie, who shook her head, as though to say it wouldn’t have made any difference. Gloria’s nerves settled as she summarized the dinner gathering and buildup to her revelation. “I said to myself, ‘Here goes,’ and blurted it out.” Gloria paused for a breath. The women here knew what her father had done. It would be painful to repeat the details for Jeffrey and Kevin. “My father and mother denied that anything happened.” Gloria’s voice cracked, but she continued. “My sister, Cheryl, mainly looked stunned. Then the kids ran up from the basement. That part was over.” Brenda squeezed her hand. Gloria looked past Jeffrey’s concerned face to Denise. “I had this fantasy that Cheryl would run around the table and hug me and say, ‘Yes, it’s true. He did it

to me too.’ And my mom would say she knew but couldn’t face it or challenge a man she depended on financially. They’d thank me, the hero who brought our secret into the open.” Her eyes watered. She didn’t want to cry, although they’d all sympathize. Someone cried every week at group. “You are a hero,” Brenda said softly. Gloria wiped her nose with her fingers. “Now that I’d lobbed the ball, I thought, their turn next. All day, I wanted my mother to call. She didn’t.” Gloria sniffed. Her throat constricted. “The one who phoned was my father, which took me by surprise. I wasn’t prepared for his questions and caved like a little girl.” She looked down at Brenda’s hand enclosing hers. The circle was silent. Gloria felt she had hogged the floor long enough. At last week’s meeting, she’d shared that she couldn’t specifics, only general fears and images in nightmares and increasingly when awake. Denise assured her the memories would surface when she was ready. Brenda confirmed this was her experience. All agreed that telling her parents would be a step in developing the necessary confidence to the truths her mind had buried to protect a fragile child. So was from those who believed her, like these people listening uncritically. “That’s a major accomplishment for one week,” Denise said. “How do you feel about it now, Gloria?” Gloria looked at her. “Scared. I don’t know. Better, that my family knows where I’m coming from and where I might need to go, although I don’t know myself. Does that make sense?” Denise nodded. “I’m proud of you.” Voices murmured agreement. Brenda clutched her fingers so tightly they hurt. Gloria loved them all at this moment, even the two men she hadn’t met before tonight. Denise scanned the circle. “How about we take a short break to make coffee before the rest of you share your week?” Brenda’s hand left Gloria’s. “I need to pee,” Brenda said, and giggled again. She dashed to the hallway.

Laurie and two others went to the heated back porch to smoke. Denise and Jeffrey remained seated, their heads together in discussion. Gloria made her way to the kitchen, where someone had set out a plate of oatmeal cookies. The coffee dripped. “You are so brave,” a man said. Gloria whirled around. Kevin, tall and slim, leaned toward her. “Three times I’ve planned to tell my family and chickened out.” Gloria nodded in understanding. She’d put it off for almost two weeks. “I was terrified the whole time I was talking to them.” “That’s bravery.” Kevin rocked up to the balls of feet and down. “You’ve inspired me. When I visit my folks for my cousin’s wedding, I’m going to tell them.” Empathy oozed through her, for what lay ahead for him. “Good luck.” “I’ll need it.” He kept rocking, which made her a little dizzy. “I want to thank you for giving me the kick in the pants I need. It took me eight months to see a psychologist, and only because a friend practically dragged me there. Then it took another four months for Jeffrey to coax me to the group. He only convinced me by offering to come along to prop me up. Now, I’m hooked. Thank you for this.” His heels landed solidly on the floor. Brave. When had anyone ever praised her bravery? “Telling my family...” She straightened to get closer to his height. “It was what I had to do. That’s all.” The meeting resumed, and the others shared what they’d been through that week. Gloria was too energized and distracted from her earlier talk to focus on most of what they said. Kevin repeated his vow to confront his family in Nova Scotia next week. “If I can,” he added. He also wasn’t sure if he’d tell his perpetrator, who had bullied him through his childhood and teens. “You guys are great, but I’m not ready to share those details.”

Denise nodded her of his choice. Gloria then steeled herself for Laurie’s gruesome report. Instead, Laurie announced she was becoming a counsellor. “I’ve arranged with a friend who does electrolysis to use her office in the evenings,” she said. “Too soon to quit my day job.” She laughed and sobered. “Without a degree I can’t charge much, but my main goal is to help others the way Denise and you all helped me.” Jeffrey spoke for the first time. “Have you taken psychology courses?” “I’ve started one at the university,” Laurie said. “Of course, there’s all my reading, and I plan to do a workshop for my summer vacation. What’s most important is to be empathetic and understand what the person is going through; and I’ve been there, unfortunately.” Laurie was right about that, although Gloria had been surprised to learn that people could become counsellors without professional training, as long as they were honest about their credentials. Arthur would be appalled if she told him that anyone could hang up a shingle. At the second break, Gloria lingered in the reception room to thank Denise for her encouragement through her ordeal of outing her family secret. When Denise finished talking to Jeffrey, Gloria edged ahead. But Laurie swooped in. While Gloria tapped her foot in annoyance, Kevin approached. “I was wondering,” he said. “Would you feel like meeting for coffee sometime outside of the group?” He stuck his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans. Did he mean as a friend? She’d referred to her children in her story, but had she mentioned a husband? She stroked her neck with her left hand, so Kevin would notice her ring. He didn’t wear one and looked a few years younger than her. But why couldn’t they become friends? Confidants on similar journeys? Brenda had made friends with another single woman in the group. They went out to movies and a concert. “If you work downtown, we could grab lunch,” Kevin continued. “I work from home.” She couldn’t take the time from her workday to travel downtown for a lunch with no business purpose. “But I might spare an evening or find time on a weekend.”

“Do you like running or walking?” “Walking.” Who didn’t walk? “I’m pretty much free most evenings and weekends.” He’d mentioned family in Nova Scotia. If he was new to Calgary, he might be lonely and looking for friends and activities. While she wondered how she could fit him into her family obligations, Denise called everyone back to the circle. Throughout the discussion of their goals for the next week, Gloria kept glancing at Kevin. “No goals,” he said at his turn to speak. “Except to keep going.” Gloria liked the hint of pain in his voice. Arthur was too normal for pain. He was ive but could never understand. “What about you, Gloria?” Denise’s voice startled her. “After your big step, what’s the next one?” Gloria shrugged. “I might reach out to my mother tomorrow. Drop by her place during the day, when my dad’s at work, and leave her some reading.” “Good idea,” Denise said. She moved on to Brenda. Gloria continued pondering another potential next step—a one-on-one friendship with a person who shared her experience. Kevin could offer that was different from the group’s, and equally valuable. On Saturday mornings, she and Arthur parked their daughters in front of the TV and relaxed with the newspaper and coffee. A walk with Kevin wouldn’t take quality time from her family. When the meeting ended, she eased toward him. “How about a walk this coming Saturday morning? Or a coffee shop, if it’s too cold.” “It’s never too cold if you dress right,” Kevin said, and grinned. “My mother’s pet phrase.” She wanted to ask him if he was close to his mom. And, yes, she wanted to share more about herself with him. “Is ten a.m. okay?”

“It’s great. I’ll swing by your place. I like to walk in different parts of the city.” She fished through her purse for her business card. As she ed it to him, her fingers grazed his warm skin. He read the card. “Wintergreen Close.” “I can give you directions.” “Don’t bother. I’ll easily find it on a map.”

Chapter Five

January 2020

The victims’ house, on Winsome Road, was a two-storey split-level nestled behind a blue spruce tree. Paula drove past a BMW parked on the street and stopped in front of the driveway that curved to a double garage. A trail of footsteps up the driveway dented a path through snow that looked as if it hadn’t been shovelled in days. She’d arrived a half hour early for her meeting with Kevin Eddison with a plan to walk the route he and his wife had taken with their dog on Monday night. The sub-zero temperatures and driving snow from the northeast convinced her to trace the route by car. Weather like this made her glad she didn’t have a dog to force her outside several times a day. Occasionally she was tempted by the idea of getting a puppy, but it would tie her down. Plus, Sam wasn’t an animal person. Paula edged her car forward slowly, at a pace not much faster than Kevin and Denise would have walked down the sidewalk. In the rearview mirror, she saw an SUV. She sped up so it could stay in the street ruts rather than attempt to and skid into her. She’d gladly pay more property taxes to boost Calgary’s snowremoval budget so the side streets would get plowed before the ruts set in. In her home city of Montreal, the entire metropolis was cleared within days of a snowfall. The thought reminded her that her brother’s flight was scheduled to arrive in a couple of hours. She’d pick up groceries for dinner on her way home from Kevin’s. At the main street, she waited to let a car and bus . A man wearing a down coat and hat with earflaps sidled up to the community mailbox around the corner. Paula turned right and then left onto Wintergreen Close, a dead-end street enclosed by a private golf course. No one would drive this route on their way to

somewhere else. The homes on Wintergreen Close were larger than those on Kevin Eddison’s street, the yards wider; many had three-car garages. Paula checked house numbers to locate the accident site and spotted the home with a squished hedge that had circled an obelisk damaged in the hit and run. The crime-scene tape was gone. She parked and stepped out into the cold to photograph the property damage. A pointy top chunk of stone lay on a portion of hedge. The police had taken the bottom of the obelisk to check it against the car damage. Snow coated the hedge and covered any traces of footprints, tire tracks, or bodies. Evidence suggested the vehicle had struck Kevin first and then rammed Denise into the obelisk. Paula tramped up the driveway to the house, taking care not to slip on the patches of concealed ice. When she discussed the property damage with the owners, she’d tactfully advise them to de-ice the pavement for safety and so they wouldn’t get sued. Her new liability claim, reported this morning, involved a woman in her forties who’d fallen and broken her wrist while delivering flyers. No answer at the door. The owners hadn’t returned her phone message. Good news, in this case. The longer it took them to respond, the more time Paula had to determine how to handle their claim resulting from a hit and run with many questions in the air. She left her card in their mailbox.

* * *

A man who looked to be in his mid-fifties answered Kevin Eddison’s door. A suit and tie weren’t the clothes she’d expected her injury claimant to be wearing. She asked if he was Kevin Eddison. A dog barked from inside the house. “Is Kevin expecting you?” the man said. Paula introduced herself. “We have an appointment for one p.m.” “Come in, out of this cold.” The man stepped back into a golden retriever. The dog yelped, tottered against a console table and skidded on the ceramic floor.

“I keep forgetting Zelda’s less agile since the accident.” The man closed the door behind Paula. “Kevin’s in the shower. Let me take your coat. I’m Jeffrey, Kevin’s friend.” Paula bent to remove her boots. Zelda approached and sniffed her foot and Paula patted her fur. Poor girl, to be present for her owner’s violent death and have to wait for help in the freezing cold while in pain from a bruised and sprained hind leg. “Kevin didn’t say I was coming?” Paula rose to Jeffrey’s level. “He’s a little distracted.” Jeffrey glanced at the stairs leading to the second floor. “He should be finished his shower soon.” Paula couldn’t hear a shower running. She checked herself in the mirror above the console table and patted down her hair. The snakes in the frame’s design coiled around the glass. The table’s feet were sphinx paws that jutted into the hallway. The dog might have tripped on them. She scanned the main floor great room—to her left, a sitting area with leather and glass furnishings; ahead, an island with barstools. Jeffrey asked if she’d like a coffee. “That would be wonderful,” she said and pulled back a barstool. “Good of you to help your friend.” “I do what I can.” Jeffrey padded behind the island in his loafer slippers. “What flavour would you like? They have pods of every taste imaginable.” He stopped in front of an elaborate coffee maker and rattled off a list of suggestions. Paula opted for hazelnut roast. The windows above the kitchen’s back counter provided a panoramic view of the golf course and the snow, which was blowing sideways. Sam would love the décor of the kitchen and family room to its right; all white with black accents. It would be stunning in a magazine layout, but Paula found it too cold for real life. “My one-o’clock client cancelled due to the driving conditions,” Jeffrey said. “I nipped over at lunchtime to look in on Kevin. He was up, but not dressed.” He looked beyond Paula’s shoulder, evidently watching for Kevin’s appearance on the stairs. “I was told he discharged himself against doctor’s advice.”

Jeffrey nodded. “I urged him to stay in the hospital at least through the weekend, but when he insisted, I drove him home and stayed over. Good thing I did, since he was up half the night.” The coffee machine dinged. Jeffrey set her mug on the island in front of her. “Excuse me, I forgot to introduce myself properly. I’m Denise’s colleague, Jeffrey Szabo.” He extended his hand across the island. “We share a consulting practice. Shared one, it saddens me to say.” He returned to the coffee maker to make his own cup. “Denise and I were more than colleagues. After thirty years of working together, we were friends. Kevin became my friend through her. Socially, we met as couples. My husband and I are heartbroken about Denise.” “I’m sorry,” Paula said, reflecting on how one death affected numerous people. While his pod brewed, Jeffrey stared at the coffee maker, perhaps lost in his own reflections. “Tuesday morning, our office was surprised when Denise failed to show up for her first appointment without leaving a message. Unheard of for Denise.” He looked over at Paula. “The tried phoning her and then sent Kevin an email, the most reliable way to reach him during the day. He works from home. I was floored when Kevin phoned us that afternoon from the hospital to say Denise had—” Jeffrey’s voice broke. He took his mug from the machine. Paula could spout a platitude, but it wouldn’t help Jeffrey and she would learn more about Denise and Kevin by letting Jeffrey talk. “I went to the hospital as soon as I could,” Jeffrey continued. “Kevin looked in bad shape and his concussion, in particular, concerned me. At times, he was incoherent. The nurses assured me they wouldn’t release him until he’d recovered sufficiently, so I was shocked once again when he phoned me yesterday to say he’d checked himself out. Obviously, Kevin knew on some level he wasn’t able to cope on his own and was seeking my help.” Paula nodded, trusting a psychologist to interpret a friend’s unconscious motive. She felt the golden retriever’s fur against her leg and reached down to pet Zelda. “I plan to stay over again tonight,” Jeffrey said. “I’ll get back from work in time for the ritual evening walk. Last night Kevin tried to go to that street at their usual time.” “Wintergreen Close?” Zelda nibbled Paula’s sock, seemingly attempting to pull

it off. Paula yanked her foot away. “It took all my efforts to convince Kevin it’s too soon for that. I finally got him to agree to walk the dog on this block, which was more than enough in the cold. Tonight’s forecast is minus forty with windchill. I’ll stop by my place after work for warmer clothes. I won’t let him return to that street until he’s ready. If he panicked, I’d have to handle him alone, outdoors, with the dog jumping all over us.” Jeffrey glanced at the staircase. “Hey, Kevin.” Paula turned toward the sound of footsteps thumping down the stairs. Zelda limped toward Kevin, who halted at the bottom. Jeffrey told him Paula was the insurance adjuster. Kevin’s hand punched the air. “I forgot. You phoned this morning. Jeffrey was at work.” He looked at Jeffrey. “It slipped my mind to tell you.” “No problem,” Paula said. Kevin wore a bathrobe cinched at the waist. His feet were bare, his wet hair slicked back. “When did you get here? I was putzing around upstairs.” “I kept her entertained. Another coffee, Paula, while Kevin gets dressed?” “One is perfect for me,” she said. “Come, Zelda.” Kevin motioned the dog to him. “We’ll be back in a sec.” After they plodded upstairs, Paula swivelled back to Jeffrey. He frowned. “Kevin used to bound up there, two steps at time.” “Does he have family nearby?” “They’re all in the Maritimes. From what he’s said of them, I can’t see anyone flying here.” “I understand the police have been trying to a daughter.” “From Denise’s first marriage,” Jeffrey said. “She’s an archaeologist, currently in the wilds of Patagonia.” He took a long sip, his brow furrowed as though in

thought. “You’ll be dealing with Kevin’s injuries covered under the car owner’s policy? Insurance can be tricky, I expect, for hit-and-run accidents. I plan to talk with Kevin about retaining a lawyer to act on his behalf.” Paula kept her expression as neutral as she could. Lawyers invariably meant higher payouts from the insurance company. Part of her role, at this stage, was to avoid sending Kevin down that path, although she couldn’t deny a lawyer might best serve his interests. As she finished her drink, Kevin came down the stairs dressed in a sweater and jeans. Zelda hobbled behind him. The skin under Kevin’s eyes was dark and puffed up. Beard stubble suggested he hadn’t shaved in several days. Was this his usual style? The blue-grey patch on his cheek was probably frostbite. Jeffrey offered to make him a coffee. “I’ll grab another for myself and then retreat to the den.” “What?” Kevin said. “Coffee? No. Later.” He whirled around, stopped and rubbed his hair. “Headache?” Jeffrey asked. “A bit sore from the movement.” Kevin edged to the living area. Jeffrey shrugged at Paula as if to say, ‘Go with the flow.’ She slid off the barstool and followed Kevin and Zelda. They ed a vase sprouting artificial daffodils, which added a splash of colour to the white walls and furnishings. Kevin sat on one of the leather chairs angled toward the gas fireplace. Its pilot light flickered. Paula settled on the other chair. Zelda rested her head on Kevin’s lap. Unlike Francis Odell’s fireplace, this one had no mantel with photos. Paula realized there were no personal pictures in the great room. She had no clue what Denise looked like. Her identity was still being withheld from the public pending her daughter’s notification. Paula studied the painting above the fireplace, a rhinoceros charging from behind a bush. Kevin followed her gaze. “We bought that in Africa, a few years ago.” “It’s a bold work.”

“We didn’t do a safari, just climbed Mount Kilimanjaro.” “Just?” They’d have to be fit for that accomplishment. “The warrior’s probably my favourite in the room.” Kevin looked at a print farther away on the wall, a stark image of a samurai warrior brandishing a katana sword. “It’s from a kayaking holiday in Japan.” He twisted toward the wall across from the warrior, filled with smaller pictures. “I details and details about these trips, nothing about the accident.” “You don’t recall taking out your phone and calling 911?” He shook his head. From the corner of her eye, Paula noticed Jeffrey leave the kitchen for the family room. Presumably, the den was in that direction. She asked Kevin’s permission to record their conversation on her phone. “If you want,” he said. “The main thing I about Monday night was debating going out at all.” Kevin stroked Zelda’s head. “It was minus thirty-five, with wind and snow. I suggested we put Zelda in the backyard.” His speech sped up. “We’ve done that when it was too freezing to walk, but Denise said she’d been stuck in her office all day and needed exercise and fresh air. We bundled up and it wasn’t so bad once we got out. I reaching our corner, crossing the street, walking by the fence along the golf course. Same as always.” “You did that same walk most nights?” “Denise said if we made it a habit, we’d be less likely to slack off when she came home from work tired and not in the mood.” Paula nodded. She only got down to her basement fitness machines when she made a firm commitment to work out before dinner. This past week, she’d slacked off on that New Year’s resolution. “Why did you choose that route?” “It’s the nicest street near here—bigger homes, more interesting to look at; quiet, fewer cars; and the right amount of time for Zelda to do her business. I reaching the first and second houses after the fence. Zelda paused for a sniff.” The retriever continued to doze on Kevin’s lap, but her ears perked up. “From then on my mind’s a blank,” he said. “Zilch. Nada.” “Traumatic amnesia is normal after a shock.”

“It’s not normal. Nothing is normal.” Kevin leaped to his feet, knocking Zelda into the coffee table. The dog cried out, and Paula stood to check that she was okay. Zelda staggered on the wood floor but looked unharmed. Kevin marched to the dining area rubbing his forehead. “It bugs me that I can’t ,” he said, on his way back. “Gives me a headache.” “Did you have headaches in the past?” Paula asked. They could be a symptom of his concussion, or stress. He stopped by his chair. “It bugs the hell out of me that I can’t Denise’s last minutes, the last seconds of her life. That I wasn’t there for her.” “You were.” Paula stared into his reddened eyes. “You managed to phone and provide the street name to get help as soon as possible. It was the best you could do to save her.” “But I didn’t.” “You did all anyone could.” And he’d probably saved himself. The medical reports said that if Kevin had spent much longer in the freezing weather he might have succumbed to hypothermia. He brushed by her and paced by the dining table to the back window, muttering and stroking his hair into peaks. Paula moved closer to try to hear what he was saying. She knew from her reports that Kevin was a software developer for a fantasy computer game. Physically he should be able to return to his work soon, but what about mentally? “Do you have disability insurance?” She stepped back toward the fireplace chairs. “Let’s sit and discuss this.” He started. “Aren’t you my disability policy insurer?” She was sure she’d explained over the phone. “I’m the adjuster representing the insured vehicle that struck you and your wife.” “Why did it skid onto the sidewalk?” Kevin said. “Was the driver speeding?

Drunk?” “The ice and ruts could have caused the skid. We don’t know yet.” If she added that the car owner denied he was driving, Kevin might seek legal advice. Worse for him, emotionally, would be the evidence the driver had sped into him and Denise. Paula touched the back of the chair, hoping he’d get the hint and come over. “I’d like to hear more about your injuries.” “What about Denise’s injuries?” Kevin glared. “Death is more serious than my head. Why aren’t we talking about her?” Because as callous as it seemed, for the insurance company Paula represented, death was straightforward and relatively cheap compared to ongoing disability, pain, and suffering. She evaded his question. “I’ll leave forms for you to fill out for submitting expenses, such as a funeral. On top of that there’s a death payment. You can also claim veterinary costs for Zelda.” Kevin’s gaze travelled to a painting in the dining area. An iceberg. From a trip to Newfoundland? Perhaps South America, where Denise’s daughter worked? “Denise always said she didn’t want a traditional service.” Kevin stared at the iceberg, his tone calmer. “Simple cremation and gravesite burial with family and close friends. We’ll do it in the spring, when her daughter can come.” Her daughter, not our daughter. Paula made a mental note to find out how long Kevin and Denise had been married. “If Denise had a life insurance policy, you’ll them to make a claim, along with your disability insurer.” “Yeah, but Denise took care of all that stuff. The policies are in her den, if you want me to get them.” “No need. They aren’t my area, but I’d be glad to help you go over any policies, if you want.” Something nudged her legs. Zelda. Paula squatted to pat the dog’s head and scratch behind her ears. “Zelda likes you,” Kevin said. “I wish I’d pushed Denise not to go on that walk.” Paula stood. “You didn’t know.” He closed his eyes. “I usually loved it once we got going.” His words slowed,

their tones mellow. “The dark, the moon, the clouds with different shapes each time. Sharp air.” His brow smoothened with his reminiscing. “Denise and I and Zelda, alone, like we owned the world. At most, a few other people and dogs out. Streetlights shining on snow and long shadows of trees. I all that from past walks, but Monday night...” His eyes shot open. “They said the car came up behind us. I must have heard the engine rev, felt the metal strike me.” He spun around in a circle and faced her again, his eyes wild. “All I is waking up in the van, paramedics looming above me. ‘Where am I? What’s happened?’ was all I could say. ‘Where’s Denise? Where’s Zelda?’ Then they shoved an oxygen mask on me to shut me up.” Kevin pivoted. His elbow jutted out and struck Paula. He strode to the chairs in front of the fireplace and dropped to the one he’d sat on before. She rubbed her sore arm all the way to the other chair. How to get him away from talk of the accident and the pain of not ing? She sat and asked how he was managing with his injuries. “They’re livable.” He stared ahead at the dark fireplace. “Bruises here and there. They’re treating my frozen cheek with antibiotics, so it won’t get infected. The worst is my concentration.” He massaged his head, raking his hair into spikes. “Jeffrey says not to try working at this point. Ease my way back with more relaxing computer stuff.” “That makes sense.” Kevin jumped up. “She needs her walk.” Zelda barked and limped excitedly in a figure eight. Kevin rubbed his forehead, which might hurt from the sudden movement. He looked at Paula. “Are we done, more or less?” “I have all I need for now.” Paula followed him across the living room to the hall. She took the medical report consent forms out of her briefcase and set them on the console table with her business card. “Be sure to me if you have any questions. I’ll pick up the forms on the weekend.” He could scan and send them by email but coming by would help her keep on top of Kevin’s injuries, so she could properly estimate the insurance company’s potential payment and prevent the claim from snowballing out of control. Kevin grabbed a down jacket and scarf from the closet. “Have you been to the

scene of the crime?” “Pardon?” Did he mean Wintergreen Close? He was right that a hit and run was a crime. “Jeffrey says I’m not ready, but it’s not up to him to decide.” Kevin put on a tuque, pushed it to his eyebrows and jammed his bare feet into a pair of boots. He intended to revisit the street. Should she get Jeffrey? No, she’d deal with this herself. It was daylight, albeit snowing and cold. “I’ll go with you,” she told Kevin. But what would she do if he freaked? Kevin yanked a leash from a hook on the closet door. “I can face it on my own.” “I want the walk,” Paula said. “I’ve skipped my exercise routine lately.” His mouth dropped. She realized she’d echoed Denise’s view about maintaining good habits. Zelda barked as Jeffrey appeared in the hallway. “Business finished already?” he asked. “It’s time for her walk.” Kevin bent to clip the leash on Zelda’s collar. Jeffrey’s lips narrowed, reminding Paula of a parent about to scold. She pointed out the forms on the console, so he would remind Kevin to fill them out. Then Jeffrey took out his wallet and gave her his business card in case she wanted to call him for any reason. She felt herself flush at the thought that, between them, they were treating Kevin like a child. “I’ll you, Kev.” Jeffrey took a trench coat from the closet and looked at Paula. “Thanks for offering, but we’re good.” Paula’s muscles relaxed. She hadn’t relished the idea of a walk with Kevin to the emotional location. Jeffrey, a psychologist who knew Kevin well, would be better equipped to talk his friend down in a crisis. Paula was glad Kevin had this helper, even if Jeffrey might coddle him too much. Though she was pretty sure Jeffrey would influence Kevin to hire a lawyer to deal with her. This could be her last personal meeting with Kevin. Pity, since she started to build a tentative connection with him. Or at least with Zelda.

Kevin rifled through the closet for Zelda’s jacket and booties. “We made her tough out the weather the last time. I can’t let her freeze again.” Paula took a moment for a quick check of her messages. The office reported that he’d typed Francis Odell’s statement from the notes Paula dropped off at the office that morning. As with Kevin’s consent forms, Paula and Cheryl could handle this by email, but Paula had time to swing by Francis’ house tomorrow. They could make any amendments on the spot, and a face-to-face visit might prompt Francis to tell her something he’d previously withheld, purposely or subconsciously.

Chapter Six

January 1990

Cheryl nursed Zach in the bedroom she’d slept in innocently as a teenager and child. The word ‘ignorant’ would be more accurate if the bombshell her sister had dropped three days ago was true. Her gaze strayed to a book on the bedside table, and her heart sank as she read the title about childhood sexual abuse. The room was her mother’s “alone space” in the house. Was she reading this? Cheryl twisted her body carefully, so as not to disturb Zach, picked up the book and opened it to a page near the front. It listed signs you were abused as a child, which included feeling ashamed, powerless, like there was something wrong with you deep inside. Did Gloria feel these things? Cheryl’s heart ached for her sister. She wished she’d known or guessed. Had she known Gloria at all? Known their parents? Her whole life before the Sunday dinner wasn’t what she’d thought it was. Cheryl turned to the next page. Perfectionism was another symptom. Their parents had often remarked on Gloria’s perfectionist tendencies. In school, teachers had praised her meticulous handwriting. Gloria would berate herself when she thought she’d messed up on an exam. It always turned out she hadn’t. Today, Gloria’s home was immaculate. Cheryl’s was as messy as her writing. She hadn’t cared if she’d screwed up a test, as long as she squeaked through. Cheryl continued skimming. Drinking. Lack of boundaries with men. These described her, before she met Wayne. Had this book been written for her too? No. Impossible. Zach grew heavy in her arms, asleep and satiated. Cheryl closed the book and returned it to the table, next to her mother’s reading glasses and hand lotion. She

placed Zach on the bed, close to the wall. Even though he wouldn’t squirm enough to roll to the floor, Gloria had cautioned her not to chance it and to bring a travel playpen for him to sleep in at their parents’ place. Gloria’s perfectionism extended to her parenting; Arthur had also commented on this. Cheryl removed the pillows from the bed, since Gloria would say they might tumble on Zach. Now there was a sleeping pillow on the bed in addition to the usual décor pillows. A nightgown was draped over the desk chair. Cheryl left the sleeping baby and followed the aromas of fried onions and hamburger meat to the kitchen. Her mother was making shepherd’s pie—enough so that Cheryl could take some home. A perk of these mid-week visits. “Can I help with anything?” she asked, knowing her mother would insist she take Zach’s nap time to rest. “You can peel the potatoes.” Her mother stirred the hamburger, onions, and spices. Cheryl got the peeler from the drawer. “Are you sleeping in my bedroom, Mom?” Her mother’s fork paused in the pan. “I noticed a book on the bedside table.” “Gloria gave it to me when she stopped by for lunch yesterday.” Cheryl stared past the plants on the window ledge to the backyard covered in snow. “Did Gloria tell you anything about what she says Dad did?” “Oh Cheryl.” Her mother resumed stirring, her gaze on the sizzling mixture. “Because it occurred to me that she said nothing concrete. Abused? Molested? What do they mean?” “Gloria told me the book will explain.” “Does it?” “I haven’t dared open it yet.” Her mother transferred the hamburger mixture to a

paper towel on the counter, the ladle shaking in her hand. She blotted the mix with another paper towel to get rid of the grease. Cheryl picked up a potato and started to peel. “What did Gloria say yesterday?” “She mentioned the nightmares she had as a child.” Her mother’s voice wavered. “She only re your father in her room, not me, and asked why I didn’t come to her bedroom. She said I didn’t protect her.” “You couldn’t have if you didn’t know.” Cheryl paused. Like her, her mother must have been rethinking the past endlessly since Sunday. “Did you?” “No. Of course not.” Her mother turned toward her. “Did you, Cheryl?” “No fucking way.” Her mother flinched. Normally, Cheryl would apologize for cursing, but this wasn’t normal. “Dad doing anything like that was the farthest thing from my mind,” she said. “I couldn’t have imagined this in a million years.” Her mother rubbed her scaly skin. “I keep asking myself, how could this have happened in my own home, and I didn’t see?” “I didn’t either.” “You were a child.” “I was Gloria’s twin. We should have protected each other.” Cheryl would strangle her father if this turned out to be true. Her mother retrieved two casserole dishes from the lower cupboard and scooped the meat mixture into the dishes, her hand steadier than before. “After you all left Sunday night, I avoided your father by clearing the table and washing the dishes.” Cheryl could hear her mother saying, “It’s your birthday, Francis, go ahead and read while I take care of the rest.” It was strange now to hear her refer to him as “your father.” Before, she’d usually called him Francis, even when talking to her daughters.

“I puttered until he went to bed,” her mother continued. “When I couldn’t put it off any longer, I ed him, but I couldn’t stand his calm, warm body under the covers. How could he sleep after his own daughter said such things?” Cheryl had been equally annoyed at Wayne’s easy sleeping, and he wasn’t on the hot seat. “Maybe Dad was faking, to avoid you.” “He wasn’t. I could tell from his breathing.” “Dad and Wayne are the types who can sleep through anything.” “Wayne wasn’t accused of the worst. Nothing excuses your father for this.” Cheryl’s body tensed. “Can you understand it, though? You knew Dad better than any of us, as an adult and his wife. Was there anything about him that might make you think...?” “No, Cheryl. No.” Her mother stared at the meat mixture, perhaps to avoid Cheryl’s gaze. A week ago, Cheryl couldn’t have imagined discussing her parents’ sex life with either of them. “Gross,” teenage Cheryl would have said. “After you girls were born, our intimate life lost some of its previous spark. My fault mostly.” Her mother’s gaze stayed fixed on the casserole dishes, her tone calm. Cheryl was glad her mother was examining herself and not simply being defensive. It had been five weeks since Zach’s birth and Cheryl was far from desiring sex, which Wayne found frustrating. “That’s normal after kids are born, and you were dealing with twins.” “It wasn’t until you girls were teenagers, and more independent, that we...” “Got into it again?” Cheryl said. Surreal. “I went along when you were young, but it took years before I enjoyed it again. I’m sure Francis could tell. I can’t help but wonder...” Cheryl finished her mother’s thought... if that’s why he’d turn to Gloria. Gloria

had always looked like their mother—a younger version. Her mother shoved a can of cream corn under the can opener and struggled to latch the cutting wheel to the rim. “Sunday night, I couldn’t stay with your father in bed, listening to his complacent snores. I got up, walked around the house, and ed the sleeping pills.” “What pills? Did they help?” Cheryl felt she might be needing some soon. “I tore the bathroom apart but couldn’t find them, the ones I took after my miscarriage.” The can opener started grinding. Her mother had miscarried three years after the twins’ birth. When they were teenagers, she’d told them about the deep sadness she’d felt as a result of the loss. She didn’t get pregnant again, for no apparent medical reason. “But you girls are enough for me,” she’d added, and gave them big hugs. “After the miscarriage, I couldn’t settle down.” Her mother rubbed her forearm while Cheryl rinsed dirt from the potatoes and chopped them into quarters. “I’d roam the house all night. Over-the-counter sleeping pills didn’t help. Our family doctor prescribed a tranquilizer. Nothing worked until your father brought home these pills that his co-worker sold on the side. I was desperate, with two toddlers depending on me. Those little pills knocked me out the first night and every night afterward. Gradually my mood recovered. I stopped using them, but I was sure there was half a bottle left. “That was over twenty-five years ago.” “I don’t throwing them out.” “You’re supposed to do that with old medicines.” Cheryl had argued this with her mother before. The bathroom still had a stash of remedies from their childhood, which her mother hated to waste. On one visit, Heather developed a runny nose. Cheryl let her mother ister a syrup that was fifteen years past its expiry date. It instantly cleared Heather’s symptoms, and Cheryl hadn’t brought up hoarding expired medicines after that. “When I couldn’t find the bottle, I started wondering if your father fed me the

remaining pills, so he could go to Gloria at night undisturbed.” “That’s craziness, Mom.” Cheryl stopped chopping and looked at her mother. “I know. Middle-of-the-night fears.” “It would be sick of him. Calculated. Are you seriously suggesting he ground up those pills and slipped them into your drink?” “I can’t put anything past him now.” “He’s not a sociopath.” Her mother’s eyes grew wide. “I don’t know what to think, Cheryl. I know Gloria isn’t making this up.” Cheryl couldn’t it aloud that she felt this too. She dumped the potatoes into a pot and smothered them with cold water and wished she’d kept her last pack of cigarettes instead of throwing them in garbage when she discovered she was pregnant with her first child. “My rampage through the bathroom Sunday night didn’t wake your father up,” her mother continued. “Then I put everything back so he wouldn’t know. This exhausted me so much that I fell asleep in your bedroom and woke up after he left for work. During the day, I searched a few other places for the pills, but finding nothing proves nothing.” “This sounds obsessive, Mom.” Her mother paced to the fridge, opened the door, looked inside, then closed the door. “Monday, I went to bed at the same time as your father but couldn’t sleep again.” She slumped against the fridge. “Mom, you need to rest, or this will drive you nuts.” “That’s why last night, while he was reading, I snuck my nightgown into your bedroom, then made squares for my church group. When he went to bed, I tidied up the kitchen and fell asleep in your room but kept waking up every hour.” Both turned toward a rustling at the front door. Her mother left the kitchen to

check on the sound. Cheryl turned on the stove to boil the potatoes. Her father’s muffled voice flowed from the house’s entrance. She glanced at the clock above the stairs to the basement. He was home three hours early from work. Unprecedented. Outside the sky was cloudy, but there was no snowstorm forecast that might have shut his office down. She left the potatoes boiling and met him and her mother in the living room. “I didn’t know you were here until I saw your car parked outside,” he told Cheryl. Dressed in his business suit, he looked like his usual self. She’d expected something would be different, that now she’d see through his veneer to the monster inside. A hug ‘hello’ wouldn’t feel out of place, but she kept her distance in the living room. She bet he’d come home early to catch her mother before supper, when she’d find it harder to avoid him. He was right in this one thing. They had to talk if there was to be any possible hope. “I was just leaving,” Cheryl said. Her mother looked toward the kitchen. “We have to finish your shepherd’s pie.” “Freeze it and I’ll get it on the weekend.” Cheryl headed to her old bedroom and picked up Zach. He whimpered then launched into a cry. It morphed to a wail. She’d spent the past two days avoiding calling Gloria, telling herself it would be better to talk in person. This was her chance, but Zach wouldn’t make it through a trip to Gloria’s now without a feeding. Cheryl closed the door so her father couldn’t peer in. Dad, the sex creep? She sat on the bed and positioned the baby on her breast. Zach sucked as though he hadn’t eaten in a week, while Cheryl scanned her old bedroom. Sports and boys had been her only interests in high school. She’d assumed her apathy when it came to academics was simple laziness. Was it due in some way to the rot festering beneath her superficially happy home? She stared at the book on the bedside table. The book that might explain. Feeling ashamed, powerless, like there was something wrong with you deep inside.

* * *

Cheryl drove from her parents’ house, tempted to head straight home to relax before dinner or, better yet, stop at a store for smokes. But she’d put off talking to Gloria long enough. She crossed Macleod Trail and entered Gloria’s neighbourhood. Most likely her sister would be working. Gloria’s ing practice, with its flexible hours, allowed her an enviable arrangement for raising kids. January was the start of tax season, Gloria’s busiest time. She’d likely be working another hour, which meant her daughters would still be at daycare. At the traffic light, Cheryl turned right, ed the golf course, and took the first left onto Gloria’s street. She’d only been there a few times since Gloria moved in the previous year, since they tended to meet at their parents’ place. Gloria’s twostorey house, with three dormer windows upstairs, was classically impressive. Cheryl made a three-point turn and parked in front. Zach squirmed as she manoeuvred him out of his car seat but made no sounds the whole way up the driveway. Gloria opened the door before Cheryl could press the bell. “I saw your car out front,” Gloria said. “Am I interrupting?” “I’m not getting much work done these days.” Inside, Gloria took Zach so Cheryl could remove her coat and boots. He sputtered and scrunched his face at Gloria, who returned him to Cheryl before he fully woke up. Cheryl placed him over her shoulder and walked around the living room for a few moments until he settled. She stopped in front of Gloria, who stood beside the upright piano. “You sure blew the shit through the house,” Cheryl said. “Mom’s so upset she can’t sleep. Dad came home early from work, hopefully to talk to her.” “Good. It’s time this is out in the open.” Gloria’s wide-set eyes narrowed to slits, but she could hardly blame Cheryl or their mother for concealing anything. “Why did you wait so long?”

Gloria’s eyes resumed their typical guileless look. “I’ve only known it myself two weeks.” “I don’t get that.” “Neither did Mom. The book I left her might help.” Cheryl felt Zach stir. She bent her knees and straightened them, again and again, his favourite motion in the world. When she lowered herself, her height was level with Gloria’s. Legs straight, Cheryl hovered above her. Normally she liked having the extra inches on her sister. Today, her height felt awkward. She forced her voice firm, to get a straight answer. “What exactly do you think Dad did?” “Don’t pressure me.” Gloria turned toward the piano. Coward. “You brought it up,” Cheryl said. “All you told us about were nightmares. Is there more?” “That’s how it began.” Gloria stared at the piano, like their mother had stared at the casserole, but their mother wasn’t the one who had brought this up and owed people an explanation. “What began?” Cheryl asked. Gloria pressed the piano keys, a high, faint chord. “Last night, I had the worst dream of all. Dad rolled me onto my tummy and lowered my baby doll pyjamas.” Cheryl squeezed Zach to her chest but couldn’t stop the hurt spreading from her core. “A dream, Gloria.” “It really happened.” “How do you know?” “You know a memory from a dream.” Gloria’s voice wavered. “Cheryl, I’m scared.”

Zach wriggled. Cheryl bent her knees, wishing she could collapse through the floor with her son. “How old were you when he did this, in these dreams?” Gloria turned toward her, slowly. “Five, six. Does it matter? Should he do that to me at any age?” Her wide eyes pleaded. “No,” Cheryl said, to comfort her sister. “No,” she repeated because it was right. “It makes me afraid to fall sleep.” “Mom finds that too.” Cheryl’s body softened in sympathy. Zach sunk in her arms. She pulled him back up to her shoulder. “Is she ing things?” Cheryl’s knees wobbled. “Not that she said.” “If it starts happening to you, Cheryl—” “It won’t.” Cheryl held onto Zach, who twisted and squealed. “Don’t be surprised if it does.” Up, down, up, Cheryl clutched her baby tighter. “Why do you say that?” “Last week, a woman in my group said that if he abused me, he probably did the same to you. Pedophiles aren’t selective.” “Dad isn’t a pedophile.” “What do you call it then?” Gloria scratched her forearm. Was itchy skin a symptom? Cheryl wanted to reread that list. Feeling ashamed... like something’s wrong with you deep inside. “When you look at our lives,” Gloria said, her voice growing stronger, “everything makes sense. Why am I this neat freak? I blow up at the kids for no reason.” She stopped scratching and pointed at Cheryl. “You spent your teens and twenties dating jerks until you stumbled on Wayne.” Zach let out a cry. Cheryl marched him to the fireplace, her stomach a hard ball.

Wayne had seemed like a jerk when they first dated, forgetting to show up when he’d said he would, cheating on her once, and then he’d fooled her by turning out to be decent. Zach started crying steadily. “I understand your denial, Cheryl.” “I’m not denying anything.” “Mom’s in denial, too. I hope she reads the book.” Cheryl longed for all of this to go away, including the blasted book. She snorted. “Mom can’t even look at it.” “See what I mean? Denial.” Gloria folded her arms. “Cheryl, I do understand. I’m as bad as you both. I hid it from myself for years.” Zack’s cries escalated to screams. The car’s motion and drone would be the only way to knock him out. “I can’t stay,” Cheryl said, torn between wanting to finish the discussion and the opportunity to escape. Gloria followed her to the entry hall. “We’ll talk later, when you’re ready.” Cheryl bristled at her sister’s condescending tone. “I’m ready now, for God’s sake. Why do you think I came here?” “Don’t expect that we can stuff the shit back to where we buried it and then all sit around the dining table pretending nothing happened.” I’m not pretending, Cheryl stopped herself from screaming. She shoved Zach toward Gloria. As her son howled, Cheryl zipped up her jacket and boots as fast as she could. She would not give Gloria the satisfaction of agreeing. But Cheryl knew there was no getting away from this shit. Not for any of them.

* * *

January 2020

Paula, her brother, and Sam lingered at the dining table with coffee, dessert, and a second bottle of wine. Over dinner, Ron updated them on his job at the car dealership, his divorce proceedings—he and his wife had separated the previous year, when she decided she needed space to grow—and his son, daughter, and two grandchildren. “It’s better than having your own kids,” he said about the latter. “You send them home at night.” Paula’s daughters had boyfriends but were more focused on careers than children. “For once, both are in a good place,” she told Ron. Leah, twenty-eight, a bar server, was absorbed in the final arrangements for the wine and tapas bar she and her boyfriend were starting up. They’d signed a lease for a location in the trendy Beltline area and were on track to open in April. Erin, twenty-four, had finished her science degree in university and was applying to veterinary medicine programs. Sam chimed in with occasional comments, but he was quieter than usual. Paula guessed his mind was on his trip. While they were waiting for Ron to arrive from the airport, Sam told her the Hamburg architectural firm wooing him had tickets to an orchestra performance at the Elbphilharmonie concert hall on Saturday night and had invited him along. “I’ll be so jet-lagged, I doubt I’ll stay awake,” he’d said. Paula was sure he wouldn’t sleep through a moment of a night at the ‘Elphie,’ as Hamburg residents affectionately called the new building. Sam believed it was poised to become a city landmark, like the Sydney Opera House. The Elphie was a focal point of the HafenCity urban development that Sam would be involved in if he took the job. “I might score us hockey tickets for next week,” Sam said to her brother. “Cool,” Ron said. “Oh, I forgot to mention. I got in touch with an old friend from high school who moved here in the nineties, Jim Beaton. You must

him, Paula?” While she refilled their wine glasses, she dredged up an image of thick-necked Jim tossing a football with her brother in the back yard. “Didn’t you guys call him Jimbo?” “That’s him,” Ron said. “He invited me skiing this weekend. I’ll rent skis and boots. Too bad you’ll be away Sam, but Paula’s more than welcome, Jimbo says. He’s got a cottage in Windermere with three bedrooms. We’d go up Saturday and return Sunday.” Paula took a sip. “I gave up skiing when I got tired of the early mornings, shivering on chair lifts, and falling down hills when my ski hit a mogul.” “You can be a snow bunny, then.” Ron raised his glass to her. “No thanks” She set her glass on the table. “I wasn’t crazy about your pal Jimbo. Whenever he came to the house, he’d make some crude remark about my short skirt or tight T-shirt, or ask if I was up for a night of swinging.” “He was joking,” Ron said. “I was twelve or thirteen.” “He was a teenager too.” Ron downed his wine. “I’m surprised Mom let you wear such skimpy outfits.” “She didn’t like them.” “See what I mean? Mom knew your point was to tempt my friends.” She glared at him. “Don’t blame the woman or girl.” Ron slumped back into his chair. “This was forty years ago. You might like old Jim now.” She might, but she’d told Kevin she’d pick up his medical report consent forms on the weekend. She’d also arranged to meet a few whiplash and property claimants who were only available then. Two days of listening to Ron and Jimbo babble about their teenage shenanigans sounded more annoying than fun. “I’ll

leave you to your guy bonding and wrap up some work to give me more time with you next week. What excitement are you up to tomorrow?” “Taking Mom to her podiatrist.” Ron laughed. “She has a day of tasks for me she’s been saving up, since she doesn’t drive.” He touched his empty glass. “Another bottle?” “I’ve had enough,” Paula said. “Me too.” Sam got up. “Some of us have to work in the morning.” He flashed Ron a teasing smile.

* * *

Despite limiting her drinking, Paula woke up tired. Bleary eyed, she checked her phone. The traffic officer on the Odell case had texted her. Victim’s daughter located. Names released later today. Paula’s sluggish mind took a few seconds to process that this meant the police had finally ed Denise Young’s daughter in South America. Downstairs, she grabbed breakfast alone. Sam, a morning person, had already left for work. When Ron didn’t emerge from the guest room in the basement, she left him a note telling him to make himself at home. Paula drove the five minutes to her office in Inglewood. Inside, she climbed the stairs of the historic building. Isabelle, the junior adjuster, greeted her from her desk in the reception area. “I’m swamped with fender-bender claims,” she said, flipping her blond hair over her shoulders. The slick roads this winter had caused more minor crashes than the insurance companies could handle in-house. They’d assigned the overflow to the independent adjusters, a bonus for their small firm. Paula and her boss, Nils, shared the workload for large claims, while Isabelle handled the smaller ones over the phone. Every time she came into the office, Paula suggested to Nils that they hire an intermediate adjuster to relieve them. Nils, the great procrastinator, always replied that he’d look into it. If Paula cut back on her workload to spend

time in Hamburg, Nils would be forced to act. Everything had a bright side. Connor, the office , gave her the statement he’d typed for Francis Odell to sign. As she’d expected, the document contained no errors. Connor had been a great addition to their team since they hired him two years ago. He had no job ambition beyond clerical work and was saving his money for travel. Paula doubted he’d be here after spring. She made a few minor amendments to the typed statement and caught up on reports for several other claims. Cheryl had told her to stop by the house any time today, even though she would be at work. Paula arranged a one o’clock meeting with a whiplash claimant who lived not far from the Odell home. It would be convenient to deliver Francis’ statement after that.

* * *

A woman answered Francis Odell’s front door. She looked about sixty and had wide-set eyes and curly shoulder-length hair. Paula ventured a guess. “You must be Gloria.” The woman wrapped her arms around her chest and nodded. Paula explained she was her father’s auto insurance claims adjuster. Gloria ushered her into the warm house. Paula sniffed the pleasing scent of smoke from the fireplace. As she removed her gloves and boots, she glanced at Gloria, who wore yoga pants and a sleeveless top. Gloria had a long neck and a bulb at the end of her nose like Cheryl, but otherwise Paula couldn’t see more than a sisterly resemblance between the twins. The sound of voices drew her gaze to the dining table where Francis and two children were building a tower with Duplo bricks. Gloria spoke in a low tone. “Cheryl says Dad was agitated last night. She asked me to stay with him while she’s at work. I look after my grandkids Fridays and it’s no trouble to bring them here.” She glanced over her shoulder at the preschoolers, who were climbing onto the table.

“Get down from there, kids,” Gloria shouted. Francis turned around in his seat at the end of the table. “The adjuster. Did I forget our appointment?” Paula took off her coat. “Cheryl told me I could drop by any time today.” “I don’t recall her mentioning it,” he said. “To me either,” Gloria said. “That’s good.” Francis rose. “I don’t want to be losing my marbles.” “Gappy, we can shoot marbles through here.” The boy stuck his arm into a tunnel through the bricks. “I don’t have real marbles, bud.” Francis looked at the kids. “You two stack your dinosaurs on the tower while I go talk to our visitor.” The boy picked up a tiny plastic creature, wove it through the air and made it land on the top of the tower. “Pterodactyl needs to go there,” the girl said. “Steggy likes flying too.” The girl shoved him. “He has no wings, stupid.” “Hey, you two, play nice.” Gloria picked up her cell phone from the console table and sat in the dining area with the children. Francis and Paula settled in the conversation nook, he in the armchair, she on the sofa facing the fireplace, their same places as the previous time. A Child’s Garden of Verses had replaced Hamlet on the table beside his chair. The wellread children’s book was taped along the binding. Paula ed Francis his typed statement. “Take your time to review it carefully before g. We can make any changes you like, at this stage. It’s best to have it completely accurate.” Francis put on his glasses. While he read the document, Paula studied the photos

on the mantel, two on each side of the clock. The only picture in colour was the one of the twins holding hands. Gloria was clearly the shorter girl with the curly, dark hair. Her hair was now an ashy blonde shade, similar to Cheryl’s. “Holy shit,” Gloria said from the dining area. Paula twisted around and looked over the back of the sofa. The boy and girl giggled. Gloria stared at her phone; her eyes wide. “Denise Young, psychologist. The woman killed by Dad’s car. It can’t be her, but her husband is Kevin Eddison. Oh God. How did I miss this?” She looked up. “Their names were only released this morning,” Paula said. Gloria returned to her phone. “It says Kevin was taken to a hospital.” “Do you know them?” “I did, around twenty, closer to thirty years ago. I wondered if they’d moved since I haven’t run into them.” Gloria scrolled through the article. “It says Kevin went home from the hospital. He can’t have been too hurt. That’s one relief. But holy crap. Denise, dead. Dad’s car hit them.” Gloria looked at her. “The last time I saw Denise, she was... about the age of my daughter now. I can’t believe this.” “Did you know Denise well?” Paula asked. “And Kevin?” Gloria’s granddaughter crawled onto her lap. She stroked the girl’s arm. “We used to go walking, for exercise and to talk. The accident happened on my old street, Wintergreen Close. What were Kevin and Denise doing there?” “Walking their dog. They lived on the next block.” “Kevin still has a dog? It can’t be the same one, Teela. She’d be too old.” “Kaboom!” The boy whacked his arm across the tower. Plastic bricks and dinosaurs thudded across the table and spilled to the carpet. “You guys pick these up,” Gloria said, her tone firm.

Paula turned toward Francis. He was staring down at the papers, which shook in his hands. He placed the first sheet on the coffee table and started reading the second one. Paula felt a tap on her shoulder and glanced up to see Gloria nodding toward the hall. After asking Francis if she could use the washroom, Paula followed Gloria into the middle bedroom, which turned out to be a den. A bulky computer monitor sat on the desk. Shelves of books covered one wall. The top shelf displayed studio portraits of babies and toddlers, Francis’ great-grandchildren, Cheryl had said. Gloria stood in the front of the window and looked over Paula’s shoulder at the doorway. She’d have a direct view of the children at the dining table. “I have to tell you about Denise,” Gloria said. “I don’t know if it’s relevant or not.” “Any detail is potentially important.” The detective’s creed that Paula had learned from Mike. She debated telling Gloria to hold off and call the police with her information. But would Gloria follow through if she doubted the relevance? And wasn’t it better for someone to hear Gloria’s immediate response to the news about Denise? If the police chastised Paula for overstepping her insurance territory, she’d suffer their knuckle rap. Gloria rubbed the back of her hand, her gaze fixed on the doorway. “Denise was my psychologist some thirty years ago. Kevin was seeing her colleague. We met in a group and started walking together.” Gloria fingers slid to her bracelet, a multicolour weave. “Denise and Kevin became friendly outside the office. It was all above board. Well, mostly.” Gloria squinted at the doorway. “I don’t see the kids, but Dad would holler if they were killing each other.” She looked at Paula. “Have you seen Kevin since the accident?” “Part of my job is to deal with his bodily injury claim.” “How is he? Never mind. We need to finish before the kids or Dad interrupt.” Gloria swivelled the bracelet around her wrist. “Kevin and I were in the group because we were both sexually abused as children, by relatives. In his case, a brother. In mine...” She cleared her throat. “This is still hard to tell strangers, after all these years. It was my father.” Paula mind went blank. “Francis?” She rotated around, but his chair in the living

room wasn’t visible from where she stood. As she returned to Gloria, Paula noted a shelf with several Charles Dickens books. Gloria adjusted her floppy shirt over a hip. “I’m really okay with it now. Denise guided me through the awful beginning. I couldn’t have done it without her. Afterward... it was hard, but I’ve reached a better place. I forgive him but can’t forget what he did.” Paula stared at a vein pulsing in Gloria’s forehead and recalled Troy’s puzzling comment about her, “She doesn’t come here often.” This explained why. When Gloria had read the news report on her phone, Paula had been watching her and missed Francis’ reaction to the revelation of the victims’ names. She’d turned back to find him reading the statement, or appearing to read it, his gaze lowered, hands shaking. But his hands shook often, didn’t they? “Did your father know Denise Young was your therapist?” “I’m sure I mentioned a psychologist, but maybe not by name. Actually, no, definitely not. I purposely avoided saying it, to protect her. Dad was furious I’d accused him, enough to go to her office to bully and berate her. He blamed her for encouraging me. Denise could have handled it—I’m sure she dealt with other irate parents—but I’d have been embarrassed.” “But you don’t know that he did this?” “Denise didn’t say he did, but I don’t know if she would. Dad likes to boast about his sticking it to management back in his union days. By his own , he was forceful then, verbally.” So, Francis had a connection to Denise. And he had a reason to be angry with her. “Cheryl thinks Dad was in a confused state when he took his car out,” Gloria said. “It’s possible.” It could be a coincidence that Francis’ car happened to strike Denise Young, a psychologist who’d helped expose his sordid side. Denise lived a ten-minute drive from his house and walked her dog in her neighbourhood. Their paths might cross naturally.

“Would you say your father still has resentment toward Denise?” “He’ll never totally get over what happened. It’s there, all the time, bubbling under the surface.” Gloria moved toward the doorway. “The kids are too quiet. I have to check what they’re up to. I don’t leave them alone with him.” In the living room, the boy and girl were sitting on Francis’ lap, while he read them the classic children’s book. Gloria dashed to the sofa, sat and stared at the three of them. Francis kept his eyes down, his shaking finger pointing at words or images. The minute she left this house, Paula would send Mike an email with Gloria’s information. Homicide didn’t believe in coincidence.

Chapter Seven

January 1990

Gloria glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. Ten minutes until Kevin was due to arrive. If he didn’t show up or was late, Arthur wouldn’t be impressed. Her husband closed the dishwasher door and set the buttons. “I still don’t know why your weekly therapy and group meetings aren’t enough.” “Additional can’t hurt.” Her voice trembled as she held his gaze. Arthur had been shocked but understanding when she first told him about her problems and what she needed in order to deal with it. Now it seemed like he was digging in his heels, while she sped along a conveyer belt she couldn’t control. “Don’t I give you that?” he said. “Gloria, I hope you won’t make this your whole life.” “How could I when every other hour of the day is claimed by the kids, my job, housework.” And you. She left the room to avoid seeing his expression. Arthur followed her to the hall. She regretted her snap and hoped her daughters hadn’t heard her over the blare of the TV in the family room. The sound of the doorbell made her jump. She glanced at Arthur as if to say, “He’s reliable and prompt.” Cold air whooshed in as she opened the door to Kevin, who wore a down jacket and tuque. She motioned him inside and closed the door. “You wouldn’t catch me doing a long walk in this weather,” Arthur said, his tone friendly despite his lack of enthusiasm toward her cutting out on their Saturday morning together.

“There’s no such thing as bad weather,” Kevin said. “Just the wrong clothing.” Gloria smiled at the remark, a repeat of his comment to her at group on Monday. During breakfast, she’d mentally debated attractive versus practical outerwear. Her down coat would keep her warm but made her look chunky. Did that matter when Kevin was merely a friend? It did, she decided, because she’d care as much about how she looked if he were a girlfriend. But Kevin’s quilted jacket prompted her to go for the down along with her thick mittens and a hat that covered her ears and half her forehead. She tied a scarf around her neck, hoped no one took her for a Cossack and called goodbye to the girls. Their gazes remained on the TV screen so as not to miss a second of their cartoon. “Have a good outing,” Arthur said. “I’ll suffer inside, staying warm and dry.” ive aggressive. Gloria fumed on her way out the door. “Your husband seems nice,” Kevin said. “He’s trying. Is that your car across the street?” “Rusty Ruby, I call her. I drove Ruby here from down east. In the Maritimes, salt from the ocean and roads in winter eats the metal like crazy.” The whole side of the grey sedan was pocked with rust. “Shouldn’t Ruby be a red car?” “I named her for a dog I had as a kid. She wasn’t red either.” Kevin stopped at the sidewalk. “You know this area. Which direction is best?” Gloria pointed to the left. “That way’s a dead-end.” They turned right, toward the exit from Wintergreen Close. The sidewalk that Arthur had cleared this morning was snow-covered at the next house. The neighbours were always slow to shovel. Kevin’s mukluks broke a trail in front of her. Gloria took giant steps into his large footprints until the path widened enough to walk by his side. “How long—?” they said together.

Kevin laughed. “You first.” It would be better to learn a little about each other before getting into the heavy stuff. “How long ago did you drive here from the Maritimes? At group, you mentioned family in Nova Scotia.” “That’s where I grew up and lived until my girlfriend and I came here two years ago to see the Winter Olympics. We liked Calgary’s can-do atmosphere, quit our jobs, and drove west that spring. I found work in a bank. There’re always jobs for software developers.” Gloria’s neighbour from three doors down approached, looking like a bear in her fox-fur coat. Her dog paused to sniff a snowbank. Gloria’s daughters went wild for the dog whenever they saw it outside. Lately, they’d been begging to get a puppy. Gloria was tempted, but Arthur said pets beyond goldfish were too much work. Kevin stooped to pat the spaniel, who wore a coat and booties. “I always had a dog as a kid,” he told the woman. “But there’s no space for one in an apartment.” As they left the neighbour and continued down the street, Gloria asked what “how long” he’d started to ask her. “I forget.” His brow knit. “Oh yeah, have you lived here long?” “In Calgary, all my life. Less than a year in this house. After we got married, we bought a bungalow a few blocks from here. A benefit of this oil bust is that if you have work, it’s easier to get into the housing market or move up. We couldn’t have afforded this place in a boom time.” “What work do you do?” “ing, from home.” “Were you a math geek in high school like me?” He grinned. She chuckled. “I was in the math club.” She skidded on a patch of ice, regained her balance, and continued walking with her gaze on the sidewalk to prevent another slip. “I liked the precision of numbers. Now I wonder if that was about my wish for control.”

“Numbers are black-and-white. Right and wrong. And you can still create exciting things with them.” She sniffed. “I wouldn’t call tax forms exciting.” “Bank statements neither, but they’re a stepping-stone.” “To what?” “My dream is to get into video games, after I get my head straight.” They reached the main road. Kevin waited, presumably for her to choose their route. She turned north, away from the commercial zone. Heading into the wind, she was glad she’d opted for padded clothes over beauty. Kevin stared ahead, shoulders hunched. She was curious to learn about his girlfriend, but he’d given her a segue into more important conversation. She looked at Kevin while keeping her peripheral view on the sidewalk. “You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want.” She paused. “What brought you to therapy?” Kevin bumped against her. He drew away. Had he found her too blunt? “Only answer if you’re ready, like Denise says.” “Jeffrey, my therapist, says that too.” She glanced at Kevin’s profile as they rounded a corner. His nose had a bump below the bridge that gave it a slight hook. She hated the bump on the tip of her nose. Arthur had called it cute when they first met. Did he even notice now? “It started a year ago,” Kevin said. “On a day with this kind of weather. Cold, the sky white with snow waiting to fall. I was driving to a store to buy hockey skates. Do you skate?” “We take the kids out some weekends.” While Arthur coached and skated with the girls, she tended to watch from the sidelines. She worried too much about falling. If she had more confidence in her body, she could face Kevin rather than keep watch for sidewalk ice. “You were driving,” she said, to return the focus to him.

“I had the car radio on this talk show,” Kevin continued. “A caller came on and spoke about her grandfather abusing her as child. Maybe that was the call-in topic. I hadn’t been paying attention. The show’s guest might have been a psychologist. Anyway, all of a sudden, my mind went as white as outside. The windshield got foggy. I couldn’t see the road and pulled over and parked. Waves of fear ran through me. I was running, running.” “Like a nightmare.” Gloria thought of her own nightmares, her father on her childhood bed. She brushed the thoughts from her mind. “I felt these arms grab me,” he said. “They hauled me to a place that was warm and smelled like burning wood. I heard a man laugh, or the fire crackle. Before I pictured his face, he rolled me over, onto my stomach. Then the flashback ended.” “It was a flashback?” “I didn’t know it was one at the time. Is that the golf clubhouse?” Gloria followed his gaze to the building behind the iron fence. “Yes.” Did he golf? Don’t lose the personal track. “What happened next?” “I resumed driving, shakily, and tried to forget it. A one-off, I figured, until the second flashback.” “You had more?” Others in the group had talked about having flashbacks, making Gloria feel left out. Flashbacks were a step from nightmares to genuine memories. “The third came a few months later. Then they got more frequent and explicit. By the later ones, I was sure the man was my brother, half brother really. My mother had him when she was a teenager and raised him alone for a few years. It made them especially close until she married my dad. She always defended my brother when he picked on me, saying, ‘Kevin, stand up for yourself.’ He was six years older. How could I fight back? And now I know his bullying went beyond cruel words and actions like locking me in closets.” Gloria realized she’d steered their walk onto a side street because this was the route she and Arthur routinely walked in summer, with the girls on their bikes. Next time, they should go in another direction. If there was a next time. She

hoped there would be. This was more intimate than hearing people’s stories in the group or reading about them in books. “The flashbacks disturbed me so much that I started thinking about them at work. My girlfriend pushed me to see a psychologist. A woman she worked with recommended Denise, who had a new male colleague my girlfriend thought I’d relate to better. It got so bad I made an appointment with Jeffrey in September. It was the best thing for me.” Gloria took a tissue from her pocket and wiped her nose, which always dripped outside in the cold. A week ago, she’d have told him that therapy was the best thing for her too. Now, half the time she wished she and her family had continued wallowing in ignorance. Except the truth had been seething under the surface since her childhood; it was bound to boil over eventually. Better now, while she was young enough to enjoy more good years after they’d gone through the family shit. Gloria skidded again, on a stretch of ice that ran the length of a house. If she were with Arthur, she’d hold onto his arm. She stepped onto the street to avoid the ice. Kevin ed her and manoeuvred over the ruts with an ease she envied. “Slowly,” he said, “Jeffrey helped me understand that what I was experiencing and feeling was normal. That is, normal in my circumstances. I can’t discuss this with anyone except people who’ve gone through it.” “Me neither. I haven’t told any friends yet.” Now that she had children and worked from home, Gloria’s main social s outside of family were clients, neighbours, and mothers of her daughters’ playmates. Kevin’s girlfriend had sounded ive and helpful. “Can you talk with your girlfriend?” “We broke up a year ago,” he said. “Oh, you mean the one who urged me into therapy. She moved to Vancouver after Christmas and wasn’t a girlfriend, really. More like a friend.” Gloria was curious about that relationship but asking would be a distraction. She gathered Kevin didn’t have other friends for , aside from her if this walking arrangement worked. While he’d done most of the sharing today, his experiences had led her to reflect on her problems. Most importantly, she felt comfortable with Kevin.

Already, they were on the road that ran between the public golf course and the private one behind her home, the mid-point of the route she’d taken with her family numerous times. One or the other of her daughters usually started whining around now, and she or Arthur would have to coax her forward. Kevin was lucky to be spared these domestic matters that wore her down. “Thanks to you,” Kevin said, “my next big move will be to confront my family in Nova Scotia next week. The prospect terrifies me. How did you do it?” He’d praised her bravery at the group meeting, but a realistic view of her would help him more. “I made up my mind and forced myself to go through with it,” she said. “Does your family live in Halifax?” He shook his head. “Villages and small towns, in a small area of the province. They visit back and forth all the time. I’m the oddball who left the Maritimes, apparently for more reasons than I used to think.” They ed an elementary school. Gloria’s daughter attended one closer to home. She and Arthur had picked this neighbourhood for its proximity to schools and stores, quiet streets, and mature trees. “Is it better now that it’s out?” Kevin said. She hoped her honesty wouldn’t discourage him. “Better for getting along with my family or better for me?” “Both.” Gloria guided them onto another side street. “With my family, it’s worse, for the short-term at least,” she said. “When I talk to them, they argue that I’m wrong or, in the case of my mother, pretend to listen while she tiptoes around the issue. Yet, that’s better than all of us holding our anger in and smiling on the surface. I hope the fallout will be a step to”—all she could think of was a nursery rhyme —"putting us back together again.” “It worked for Humpty Dumpty.” “Actually, it didn’t.” She’d only realized this a few years ago when she read the rhyme to her daughters, but she hadn’t pointed it out to the girls. Why tell children the world can break irrevocably?

They followed the pathway to the alley that led back to her street. Kevin’s face was pink and hers was probably red, but she’d stopped noticing the cold. They’d barely started on meaningful talk. She would’ve suggested they go for coffee but had told Arthur she’d be gone only about an hour. “Is it worse for you as well?” Kevin asked. “I find it tough,” she said. “It was easier playing the goody-two-shoes daughter. I’ll need to be strong, or they’ll drag me back to the old ways.” “You are strong.” “I don’t know about that.” But she loved how he saw her: strong, brave, inspiring.

* * *

Gloria entered her house to the sounds of cartoon voices wafting from the family room. Another hour of her daughters’ lives wasted in front of the TV, while Gloria had gained so much. She took off her heavy clothes and padded to the girls, who were playing with their little ponies in front of the screen, making them trot along the floor. They didn’t look up. Arthur sat on the easy chair, reading a book. He was like her father that way, devoting his spare time to reading. Too much like her father? Was that why she’d chosen him? “How was the walk?” Arthur asked. “Good,” she said. “I’ll start lunch now. Something warm. How about grilled cheese?” “Grill cheese,” Melissa and Brittany said. They banged their ponies’ heads together; kissing, the girls called it. Arthur stood and followed her to the kitchen. “Your young guy seems decent,” he said, reaching to the top cupboard for the sandwich maker. “Although, he didn’t say much besides the old chestnut about clothes and weather.”

She bristled. Kevin wasn’t “her guy,” and his few years younger was equivalent to Arthur’s three years older. But pointing that out might sound defensive. Better to smooth things over, to keep Arthur on her side. “That trite saying is true, Arthur. I was warm the whole time out there in my long coat and hat and mitts.” “Okay.” He got the cheese and margarine from the fridge. “Our walk was a good beginning,” she said. “We decided next time we’ll go a bit farther, to Fish Creek. We’ll have to drive and head out earlier so I’ll be home for lunch.” Next time would be two weeks from now, after Kevin returned from his trip. Even though they were barely friends, she felt a pang of loneliness thinking about the long wait. “You plan to continue these walks?” Arthur asked. “Why not?” Arthur turned on the sandwich maker and buttered the bread. “You missed a relaxing morning. The girls played relatively peacefully. If you ask me, that does more for your mental welfare than anything.” “Nobody asked you.” Arthur looked up, his cheeks sallow and sagging. He wasn’t used to her challenging him. Did he expect her to apologize? If that was what her husband wanted, well, sorry.

Chapter Eight

January 2020

“I’d planned an exciting day of paperwork,” Detective Mike Vincelli said. He’d detoured to Paula’s house on his way home from police headquarters and was now settled at her dining table. “Thanks to you, homicide has been working nonstop since this afternoon.” Paula filled two mugs with decaf coffee and ed him at the table. Sam was working late, and her mother had bribed Ron with her homemade cabbage rolls into staying for dinner at her place. Paula served Mike lemon squares leftover from the previous night. Aged thirty-five, Mike could eat a whole pan of them without putting on weight. His six-foot-four inches of bulk was all muscle. Paula envied his fast metabolism. Between munches of lemon square, Mike updated her on the hit and run, which was now a suspicious death and not only thanks to her. A home security camera on Wintergreen Close had revealed a car identical to Francis Odell’s cruising the street five days before the collision. The camera hadn’t picked up the licence plate number, but police confirmed the car wasn’t owned by a resident of the street. The police also interviewed Francis’ neighbours. A man living two doors down from him was putting out his garbage in the lane last week and saw Francis’ car back out of his garage and head down the lane in the opposite direction. The incident struck him as odd because he knew Francis wasn’t supposed to drive. “But it was too dark for the neighbour to recognize Francis as the driver?” Paula said. Mike nodded and reached for another square. “Plus, his car was too far away.” He looked at her. “People can, and do, hold grudges for life. This is worth

investigating, and the quicker we collect the information, the better.” He’d told her, during their past cases together, that time was essential when it came to homicide. Already, they were well past the critical first forty-eight hours. She still found it odd to think of her work with Mike as “their cases.” Sometimes, it bugged her that she wasn’t on the homicide team, which controlled the investigations and decided what information to share with her, or not. Her unofficial role was to investigate from an insurance angle, which gave her access to the people involved, which was different and more personal than that accessible to the police. The idea, championed by Mike, worked on several levels. Paula had, effectively, solved two murder cases and helped the police with others less grave. Her successes had carved a niche for her firm as Calgary’s go-to adjusters for insurance-related suspicious deaths. She was sure this was why the insurance company had assigned her this hit-and-run case. Her boss was thrilled the company he’d founded had moved from struggling to solid and growing. Paula loved the excitement of her work with homicide and the satisfaction of helping the victims move on with their lives. As Mike had said, “You do it for the families.” Mike finished a third lemon square. Even for him, it was a lot. Most likely he’d skipped dinner. He took a sip of coffee and grabbed his fourth square. “After you ed me, two officers went to Odell’s house to bring him to the station. He offered no resistance, almost seemed to be expecting it. I assume Gloria told him what she’d revealed to you.” “Possibly, to prepare him.” “Evidently, she didn’t prepare her sister. Cheryl turned up in the middle of our questioning Odell, after he’d phoned her from the station. She called a halt to our interviews until his lawyer arrived. Cheryl had put the lawyer, the wife of one of her colleagues, on notice, in case her father came to need one.” “Cheryl’s efficient.” “And tough. She lambasted all of us for picking on a little old man recovering from heart surgery.” Mike scoffed. “Francis Odell is hardly little. He’s my height.”

“But eighty-five years old.” “And a pedophile.” “Gloria says.” Mike’s eyes narrowed. “People don’t make these things up—especially what someone did to them when they were an innocent kid.” He chomped his lemon square. Paula pictured Francis making hot chocolate in his kitchen. She’d have to set her sentiments for him aside while not forgetting the law rested on a presumption of innocence. “Two of our team interviewed Gloria at her home,” Mike continued. “They found her credible and were impressed with her comion for her father, given his past actions. She insists her childhood abuse and the hit and run are separate issues. Yes and no, I’d say to that, since our victim is the psychologist who treated her for the abuse.” “Did Francis know Denise was her psychologist?” “He says not, as you’d expect. The man’s sharp for his years. Gloria itted her mother knew her psychologist’s name. This is something a wife is likely to tell her husband.” “Is their mother alive? Cheryl said her parents separated at least fifteen years ago.” “Gloria implied it was earlier than that, and she died ten years ago.” “Was their separation caused by his abuse?” Paula said. “Of course it was. What am I saying? That’s the worst thing a mother can learn about her child. When did she find out?” Mike answered with a shake of his head, his mouth full of lemon square. Paula got up to refill their mugs of coffee, grateful for the movement that calmed her nerves. She couldn’t imagine how she’d react if her ex-husband had done such a thing to one of her daughters. “Gloria told me she deliberately withheld

her psychologist’s name from her father to protect Denise from his anger.” “That’s a damning remark.” She returned to the table, set their mugs down and sat. “I can’t see Francis physically attacking someone now, but as a younger man, in his fifties at that time, he might have been strong and fit.” “His job until about age forty was stocking warehouse shelves, before he was promoted to management.” Mike finished the last of his square. “All that lifting takes muscle.” He brushed crumbs from his lips. “When Cheryl appeared at the station, we reinterviewed her. She has a wild theory that her father was driving with amnesia.” “TGA is an actual medical condition. I looked it up.” His eyebrow raised. “We’re consulting a health expert.” Paula stroked her warm mug, still unable to wrap her mind around the news. “It’s hard to think of that frail man as a pedophile. He comes across as a kindly, ordinary dad and grandfather.” “So do aging Nazis.” Mike’s voice was low and steady. “And they should pay for their crimes, however long ago.” “I agree.” “Odell denied everything,” Mike said. “That he was driving on Monday night— driving at all since his surgery before Christmas—that he molested his young daughter, that he’d ever heard of Denise Young. Unfortunately, we couldn’t take him by surprise by hitting him with her name.” “Sorry about that.” “It’s not your fault.” “I was looking at Gloria, not him, when she read the news on her phone.” Paula silently cursed her inattention.

“But we did get Odell with Dr. Jeffrey Szabo.” Mike leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know what inspired me to bring him up. When I said the name, Odell’s face went blank. Then, I could see his mind process and the person. He couldn’t weasel out of itting he knew the psychologist had treated his late wife. We ed Szabo. He said he was occupied with patients into the evening but would check his records when he had a moment. He phoned back as I was getting ready to leave the station. Szabo confirmed that Marilyn Odell attended his office weekly in 1990, and less regularly after that. He ed her but refused to provide more details without a court order. Medical confidentiality.” “Whew.” Paula rolled her shoulders to stretch them. This was even more to absorb. “What does that mean for the case?” “It’s another link between Odell and Denise Young. She and Szabo were longtime professional partners. Despite his initial attempt at playing it cool, Odell launched into a rant about Szabo. His anger was palpable. Then, his lawyer showed up and shut it down.” Mike nodded at the plate with one remaining lemon square. “Shall we split the last one?” “It’s yours.” Paula couldn’t think of eating. “Dr. Szabo also treated Kevin Eddison, maybe around that same time. They later became friends through Denise. Now he’s staying with Kevin temporarily to help him with his injuries and loss. Jeffrey’s loss too, professionally and personally.” Mike swallowed his final bite of the square. “We’re a long way from charging Francis Odell with anything beyond criminal traffic offences, but we’re stepping up the investigation to full steam. A thorough canvass of Wintergreen Close residents could unearth a witness. We’re also talking to Denise and Kevin’s neighbours and requesting their surveillance-camera footage. It might turn up a car stalking the couple on their regular walks.” While Mike drank his coffee, Paula’s thoughts drifted to Francis. She saw no point in the police holding him the maximum forty-eight hours if they were unlikely to lay charges within that time. “Did you release Francis tonight?” “We’re keeping him until the last second. Let him suffer and sweat.” Mike’s lips twitched into a sneer. She hadn’t seen cruelty on his face before—she certainly wouldn’t want to be the object of his hatred.

He caught her looking at him, no doubt accusingly. “I hate pedophiles,” he said. “Who doesn’t?” “You should hear the cases my sister comes across in her work. It makes you want to shoot those bastards who prey on children and ruin their lives.” Paula swallowed the lump in her throat. Mike’s sister was a police officer in the child abuse unit. Paula couldn’t imagine the horrors she dealt with. “The traffic guys don’t want to send Odell home either,” Mike said. “They’re convinced he was behind the wheel and want to charge him with dangerous driving and failure to remain at the scene. Traffic argues the charges will put pressure on him and make him crack. I don’t know. My gut says wait until we get the evidence for the full deal—solid proof Odell was driving and hit Denise Young on purpose.” Paula shivered. She knew she had to drop her naïve view of grandfatherly Francis and think of him as a villain. “Even if you discover he was stalking, his foot could have struck the gas pedal by accident.” “Cheryl made a point of mentioning his reflexes aren’t good. She’ll say anything to help him. I don’t understand that, after what he did to her sister.” Mike rubbed his bristly jaw. A key clicked in the front door. It had to be Ron. Sam would drive home via the lane and enter through the kitchen. Paula rose to introduce her brother to Mike. “I wondered whose Taurus was parked out front.” Ron shook Mike’s hand. “Glad I caught you before I left,” Mike said. “Don’t go on my .” Ron took off his jacket. “I came back early to get ready for skiing tomorrow. You guys continue your business. My gear’s all downstairs.” Mike turned to Paula. “I think we’re pretty much finished.” “I get it.” Ron winked at them both. “Top secret.” He sauntered through the kitchen to the basement doorway.

Paula listened to his footsteps on the stairs. “I told Kevin I’d stop by his house on the weekend,” she said to Mike. “Francis asked me to leave his statement for Cheryl to review before he signs. I was planning to get it from him tomorrow, but I could have Cheryl scan and email it to me.” “You have your insurance business with these people,” Mike said. “There’s no need for you to avoid them. But I trust you to be reticent. The less they know, the better.”

* * *

Paula woke Saturday morning to the click of the front door closing as Ron left for his ski weekend. She fumbled for her phone on the bedside table and found Sam’s first detailed email from Hamburg, sent a few minutes ago, at 3:00 p.m. local time. He and the architects courting him were taking a break from tours of the redevelopment site so he could check into his hotel, which was located on the waterfront. His desk looked out on the busy harbour. Two partners in the architecture firm met him at the airport and whisked him to HafenCity, where the firm had more projects on the go than Sam had realized—eight in progress, with more expected. Sam’s report continued with superlatives. The redevelopment’s footprint in Hamburg made Calgary’s East Village look like a dollhouse in comparison; the HafenCity’s effects on the city would be monumental; the architectural creativity was truly twenty-first century. Sam added he was beat after the flight and day’s activities, but nothing could keep him from tonight’s inside look at the concert hall. Yes, he itted, Elphie’s opening had been delayed, the construction had gone way over budget and some called the building a symbol of the old elite, but already the locals were forgiving these sins and embracing the project, as others had done in the past with the Eiffel Tower, the Sydney Opera House, and Calgary’s Peace Bridge. Visionary architects ahead of the masses, Paula thought with a grimace. She brushed aside Sam’s architectural snobbery and emailed back that she was happy his trip was working out so well. There was zero chance he’d be underwhelmed by the magnificent Elphie, but, secretly, she hoped the bloom would wear off during tomorrow’s sightseeing.

* * *

After lunch, Paula put on her boots but ed over her heavy coat in favour of a spring jacket. The weather forecast called for rapid warming to Chinook temperatures by the afternoon. Ice and snow would be melting on the side streets, but the highways were clear for driving, and she couldn’t wait to enjoy the burst of spring. These periodic Chinooks made Calgary winters bearable. She drove south on Blackfoot Trail, having decided to make Kevin her first weekend work task. Rather than him to arrange a meeting time, she’d opted for Mike’s police motto of “take them by surprise.” Jeffrey’s BMW wasn’t parked in front of Kevin’s house. Good timing to catch Kevin alone without Jeffrey present as filter. She pressed the doorbell and heard barking. Moments later she pressed it again. And then again, in case Kevin was upstairs. No answer. He was probably on an errand, perhaps with Jeffrey or on his own, although driving didn’t seem wise in Kevin’s current state. She’d have to forego the surprise and email him to set up an appointment to pick up the consent forms. Since she had the time and was only ten minutes away, she drove across Macleod Trail to Francis’ house. Cheryl’s car wasn’t parked in front, to Paula’s relief. She dreaded discussing Francis’ arrest and Gloria’s revelation with Cheryl. Troy Mendes stood on the snow-covered lawn holding a ladder against the house to steady it for a woman perched halfway up. Her ponytail bobbed as she unhooked the Christmas lights strung along the eaves. Did Troy know his landlord had been arrested? Paula got out of her car and approached the pair. The woman on the ladder wore capris, which was optimistic for temperatures still far from the spring-like. Paula wished she’d worn a warmer jacket. Troy turned around. “The insurance adjuster.” The light left his eyes. “That’s a bad business about Francis.” Paula waited, in case he meant something other than the arrest.

“I was out when the cops hauled him in,” Troy continued. “Otherwise, I’d have gone with him to the station if they would’ve let me. I arrived to find a police car parked outside and neighbours gawking.” He shook his head. “This is embarrassing for Francis.” Embarrassment was the least of it. “If they’d already taken Francis in, why were the police here?” “To search his house, I think. An officer came out with his computer.” “I hope they had a warrant,” the woman on the ladder said. “I told Troy he should have asked to see it.” “I didn’t think of that.” Troy looked at the woman then back to Paula. “This is my sister, Trina.” “Pleased to meet you.” Trina looked down, her feet at her brother’s shoulder level. “I’d shake your hand, but I don’t want to lose my balance.” “Trina’s visiting from Vancouver for the weekend,” Troy said. “To get my sunshine fix in winter.” Trina gazed up at the grey clouds with a grim expression. Her olive complexion and black hair suited their Spanish surname more than Troy’s lighter skin tones. “Also, to see my mom, who’s in a nursing home.” “If it’s sunny tomorrow, we’ll wheel Mom out for a walk.” Troy focused his attention on Paula. “Do you know if the police plan to charge Francis or let him go again?” “They haven’t told me anything yet.” “Last we checked on the internet, it said nothing about charges,” Trina said. “Troy tells me Francis says he wasn’t driving, so in my book he wasn’t. He’s a good person, from all I’ve seen on my visits here. One time, the friend I usually stay with had a family emergency and Francis insisted I take his spare bedroom. We had some interesting talks. He’s quite enlightened.” Trina might think otherwise if she knew he was accused of incest.

“Are you looking for Cheryl?” Troy asked Paula. “She spent last night at her place and isn’t here yet.” “I’ll try later,” Paula said. “I’ll leave you to your Christmas lights.” “I come for a pleasant time, and he puts me to work.” Trina smiled at her brother. Troy shrugged. “I’m not crazy about heights.” On her way to her car, Paula recognized Cheryl’s Camry rounding the corner. Paula’s stomach tightened, but she might as well get the sensitive discussion over with. The Camry made a U-turn and parked behind Paula’s car. Cheryl got out and waved at the siblings. “Hey, Trina,” Cheryl called. “You didn’t tell me you’d be in town. We’ll talk after I unload this junk.” “And I finish with this junk. Makes me glad I have an apartment.” Trina returned to her task. Cheryl walked to her trunk. Her mouth dropped, apparently in her surprise at the sight of Paula. “Do you know Dad’s been arrested?” “I heard.” “They took his computer, so I brought mine over to put in the den.” Cheryl opened the trunk. “Since my house goes up for sale this week, I’ve decided to stay here full-time, so I won’t have to worry about keeping my place neat for buyers. Dad’s house is also closer to my work, and if the police send him home, he’ll need me keeping an eye on him constantly.” She took a monitor from the trunk. “Can I help?” “Grab the laptop and keyboard.” They walked up the sidewalk to the front door. Paula glanced at Troy and Trina, who were moving the ladder to the far end of the house. Trina was taller than Troy, her physique more muscular, like Cheryl’s.

“Troy introduced me to his sister,” Paula said. “Trina sounds fond of your father.” “She’s a peach,” Cheryl said. “One of my old friends who’s lasted, partly on of her regular visits to her family here.” They carried the computer equipment to the den, which reminded Paula of her conversation with Gloria. Was Cheryl aware that Paula knew of the abuse? Cheryl crouched under the desk to plug in the machine and monitor then stood and connected the mouse. “I doubt they’ll find anything on Dad’s computer,” she said. “I gave him my ancient one when I updated. He hardly uses it. When I want to make sure he gets a message, I phone.” “My mother’s the same.” Cheryl faced her. “Why are you here today?” “I was in the area and wondered if your father had had time to review and sign his statement.” “You mean during the two minutes between the time you left yesterday and when the police showed up?” “I understood it was a few hours.” For all she knew, it might have been. Cheryl pressed the computer’s power button. “The bottom line is, Dad and I knew the person his car hit. Not personally or by name, but we knew of her. It’s a long, sad story. No doubt you’ll learn it all, after he’s charged.” “You think this will happen?” “Oh yes. I spent half of yesterday at police headquarters. They’re out to get him.” Cheryl sounded resigned. Her cheeks sagged, probably from fatigue. Paula glanced at a row of history books on the bookshelves. Several were about various wars. “If your father is charged, he’ll likely get bail. He’s not a flight risk. Tell him to take whatever time he needs to review his statement. There’s no rush.”

“I pushed as hard as I could for a court hearing to take place sooner rather than later,” Cheryl said. “Being in custody isn’t good for his health. Honestly, when he had the by surgery last month, I thought the worst would be him dying on the operating table. I wish now he had.” “You don’t mean that.” Paula couldn’t see Cheryl giving up more than temporarily. “No?” Cheryl’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the point of him spending the last years of his life in failing health, dragged through the courts, maybe a trial, fines, stuck in jail?” In addition, notoriety, if the charges escalated to manslaughter or murder. Gloria’s story would come out. Paula left quickly and checked her messages in her car. A text had arrived from Mike. Hearing Monday p.m. to determine Odell charge dangerous operation & failure to stop. Busy rest of day. Talk later. She’d scheduled a meeting with her broken wrist claimant for Monday afternoon, but would postpone it to a later time. No way would she miss attending Francis Odell’s appearance in court.

Chapter Nine

January 1990

Cheryl chose a table in the back corner of the restaurant, as far as possible from other patrons. Doing so reminded her of the year she’d dated a married doctor from work. Stupidly, she’d fallen for his lies. The ion is gone. If it weren’t for the kids... She’d have dumped him sooner than she had if the sneaking around hadn’t been so exciting. A server brought Cheryl a menu and asked for her drink order. She was dying for a glass of wine to soothe her nerves, but her father wouldn’t touch alcohol during his workday lunch. She requested two waters. For the umpteenth time, Cheryl replayed the argument with her sister, inserting retorts she wished she’d said. I had fun with those jerks. Don’t all women date losers sometimes? Who doesn’t blow up at their kids? A lot of women are perfectionists about housework because that’s their identity, ingrained since childhood. And if you plan to blame your dry skin, come on, half of Calgary has dry skin in winter. But on her drive home from Gloria’s house, Cheryl stopped at a bookstore to buy the book Gloria had given their mother. Surprisingly, the bookseller had heard of it. “You’re the third person who’s asked this week.” At home, Cheryl opened the book to random pages and was startled by the stories of fathers, grandfathers and uncles molesting children in their care, men penetrating preschool age girls. Yuck. No wonder her mother couldn’t bring herself to read this. Who knew incest was so prevalent? Sure, the news reported occasional stories of Catholic priests diddling altar boys, but a vow of celibacy

could turn anyone twisted, or attract men who were twisted already. The men portrayed in the book were ordinary guys on the surface. Her father entered the restaurant, and Cheryl waved to catch his eye. He squeezed between the tables filling with downtown office workers and stopped in front of Cheryl, probably waiting for her to stand and hug him. Not a chance. He took the seat across from her and apologized for being a few minutes late. “I had to deal with a secretary about her health benefits.” “I prefer the term ‘office ’.” “Changing the name doesn’t change the job.” He opened his menu. “Usually I go for the special, although whatever you pick, the food’s good.” The server arrived, and they both selected the soup and sandwich special. Her father asked about Zach. Cheryl said the baby had slept longer the last two nights and was pooping on schedule, but she had no desire to use up their limited time on small talk. She refreshed her dry mouth with water and stared at her father. “Did you do it, Dad?” “That’s blunt.” He looked down at his glass then up at her. “I was hoping when you suggested lunch we’d have a pleasant conversation.” “There’s no avoiding this.” “Tell that to your mother.” “Did you and Mom talk last week after I left?” “I tried, but Marilyn kept evading the issue.” “By try, do you mean you issued statements and declared nothing happened?” “Nothing did happen. What more can I say?” He paused to guzzle his glass of water. “Marilyn wasn’t home twenty-four hours of the day. She’d go to her knitting and church groups, choir practice, the school parents’ committee. Sometimes, she’d leave me with you girls and walk around the block for a break

from the house. I was alone with you both all those times, and I recall attending to each of you at night when you’d wake up, like every kid does. I can’t call up witnesses to confirm I never touched Gloria inappropriately.” “Did you even once?” “No.” “Gloria had nightmares. We all that.” “She went through a phase. That’s normal for kids. You had some too.” Cheryl didn’t any, or her parents talking about her having them. She scrunched her napkin and squinted at him. “Did I? When?” “I don’t recall specifically.” If she’d had nightmares, did that suggest he’d abused her too? She couldn’t think of this now. First, she had to know if Gloria’s memories were true. The server brought their tomato soup, chicken sandwiches and French fries. “Quick service,” Cheryl said to her father. “They’re geared toward processing us all during our hour for lunch.” Her father sprinkled pepper into his soup and salt all over his plate. He poured ketchup beside the fries. “Have you decided when you’re going back to work?” “I discussed it with my boss last week,” she said, but wouldn’t let him get away with evasion. “Tell me the truth, Dad. You’ve had a whole week to think back to anything you might have done that Gloria could have construed as abuse, even if it was innocent and she misunderstood.” Cheryl narrowed her eyes at him, wishing she were better at reading liars. “I can only think of one time.” She tensed, afraid to hear what he had to say. A spoonful of soup warmed her lips. “Marilyn was out that night, at choir I think. You girls must have been about five

or six. Gloria came down with a bad case of diarrhea. I wiped her bottom, changed her pyjamas, but then she spewed so much I put her in the bathtub. When I took her out, I made sure to clean every crevice with a cloth to make sure nothing had stuck.” He glanced sideways, at a group of people in business suits settling at the adjacent table and lowered his voice. “Perhaps Gloria re the touching but forgets the context.” “It has to be more than that,” Cheryl said, but her body relaxed in slight relief. A half-dozen people dressed in business clothes gathered at the table closest to them. “Not necessarily,” her father said. “I had a look at a book Gloria gave your mother, which Marilyn hid in your bedroom. When Marilyn was at her sister’s this weekend, I skimmed that hate-filled piece of trash.” His voice rose, but the group at the next table seemed too engaged in their conversation to eavesdrop. Cheryl overheard “price of oil.” “I’m reading the book now,” she said. “So far I find it sensitive to the victims. They use the term ‘survivors’. I like that.” He snorted. “At one point, it says if you your father looking at you in the bath in a way that felt uncomfortable, that’s abuse.” “Maybe it is.” “That’s what made me Gloria’s bath incident,” he said. “I hope you’re not falling for this nonsense too?” “All I know is that Gloria believes something happened. How could she make it up and why would she?” “I’m not a psychologist,” he said. “Neither are the authors of that book. They it they have no university training.” “That doesn’t mean they don’t understand people.” “I’d like my doctor to have a medical degree.” He dipped a fry in ketchup. “I gather Gloria’s psychologist’s a woman.”

Cheryl’s stomach tightened again. She hated her father’s occasional sexism. “What’s wrong with that?” “I’m sure Gloria referred to her as a she. Probably a man-hating lesbian.” “Dad!” A woman at the next table turned toward them. Cheryl avoided her stare. She wished her father’s views had progressed a little further past the 1950s, but that didn’t make him guilty of obscenities. The server reappeared and asked if they’d be up for dessert. Cheryl realized that, while her father had talked, she’d eaten all her soup and half of her sandwich. Nursing made her ravenous, but she had to be careful not to put on weight. She asked for only coffee. Her father hadn’t started his meal. He told the server he didn’t want anything more and to bring the cheque. The woman who’d stared returned to the tablemates. Cheryl would rather discuss oil prices than her family crap. When the server left, she watched her father take his first spoonful of soup. “Mom told me she took sleeping pills after her miscarriage, ones you’d got from a colleague at work.” Her father looked over his spoon, his eyes blank. Then they brightened. “Yes. Originally, I dismissed the pills as quackery, but coworkers raved about them. To our amazement, they worked like a charm. Marilyn didn’t take them long.” “Mom says some were left over. She wonders if you gave them to her to knock her out so you could sneak into Gloria’s room at night without being disturbed.” Her father lowered his spoon. Even to Cheryl it sounded far-fetched, although it had made some sense when her mother said it. “How could I give them to her without her knowing?” “Maybe in her tea?” He angled his bowl to scrape the last of the soup. “She never drank tea after eight p.m. At most, we had a toddy before bed.”

Cheryl chewed and swallowed a bite of sandwich. “What’s a toddy?” “A hot drink we made with boiled water, honey, spices like cinnamon and cloves. It was an old recipe of her parents, except we substituted ginger ale for whisky.” He picked up his sandwich. Her mother’s parents had been heavy drinkers. No one used the word alcoholic, but it fit by all s. Marilyn was basically a teetotaller. She’d said her parents’ bursts of anger and erratic moods made her never want to drink. She frowned whenever Francis brought home a case of beer. He kept his stash in their old fridge in the basement. Marilyn’s father developed stomach cancer when Cheryl was five and died a few years later. Cheryl couldn’t much about him, just that he was distant with Gloria and her—an adult who couldn’t relate to children. Cheryl blotted her lips with her napkin. “Around the time Gloria says this happened, Mom would have been occupied with her father’s illness, away from home more than usual.” “What are you suggesting?” His nostrils flared. “She’d have her mind on him, not giving you attention.” He slammed his sandwich to his plate. “I did not turn to Gloria as a substitute for your mother.” From the corner of her eye, Cheryl caught the gaze of the woman at the next table. “Gloria looks like Mom.” Cheryl lowered her voice. “Everyone always called her a miniature Mom.” “Gloria was a child,” he said quietly but harshly. “I did not touch her in any way a father shouldn’t. I told your mother that if she’s even considering I did, she needs a shrink as much as Gloria.” “I’m sure that helped your rational discussion with Mom.” “There’s nothing rational about this whole situation.” He squeezed his napkin into a ball. “In fact, my advice to see a shrink was the one point I made that hit home with her. On the weekend, Marilyn told me she made an appointment with a psychologist. He’s within walking distance from our house.”

“He?” Cheryl raised an eyebrow. “Thank God it’s not a man-hating lesbian.” “I wouldn’t object to a woman if she were competent and fair.” “I’m surprised Mom would agree to therapy so quickly.” He blinked a few times. “Marilyn’s deeply troubled and confused by all this. It reminds me of that time after she lost the pregnancy. She’s awake half the night and has been sleeping in your old bedroom.” “I know.” “Our best hope is that this man your mother found isn’t a quack like the authors of the book your sister’s therapist recommended. All we can do is keep on top of the situation.” He picked up his sandwich again. For him to not dive into his food, he must be troubled as well, but was he troubled because he was unfairly accused or because he got caught? In both cases, it was natural to be angry and defensive. She cocked her head at him. When this shit settles, don’t assume I’ll end up on your side. But if she let him assume, it might draw him out. If he was lying.

* * *

During her mid-week visit, Cheryl and her mother settled down to tea at the dining table while Zach napped in the bedroom. Cheryl mentioned she’d met her father for lunch. “He said you were seeing a psychologist.” “I had my first appointment yesterday,” her mother said. “He seems an intelligent and caring young man.” She stroked her teacup’s handle. “He was open enough to tell me he’s under thirty and completed his PhD last year.” “Fresh out of college,” Cheryl said. Why not view this positively? “He’ll be up on all the newest methods and knowledge. Dad said his practice is nearby. Did you notice his office on one of your walks or drives?”

“Gloria’s psychologist recommended him.” Her father wouldn’t have much confidence in this. Cheryl sipped some tea. “Does Dad know how you found him?” Her mother’s lips tightened. “It’s none of his business. Therapy is a private matter. That’s why Gloria’s psychologist wouldn’t agree to counsel me. It would be a conflict of interest.” “What conflict?” Cheryl said. “You aren’t against Gloria. Don’t we all want to know what’s true or not, so we can deal with whatever it is?” “I can’t say that about your father.” Cheryl scowled at his obstinance, but she had to be fair to him. “He’s made some effort to sift through his memories.” “Denial can be so deep we keep the truth from ourselves.” That sounded like shrink talk. Cheryl glanced at the china cabinet where her mother kept the cards for the family’s doctors and dentists in a butter dish. True, the psychologist was no more Cheryl’s business than her father’s, but she was curious to know the man’s name. They finished their tea and carried the dishes to the kitchen. While her mother started making supper, Cheryl left to check on Zach. In the corridor she stopped at the china cabinet and opened the glass door. If her mother came out, she’d say she was looking for a serving bowl to borrow for a party on Saturday. She lifted the lid from the butter dish and read the name on the top card, Dr. Jeffrey Szabo, followed by a string of letters. She wouldn’t reveal his name to her father, but it couldn’t hurt to ask her hospital connections what they knew about this young doctor.

* * *

January 2020

Paula parked in front of Kevin’s house. He stood on his driveway, stabbing the ice with a shovel. She clutched her purse and stepped carefully over the icy sidewalk. “That would go faster if you waited a few hours for the sun to melt it.” He assaulted the driveway again. “Helps get rid of my frustrations.” A wedge of ice flew off. “The police told me your guy will be charged. Big deal. He’ll get, at most, a week in jail, and Denise is still dead.” He thrust the shovel into the ice and paused. “What is it you want today?” “I promised to pick up the forms I left.” She’d phoned and arranged to come by, repeating “Sunday, ten-thirty a.m.” three times and Kevin had implied he’d written the time down. Evidently, his short-term memory wasn’t improving. “If you have questions, we can go over them before you sign.” “I did that already with Jeffrey.” He flipped up the shovel. Paula stepped back, so he wouldn’t swing it into her, and skidded on the ice. “You’re right; this is a waste of time.” Kevin tossed the shovel into a juniper bush beside the driveway. He stared at her as she regained her balance, seemingly oblivious to her near-fall. “We didn’t go for the walk the last time. Zelda’s due to go out.” He turned and jogged around the ice to his front porch. Paula wondered if Kevin, in his vulnerable state, might be latching onto her as a nearby person showing an interest in him. If he suggested they go to Wintergreen Close, she could only hope he’d moved past his fears thanks to his walks there with Jeffrey. She scanned the two-storey homes across the street and wondered if the police had learned anything new from questioning Kevin’s neighbours. Warm breezes caressed her face. Above, a thin layer of cloud glided east. She could easily give Kevin her time today. He was her sole appointment, Ron was away skiing, and Sam was in Hamburg, loving every jet-lagged, architecturally inspired moment, according to the email he’d sent last night after the concert in the “indescribably awesome” Elphie concert hall. Kevin emerged from the house. Zelda, on the leash, pulled him toward Paula. “She re you,” Kevin said.

Paula bent to pet the dog. “Is Jeffrey coming over today?” “After work. He’s seeing some of Denise’s clients this morning, to help transition them through their grief over her. A lot of them are kids.” Zelda tugged Kevin to the sidewalk. They turned right, in the direction of Wintergreen Close. Paula realized her purse would be a drag on the walk. She tucked her keys in her pocket, stashed her purse in the car, and caught up with Kevin and Zelda, who limped on her sprained and bruised hind leg. “Can she walk far?” Paula asked. “She’s good for about twenty minutes,” Kevin said. “We’ve done the street twice now with Jeffrey, but not all the way to the end. The first time I panicked and didn’t make it to the first house. The second time wasn’t so bad. I know I have to handle it without him eventually, but I’m not up to it alone. You’re a good transition.” He stopped as Zelda paused to sniff a snowbank. “On that night...” He shook his head. “Hard to believe it was less than a week ago. Anyway, we started with Denise on the leash.” Kevin held it out to Paula. “Would you mind?” Paula took the handle. It seemed he wanted to repeat the events of that night to work through the trauma. She recalled hearing of that therapy approach, which Jeffery might have recommended to Kevin. He edged around her to walk on the curbside, presumably his position that night. Was it possible he was drawn to the resemblance between his late wife and her? News reports now showed daily pictures of Denise, who had dark, wavy hair, like Paula. Their heights and weights were similar, according to her latest police information. Paula also had the sense that Denise had shared her orderly nature. Paula tightened her grip on the handle. It was creepy to play Denise, but how horrible could a walk with Kevin be on this mild weekend day with numerous people outside? “That night,” Kevin said, as they continued down the street, “we started out talking about the frickin’ cold, and warm places for a vacation next month. Denise had blocked off a week in February. The deadlines for my game are in the fall, in time for the Christmas sales, so the new year is a good time for us to travel. We were thinking someplace easy, like an all-inclusive beach resort with lots of water sports activities.”

“Sounds lovely.” Paula recalled they’d kayaked on a past trip. “We’d arranged for a dog sitter, a college student, to stay at our place to look after Zelda. I forgot. I have to cancel her.” Paula made a mental note to remind him when they got back. Zelda stopped at the corner to check out a trickle of yellow on snow. She left it to sniff Paula’s boots, each one several times. “She’s wondering why you aren’t Denise,” Kevin said. Creepier. While they waited for a stream of cars to on the main street, Paula commented on the community mailbox. “It must be easy to pick up your mail when you’ve got a dog to walk.” “Except I keep forgetting to take the key with me,” Kevin said. “Jeffrey ends up getting it half the time.” “Is he still staying with you?” Kevin nodded. “He especially likes how close our place is to his office.” Paula had looked up Denise and Jeffrey’s office building. It was located in a commercial zone about midway between Francis Odell’s house and Kevin’s. A man on a bicycle with wide tires rode by them. She and Kevin edged onto the corner yard to make way for a woman pushing a baby stroller. “Nobody else was out that night,” Kevin said, “not even the woman we often meet with her two poodles. Zelda tries to play with them. They think she’s being territorial and snap at her. You’re still okay with holding Zelda?” “We’re doing fine.” They crossed the street to Wintergreen Close and trudged at Zelda’s pace beside the iron fence that enclosed the golf course. Zelda walked remarkably well on the snow and ice that the warm air was beginning to soften. “You must think I’m nuts to be worried about a silly street,” Kevin said.

“Not at all,” she said, disappointed that he thought she wouldn’t understand. It might help him if she opened up. “A few years ago, my closest friend from childhood died while jogging on the Elbow River pathway. I still can’t go to the place it happened without thinking of her lying on the pavement.” “What was it?” Kevin sounded alarmed. “Heart attack?” “Mmm.” She hoped he’d take that as an affirmative. It wouldn’t help him to hear her friend had been murdered. “Now, I like to go, regularly, to her.” “I hate that I can’t the car hitting me.” “You will when you’re ready.” She glanced at his profile. His neck stretched forward, as though he were reaching for the memory. “If you don’t, that’s not the most important part of you and Denise.” Kevin looked over, the lines on his face easing. He stopped before the first house. “Here’s where Denise said her hand was cold from holding the leash. I took over so she could warm it in her pocket.” Paula gave him the leash. “You need to move to the curbside.” She stepped behind him. An older couple approached. “Beautiful day,” Paula said as they ed by, and Zelda checked the snow piled against the end of the fence. Paula was relieved to see no police vehicles on the street. She’d expected them to have already started their second round of interviews with the residents, and their presence might make Kevin freak. Zelda resumed walking. “If we hadn’t switched, I’d have been the one closer to the street,” Kevin said. “My guess is that Zelda stopped to sniff the snow. I paused with her, but Denise didn’t notice and walked ahead. That’s how the car hit me first, then her. The other way around and the car would have pushed me into the obelisk. I’d be the one dead.”

Unless the driver had targeted Denise. “Try not to think those things.” “I wish it was me.” “Don’t say that.” Kevin stopped, yanking Zelda to him. “Don’t tell me how to think and feel,” he snapped. “I’m tired of everyone doing this.” “Sorry, I didn’t mean to.” Paula hoped she hadn’t blown their empathy. She wanted Kevin to believe she was on his side, partly to build the best relationship for settling his insurance claim, but mostly because personal bonds would help him recover from his loss. Zelda hauled him forward. Paula stepped quickly to catch up, slipping over ice that remained solid in the shade of the homes and trees. Kevin pulled Zelda to a stop one house away from the hit-and-run site. “Only the top’s left,” he said. “The standing stone. That’s what Denise and I called the tall rock.” Zelda sniffed the squished hedge that had surrounded the obelisk. Its broken top lay on the hedge’s far side. Forensics would dispose of the bottom chunk. Paula realized the hedge rings were styled in a maze that had led to the “standing stone” obelisk in the centre. From the remains, she could picture a prehistoriclike monument. The owners of the damaged property still hadn’t replied to her emails, which was just as well given the ongoing uncertainties surrounding the collision. Zelda peed on a flattened section of hedge. “Paying her respects,” Kevin said. Paula looked over to see if he was joking. His lips were turned down. Kevin pointed at a mound of snow a few feet from them. “From what they say, that was about where they found me. It bugs me to death that I can’t anything leading up to it.” He let go of Zelda’s leash. The dog hobbled forward. “Why...?” Paula ed this was a re-enactment. Zelda had taken off after Kevin let go of the leash when the car struck him. Would he lie down on the snow mound so Zelda could return and burrow herself beneath him for warmth?

Zelda stopped at the first yard after the hit-and-run location. She squatted. Kevin took a plastic bag from his pocket to retrieve the stool. “That’s far enough for her and me.” He whistled at Zelda. “Come here, girl.” Zelda skidded toward them but didn’t fall. Kevin picked up her leash. Paula guessed he’d stopped short of the site to tackle the trauma within his limits, which was remarkably controlled of him. She had to credit Jeffrey for guiding him through the process. They turned and began to retrace their steps. Paula guessed the re-enactment was over and shifted the conversation to business. “Do you have any doctor’s appointments coming up?” “I see the neurologist tomorrow morning,” he said. “The forms you signed will allow me to request a medical report.” “The disability insurers want one too.” She nodded. Good that he’d ed them. “We’ll split the fee.” “I’d like to try to do some work this week, to see if I can. Would that wreck my disability claim?” “If your doctor determines you have a disability, you should be fine, but I’d recommend discussing it with your disability insurers.” “Or not tell them I’m doing any work.” He attempted a wink, more of a scrunch, that lightened his lean face. It would be in the interest of the disability insurers to encourage his return to work, but if they were by-the-book types who would penalize him for trying, she had no problem with him withholding that detail. A black Taurus entered the street. Neither occupant was Mike, but Paula was sure the two men in the car were homicide detectives. Zelda slowed as they reached the main street. Her bruised leg dragged. “Come on, girl,” Kevin said. “Jeffrey will be impressed we both made it that far without his help.”

“He’s a real friend to take the time in his busy life to be there when you need him.” “There’s some benefit for him too.” They waited for a bus to . “Jeffrey’s marriage has been going through some problems,” Kevin said. “He only told me last night. Who’d have guessed? They seemed as happy as any couple. I don’t even think Denise suspected.” They crossed the street. Zelda trotted ahead and then yelped in pain as her hind leg buckled. Kevin squatted to stroke her. “We’re almost there, girl.” Paula leaned over them both. “You’re a trouper, Zelda,” she said. “Sometimes, I miss having a dog.” “I couldn’t live without her now.” Kevin stood. “So, Jeffrey might be staying with you awhile?” “He goes back to his place occasionally. I’m not sure if his husband knows they’re separated.” Kevin smiled. “It’s not permanent, necessarily. Jeffrey’s taking time away to think things through. It’s good for me to have the company, mostly.” Paula waited for him to continue. “The house is too big for Zelda and me alone,” he said. “I appreciate Jeffrey’s concern for me, but it can get oppressive. You know?” “I think I do,” Paula said, reflecting on she felt about people’s well-meaning remarks during the months after Callie, her friend, died. “You don’t want someone telling you how to grieve.” His next smile was faint but warm. Perhaps she’d made up for offending him earlier. Zelda urged them to Kevin’s house as sunshine broke through the clouds. Paula spotted Jeffrey’s car parked behind hers. At the driveway, she patted Zelda again. “Good girl. That was a challenge.” Jeffrey came out of the house dressed in a sweater and casual pants.

Kevin explained they’d returned from a walk to Wintergreen Close. He looked at Paula. “If you feel like it again, Zelda and I would be happy to have you along.” “I’d like that too.” She meant it but avoided a glance at Jeffrey in case he disapproved. “About those insurance forms you signed.” Kevin’s brow knit. “Right. That’s why you’re here in the first place. I’ll get them.” He led Zelda inside the house. Jeffrey took tentative steps over the ice in his loafers. “How did Kevin make out?” “Quite well,” she said. “He seems to know how much he can handle and when to pull back.” “That’s good.” “You might remind him to cancel the dog sitter. He’ll know what you mean.” Jeffrey nodded. “Did you tell him your insured car owner’s daughter is a former client of Denise?” “No. You didn’t either?” “There’s no need right now to further complicate Kevin’s feelings about the collision.” “I agree. Does he know you treated my insured’s late wife?” “Again, no need to complicate.” “What do you about her?” Paula eased closer, hoping the guise of friendship would discourage a doctor-patient confidentiality protest. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that.” Jeffrey blinked a few times. He looked away at the front door. She was sure he ed something relevant.

Chapter Ten

February 1990

The day couldn’t have been more beautiful for winter in Calgary. While waiting for Kevin to arrive, Gloria marvelled at the pure blue sky and snow-dappled grass in Fish Creek Park. Temperatures above freezing had prompted her to abandon her bulky coat and hat in favour of her snug jacket, headband, and jeans that looked trim, even with tights underneath for warmth. She’d considered wearing wool mittens but opted for the gloves with puppet fingers her daughters had given her for Christmas. As Kevin’s silver sedan pulled into the parking lot, she wondered if she’d chosen the gloves to assuage her guilt for leaving the girls at home with the Saturday-morning cartoons, or to impress Kevin with her quirkiness. He got out of the car, dressed in the same jacket and tuque as last time, and probably the same jeans. She smiled at his warm grin. “How was Nova Scotia?” she asked. “Interesting,” he said. “Which direction do you want to walk?” “Your choice.” “I like the open meadow more than the woods.” They padded over packed snow and turned east at the main path, chatting about the splendid weather in Calgary. She would leave it to him to bring up the big question—had he summoned the courage to tell his mother? “Nova Scotia was overcast most of the time,” he said. “One day of freezing rain, but luckily it was after everyone had driven home from my cousin’s wedding.” “Was the wedding fun?”

“Everyone said it was. For me, well... I told them the first night I arrived.” Gloria glanced at his hooked nose, which pointed straight ahead. “I followed your example,” he said. “Brought it up with all of them in the kitchen. My mother had invited my brother and sister, and their spouses and kids, for a welcome dinner for me. I realized I wouldn’t be able to get into it during the next few days, with all the wedding stuff going on and other relatives around, and I couldn’t bear the thought of saving it for the end of my stay and having it hang over my head the whole week. There’s never a perfect time.” “No.” She’d probably ruined her father’s birthday forever. But he deserved it. “Jeffrey agrees I picked the best time,” he said. “It gave them the rest of the week to discuss it with me if they wanted. That first night, like you, I blurted it out the minute the kids were off somewhere. It was horrible, frightening.” She nodded empathetically. They stepped aside for a woman walking her dog. The terrier paused to check out their boots. Kevin stooped to pat it, as he’d done with her neighbour’s dog on their walk two weeks ago. Ahead, the path wove between prairie grass and strands of bare-limbed trees. No person in sight. The sun would draw lots of people after lunch, but this morning they had the valley almost to themselves. The woman and dog continued on the path behind them. “They all looked stunned,” Kevin said, as though the interruption hadn’t occurred. “My sister’s jaw dropped so low it would have been funny if I weren’t so terrified. My brother, the person who’d abused me, just stared from across the table and said, ‘I don’t know where you got that, Kev, but you’re wrong.’ His wife leaned into him in . My mother asked if anyone wanted more potatoes.” Gloria laughed, breaking their shared tension. “Sorry,” she said. “After I dropped my bombshell, my family talk also reverted to the mundane.” “Jeffrey said Mama did that to take time to process the information.” She smiled to herself about his use of Mama. Old-fashioned, wholesome. “I thought you wouldn’t be seeing Jeffrey until next week.”

“I made an emergency appointment yesterday,” Kevin said, his voice calm. “He fit me in at the end of his day. I told my family everything. That my brother chased me down, rolled me onto my stomach and did it.” Gloria shook away the image of little Kevin lying facedown in terror. She wiped a damp eye with her puppet fingers. “My family doesn’t talk openly about sex, which makes this extra hard,” he said. “From the potatoes, our dinner conversation drifted into the usual chatter about work, neighbours, gossip, the grandkids, sports, politics. They all ignored me sitting there, mute. My brother and sister and their families went home. My father turned on the news. I helped Mama clean up in the kitchen, where she babbled nonstop about her bunions.” “To avoid the issue.” Kevin nodded. She guessed Jeffrey had expressed this yesterday. “The next morning the wedding hoopla began,” Kevin said. “All the relatives popping into each other’s homes. I suspect my sister will tell some of them later. She’s close to a number of cousins. I might tell a few select ones eventually, but I didn’t want to spoil the wedding for them.” “That’s fair.” He’d probably spoiled it for his sister and parents. “By Monday, the wedding part had died down,” he continued. “I left it to my family to raise the subject. My sister’s kids came down with colds, giving her a reason to avoid me. My brother, the ab and bully, didn’t show his face at our home. He lives in the next town, and I sure as hell wasn’t going over to his place.” Kevin halted. “Look. There’s a deer.” Gloria followed his gaze to a grove of trees. One, two, three, four deer threaded between the bare trees. One deer bolted and then the others leaped into the thicker woods up the hill. Kevin and Gloria resumed walking, in silence. As both of their psychologists would say, this was Kevin’s story to share or withhold. It didn’t sound like his family was any more ive than hers. Nor were the families of the others in their group. Gloria had wanted Kevin’s case to be the exception. “What about your father?” she finally asked. Unlike most in the group, Kevin

hadn’t been abused by his father, although the man was guilty of overlooking it. He scoffed. “My dad would be hopeless to pursue this with. He’d deflect whatever I said with a joke. Also, my half brother isn’t his biological son, which makes him less upset by anything he does, and did. He raised him as his son, but there was something different about their relationship.” “What do you think it was?” “It’s like, he identifies less with my brother, so his failings don’t matter as much.” If Gloria were Kevin’s psychologist, she’d probe to see if he felt he’d lived up to his father’s expectations. “My last day there,” Kevin said, “I ask my mother if she’s thought about what I told them. We’re in the kitchen again, this time making stew. She gives the onions to me to chop because they bother her eyes.” A bicycle bell sounded from behind them. Kevin nudged Gloria to the side of the path while the two riders sped by. It made her conscious of how little they touched, in contrast to the hugs hello and goodbye she frequently shared with people she felt less close to than she did to him. Kevin kept walking on the edge of the pathway, leaving Gloria to tread on the snowy grass. “Mama looks up from slicing meat into cubes and says, ‘I know you believe this, Kevin.’ I ask her, ‘But do you believe me?’ She says my brother believes his side as strongly as I do mine. She its she discussed it with him, and my sister as well, I guess when I was out with cousins or friends. My sister, who’s younger than me, swears he did nothing to her and had no clue about him and me. My mother’s conclusion from everything is we’re all her children. She loves us equally and has to believe us all.” “That doesn’t make sense.” “I told her exactly the same. Something either happened, or it didn’t. She can’t have it both ways. Mama goes on to compare it to her Catholic friends. Their religion is different from hers, she says, but they respect each other’s beliefs and don’t let it affect their friendship. I say, ‘Mama, it’s not the same at all,’ but in the moment I can’t think of the argument.”

Neither could Gloria, at the moment, but there was a difference. “Later, as we were adding vegetables to the stew, I tell her religion is about faith. No one has ever come up with facts that prove one religion is right and another wrong. She answers that if they did, she’d still respect her friend’s faith. Then she asks me what are my facts about my brother. What can I say, when all I have are flashbacks and memories?” Gloria’s stomach panged. She had less than that, but they both had to what they’d learned. “You can’t have facts for this. No one’s there to witness sexual abuse. Almost by definition, it takes place in private and secrecy. The ab arranges that.” “All I could think of to say to Mama was, ‘You accept your friend’s faith, but you don’t believe in it because you can’t believe two things that are contradictory. It’s like believing in original sin, and not, at the same time.’ She replied that both are equally plausible. Her Catholic versus Protestant analogy isn’t the right one, anyway. I should have asked if she’d feel the same if her friend was Jewish. Could she accept that Christ might be a mere prophet, not the son of God, and still call herself Christian? But I realize she’s not going to budge and is looking for excuses to both of her children.” Gloria crunched over snow, reflecting on his mother’s response and her own mother’s surprising effort to understand by seeking psychological help. “In a way, that’s irable as a mother.” “But it doesn’t help me one bit. I expect my father, and even my sister, will go along with her. I’d almost prefer they’d be like your family and attack my belief.” Gloria thought of her fight in the living room with Cheryl. They hadn’t spoken since then, over two weeks ago. “No, you don’t.” “What’s new there?” Kevin asked. “I’ve talked your ear off, making this all about me, and you’ve spent the past couple of weeks dealing with your fallout. I got to escape mine and fly back to Calgary.” A woman with three dogs on leashes appeared over the rise in the path. When they met, Kevin patted them all.

“You should move to a house and get a puppy,” Gloria said, as the dogs and their walker left. “That’s my long-range goal.” “Not much new with my family,” she said, in reply to his question. “Last weekend, I went to my parents’ for dinner, with my husband and children as armour. No opportunity to tackle the issue that we all managed to skirt with trivialities.” “Like my family,” Kevin said. “I’m glad we have each other.” “Me too.” Gloria’s chest warmed. She unzipped her jacket as she told him her mother had made an appointment to see Jeffrey Szabo this week. Kevin’s face brightened. “That’s real progress.” “I suspect she’s doing it to humour me. Brenda agreed when I told her at group.” They stepped sideways for a jogger. Already more people infiltrating their park. “That reminds me,” Kevin said. “I’m leaving the group.” Gloria stopped. She’d thought he liked it. He’d told her he was hooked at the first meeting. Kevin continued a few steps, whirled to face her and pulled off his tuque. Had he got it into his head that the women didn’t accept him? She’d convince him otherwise. “You’ll feel more comfortable with us women in time.” “It’s not that.” He stuffed his hat in his pocket and glanced at the path, his face flushed—from the exercise or from something else? “Yesterday, when I left Jeffrey’s office, I found Denise outside in her car, struggling to start the engine. I offered to help, and she moved over to the enger seat. While I got it running, she asked about my trip to Nova Scotia. I rambled on, and one of us suggested going for coffee to discuss it further. At the café, she mentioned she had tickets to a play this weekend and her husband was unexpectedly away on business. It wound up with me agreeing to use his ticket.” “Tonight?” Gloria’s heart sank to her stomach. If this were anyone other than

Denise, she’d suspect a setup. Denise eyeing Kevin for weeks, faking the stalled car, spouse out of town, she happens to have a spare ticket. “Then, Denise pointed out that us seeing each other outside the group might upset the dynamic and be seen as a breach of professional conduct. It was up to me, she said, if I went to the play or not.” Gloria’s gut felt punched from all sides. Denise was stealing Kevin from the group, and from Gloria as his friend. “You chose the play?” “We had such a good talk,” he said. “Denise commented I’m a loner type who does better with individuals. Maybe that’s true.” “You plan to see her again?” “We’ll see how it goes tonight.” Gloria stopped herself from pointing out that Denise was married. Kevin didn’t appear to view the relationship as more than friendship at this point. Denise was also six years older than him, thirty-four to his twenty-eight years, although if the genders had been reversed, it wouldn’t seem like a remarkable age gap. “Is it time to turn around?” Kevin said. Gloria glanced at her watch. They’d walked for a half hour and she’d told Arthur she’d be home for lunch. “This is enough for me.” What was Denise’s game? Gloria brooded on the walk back, while they discussed banalities worthy of their families. She barely listened. Politics: for the most part, they agreed. Sports: she didn’t enjoy them but parroted Arthur’s interests in various teams, which lined up with Kevin’s. Hobbies: Kevin played hockey once a week with his work colleagues, baseball in summer. He’d love to travel, he said, if he could find someone to go with. Gloria and Arthur vacationed at the same lakefront cottage each year, which was easy with children. Kevin added that Denise was interested in adventure trips, but her husband was a sedentary homebody. Aha, Gloria thought. Kevin’s lost boy charm might be another draw for Denise, with her helping nature. In the parking lot, Kevin thanked Gloria for the walk. “Are you free next Saturday?”

Gloria mustered cheer into her voice. “If you want to go walking with Denise, I understand.” “She works Saturday mornings, when her child clients are most available.” Gloria thought of her children, at home, playing or zonked in front of the TV. She hoped her girls would never need therapy. Her ultimate goal was to break the destructive family pattern for them. The walks with Kevin contributed to her strength and they’d be her only chance to see him now that he was leaving the group. “Same time next week,” she said. “I’ll phone you Friday to confirm.” She drove home and found Arthur in the kitchen, preparing lunch. He said he’d promised to take the girls tobogganing on the golf course that afternoon. “Care to us? Or have you had enough of the great outdoors?” She’d rather relax with a book but felt she owed the time to her daughters and husband. “Okay.” Arthur stirred the pot of soup. “How did Kevin make out on his trip?” “Good, in that he took the step of confronting his family,” she said, “but they didn’t him in the way he’d have liked.” “Realistically, he couldn’t have expected it.” Arthur was no expert on the subject. “Some families might.” “Only if they’d already come to your conclusions but hadn’t mentioned it for some reason.” She hated to think he was right. “You mean you can’t convince people your memories are true?” “It’s hard if people events differently, or not at all.” Gloria took a box of crackers from the cupboard. Arthur went to the fridge to get

the Cheese Whiz, which he scorned, but she and the girls loved. He was great at his geology work, but not always insightful about people. Yet, he seemed to understand better than she did family resistance to accepting the survivor’s memories. “All we can do is hold firm,” she said. “With our networks.” “Yes, while leaving the door open.” “I do that.” Gloria faced him. “We have dinner with my parents each weekend. I’m civil with my dad and try to explain to my mother where I’m coming from. Cheryl’s either avoiding me or too busy with the baby, but I’d talk to her if she were willing to listen.” “And you’d listen to them as well?” Arthur said. “When they argue nothing happened, you consider it?” “What do you mean?” “You don’t really have proof.” When she’d told him about this at the start, he’d said that if she believed it happened, he believed it too. He didn’t need evidence then. His love and acceptance had made it easier for her to move forward, but her family’s denials had changed him. “I have to trust my memories.” She stared up at him and managed to keep her voice firm. “There can never be proof. My father didn’t videotape his disgusting acts for posterity.” “I know.” Arthur’s gaze darted toward the soup pot. “All I’m saying is that you’d naturally have some questions.” She squinted at him. “What do you question?” “All I know is what you tell me.” Arthur turned away, toward the bubbling soup. Gloria looked at his profile, his lips turned down, as he stirred the pot. He didn’t believe her unconditionally. She shrunk back, alone in this house.

Chapter Eleven

January 2020

Monday morning, Paula called Isabelle into her office. The junior adjuster slumped in the visitor’s chair without her usual energy. “Busy weekend?” Paula asked. Isabelle rubbed her neck. “My throat’s scratchy.” “I hope you’re not coming down with a cold.” Paula leaned toward her, in sympathy. Isabelle continued stroking her throat. “I’ve got a ton of claims that came in last week.” Paula leaned back, the desk between them. She couldn’t afford the time off work, either, if she caught a virus from Isabelle. Nils appeared at Paula’s cubicle entrance. “I’ll be in the lounge if anyone calls.” He left for the building’s enclosed back deck. Paula suspected he enjoyed “the lounge” as much for the camaraderie with the building’s other nicotine devotees as for his smoking fix. Isabelle’s cold reminded Paula of another reason to hire an intermediate adjuster—to cover the work in case any of them were off for an extended time. She’d raise the issue again with Nils when he returned from the lounge. “With the better weather and road conditions, new claims should slow down this week,” Paula said. So far, she hadn’t heard an onslaught of ringing phones— typical on Monday mornings after weekends with excessive accidents. “When you have the time, and if you’re well enough, could you do some research for

me on social media?” Isabelle sat up, her expression brighter. She loved searching the internet for information. “The main person to check is Kevin Eddison, the man injured in my hit and run,” Paula said. “His concussion and potential psychological difficulties could blow up into huge damages. Anything extra we know about him might help with settlement.” “I’ll need his age, job, and other stuff to track him down.” “I’ll email you all that.” Paula swivelled to her computer and typed Kevin’s name at the top of a Word document. She scrolled down the page to leave space for Kevin’s details and then typed ‘Denise Young’. Paula had learned from experience that understanding the victim could lead to many answers. She’d also learned that Isabelle was sharper at online research than anyone the police would assign to dig up dirt on the persons of interest. “Kevin’s the most important one for our insurance reasons,” Paula said. “But, if you have extra time, you can look at a few more.” She continued typing. “Francis Odell, the named insured. We’ll know this afternoon if he’ll be charged under the Criminal Code.” “Can I go with you to the hearing?” Isabelle said. “I haven’t been to one yet.” “Not with your cold and workload,” Paula said, still typing. “Cheryl Odell, Francis’ daughter, who had access to his car.” “If he’s charged, they think he was driving.” “Doesn’t mean they’re right.” Paula continued with the list. “Troy Mendes, the basement tenant. He also had access to the garage. It’s a long shot, but you might unearth a post by him or Cheryl that implies Francis was driving against doctor’s orders.” Paula added Gloria’s name to the document. Gloria had stopped her therapy with Denise for some reason, and the split could have been less than amicable. Running with that tangent, Paula included Jeffrey Szabo on the list. He was linked to the case in several ways, as Denise’s colleague; Francis Odell’s late

wife’s psychologist; and Kevin’s friend, his former psychologist, and his current in-home therapist. Isabelle was so at ease on the internet, she’d probably go through all this quickly and consider it entertainment. After Isabelle left, Paula filled in pertinent details. She then emailed the document to Isabelle and spent the rest of the morning on paperwork and failing to convince Nils to take steps to hire an intermediate adjuster. “Let’s give it more thought,” Nils said, ending the conversation. He slipped out of her cubicle and into his adjacent one. Paula scowled at her computer monitor. She often thought of the office as her second home, but, like beloved family , her colleagues had irritating traits. Nils’ prime one was postponing decisions, although no doubt she had qualities that bugged him, like her getting obsessed with the suspicious death cases at the expense of the straightforward claims that paid the rent. With an hour to spare before she had to leave for the hearing, Paula decided to drive home for lunch. She was surprised to find Ron’s rental car parked outside. He’d reluctantly agreed to attend a potluck lunch at their mother’s club and fill in for her sick friend at her afternoon bridge game. Inside, Paula found him at the dining table scrolling through his phone messages. “What happened with Mom?” He set his phone on the table. “Her stomach kept her up all night. She thinks it might be the flu. I hope the chicken you served us yesterday wasn’t laced with salmonella.” Last night she’d had her family over, including her two daughters, Isabelle, and all their boyfriends. Everyone had devoured Paula’s blueberry chicken. Isabelle’s scratchy throat wouldn’t be related to any gastroenteritis. “No one else got sick. Did they?” “Maybe it’s that new virus in China I was reading about.” He glanced at his phone. “Anyway, Mom’s not up to cooking or eating and is too queasy and tired for bridge. She also thinks it best that I stay away in case it’s contagious.” “Good idea for us all. What’s your revised plan for the afternoon?”

Ron looked past the kitchen island, out the window. “Another of your Chinook days. Wanna play hooky from work and do something fun?” The clear sky outdoors was tempting. She sighed and shook her head. “There’s a court hearing to determine if the police have enough evidence to charge one of my insureds for a hit and run. My homicide can’t go, which makes it important for me to see firsthand.” “Can anyone go?” Ron said. She nodded. “They’re open to the public.” “It would be interesting, something different to do.” She raised her brow, not wanting him to waste his short time in Calgary. “They’re usually boring.” “It’s about a car accident?” Ron, an automobile salesman, loved anything related to cars. And she hadn’t seen him all weekend. Tired from skiing, he’d gone straight to bed after the family dinner the previous night. In three days, he’d be flying home, and she was unlikely to have much spare time tomorrow. “I have to go directly from the hearing to meet a liability claimant.” “Is it downtown?” Ron said. “You can drive me and I’ll get my exercise walking back. It can’t be more than an hour from here.” “Less with your long legs.” The hearing would likely be quick and not consume much of his afternoon. “It’ll be my chance to see your big city,” he said. “What’s for lunch? Rotten leftovers?”

* * *

They chose seats in the top row of the courtroom for an overview of the hearing. Francis Odell sat with his lawyer in front of the judge’s bench, at the bottom of the auditorium. Now and then, he turned toward Cheryl in the first row and Gloria behind her. His mouth sagged at the corners; his cheeks were hollower than Paula recalled. Among the spectators, she recognized a traffic cop and one of Mike’s colleagues from homicide. The other people scattered in the seats appeared to be journalists and curious onlookers. Kevin Eddison walked in and grabbed the spot at the end of the front row. The police had informed him about the charges before they released the information to the news. The judge took her place behind the bench and called the proceedings to order. She read the two charges: dangerous operation of a motor vehicle and failure to stop at the scene of accident. Police provided the evidence, stating they’d traced the vehicle to its owner, Francis Odell. Forensics had determined the vehicle damage consistent with the accident and the investigation had turned up nothing to suggest anyone other than Mr. Odell was driving. Next Francis Odell’s lawyer rose and pointed out that there was no proof Mr. Odell had been driving the car. He was eighty-five years old, had undergone triple by surgery a month before the accident, and was under doctors’ orders not to drive. In a sworn statement, Mr. Odell declared he wasn’t driving. He lived alone and was at home when the accident occurred. The lawyer added that if the judge decided to lay charges despite the lack of evidence implicating his client, Mr. Odell should be granted minimal bail since he wasn’t a flight risk due to his age, health, and expired port. He hadn’t left the province in over a year and Canada in five years. While the judge perused documents presented by both sides, spectators took the opportunity to clear their throats and rustle in their seats. Ron leaned into Paula. “They can’t keep that old guy locked up.” She agreed this was a risk. Mike’s latest email informed her that Francis had experienced chest pains during the night. The police had been prepared to rush him to emergency, but the pains subsided. Probably anxiety, the doctor they’d brought in concluded. He advised Francis to see his cardiologist for further examination. The judge ruled there was sufficient evidence to proceed with both charges. She

set bail at three thousand dollars. “Is that a fair amount?” Ron asked. “It’s not high for the criminal charges,” Paula said, although she’d expected a lower amount for a virtually nonexistent flight risk. The judge revoked Francis’ driver’s licence and added the condition that he not leave the province without written permission to do so. “That’s it,” Paula said to Ron. “No real surprises.” They stood to make their way to the vestibule. Cheryl, Gloria and Kevin remained in their seats. Gloria leaned forward to talk with her sister and Francis’ lawyer. Kevin scanned the audience. His gaze paused on Gloria, but revealed no recognition of her, and then landed on Paula. She waved. They met in the vestibule, where she introduced him to her brother. “It wasn’t the torture I’d worried about,” Kevin said. “I was planning to stay away, but Jeffrey mentioned that if the driver pled guilty, there would be no trial and this would be my only chance to see him in person.” Ron excused himself—he’d left his jacket in the court room. Kevin continued in an easy manner. “Jeffrey and I agreed this might help me with closure. When I saw the man sitting there, withered and old, I thought, his life is ruined by this accident too. He’ll live the rest of his life knowing his actions killed a woman.” Paula decided not to complicate the issue by explaining that Francis had pled not guilty and the evidence against him wasn’t conclusive. Apparently, Kevin still didn’t know about Francis Odell’s link to Denise or didn’t realize its significance. “Secretly, I hoped that hearing the details or seeing the man would trigger my memory of what happened,” Kevin said. “But even when the police talked about me calling 911, my mind was blank. Still, I’m glad he didn’t get off. Denise deserves justice and none of us, including the driver, will achieve closure if he gets away with what he did. He needs to face it too.” Kevin’s expression softened. “I know it’s your job to disagree, since you represent him.”

Paula shook her head. “I don’t. I want what’s right as much as you do.” Kevin rubbed his head, reminding her of his difficulties with concentration. “Did you drive downtown?” she asked. “I took the train.” “That’s smart.” “Even driving to a store near home, I got distracted and cut off another car. I’m a danger on the roads.” This was another disability Kevin suffered due to the hit and run. Paula would have offered to drive him home if she hadn’t arranged to meet her claimant in the city’s northwest in half an hour before picking up Sam at the airport. She glanced at the courtroom door. Ron had been in there a long time. If someone had taken his jacket by mistake, he wouldn’t be warm enough to walk to her house. She’d have barely enough time to drop him off on her way to the northwest. Gloria appeared in the courtroom doorway. “I know her,” Kevin said. “After I saw her in the courtroom, I racked my brain through the whole hearing. Now I’ve got it. She’s Gloria Wilson. That’s weird to see her here, of all places.” He scratched his head. “I haven’t seen Gloria in ten years—or more.” Gloria headed for the vestibule exit. “Excuse me,” Kevin said and made his way through the milling crowd toward Gloria. Paula wished she were close enough to hear their conversation. Kevin’s body blocked Gloria’s face, so Paula couldn’t read her responses. Paula finally tore her gaze away. Jobwise, meeting her claimant with the broken wrist was more important than spying. She walked toward the courtroom to collect Ron. He emerged wearing his jacket. “What kept you?” she asked him. “I got to talking with the defendant’s daughter.”

“Cheryl?” From the corner of her eye, Paula saw Kevin leave the vestibule with Gloria. They lived in the same neighbourhood. Maybe she’d offered to drive him home. That would be easier on him than taking public transit, although reconnecting with a daughter of the defendant might complicate this situation for Kevin. “While I was putting on my jacket,” Ron said, “I noticed Cheryl hanging around, waiting for the bail procedure, looking a bit lost. I went down to talk to her, to cheer her up.” Cheryl came into the vestibule and looked around. Spotting them, she strode over and held out a man’s scarf. “You dropped this,” she said to Ron. He touched his bare neck. “Right. Thanks. Is the bail all taken care of?” “It will take them hours to go through the whole simple process and let us leave.” Cheryl turned to Paula. “I was telling your brother that I wish the charges had been dropped, but the main thing is to get Dad out of that prison. It would kill him to stay there longer. He had an episode last night.” Paula decided not to let on the police had told her about this. Cheryl might relate to her better as an outsider to the police system. “Is he okay now?” “He will be, when he’s home and back to a semblance of normal. You came over to see him about something on the weekend, right? My mind’s a sieve with all this going on.” “His signed insurance statement,” Paula said. “No rush.” Cheryl nodded. “After we read it, I’ll have him call you to set up a meeting.” “Speaking of which, I have to get to my next appointment.” “While I head back to the zoo.” Cheryl swivelled toward the courtroom. “Do you want company?” Ron said. Cheryl halted and turned around. “I’m not doing anything else,” Ron added with a wink. “Paula’s abandoning me for a trivial matter like work.”

Paula scowled at him. “Ron, this is Cheryl’s family matter.” “Why not?” Cheryl looked at Ron. “Company will help take my mind off those idiots.” “It wouldn’t be right for my brother to be involved,” Paula said. “I’m handling your father’s insurance claim.” “What does that have to do with your brother?” Cheryl shrugged. “If it is a conflict of interest, who cares? Our family’s shot to hell anyway.” Ron raised his hands to Paula, perhaps in apology? She was already late for her appointment and this wasn’t the place to make a scene. She’d discuss it with Ron over dinner. He draped the scarf around his neck and walked back into the courtroom with Cheryl. Paula fumbled to button up her coat. Damn. She’d been stupid to bring Ron here. This was her own fault.

* * *

February 1990

None of Cheryl’s colleagues at the hospital had heard of Dr. Jeffrey Szabo, but psychology wasn’t their area, and he’d only just started practicing. Cheryl couldn’t find his office listed in the Yellow Pages. During her usual Wednesday visit to her parents’ house, while her mother was in the bathroom, Cheryl snuck another peek in the china cabinet and jotted down Dr. Szabo’s address—an office on Elbow Drive, the local main street. On her way home, she detoured by the building, which turned out to be a bungalow converted to commercial use, the front yard paved for parking. She pulled in to read the window sign that listed three psychologists, Dr. Szabo last.

A masseuse occupied the basement. Cheryl stretched her back, which had felt sore for several weeks, likely from holding a baby for hours. A good massage might do her good. Two days later, she left Zach with a neighbour and met her high school friend for swimming at the Lindsay Park Sports Centre. Becky was on maternity leave from her istration job at the university. After giving birth, Becky had resumed swimming to get back in shape. She’d coaxed Cheryl to her, and they spurred each other along. Today, they’d lucked out and got adjacent lanes to themselves so they could race their medley. Two laps each of butterfly, backstroke, breaststroke, and freestyle. Their weekly swim was the one activity that kept Cheryl’s mind off the mess her sister had stirred up. Now, for the first time in a month, she almost kept up to Becky in the pool and only lost by a few strokes. Afterward, over muffins and coffee in the snack room, Cheryl asked Becky if she would her workplace to get a list of students who’d graduated from the psychology doctoral program last year. “My mother’s gotten into therapy,” Cheryl explained. “She’s seeing this new graduate, Jeffrey Szabo. My dad wants to know if he’s any good.” Becky nodded, apparently finding that a believable reason for Cheryl’s meddling. “What’s your mom’s issue?” Cheryl had a lie prepared. “Empty nest syndrome, delayed. That’s my diagnosis.” She forced a smile. “Yeah, she was a supermom, compared to mine, anyway.” Becky had practically lived at the Odell house for two years, largely to avoid her parents’ bickering. They divorced when Becky entered university, saying they had stayed together for her brother and her. “No problem,” Becky said. “It will be an excuse for me to get in touch with a friend from work.” The following Friday, Becky reported her findings before their swim. “Jeffrey Szabo graduated in spring nineteen eighty-nine, top ten percent of his class.” They raised their hands and tapped a high five for brilliant Dr. Szabo. Relief washed through Cheryl. Young Jeffrey was far from a quack.

She and Becky dived into the pool, and Cheryl’s spirts rose with her butterfly stroke. Her mother had plenty of her own material for Dr. Szabo to shrink, on top of the fallout from Gloria’s revelation. While the twins were growing up, their mother had related tales of hiding out in her bedroom while her drunk parents yelled at each other and hurled objects in the living room. After one fight, Marilyn’s mother had dragged her into the room to sweep up a broken Hummel boy figurine, which Marilyn had enjoyed playing with. “I cried because the Hummel girl had lost her friend.” Marilyn’s uncle had sent her grandparents the folksy figurines from shortly before he died in the war. The Hummel girl now sat on her fence in the Odell china cabinet, in her ankle socks and kerchief, looking lonely, Marilyn thought. She’d refused to let her daughters play with her. Even young Cheryl had sympathized with her mother enough to not challenge that parental rule. Cheryl realized she’d gone through the backstrokes and breaststrokes on autopilot. She shifted to freestyle. Becky, in the far lane, was way ahead. Cheryl picked up speed, but her friend beat her by a quarter length to the finish. “After last week, I was sure you’d win today,” Becky said. “I was tired too, after being up half the night with my kid. But you were crap today until the end.” “Zach kept me up too,” Cheryl said, tired of lying. At the snack shop, Becky said she’d dug up an article Jeffrey Szabo had published in a medical journal. “About memory retrieval or something. Too heavy on medical jargon for me, but you might get it. I made you a copy.” She handed Cheryl three sheets of paper. While nursing Zach that afternoon, Cheryl tried reading the grainy photocopy but couldn’t get past Szabo’s first reference to electrophysiological indices. The book Gloria had given their mother was so readable Cheryl had almost finished the thick tome. The incest survivors’ struggles to find their true selves reminded her of her gay friends’ quests to be who they were, internally and in the company of others. She understood why Gloria would want to come out to her family, although some of the book’s anecdotes made Cheryl cringe. One woman talked of going with friends to her ab’s workplace and calling out his shame in front of all his colleagues. Cheryl was grateful for her father’s sake that Gloria hadn’t done that to him. He took such pride in his work and boasted about having taken only three sick days during his whole career. But, if he were guilty,

wouldn’t he deserve public humiliation? And worse? Another survivor had announced her grandfather’s abuse at his funeral when the minister invited people up to say a few words about the deceased. As the woman described her late grandfather’s acts, she watched her grandmother in the front row, her mouth trembling. Was that fair to the grandmother? The book implied yes, since she’d closed her eyes to the abuse. Cheryl was glad that Gloria had kept the drama private, limiting it to her father’s birthday party. But Cheryl would always link the date to her sister’s blowing up the family. Had it been thoughtless or intentional of Gloria to ruin her father’s special day for the rest of his life? That alone made Cheryl furious with her sister.

* * *

The following Wednesday, Cheryl tromped into her parents’ house, cursing the heavy traffic on her drive from the city’s northwest. She halted at the sight of two suitcases in the hall outside her parents’ bedroom. “Going somewhere?” she asked her mother. “I’m leaving him.” Cheryl’s heart skipped a beat, and Zach began sliding from her arms. She stopped his fall. “I can’t live with your father under this roof.” Cheryl clutched the baby to her chest. Her mother wouldn’t make this drastic move for no reason. “Do you think he did it, Mom?” Her voice wavered. “All we do is tiptoe around each other, talking on surfaces.” Her mother paced to the dining table. “I can’t sleep, even in your bedroom.” She’d taken over-thecounter medication for a month now. “Have you asked your doctor for a prescription?” “That won’t solve it, Cheryl.”

Cheryl followed her to the table, relieved that neither of her parents had, apparently, confirmed that her father was an ab. But the truth, one way or another, was the only solution for her mother. For her, for all of them, Cheryl would have to deal with whatever her father had done, however horrible. “Can you force Dad to talk seriously?” “When I try, all he does is deny everything and get defensive. I can’t deal with this anymore.” Cheryl looked at the china cabinet. “Have you discussed this with your therapist?” “Jeffrey says I have to do what’s best for my emotional health.” Her mother squeezed her hands into fists, apparently unaware, or unconcerned, that she’d revealed her psychologist’s name. Evidently, her mother was on a first-name basis with Dr. Szabo. Cheryl found that egality a refreshing contrast to some doctors who felt themselves superior to mere technicians, like herself. If the worst about her father turned out to be true, she might seek Jeffrey’s therapy. Meanwhile, what to do about her mother? Cheryl was sure Wayne would be okay with a house guest for a short time. “You can live with us while you figure things out.” “Thanks, dear,” her mother said “but Gloria’s already offered. Her home has more space.” It was also closer to her mother’s church, her various groups and friends, and her familiar stores. And closer to Jeffrey. Wayne would prefer to let Arthur house their mother-in-law. They both loved her, but Wayne found her too neat, and Arthur was an introvert who liked his privacy. Zach squawked and nuzzled Cheryl’s breast, making it swell with milk under her sweater. She carried him to the living room, bouncing him up and down. “Does Dad know you’re leaving?” “I had to tell him last night, to make sure I’d still be covered under his company medical plan.” “What did he say about this?”

“Your father doesn’t ‘say’ anymore. He yelled and told me I’d fall apart on my own, accused me of listening to my psychologist. As opposed to what, Cheryl, listening to him?” Zach finally grew quiet. Cheryl slowed her march through the room, but her mind raced. If her mother asked, what would she advise her to do? Stay with your husband, who allegedly molested your daughter? This house probably felt like jail to her mother now. Getting away, at least temporarily, could be right for her. Zach started crying again. “Would you be able to drive me to Gloria’s?” her mother asked. “The car belongs to your father. I’ll have to learn to use public transit.” “Well, the car is technically in his name, but you own half of everything.” “My lawyer will work that out.” Cheryl stopped walking. “You have a lawyer already?” “Jeffrey advised it.” Cheryl resumed carrying Zach around the room. She supposed Jeffrey’s advice was prudent, given her mother’s economic dependence on her husband. Once again, Cheryl was glad about her mother’s choice of shrink. After she fed Zach, they left for Gloria’s house. During the ten-minute drive, her mother discussed her plan to apply for jobs at the mall and small shopping centres within walking distance. Among the numerous stores, there had to be one with an opening for a mature woman of fifty-three. Cheryl agreed this was a realistic expectation. She thought it might be good for her mother to the workforce, whether or not she left her husband permanently. Her mother closed her eyes and leaned back into the headrest. “I am exhausted, Cheryl, now that this first part is over. I hope I have strength for the next phase.” “I know, Mom, but you’ll pull out of this a stronger and better person,” Cheryl said. Her mother’s grey face made her far from certain. She parked in Gloria’s driveway, carried the suitcases to the porch and rang the doorbell. Her mother waited for Gloria, while Cheryl went to get Zach from the

car. She returned as Gloria was lugging the suitcases into the house. “I fixed up Mom’s room,” Gloria told her. “Right now, I’m knee-deep in a tax return that has to be done by tonight. I’ll get Mom settled and have a good talk with her later, after I finish my work. Thanks for bringing her here.” She closed the front door. Dismissed. Cheryl stomped back down the driveway, angry at Gloria’s control over their mother’s new phase, even though Cheryl hadn’t wanted the burden.

* * *

“I was expecting her departure,” her father said when Cheryl called him that evening. “And I did not yell at Marilyn. I calmly wanted to confirm this was her choice, not her psychologist’s, or Gloria’s.” “Do you think either of them influenced her?” “I’m sure they did. Both of them.” After hanging up, Cheryl told Wayne her mother wouldn’t have left her father if she didn’t have serious doubts about him. “Maybe.” Wayne started the dishwasher. “That doesn’t mean you have to doubt.” “I can’t help it.” “Keep it a small question then.” She followed him into the living room. “Any question is too much.” “That might be the best you’ll get.” He turned on the TV. “Let’s switch the topic to something more in doubt—will the Flames make the playoffs this year?” Hockey players flashed across the screen. Cheryl scowled at Wayne’s attempt to lighten her mood and wished she shared his faith in her father’s innocence. She attributed this to Wayne’s more trusting

nature, or the fact that, while proof of her father’s guilt would hurt Wayne and change his view of his father-in-law, it wouldn’t cut him to the core. While Wayne watched the game, Cheryl picked up the book about incest survivors and read the last chapters. The authors and the counsellors they cited had dealt with hundreds of cases of child sexual abuse. All of them had no doubt that every memory of it was true. That Gloria’s memory would be the single exception was as likely as a person with terminal brain cancer going into remission. Possible, but beyond realistic expectation.

* * *

Friday, Becky beat her by a full lap. “What’s up?” Becky asked in the snack bar, her brow knit in concern. Cheryl filled her in on her mother’s move to Gloria’s house. “She might need this step to become more independent, but it puts the pressure on me, caught between my separated parents. You know how it is.” Becky took a bite of muffin and chewed. She washed it down with coffee. “I think something more is eating you.” “Like what?” Cheryl said. “My parents’ breaking up my childhood home isn’t enough?” “Not enough to make you pick off the top of your muffin and squish it into a mean ball.” Cheryl looked at the mess of dough she’d smashed on her plate. She glanced around the snack bar, which was less crowded than usual. No one nearby to eavesdrop. She hated keeping this from her best friend, from everyone except Wayne with his simple answers and efforts to calm her worries with jokes. Cheryl sighed and then spilled everything: Gloria’s revelation at the birthday party, their mother’s initial denial and growing doubts, her father’s persistent

denial and anger. Becky listened, her expression alternating between surprise and sympathy. “I know he’s yelled at Mom,” Cheryl said. “No wonder she’s scared of him.” Becky shook her head. “I can’t see your dad being violent.” Cheryl caught her breath before asking the question she dreaded most. “Can you see him as an ab?” “No,” Becky said with no hesitation. “Did he ever touch you, any of those nights you stayed over? I a few times you and Dad going down to the basement without me to set up the hide-abed.” “If he had, I’d have kicked him in the balls.” Cheryl laughed and winced. “That’s a relief, but you were a teenager. Maybe he was only into younger kids. Gloria more or less said this.” “What exactly did Gloria say?” “She’s been short on details. I’ve been too afraid to push her for them.” Becky took a long sip of coffee. “This is as much a shock for me as it’s been for you, and yet.” She paused. “You’re the second person who’s told me something similar in the past few weeks.” Cheryl nodded. “It’s epidemic, from what I’ve read.” “A friend of mine was telling me about a guy she dated in university. They still get together sometimes, but she finds him too conflicted to date now. The last time they met, he said he ed being sexually abused by his dad, and then he didn’t.” Cheryl’s heart pounded. His case sounded different from the ones in the book, but she couldn’t grasp how. “Didn’t what? Didn’t anymore?” “I don’t know. I wasn’t following the story closely, since I don’t know the guy.”

“What’s his name?” “I forget. Something Latino. I can ask my friend if you’d like.” “Maybe he’d talk to me.” “I bet he would.” Becky smiled. “She says he’s super friendly, just not boyfriend material.” The rest of the day and evening Cheryl waited anxiously for the call. It came as she and Wayne were getting ready for bed. She ran to her bedside table to answer the ring. “Sorry to phone so late,” Becky said. “My friend wanted to check with Troy to make sure he was okay with her giving out his number.” She paused. “He’s more than happy to meet you.” “His name is Troy?” “About how he came to change his mind, my friend said that one afternoon he was filling the bird feeder in his parents’ backyard and decided his memory wasn’t real.” Cheryl gripped the receiver. “Just like that?” “Apparently.” “How could that happen?” “It doesn’t make sense to me. You’ll have to ask him.” With her free hand, Cheryl opened the table’s drawer and grabbed a pen and scrap of paper. One person’s memory had turned out to be untrue. Could there be others? One more person? A dozen? Hundreds would be hoping for too much, but one was enough for doubt. She didn’t have to believe.

Chapter Twelve

January 2020

“How could I have been so stupid—twice?” Paula slammed two naan breads onto a baking tray. Sam grinned. “I’d love to say I’ve limited myself to stupidity two times in my life.” Paula stuck out her tongue at him. She sprinkled the naan with water and tossed the salad, while Sam stirred the beef korma. “First Leah, a couple of years ago,” Paula said. She’d inadvertently introduced her daughter to a suspect in her last case of suspicious death. The young pair connected over their mutual desire to become entrepreneurs. Now, they were partners in both business and romance. True, this had turned out well for Leah, but the consequences might have been disastrous. “Now Ron is off to whoknows-where with Cheryl. He could at least text to let us know if we should hold off dinner for him.” Her cell phone pinged. Paula dashed to the kitchen island. Not Ron, but a text from Cheryl. Dad home, can give you statement tomorrow. What time? As early as reasonably possible. Paula thought and texted back, 9 a.m.? She looked up at Sam. “Should I ask her if she’s holding Ron hostage overnight?” “Could be a little confrontational.” Ask Ron to me, she typed. Cheryl replied instantly. OK.

Paula returned the phone to the counter. “How long do you want to wait for Ron?” Sam asked. “Zero minutes. He’s a grown-up.” Sam turned on the oven. Paula carried the salad to the table. They scooped rice and beef korma onto their plates, added the warm naan and settled at their places to eat. “It bugs me,” Paula said. “In hindsight, part of the reason I let Ron come to the courthouse was to show off to him, so he’d see the ‘important’ work his little sister is doing.” “You? Competitive?” Sam raised his wine glass to her. “No way.” She ignored his invitation to toast and took a sip of wine. “At least Ron leaves in less than three days. How much trouble can he get into?” She caught Sam’s stare. “Don’t answer that. It makes me glad the police investigation is moving slowly. Mike said it’s almost stalled. They barely had enough to lay the traffic charges, much less manslaughter or murder. By the time it gets that far, Ron will be safely home.” She picked up her fork. “Let’s forget about Ron. You were talking about your weekend. Sorry I interrupted.” Sam continued his report on Hamburg. “The guys talked a big game of innovative designs and techniques. Tempting, I told them, when they called today for my decision.” Her heart caught in her throat, even though Sam had told her he’d turned the job down. She sensed he was building to something more. Sam looked at her. “Like you, I realized pride was behind a lot of my motivation, and that’s peanuts compared to us together.” Paula relaxed but not completely. “You’re sure you’ve considered all the angles?” “I was.” He took a bite of naan and set the remaining bread on his plate. “Twenty minutes later Marcus phoned back. His partners agreed to delay my decision so you and I could fly to Hamburg in a few weeks to see if it’s a place you’d want

to live part-time.” Paula washed the knot in her throat down with wine. Bad as this was for her, she was happy for Sam. “They really want you.” “It seems.” And he wanted to go, for reasons more valuable than pride. They resumed eating, but she’d lost her taste for the food. For Sam, job satisfaction was intrinsically tied to his sense of self-worth. If Sam stayed in Calgary, Paula could lose the man she loved as easily as she could lose him to . She picked up her naan and thought out loud. “I could possibly arrange with Nils to take a couple of weeks off work every few months. It would force him to hire someone to handle my routine claims while I focus on the meaty ones, like this Odell case.” She bit into the bread and chewed. “During my weeks in Hamburg, while you worked, I could live the high life, take side trips around Europe. Flights are cheap there, I hear, and trains are comfortable and go everywhere.” He smiled. “I’d travel with you.” “During those rare periods you aren’t absorbed in your projects.” She looked at him sharply. His face flushed. “I didn’t expect you to warm to the idea.” “I don’t know if I’m warming so much as trying to see how we might make it work.” Sam’s brow creased. She waited for his response, but the front door burst open. Ron walked in. Paula stood. “You took your time.” If she’d sounded like a mother chastising her tardy son, he deserved it. “Talk about the courts moving slowly.” Ron removed his jacket. “Cheryl finally got her father out. Then she asked me to dinner. I figured, ‘why not?’ I assumed you were having leftovers from our big dinner last night.” He kicked off his loosely tied shoes. “They ate early so the poor man could go to bed. He didn’t sleep well in jail. Who would? During dessert, Cheryl said she should phone her sister. I decided I’d intruded on their lives enough and split.” He strode into the

dining area and faced Paula. She scowled, annoyed at him and the whole situation, including Ron’s intrusion now on her discussion with Sam. Ron glanced at the table. “Oh, you did cook dinner. Hope you weren’t expecting me.” He sauntered to the coffee maker. She finished her meal, her appetite back, perhaps at her relief he wasn’t spending the night with Cheryl. Ron’s early departure from the Odell’s would also give Cheryl time to review her father’s statement after her call to her sister. That part of the insurance claim would be done, and Paula wouldn’t have to deal with Odell family until the police released Francis’ car. While the coffee he’d made brewed, Ron ed them at the table and asked Sam about his trip to Hamburg. “It went great.” Sam glanced at Paula. His expression struck her as apologetic, but she agreed with his apparent choice not to go into details with Ron. Sam rubbed his head. “Now to get over the jet-lag.” “Are you still up for the hockey game tomorrow night?” Ron asked. “You bet.” Ron and Sam rose to get the coffees. Paula went to the fridge for milk and the plate of her mother’s carrot cake left over from last night. They all returned to the table. Paula sliced into her piece of cake. “On Wednesday, your last night here, Ron, I was thinking of having everyone over again—Mom, David and the girls.” “About that.” Ron drank some coffee. “I’ve changed my flight home to a week later. If that’s too long for you and Sam, I understand. I can stay somewhere else.” Paula looked up from her cake, her stomach tensed. “What about your work?” “I okayed it with my manager. He’s always glad to give us time off in January, the slow season for car sales.”

“Is this about Cheryl?” Paula’s fork clinked on the china. “At our ages, it’s not easy to meet someone simpatico. Why give up a good chance? There’s no one waiting for me at home.” Paula pushed her plate of unfinished cake to the side. “As I pointed out before, her father’s my insurance claimant.” “This isn’t about you.” Ron said. “Trust me. We won’t talk about insurance.” Would their involvement be crossing an ethical boundary? Paula would consider that later. “Did Cheryl ask you to stay at her place?” Ron laughed. “I wish.” Paula rapped the table with her fingers. Ron chuckled. Sam stared at his cake, avoiding the discussion. Ron’s expression sobered. “Actually, I don’t know if I wish it or not, and, besides, Cheryl works weekdays. With the hockey game, I probably won’t see her until Wednesday night, or later if you’re still doing the family gathering.” It would be petty to have a mid-week gathering simply to postpone Ron’s reunion with Cheryl. “We’ll have the dinner on the weekend.” Without Cheryl present, Paula hoped. “Are you and Sam okay with me dragging out my time in your basement?” “Of course, we are, Ron.” Better than him shacking up at the two-bedroom Odell house. With luck, the police investigation would stall for Ron’s full extra week. Did he not realize the potential criminal charges against Francis Odell were far more serious than those that had been laid in court that day? Not to mention Gloria’s personal charges against her father. Paula would be willing to bet Cheryl and Francis hadn’t shared those details with Ron.

* * *

Paula pressed Francis’ doorbell for the third time. She started to take out her phone to call him, when he opened the front door. “Takes me longer to move these days,” he said. Inside, she removed her coat and boots while he shuffled to the living room. They took their usual places in the conversation nook, she on the sofa facing the fireplace, he on the easy chair. Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities lay on his side table. One of his mantel photos sat on the coffee table. Paula studied the picture of young Francis with Elvis Presley–like hair, his arm around another young man. “Me and my buddy from work,” Francis said. “Back in our union days. We believed what we did could make a difference. He ed away this time last year.” “I’m sorry.” She wasn’t sure if she was referring to the loss of his friend or the loss of their ideals. Maybe both. “We joked that the company kicked us up to management to get us off their backs.” He looked over her shoulder, at the dining table. “You’ve come for my statement? Cheryl approved it after I went to bed last night. It’s all signed and ready.” “No amendments or corrections?” “Cheryl says it got the gist of what I told you. Why quibble about the odd word here and there?” Paula went to the table to get the document. Francis had signed his name in large, spidery letters. From now on, it would be his problem if he were found to be lying. “The police called me last night,” he said. “They don’t rest, do they? Their forensics finished examining my computer. I should have come clean from the start.” Paul paused on her way back to the sofa. Mike hadn’t ed her about the

findings. Kiddy porn? Please not. She stared over the sofa, the afghan sloping across the top. “I knew her name,” Francis said. “Denise Young. Don’t know why I lied about that. Panic, I expect, or thinking I could get away with it.” Paula exhaled with some relief. Whatever search he’d done on Denise had to be better than them finding porn. Francis probably hadn’t known that computer wizards could extract secrets from a hard drive, including one that had been wiped clean. She returned to her seat on the sofa. “When I took sick last fall...” Francis stared at the photo on the coffee table. “I found myself with time on my hands and got to ruminating on the past. My mind travelled to the ‘good doctor’ Young and her accomplice, the bogus piece of slime, who treated and destroyed my wife.” His eyes flashed; his lips drew into a slit. “I was so mad at Szabo one day that I went to his office, barged past his receptionist and confronted him. He was in-between patients.” A chill went down the back of Paula’s neck. “Was this last fall or further in the past?” “It was back when Marilyn was first seeing him.” This was better than recently. The chill trickled away, but she stayed on the edge of the sofa cushion. Francis cleared his throat. “When I demanded he tell me what he was up to with Marilyn, Szabo gaped from behind his desk and prattled about professional confidentiality, lording it over me, his hold on my wife. I left before I made a complete fool of myself.” Francis grimaced, his face red. “Only a partial fool.” Since he thought Jeffrey’s hold on his wife had destroyed her, Paula wondered if she’d committed suicide? Francis’ flush faded. “It’s easier to trace people today with computers. Even I can manage a simple search.” His voice was steady now. “It turned up their office, the pair of them, still in cahoots. That’s as far as it went. I learned my lesson.” “You didn’t go over last fall or this month to look at their office building?

Follow them to their homes?” “My doctor told me not to drive.” The police probably hadn’t told him a neighbour saw his car leave the garage. “You still maintain you weren’t behind the wheel last Monday night?” He glanced at the papers in her hand. “You have my sworn statement. That computer search was my only lie. Cheryl said I was foolish to hide it from the police because it makes me look guilty now.” “The police could arrest you, again, for withholding evidence.” She’d sounded harsh, but he had to realize this was serious. “I’m prepared to hear the sirens any second. Whichever way I look, it’s game over.” His haunting tone made her look away. She scanned the two black-and-white photos on the mantel. Francis and his wife cutting their tiered wedding cake. Seven children lined up in a row like steps. She wondered if they were Francis and his siblings and how many of them were still alive. Her earlier thought about his late wife’s possible suicide might be causing her to overreact, but she couldn’t take a chance. “Cheryl told me she’s staying here full-time. When does she finish work today? “It’s her pub night with friends. If I’m in bed when she gets home, she’ll let herself in.” This meant Francis could be alone for another twelve hours. “What about your tenant downstairs, Troy? Do you expect him to drop by this afternoon or evening?” “He’ll appear with one excuse or another,” Francis said. “Cheryl has him on retainer, so they won’t fret about finding me croaked on the floor.” He winced and there was truth in his gallows humour. “Gloria’s supposed to be by in an hour or so with my medication. She’s picking it up at the drug store.” This eased Paula’s mind. Gloria’s and Troy’s visits should constitute enough checks on him until Cheryl arrived.

“If we’re done, I wouldn’t mind a nap. I was up early today.” Francis pressed his palms into the armrests. He started to hoist himself, stopped and plunked back down in the chair. “It’s been good working with you, despite the circumstances. Your brother’s a fine chap too. Be glad you have each other.” Paula’s neck prickled again. His tone had sounded like a final goodbye. She slid his statement into her briefcase. “I’ll be in touch when the police release your car for repairs.” “No hurry,” he said. “That’s the end of my driving. I’ll be selling the blasted thing. My apologies for not accompanying you to the door. I’ll snooze in my chair. If I get up, I might not make my way back.” Paula collected her briefcase, walked to the door, and put on her coat and boots, glancing at the top of Francis’ head jutting up from the back of the chair. In her car, she sent Mike a text, Francis told me about computer forensics. She’d leave it to Mike to reply with more details, or not. She considered ing Cheryl regarding her concerns about Francis’ mental state but decided against it. Cheryl might needlessly worry or accuse Paula of overstepping her boundaries. Paula started driving but couldn’t let this go. Down the street, she parked and texted Cheryl, Arranged with Francis about car. Seemed in odd mood. If Cheryl was annoyed at her interference, tough. An hour later Cheryl replied, Thx. Won’t stay out long. Paula spent the rest of the day driving around the city meeting with insurance claimants. She got home as Sam and Ron were preparing to leave for the hockey game. They’d decided to go early and grab hot dogs at the Saddledome arena. While she was taking out the leftover beef korma, her cell phone pinged. Mike had texted, Are you at home or work? Okay to stop in? Home. Yes. She wolfed down her plate of korma and put on a pot of coffee. Mike arrived as she was setting out the oatmeal cookies her mother had delivered earlier via Ron. Fortunately, her mother’s gastro problem had vanished.

“I can’t stay long,” Mike said. “The station’s crazy today, but I thought you should hear this in person. Are Sam and your brother home?” “They’re at the hockey game.” “Keep this under wraps until it’s released to the press tomorrow.” Mike threw his coat on the newel post, took off his shoes and followed her through the kitchen to the coffee maker. “We have Francis Odell’s confession. He’s changed his story.” She whirled around. “When? I saw him this morning. He gave me his signed statement, not a word changed.” Mike leaned against the counter. “After lunch, Odell took a taxi to the station, on his own, and asked to speak to the person in charge of his case. His new signed statement declares, in effect, that he stalked Denise Young, learned her habit of walking her dog at a particular time each night, shadowed her along her route on several occasions. This jibes with our camera footage and our interview with a resident of Wintergreen Close, who was in Costa Rica at the time of the first canvass. He observed an unfamiliar car on the street on at least two occasions prior to the hit and run, consistent with the model and make of Odell’s vehicle.” Paula handed Mike a coffee and took a sip from her own mug, thinking back to her conversation with Francis this morning. “Game over,” he’d said, presumably meaning his lies to the police. But what about his lies to her? She cursed her vanity for thinking he’d come clean with her before them. Mike edged to the table. “Odell couldn’t, or wouldn’t, confirm the dates of his stalking, but he clearly states that the Monday night in question he was cruising down Wintergreen Close, keeping a distance behind Denise and Kevin, when his vehicle began to skid on an icy rut. He meant to brake but hit the accelerator.” “That’s plausible.” “He claims he didn’t know he’d hit anyone in the dark.” “There’s a streetlight near the site,” Paula said. “He struck Denise hard enough to ram her into an obelisk.” “He says he must have been in shock, confused, and didn’t realize there had

been an accident until our officers showed up at his place.” Both of Mike’s eyebrows shot up. Paula agreed that this was unlikely but recalled her first interview with Francis. His denial of any knowing involvement in the collision had seemed genuine. Mike picked up a cookie. “He expects us to believe he knocked over two people, reversed his car away from the obelisk, made a U-turn and continued down the street oblivious to what had happened?” Paula pictured Francis, his shoulders hunched, face gaunt, hands shaking. “He is old, in poor health, and recovering from serious surgery.” “I’m getting tired of that excuse.” “Why didn’t he tell your officers the truth when they showed up?” she asked. “He said he was ashamed of his stalking, and then of his confusion and ignorance at the accident scene. He hates to it he’s losing his faculties, which he says has grown worse since his surgery.” Paula nodded. “Pride would be important to him, or to anyone.” “That’s why, he says, he’s covered up his mental decline of recent months.” Paula felt her brow rise, questioning. “He’s obviously prepping for a plea of age-related impairment. He called in his lawyer before giving his statement.” Mike’s eyes were deeply shadowed. No doubt he was tired from his busy day. He munched his cookie. “He does a good job of covering,” she said. “It fooled me. What does Cheryl think of this? She was going to have him ask his doctor to order an MRI.” Paula didn’t know if she’d prefer to find out Francis had a brain tumour or that he was a person who didn’t care about killing someone. Mike sat on the chair that faced the front entrance. Apparently, he wasn’t in a rush to leave. Paula took the chair at the end of the table. She grabbed a cookie, even though she wasn’t hungry.

“I don’t know about an MRI,” Mike said. “Last I heard, Odell hadn’t phoned Cheryl yet. He said she was out with friends and he didn’t want to spoil the last good time she might have for a while. We could charge him now with manslaughter, but I want to try for more.” Murder? Spontaneous or premeditated? Paula washed her bite of cookie down with coffee. She could see Francis following Denise in his car, brooding, fuming; a quick turn of the wheel, foot pressing the gas pedal. She could also see him stalking the couple walking their dog, night after night, waiting for a time when no witnesses were out. “The bastard deserves it,” Mike continued, his jaw tight. “If he’s guilty.” “He’s also guilty of molesting his daughter.” “They’re separate issues. Even Gloria, his victim, has emphasized this.” “It goes to his character.” Mike reached for another oatmeal cookie. “These are addictive. Homemade?” “By my mother.” “Tell her thanks from me,” he said. “We can’t charge Odell for something unprovable that happened fifty years ago. But we can get him for this." “That’s not fair if his statement is false.” He frowned and bit the cookie. “Why would it be?” “You’ve told me it happens.” Mike swallowed. “Francis Odell came to the station of his own free will. He volunteered his confession. We didn’t question or coerce him in any way. His lawyer can’t claim that.” He glared at her. She couldn’t blame Mike for taking offense, but she knew he wanted to play fair with suspected criminals. “You pressed him earlier by dragging him into the station, locking him in jail, laying charges. How much can an old, sick man

take?” Mike chewed the rest of his cookie and downed his coffee. “Some in the unit argue that for Odell manslaughter would, effectively, be life, given his chance of outliving the jail term.” She took that as him dismissing her argument and set her mug on the table, to focus on making her point. “Mike, I hope you’re not ignoring your problems with Francis’ confession in order to get him for his past offence. His new version is hard to believe. He can’t, or won’t, give you dates for his stalking, to them against your camera footage and dates given to you by witnesses. By his own ission, he lied before, so why wouldn’t he be lying now? One lie throws a whole story into question. That’s how it works in insurance.” “This isn’t insurance.” She bristled. Was he insulting her work? “What do you mean?” “Sorry, it’s normally the same with us. In this case, we’re ninety-eight percent sure he was driving. The rest are details and him covering his ass.” “Don’t you want one-hundred percent?” “That’s rare for homicide.” He scraped back his chair and rose. “I’ve got to get back to the station.” She stood to be closer to his height, but he still towered above her. Mike faced her. “So that you’ll know, we told your injury claimant, Kevin Eddison, about the confession. We don’t want him blindsided when this hits the news.” “How did he take it?” “It wasn’t me who phoned him.” Mike turned and headed for the hall. “We’re also trying to Denise’s daughter in South America, but she seems to be out of range again.” Paula caught up with him at the staircase. “Kevin implied she won’t be coming to Calgary until spring.”

“She doesn’t see the need when he’s handling the estate.” Mike threw on his coat and sat on a step to put on his shoes. Paula doubted Kevin was up to estate settlement, but perhaps Jeffrey’s help extended to this. “Does Kevin inherit everything from Denise?” “Essentially, aside from a few bequests.” Mike got up. “We, naturally, followed the money to who would benefit financially from the death, but it would have taken an elaborate plan with an accomplice for Kevin to set up that hit and run.” She walked beside Mike to the front door. “I hope homicide is considering every possibility.” “Of course we are. It’s our job.” “But not my job.” She heard the hurt in her own voice. Mike’s neck flushed. He looked at her and straightened to his full six feet, four inches. “We have appreciated your help. You know this.” Appreciated. Past tense. Her work on the case was closed beyond the insurance details. “You were instrumental in leading us to Odell’s motive,” he said. Which made her responsible for their current target on Francis. “I’ll keep you posted on developments.” Mike opened the door. Cool air flowed in. She watched him recede down the stairs, away from the porch light, and closed her front door. Francis Odell had confessed. He was the obvious suspect from the start. But twice before, in her experience, homicide had accepted the obvious as true and it turned out to be wrong. Mike had praised her for looking deeper. He was the one who’d encouraged and promoted her involvement with insurance-related suspicious deaths. She’d thought he accepted her work on homicide cases as different from his, but equal. If he didn’t now, well, she had her insurance reasons to stay involved. The police could wrap up their investigation, but she’d still be there to catch what they were missing.

Chapter Thirteen

March 1990

Light shone from the kitchen. Gloria padded down the stairs to the main floor, wondering how she could have forgotten to turn off the light when she went to bed. She started at the sight of her mother sitting at the table. The aroma of coffee wafted through the room. Her mother stared out the window, at darkness. She turned as Gloria entered. “You’re up early, Mom.” “You too.” Gloria glanced at the clock on the wall—5:05 a.m. While pouring a coffee, she explained that during income tax season, whenever she woke up around this time, instead of trying to get back to sleep she forced herself out of bed to get a head start on her workday. “Even on Saturday?” her mother asked. “Sometimes.” She’d fallen behind in her work since her mother moved in three days ago. Whenever Gloria took a break to get a coffee or use the washroom, her mother appeared and chatted about the kids, her choir, or other things they could easily discuss later. Gloria couldn’t bring herself to cut the talk off, and she’d return to her office frustrated. Her mother had mentioned looking for a job but hadn’t once left the house. Last night, as they got ready for bed in their en suite bathroom, Arthur had told Gloria to be patient. “After she’s let off steam, she might be back with your dad in a week.”

“Even though he did this to me, her daughter?” “You think she believes that?” Gloria brushed her teeth to avoid itting her mother had given no indication she’d changed her mind on the matter. She swooshed water in her mouth, spat it out, and faced Arthur. “What about you, Arthur?” He threw up his hands. “Gloria, how many times do I have to tell you that I’m completely ive?” She’d rubbed the cloth over her face so he wouldn’t see her annoyance at his refusal to understand that was not the same as belief. Whenever she pointed that out, Arthur changed the subject and walked away. Coffee mug in hand, Gloria ed her mother at the kitchen table. She took the chair facing her office, where she really should be heading now to wade through her client’s cereal box stuffed with receipts. Her mother fixed her gaze on the back window, her face in profile. “Jeffrey says the hardest thing for people to do is it they were wrong.” She exhaled. “I was wrong, Gloria, to lash out at you at your father’s birthday dinner, when you were so brave to tell us what he had done. That must have been hard for you.” “The hardest thing ever, Mom.” Had Gloria heard it right? Had her mother said “what he had done” and not “what you thought he did”? Her mother stroked the patch of dry skin on her cheek, her eyes watering. “I’m beginning to understand how I could have lived in that house and shut my eyes to what was going on. I chose not to see. Gloria, you know my father, your grandfather, was a bully and a drunk.” Gloria nodded, her eyes damp. Her mother really had said “had done.” “Jeffrey’s helping me see how my denial goes back to my own childhood. That explains but doesn’t excuse my actions.” Tears rolled down her mother’s cheek. The dry patch of skin glistened. “What did I do to my two little girls? Your father called you his princess. I thought it an endearment.” Gloria rested her hand on her mother’s boney fingers. “You didn’t know, Mom,

consciously.” “I married a man I thought was the opposite of my father.” Her mother turned toward her. “As I asked Jeffery, what if I chose Francis because I sensed his true self underneath? The cycle repeats itself.” Laurie had uttered this phrase in the group. Two generations of men in Laurie’s family abused her—and who knew how much further back it went. She’d chosen not to have children for that reason, so the cycle would end with her. Gloria had given birth in ignorance of her past. Would she have had her daughters if she’d known? The thought of life without her girls made her grateful for the oblivion. She pressed her mother’s dry hand. “I’m glad you have Jeffrey to guide you through this, Mom. For now, it seems a disaster, but it’s a catalyst for change.” “Jeffrey says that even if I were ninety, with one day to live, a positive change would have meaning. I don’t know what changes I want to make yet, aside from leaving your father.” “That’s definite?” Her mother smiled through her tears. “Don’t worry, I won’t be a burden to you much longer.” “You aren’t a burden, Mom. You don’t know how happy this makes me.” “Happy? This disaster?” Both laughed. Gloria squeezed her mother’s hand, too frightened to say aloud, “You believe me. You’re sorry. You it you were wrong.” What if she’d heard what she wanted to hear, and her mother had meant something different? She couldn’t wait to discuss this with Kevin on their morning walk. During the past month they’d fallen into a pattern of alternating weeks between Fish Creek Park and her neighbourhood. Today was Fish Creek, a longer outing with the drive there and back. Kevin had offered to pick her up. Despite her workload, she was glad for the extra time they’d have to talk.

* * *

“Would you mind a neighbourhood walk instead?” Kevin asked at her front door. “Break the pattern,” she said jokingly, to mask her disappointment. “What’s it like outside?” “Cold, but the forecast calls for warming.” She put on her jacket and tuque, adjusting them in the mirror. Her shoulderlength curls billowed below the hat. Regardless of the temperature, Kevin dressed the same—down jacket, jeans and a green tuque with a floppy pompom she found cute. As they walked down her street, Gloria debated asking him if he’d cut their morning plan short because he was meeting Denise for lunch. Perhaps a child Denise treated on Saturday mornings had cancelled. Gloria chided herself for feeling hurt at his bumping her for Denise. This wasn’t a competition. Kevin’s friendliness toward Gloria hadn’t changed in the past month. To not waste their brief time together, she described her conversation with her mother. “Wow,” Kevin said, when she paused for a breath. “I wish my mom was like that, blasting me and then coming around, even if it took her a year.” They turned the corner to the main street. Cars whizzed by, on their way to the mall or grocery store. The north wind made Gloria zip up her jacket to her chin. The forecast warmth was far from happening. Dull clouds blew above them. She wished she’d opted for her heavy coat. “Have you talked to your mother since your confrontation?” she asked. “I phone my parents every Sunday,” Kevin said. “They both get on the line, but she does most of the talking, going on about things they do with the rest of the family. Last week, Dad travelled with my brother to a kids’ hockey league game. My brother coaches his son’s team. I thought, my God, that creep has access to all these boys. Sometimes they stay overnight in motels in other towns. But I didn’t think I could say this to my parents.”

“Kevin, you have to.” Gloria’s daughters, age seven and five, took skating and gymnastics. She or Arthur was with them the whole time, but what if...? She brushed the horror from her mind as they ed the golf club entrance. “Jeffrey thinks I should report him to the hockey organization,” Kevin said. “He doesn’t know how these small-town leagues operate. They close ranks when it’s one of their own. Same with the police, which for them is RCMP. One of my cousins is their local officer.” “You need to try anyway.” “Denise agrees it’s about protecting the children.” Gloria couldn’t believe Denise wouldn’t push Kevin to act. “Kevin, promise me you’ll report him to some authority.” Gloria took an extra step to catch up to his stride as he turned onto a crescent street, a detour from their previous walks. Break the pattern. “My sister’s no better than my parents,” he said. “I finally called her last weekend, to feel out how she’s processing my confrontation. She ignored my questions and talked about a party she and her husband planned to attend. My brother and his wife had offered to babysit. I told her to get someone else and to never leave her children alone with him. She said, ‘Kevin, they’re only babies.’ We know that makes no difference from all we’ve heard. When I tried to argue, my sister brushed me off.” “I hope the mother inside her listened,” Gloria said. “There’s a small house for sale.” Kevin glanced at a real estate sign. “We might be able to afford that.” We? Gloria’s throat tightened. Did he mean Denise and him? He still referred to their visits to coffee shops and art galleries as friendship. They’d spent a whole Sunday cross-country skiing in Kananaskis, while Denise’s husband took their daughter to see his parents. Gloria could read a romantic subtext between Kevin’s lines, but he and Denise had only been “friends” for a month, and Gloria sensed they hadn’t moved beyond platonic. She took a breath of chilly air. “Are you moving in together?”

“Denise is against cheating in marriage,” Kevin said. “She told her husband as soon as she realized we were serious, but the situation is tense in their home.” Serious? Gloria zipped her jacket down to her neck. Kevin’s pace was warming her up. “That’s quick,” she said about his movement with Denise. “They’ve had problems for a long time,” he said. “When she leaves him, it doesn’t make sense for us to live separately in crappy apartments. Why not buy something better, with space for her daughter?” “Denise will have custody?” “They’re still figuring that part out.” Gloria’s back started to hurt from the exertion. Too much time sitting at her desk, calculating people’s income tax. “This neighbourhood looks nice,” Kevin said. “You like living here, and it’s reasonably close to Denise’s office.” He glanced at houses as they continued down the street in silence. Gloria focused on her throbbing back and his bombshell news that he and Denise had sprinted to this new level. Gloria was still getting used to her own response to them being friends. Rather than put Gloria off Kevin, it had drawn her closer to him. She speculated this was because he’d become safer now that he wasn’t available, and she didn’t have to worry about a deeper relationship with him tempting her away from Arthur. It had shocked her to realize she and Arthur might not last forever. Consciously, this hadn’t crossed her mind until Kevin told her he was seeing Denise. The strangest part was Kevin’s involvement with Denise had spiced up Gloria and Arthur’s marriage. Lately, in bed, in the dark, she’d imagined her husband was Kevin and had her first orgasm in years. That night, Arthur had pressed his hand to her mouth so her mother and daughters wouldn’t hear her screams from their bedrooms down the hall. “This is new,” Arthur had said, and rolled onto his back. “I like it.” But how would she like Kevin and Denise living in her neighbourhood? On a practical level, Kevin wouldn’t need to drive to Gloria’s house for their walks. They might add other activities, like getting together on Saturday evenings for board games with all their daughters. But would Denise and Kevin hit if off with

Arthur well enough to become couples’ friends with him and Gloria? Did Gloria want her husband infiltrating this area of her life? And could she be friends with her therapist? If it contradicted professional ethics, Gloria might have to choose between Denise as her friend or her therapist. They took the short cut through the lane to the main street. Now that her back pain had eased to a twinge, Gloria was sorry their walk was almost over. A dog walker approached. Kevin stooped to pat the beagle. He’d want a dog once he had a house. If Denise didn’t like them or was allergic, it might become an issue between them. Each jump to a new level of relationship added risks. The dog owner commented on the sun peeking through the clouds. The wind had died down so much that Gloria unzipped her jacket completely. “Feel like doing a little extra?” Kevin said as they left the dog. “You don’t have to go somewhere? I thought that’s why you didn’t want to do Fish Creek.” “Today seemed like a chance to check out the neighbourhood.” He pointed across the main street. “This area would be closer to the CTrain station. I’m used to taking the train downtown to work.” They crossed and turned up the first side street. A third of the way up, they noticed a real estate sign. “For Rent,” Gloria read aloud. Her neighbourhood didn’t have many rental houses, although in this flat market, people might hold onto their homes and rent until the prices rose. They stopped at the driveway. The house looked cozy, tucked behind the spruce tree, but would certainly be large enough for Kevin, Denise, and her daughter. “I like the tall poplars behind it,” Kevin said. Gloria nodded. “Those trees are probably on the golf course. My house backs onto it too. It’s like looking out to a park.” “I miss the country, growing up in Nova Scotia.” He patted his pockets. “Do you have a paper and pen to write down the house address and agent’s name and number?” “I didn’t bring my purse.”

“That’s okay. I’ll them.” In case he didn’t, Gloria would walk here this afternoon to get them. She couldn’t think of one downside to Kevin and Denise living closer to her. They circled the block and returned to her street. Her mother and daughter were on the driveway shooting a ball back and forth with plastic hockey sticks. Gloria introduced them to Kevin. “This is Melissa, my eldest. She’s seven.” Kevin nodded at Melissa, showing less interest in her than he had in any dog they’d encountered on walks. After he said goodbye, he trotted to his car. Gloria waved as he drove off. “TV cartoons over?” she asked, readjusting her attention to her family. Her mother’s stick tapped the ball, ing it to Melissa. “We agreed it was too lovely to stay inside.” “Where’s Brittany?” “She’s listless with a scratchy throat. Probably coming down with a cold, poor dear.” Gloria left her mother and Melissa to their game. Inside, the house was quiet. No sound from the television set although light glowed from the family room. Gloria went in to turn off the light and stopped. Arthur sat on the armchair; Brittany cuddled on his lap. The light dulled to grey; the sofa, chairs, and TV swirled. Arthur had his arm around their little girl, reading her a children’s book. Daddy reading Gloria a story; his hand rubbing her thigh, moving under her dress. “No, Daddy, don’t.” Big fingers in her panties, stroking, rubbing. “Daddy, don’t.” “Hush, Princess.”

“Don’t. Please.” “Hush.”

* * *

January 2020

While Paula stirred granola into yogurt for her breakfast, Mike Vincelli sent a text. Odell released no further charges yet. At least Mike was following through with his promise to keep her informed about developments, even if he’d ignored her plea to question Francis’ confession, which was now public news. The police had released the parts about him itting to driving, striking the pedestrians, and leaving the scene but had omitted his connection to Denise Young and his stalking her. The house was quiet. Sam and Ron were still asleep. The first rays of sun crept into the kitchen. Last night, after the hockey game, Ron had coaxed Sam to a bar for a taste of the city’s night life. They’d rolled in close to one a.m., a rare hour for early bird Sam. When they woke up this morning, he’d rolled over and mumbled, “Screw work.” He’d have a hangover, but she was glad Sam and her brother were getting along so well. With an hour before she had to leave to meet a whiplash claimant, Paula lingered over breakfast, reviewing the report from Kevin’s neurologist, who had examined him two days ago. The doctor noted no apparent physical abnormalities. Kevin displayed excellent vision, hand-eye co-ordination, and short-term recall of words and numbers. He still couldn’t details of the accident, though, and became agitated when the doctor questioned him on this. Kevin complained of difficulties with sleeping, concentration, and flashbacks. The doctor prescribed sleeping pills and anti-anxiety medication and deemed Kevin unable to work for the next two weeks, when the doctor had scheduled his

next appointment. The flashbacks were a new symptom and an added reason for her to visit Kevin soon, to keep on top of his potentially large insurance claim for general damages. She’d also need a new statement from Francis due to his change of heart about his role in the hit and run.

* * *

Troy answered the door when she rang. “Francis said you’d be coming. We were finishing up a game of chess.” As Paula entered, Troy lowered his voice. “Cheryl asked me to stay with him while she’s at work. She’s concerned about his mood, especially after his bizarre confession.” Troy would be a good source of information. “What do you or Cheryl find bizarre about it?” Paula asked, feigning indifference. “For one thing, the Francis I know would have owned up from the start. He’s also shown no desire to drive since his surgery. And why would he drive to that particular street?” Troy rocked from foot to foot. “I guess he could have got confused, since Gloria used to live there, and Cheryl talked about some weird amnesia. But she’s abandoned that theory now.” Paula removed her coat and hung it in the closet. “Cheryl talked about having him get an MRI.” “He’s scheduled for one next week.” “Have you noticed signs of him losing his faculties since his surgery?” “Not really, but people can fool you surprisingly well, like my mom with dementia.” Paula followed him to the dining table, where Francis sat staring at the chessboard.

“Checkmate,” Francis said. “No matter which way I run. I used to beat Troy every time.” “Not true.” Troy smiled. “I win a third of our games. If you both don’t need me, I’ll head down to my place.” He looked at Francis. “What time is Cheryl getting home?” Francis glared at him. “I don’t need a babysitter.” “It’s not that,” Troy said and glanced at Paula. Francis rose from the table. “Care for a hot chocolate?” Shades of her first visit with him. Making the drink would take extra time, but her afternoon was clear aside from the meeting she’d arranged with Kevin. Troy walked ahead of them to the kitchen and left by the side door. Francis took out a pot, his shaking hand banging it against a cabinet. While he got two mugs from the cupboard, Paula assumed her role from last time and got the milk from the fridge and the chocolate powder, marshmallows, and a tray from the pantry. She poured milk into a mug to measure one serving. “Why did you lie to me?” She had no qualms about the accusing tone of her voice. “I suppose my insurance won’t cover me now.” It would, but she’d let him stew a bit. “What about payments under my policy to the couple I hit? Are they still covered?” She wanted his honest feelings about this. “Would you like Denise Young to get nothing from your insurance?” “Not if it means her husband will sue me. Cheryl’s checking this out with a lawyer.” They’d be happy to hear they wouldn’t need the lawyer for this. “I expected the police to hit you with a more serious charge.”

“I’m sure they’re working on it,” Francis said. “These matters take months, or years, to crawl through the system. I’ll be dead before this goes to trial.” She gritted her teeth, trying not to let his frail-old-man schtick manipulate her. Never give up—a cliché she’d always believed. “I thought you were a fighter.” “Where did you get that?” He looked sideways at her. “You and your buddy once thought you could change the world.” “Until the world mowed us down.” He shook the chocolate powder into the milk, spilling half on the counter. Paula grabbed the dishcloth and wiped the surface. “For insurance purposes, I need a new statement from you declaring that you initially lied to the insurer, which is considered non-cooperation.” “Can you hand me a wooden spoon?” She took one from the container on the bow window ledge. A spider plant brushed her arm. “I have a personal question, and please, don’t feel you have to answer.” She handed him the spoon. “How did your wife die?” “Cancer.” He frowned into the pot. “Ten years ago, next week.” He’d nudged her sympathies again. “When I was here the last time, I got the impression you blamed her death on her psychologist.” “Did I?” He stared into the chocolate milk. “Marilyn had many activities and interests, like knitting and church groups, but her most important purpose in life was raising our girls.” His chin quivered. “That psychologist told her she’d failed as a mother.” He looked at Paula. “Do you have children?” “Two daughters.” “Imagine if one of them said your husband had done unspeakable things to her and that you were aware the whole time and ignored it.” She swallowed. His question was too much for her to absorb now.

“That fool convinced Marilyn she’d whitewashed her memories.” Francis’ eyes grew wide. “She caved under the pressure, went over to their side.” “Their side, your side. Shouldn’t it be your daughter’s side?” “Exactly. How could Marilyn believe her daughter without condemning me? The doctor gave her an impossible choice.” “You blame him for this?” “It was a chain of incompetence.” He stirred the spoon into the bubbles appearing in the chocolate milk. “Dr. Young created a nonexistent problem in my daughter, which troubled my wife. Then Young sent Marilyn to Szabo, who made her troubles worse. I blame them equally.” “But how did this cause Marilyn’s cancer?” “If I said that, it came from my foul mood. Don’t listen to me.” She knew she should stay out of his family issue but wanted to understand. “What if your wife genuinely believed Gloria’s claims?” “I have no doubt she did.” Francis stirred harder. “That’s how brainwashing works.” Calling their therapy ‘brainwashing’ was extreme. “Since they were equally guilty, why did you choose to stalk Dr. Young?” He shrugged. “She lived closer to me. She had a regular habit of walking her dog, making her easy to follow.” He let go of the wooden spoon. “This looks the right temperature now. Will you do the pouring?” Paula gripped the pot handle with one hand, steadied each mug with the other and filled them with hot chocolate. She set the mugs on the tray. Francis dropped a marshmallow into each drink and then shuffled ahead of her down the corridor to the living room. Paula placed the tray on the coffee table. This morning, all four photos sat on the fireplace mantel, with the farthest to the left the black-andwhite picture of the seven children lined up by increasing height. She wondered again if one of them was Francis.

“I’m the littlest one with the baggy shorts,” he said, as though reading her mind. “My brothers and sisters are all gone.” “I’m sorry,” she said. He sank to the armchair. A Tale of Two Cities still lay on the table beside it. She couldn’t imagine he’d be able to concentrate on much reading these days. She sat on the sofa and explained that lying wasn’t considered a policy violation, and his automobile policy would still cover him as the vehicle driver. The insurance company would pay his vehicle damage, with a collision deductible, and handle the bodily injury and property damage claims resulting from the collision. “That’s generous,” he said. Paula smiled. “We’re rarely accused of this.” She took out her phone. “You’re fine with me recording your statement?” He nodded. “It’s a relief to be rid of the burden.”

* * *

On her drive to Kevin’s house, Paula wondered if Francis had meant something other than the burden of maintaining a lie. Regardless, the fact that his statement didn’t differ significantly from what he’d told the police made her job easier. If this new version contained lies, he had his story down pat. Since she had time to spare, she detoured by Jeffrey and Denise’s office building, a three-storey brick box that Sam would pronounce architecturally boring. She slowed to scan the parking lot for Jeffrey’s BMW but couldn’t see it among the dozens of vehicles. The building’s signs listed tenants in medical and related fields. Podiatry. Dermatology. Physiotherapy. If Francis had lurked here, no one would find it odd to see an eighty-five-year-old man acting confused about which office he was visiting. He’d itted to barging into Jeffrey’s office thirty years ago, and might have done this again, recently, to Jeffrey or Denise,

lambasting one, or both, for destroying his wife and marriage. Homicide was trying to gather this kind of evidence now, to build a case for laying heavier charges against Francis. Five minutes later, she arrived at Kevin’s house. Jeffrey’s car wasn’t parked in front. Kevin opened his front door and greeted her with a grin. Zelda barked a hello. After Kevin led her to the living room, Paula waited for him to sit. When he didn’t, she explained, as she had on the phone, that she’d received his neurologist’s report and wanted to touch base. “I tried work this morning.” Kevin rubbed his forehead. “Couldn’t concentrate, even on the easy stuff, like testing the game.” “What does that involve?” “Basically, playing it.” He walked back and forth behind the chairs. “I tried games that aren’t mine, that I play for fun, thinking they’d be less stressful.” “Were they?” “A little. Not enough. They used to be my way of relaxing and taking my mind off things.” Losing a prime recreation would increase his general damages. “The doctor mentioned flashbacks,” she said. “Are you starting to details of the accident?” “No.” Kevin paced toward the wall print of the samurai warrior. On her first visit, he’d mentioned it was his favourite piece of art in the room. He whirled in front of the window. “Flashbacks to my childhood, with my brother.” Paula tensed. Gloria had said his brother had molested him. “Are these flashbacks new, since the accident?” “I’d been clear of them for twenty years.” Kevin balled his hands. “Now I’ve had three the past week. They hit me out of the blue. Suddenly, I’m zapped out of time and don’t know where I am until I see or feel my brother on me.” He edged toward her. She stepped back reflexively, and caught sight of the painting above the

fireplace, a rhinoceros charging head-on. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t get one this minute. Only when I’m alone, so far.” He stepped closer. To earn his trust, she dug her heels into the floor and remained in place. “Is Jeffrey still staying with you?” “He’s kind of moved in.” Kevin stopped a few feet from her. Zelda approached and nuzzled his foot. “Have you talked to him about your flashbacks?” Of course he had. “Jeffrey thinks my mind has connected the two traumas—the accident and what my brother did. To relieve the pressure on my brain of having to repress both, the earlier ones are pushing to resurface. They’re less threatening because I dealt with them already.” From the little Paula ed from her introductory psychology course at university, Jeffrey’s observation could be astute. She shifted to Kevin’s lesser problems. “How are your other injuries coming along?” Kevin touched the frostbite on his cheek. “I saw a dermatologist yesterday. He says the damage is permanent. Gloria knows of an ointment that might help.” “Gloria Wilson?” So, they’d maintained since the hearing. “She told me you were friends in the past.” “She thinks massage could help my lower back. It gets worse when I sit at the computer.” Paula wanted to probe about him and Gloria, but his disability was her priority. “I don’t recall any mention of a back injury.” “It’s new.” “You’ve never had this before?” “Occasionally, but not enough for me to see a doctor.” His honesty about preexisting symptoms would add credibility to all his injury claims. He strode to the

chairs in front of the fireplace, Zelda behind him, and plopped down on the one that angled away from the samurai warrior. Zelda laid her head on his lap. Paula sat on the other chair. Kevin stroked Zelda’s head. “When Gloria drove me home from the court hearing, I said to her, ‘what a coincidence the man who hit Denise and me was your father.’ But Gloria said she believed him, that he wasn’t the driver.” “What does she think now, in light of his new statement?” “We haven’t talked about it since then. Gloria’s familiar with his previous lying, which was all bluster and rage. This time he’s different, she said—reasonable and calm, which made her think his first statement was true.” Paula wouldn’t call Francis’ rant against Denise and Jeffrey reasonable or calm. “I’ll ask her about it on our walk tonight.” Zelda’s ears perked up. “You and Gloria go on walks?” “This is the first. Normally, Jeffrey comes with me after supper. I still can’t handle that street alone, but he has clients this evening. Gloria offered.” Kevin’s hand left Zelda’s head. “Naturally, Gloria might be a little blind about her father. I can understand why he’d still be mad at Denise and stalk her.” “You can?” Evidently, the police had told him Francis Odell confessed to stalking. “My family wasn’t angry like that, but Jeffrey told me about a client who can’t get past her anger over an accusation someone made against her decades ago. Not this kind of accusation, something else. She blames it for everything that went wrong in her life and is filled with resentments.” Kevin bolted to his feet, knocking Zelda toward the fireplace. The dog stumbled and grew steady. Kevin rubbed his head. “I’ve got to learn to avoid sudden movements, gives me a headache. So much to learn.” His hand slid down his face to his neck. “The police told me to watch for strange cars on the street.” He lurched to the front window. Paula edged behind him. Kevin lifted a blind slat and peered out. “His car’s still with the police, but he

could steal his tenant’s or Gloria’s sister’s car. They warned Jeffrey too, since he’s living here.” Kevin whirled around. Paula stepped back so he wouldn’t bump into her. He massaged his forehead. “If we’re done, I think I need to lie down.” His eyes grew wide. “All I want is to feel normal again.” “Give it time,” she said. “It’s been less than two weeks and you’ve gone through a lot.” While she was putting on her coat, it struck Paula that if Francis found out Jeffrey was living nearby, Francis might target him in revenge for the loss of his wife. What did an ailing eighty-five-year-old have to lose? One manslaughter conviction or two for murder would mean the same for Francis—prison with little chance of outliving the sentence. Had homicide let him go so they could trap him, with Jeffrey as bait? If so, Mike and his colleagues were playing a dangerous game. She was probably overreacting, but she sent Mike a text, Can we talk or meet? As she patted Zelda goodbye, Mike answered, Home babysitting. Free now.

Chapter Fourteen

March 1990

After two weeks of waiting, Cheryl had lost hope that Troy Mendes would return the message she’d left on his answering machine. Then, Friday evening, while she was getting Heather to bed, Troy finally called. He apologized for the delay. “I was in Mexico, hanging out on beaches and helping build a home for a local family. When are you free to meet?” They agreed on Monday. Troy suggested she pick a time and place that was convenient for her. “I know you’re busy with your kids. My sister has two little monsters.” Monday morning, Cheryl left Zach with her neighbour. She entered the coffee shop and scanned the groups of young mothers and retirees at the tables. A young man waved from the back corner. As she approached, he rose to shake her hand. With his bronze tan, high cheekbones and broad shoulders, her first impression of Troy was that, well, he was a hunk. No surprise Becky’s friend had said he wasn’t boyfriend material. Cheryl had fallen for too many gorgeous guys who were assholes. She loved average-looking Wayne for dragging her from that dead-end street. From his shirt pocket, Troy took out a package of cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?” “Go ahead.” She went to the café’s counter and studied the chalk menu on the wall. Why not try something new on this day that might prove momentous? She ordered a latte. When it was ready, she carried it to the smoking section. To be polite, she began

by asking Troy about his house-building in Mexico. “It was more fun than work,” he said, and described his month-long stay. Normally, Cheryl would have listened eagerly, intrigued, and saddened by his descriptions of the poverty he’d seen, including children living off garbage in the local dump, but today she was distracted and on a time limit. She had to pick up Zach before lunch. When Troy paused to stub out his cigarette, she took the opportunity to shift to the topic that had brought them here. “As I understand from my friend, you once thought your father abused you as a child and then you changed your mind.” Troy picked up his mug of coffee, which had to be cold by now. “My friend says your sister thinks she was abused too. I can’t tell you she’ll do a turnaround like me. It’s weird and hard to explain.” He launched into his story, which started out similarly to Gloria’s and several others detailed in the book Cheryl had read. Troy’s personal and relationship problems led him to seek therapy. He quickly became convinced his troubles stemmed from incest and told his family one by one, beginning with his father, the perpetrator. His father professed horror at the accusation and denied he’d done anything wrong. Troy’s mother backed up her husband. One of Troy’s sisters took his father’s side; the other and a few cousins sympathized with Troy to varying degrees. Unlike some in his group, he maintained with his family, but visits were tense. Troy took out another cigarette. “I’ve never had an epiphany before or since. That’s the only way to describe it.” He lit the cigarette. “Last fall, I was in my parents’ backyard, filling the bird feeder. A magpie flew over. I shooed it away, to save the seeds for the small birds, and realized my father hadn’t abused me. All those memories I’d dredged up hadn’t happened.” Cheryl’s heart rose in tentative hope, while her mind fogged with bewilderment. “How can that be?” “No clue. I kept the change from my family for a few weeks, in case it was temporary, but discussed it with my therapist. She nodded knowingly and said that with family and home often created conflict within survivors. She explained that the ensuing doubts were a challenge but assured me I was strong

enough to resist them. I quit therapy on the spot.” “Why?” “My psychologist meant well,” he said. “I got the sense she’d treated a few incest survivors before me and thought I fit a profile. As they say, if you’re looking for something, you find it.” Cheryl gripped her mug, willing her mind to clear. “All the ones I’ve heard or read about were women.” “I was the oddball in that way, the lone guy in my group.” He grinned. His teeth shone white against his tan; his incisors were crooked. “Funny, but I quit the group without telling them my revised view. Part of that, I think, was to not disillusion them. Horrible as it feels to be a victim of incest, it’s great to find one big answer that explains everything shitty in your life.” He drew on the cigarette. “This wasn’t the answer for me. I can’t speak for your sister.” Cheryl took a sip of her latte, her hope still overwhelmed by confusion. “She talks about memories as nightmares and feelings.” “Mine seemed as real as my other childhood memories, complete with details like being in the kitchen with my father cooking bacon.” Cheryl started. “He did it there?” “You don’t want to hear the gruesome rest.” Troy drew on his cigarette again. “What makes it hard is that once the memories are planted, you can’t completely get rid of them. I’m still working on this with my family. We all said things we can’t take back.” Planted. Had Gloria’s memories been planted? How had that happened? And if they were planted, could Cheryl do something to rip them out? She finished her latte. Good, milky— definitely worth repeating if she and Troy met again. She’d love to have a friend who understood the pull of Gloria’s “memories” in ways others couldn’t. “We ought to get together again.” Troy echoed her thought. “Survivors of survivorhood need too.” He butted out his cigarette. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure there are real survivors of incest and child abuse out there.”

“Maybe my sister.” “I was thinking of the Catholic priests and the case at the daycare centre that was in the paper today.” Cheryl had been too rushed that morning to read the news. “What’s that one about?” “Police charged the couple operating the daycare with abusing seven kids,” Troy said. “The husband’s trial starts today. It was a home daycare, a few miles from here, actually.” Cheryl tensed. “In Calgary? What’s its name?” “I forget. It closed when the kids’ stories came out.” “Thank God for that.” Her trusted neighbour would be looking after Zach when Cheryl’s maternity leave was up. The thought made her breasts tingle with milk, even though she’d started weaning Zach. She’d have to leave to get him soon. “I’d be game to meet here next week, if you’re interested.” “I am,” Troy said. “Like you, I still have questions.”

* * *

Two days later, Cheryl left Zach with her neighbour again so she could talk to her mother without him in the way. She brought her breast pump so she’d make it through the afternoon. Her mother needed to know they didn’t have to go along with what Gloria and the psychologists said. With luck, Gloria would retreat to her office to work during the visit. Cheryl drove across the Bow River to the city’s southwest sector. Since she was making good time in the light traffic, she decided to take a longer route to Gloria’s house and check out their mother’s psychologist’s office. Cheryl wondered if Gloria’s psychologist shared his practice since it made sense that she’d recommend a colleague for their mother. On Elbow Drive, Cheryl pulled

into the raised bungalow’s paved front yard and got out of her car. It felt odd to have her arms free of Zach. A notice above the door buzzer said to ring and enter. Why not? Inside the split entrance, she glanced down the stairs to the masseuse’s office. The stairs upward led to the three psychologists. She rehearsed her cover story on her way to their reception area. Three women sat scattered in the chairs that lined the walls of the bungalow’s original living room. In the far corner, a boy played in a toy kitchen. “Can I help you?” the receptionist said. “I was driving by and might be interested in seeing a therapist, and, well...” Cheryl looked down at the nameplate on the desk—Janine. Cheryl felt her face flush from lying or the room’s warmth. Likely both. She hoped Janine would take it for embarrassment. “Dr. Szabo has availability.” Janine opened her ledger. “What would be a good day and time for you?” How to stall and get more information? Four holders with business cards sat on the desk. “What about the others?” “Dr. Ioannou deals exclusively with geriatrics.” One woman in the waiting area had grey hair. Another was smartly dressed in a blazer and pants and looked middle-aged. She stared over her magazine at the boy placing plastic food in a pretend frying pan. A wall clock read 12:55 p.m. Appointments might finish on the hour. “Dr. Young is shifting her practice to children,” Janine said. “She’s not currently taking on more adults. Do you prefer a female therapist?” “Not especially.” Cheryl rubbed her hands. “I’ll need to check first, to see if my husband’s medical plan covers psychologists the same as real doctors.” Janine nodded, betraying no offence regarding the dig at the profession she served. She opened her desk drawer and took out a card. “If it doesn’t, I recommend this counsellor. You might find the results as good. A lot depends on the chemistry between therapist and client.” She held out the card to Cheryl.

“Are counsellors cheaper?” Cheryl looked past Janine toward the hall, in the direction of the offices. A psychologist could appear any minute, if their habit were to walk their patients back to the reception area. “Her rate is roughly half that of a degreed psychologist,” Janine said. “I can assure you her experience is excellent. She works evenings and Saturdays.” Cheryl took the card. “I’ll consider the options and let you know.” She fingered Dr. Szabo’s cards. “Help yourself.” It was possible Dr. Young had taken on Gloria before her shift to child patients. Cheryl ed over Ioannou and grabbed cards for Szabo, Young, and the masseuse, who offered the only appealing service. Two women entered the hall from the office area of the bungalow. Both looked to be in their mid-thirties. The one holding a file folder wore a green pantsuit and trendy eyeglasses—a blue frame across the top of otherwise rimless lenses. “See you next week, Denise,” the other woman said to Trendy Glasses, and clacked down the stairs. “Jason,” the woman with the magazine called to the boy in the play corner. “Denise is ready for you now.” The boy didn’t look over. Denise walked through the waiting area to the boy. She bent toward him, speaking in tones too low for Cheryl to hear. The woman set her magazine on the next chair and stood to help, but Denise already had the boy by the hand and was leading him across the room. He looked willing, even cheerful, speaking to Denise with animation. The woman’s gaze followed him all the way to the hall, and then she turned to Janine with a smile. “There aren’t many who are skilled with both children and adults,” Janine said to Cheryl. “This isn’t to say that Dr. Szabo or the counsellor wouldn’t be equally good for you.” From the office side of the house, a man in a pinstriped suit and a white-haired woman with a cane came into the hall. The grey-haired woman in the waiting area rose to greet the older woman, who was presumably her mother. Pinstripe must be Dr. Ioannou.

Janine picked up her phone receiver and dialled. “Dr. Szabo, it’s one o’clock.” She looked up at Cheryl. “In his enthusiasm, he tends to go overtime.”

* * *

Cheryl’s mother opened the front door, her face bright. “I could hardly wait to tell you, Cheryl—I found a job. At a bookstore in the mall, less than a fifteenminute walk away. Three days a week, so I can still look after Zach one weekday when you’re back at work.” Her brow furrowed. “Where is he?” “At my neighbour’s.” Cheryl stepped inside. “Will Gloria be okay with you driving her car to my place?” “She’ll plan her shopping and errands for other days.” “That’s great, Mom. You’ll love working.” The job would be good for her mother, even if she returned to her marriage, and Cheryl’s neighbour would be happy to have the one weekday alone with her own kids. As they entered the kitchen, Cheryl was relieved to see Gloria’s office door closed. “Tax season must be heating up.” Her mother nodded. “I feel less of a burden to Gloria now that I can help with the girls before and after school.” “I’m sure Gloria appreciates it.” “I’m not sure Arthur does.” Her mother carried the kettle to the sink. “Has he said something?” Her mother plugged in the kettle, opened a cupboard, and rifled through Gloria’s tea chest. “Earl Grey?” “Sure.” Cheryl took a seat facing the window overlooking the golf course. No fence

blocked the view. Gloria was lucky to have free access to the open space when the course closed for winter. Cheryl would love to ski out from her own backyard. “You know Arthur,” her mother said. “He’s not inclined to say a lot, but it’s the odd looks he gives Gloria and me at times.” No doubt Arthur was wondering if and when his mother-in-law would leave his home. Cheryl couldn’t blame him. Once the tea was ready, she moved to the chair with the best sightline to Gloria’s office, leaving her mother the windowview seat. Cheryl described Zach’s latest development—lifting his head—and mentioned her weekly swim with Becky as a segue into her meeting with Troy Mendes. “Becky has this friend,” Cheryl said, and summarized Troy’s story. Her mother listened, drinking tea, staring out the window. When she’d finished, Cheryl took her first sip of Earl Grey. “Mom, if his memories that seemed so real weren’t true, Gloria’s nightmares and vague feelings are even less reliable. I know it’s not proof, but we have to consider this.” Her mother set her cup on the saucer. “I’m not surprised by what he said. We talked about this at the last group meeting.” Cheryl’s heartbeat skipped. “You’re going to a group?” Her mother nodded. “Gloria’s. It’s common for survivors to regress due to family pressure.” Survivors. Troy had used that word. So had the book about child abuse. Cheryl still liked the word but found it excessive for situations like being stared at in the bathtub. “Troy’s family didn’t pressure him,” she said. “Some of them argued, but others were sympathetic.” “It sounds to me that the ones who disagreed left the door open enough for him to return.” “Isn’t that good?” Her mother glanced sideways at Gloria’s closed door. Gloria and Arthur had splurged on soundproofing so the family noise wouldn’t disturb Gloria while she

was working. A age leading to the laundry and mudroom separated the office from the kitchen. Still, her mother lowered her voice. “In some ways, your father’s angry opposition is healthier for Gloria.” “How is that?” Cheryl knew she spoke too loudly, but her mother’s points were ridiculous. “It forces her to stand firm and not give into weakness.” “What’s weak about asking questions?” She couldn’t keep her voice down. Her mother’s eyes flickered, as though she had a higher understanding. “I know it’s hard for you, dear.” Cheryl bristled at her condescending tone. “Mom, don’t tell me you’ve fallen for this crap.” Gloria’s door flew open. “What’s going on? I’m trying to work.” Cheryl stood. “What have you done with Mom?” She glared across the age at Gloria. “What is wrong with her? What’s wrong with you?” “I heard you pressuring her.” “You must have been straining to hear through the door.” Gloria crossed her arms. “Mom and I can work out our own lives. We don’t need you or Dad telling us what to think, what’s true or not.” “You’re the one doing this.” Cheryl tried to soften her accusing tone. “Gloria, you’re supposed to be the smart one with your university degree.” “I know you’re jealous of that.” “I’m not.” “You were always jealous of me in school.” “Stop it, Gloria.” Their mother rose. “Cheryl.”

“That’s why you pretended you didn’t care about schoolwork.” Gloria glared at Cheryl. “Slacking off meant you didn’t have to try and risk failing.” Cheryl laughed without humour. “Did you get that from your shrink? If you two discuss me, did you tell her you were jealous because I had more friends? That I was better at sports and pushing you around?” “That’s right, Cheryl.” Gloria sniffed. “Brag about being a bully.” “You were a wimp.” “Cheryl.” Her mother touched her arm. She shrugged off the hand and wove around the table to the age. Gloria shrunk into the doorframe. “Coward.” Cheryl said. “You spit out garbage to Dad, Mom, and me, based on nothing more than your stupid nightmares and feelings.” “I have a memory now.” Gloria’s eyes narrowed. Cheryl stepped back. “What memory? Of what? You didn’t tell us before.” “A flashback.” “It happened on the weekend,” their mother said, coming up beside Cheryl. “The group confirmed it was genuine.” “How can the group know?” Cheryl’s voice cracked. A memory. Something real. But Troy’s memories turned out to be false. “A genuine flashback,” Gloria said. “There will be more of them, too, if I keep my focus.” Cheryl glanced at her mother, who’d remarked that Arthur looked at Gloria and her oddly. “What does Arthur think of this?” Cheryl said. “He’s the smartest of us all. Mom implied he’s skeptical.” “I didn’t,” her mother said.

“Arthur is none of your business,” Gloria snapped. “Worry about your own marriage.” “Wayne thinks Dad’s innocent.” “He’s not the brightest bulb.” “In fact.” Cheryl raised an eyebrow. “Wayne thinks I’m silly to worry about what you’re saying.” “If I were you, I’d worry about Wayne.” Gloria’s lip curled. “Gloria,” her mother said. “Stop this, right now.” She gripped Cheryl’s arm. “Both of you.” Cheryl squinted at Gloria, who knew something Cheryl didn’t. Gloria’s wide eyes shone. “Ask Wayne what he was doing in the bar, cozying up with that woman last summer.” “That’s enough, girls!” Cheryl whirled. “You know about this, Mom?” “Gloria only told me this week. Arthur saw him; Wayne knows he did.” Cheryl’s legs shook, but she refused to sit. “What was Arthur doing in the bar?” “Entertaining clients,” Gloria said. “I don’t know why you’re shocked. Wayne cheated while you were dating.” That didn’t matter. It was early in their relationship. None of it mattered except Wayne cheating last summer, when Cheryl was pregnant with Zach, and Wayne cheating on her now, if he was. Gloria and Arthur had known through the fall, through Christmas and numerous family dinners...? No. This could not be true. Gloria made things up. She was making this up to hurt her. “You’re lying,” Cheryl said. “I refuse to listen to any more of your shit. Sorry, Mom, I have to leave.” She strode to the front door. Gloria followed her. “Bury your head in denial,” she said calmly.

Condescending. “It’s what you do best.” Cheryl yanked on her boots and coat, snatched her hat, gloves, scarf, purse. “I’ll call you, Mom, about next week. Maybe we’ll meet at a coffee shop.” Outside, Cheryl inhaled the cold, cruel air. When she reached her car, she squeezed her eyes shut. Gloria might have lied about their father. The rest of what she’d said rang true.

Chapter Fifteen

January 2020

Paula parked in front of Mike’s bungalow, which he shared with his sister Lucy and her six-year-old son. Mike answered the door and explained he was home because his nephew had come down with an ear infection and Lucy couldn’t get away from work. Mike had taken Eli to the doctor and finally got him to sleep minutes before Paula arrived. She expressed her sympathies for Eli and apologized for disturbing them. “On the drive here, I realized my concerns are long shot.” “I’m glad you stopped by,” Mike said. “There’s something I want you to know.” They continued to the kitchen, where Mike made their usual espressos. He positioned himself by the table with a view of the bedrooms, in case Eli got up, and insisted Paula speak first. She summarized what she’d learned and deduced after her visits with Francis and Kevin. “It crossed our minds that Francis might go for Jeffrey or Kevin,” Mike said. “That’s why we alerted them both. I agree with you it’s a long shot Odell will act, given his age, health, and the fact he knows we’re onto him. We didn’t let him loose to set a trap. I was following your advice to be lenient. Locking the bastard up before a trial or conviction serves no purpose for him or the case.” Paula winced at the word bastard, although it fit if Gloria’s accusations were true. “Forensics will continue to hold onto his car,” Mike said. “It wouldn’t hurt for us to advise his daughters and tenant to make sure he has no access to their car keys.”

“What do you think of Gloria’s initial belief that her father wasn’t driving the car? Will you interview her again?” “Possibly, to be thorough. But what Gloria believes is irrelevant unless it’s based on a fact that she knows, and we don’t.” They sipped their espressos. Paula waited for him to talk next. She’d learned patience worked better with Mike than probing or prompts. “Our last conversation made me wonder if I’m prejudiced against Odell,” he finally said. “I’ve discussed it with Lucy. We agree it’s no crime to be prejudiced against pedophiles, but we have our particular reasons.” Lucy’s worked in the police child abuse unit. “The cases she’s encountered must be unimaginably brutal.” “That too,” Mike said. “Lucy wants me to tell you this, so you’ll see where I’m coming from.” He craned his neck to make sure the hall was clear. “Lucy was always a lively kid, but she went wild as a teenager: drugs, boys, cutting herself. One night she slit her wrists. I found her in the bathtub. We got her to a hospital in time.” “Oh, Mike.” Paula felt tears fill her eyes, but Mike looked as if he were describing a routine police case. He was two years younger than his sister and would have been in his mid-teens when he found her bleeding out in the tub. “It turned out to be the best thing for her,” Mike said. “They put her in the psych ward. She had great nurses and psychologists, who delved into the roots of her problems. I’ve told you our biological father split when we were little?” Paula nodded. His mother later remarried a loving man, who adopted Lucy and Mike. “My uncle lived with us for a time after my first father left,” Mike continued. “It made sense, economically, and my mother thought it was good for us to have a father figure. It was good for me.” Mike’s mouth narrowed into a slit. “He was devoted to Lucy, his tomboy darling. My mother and I weren’t always around. You get the picture.” Paula blinked away tears. She’d met Lucy several times, an imioned police

officer, her openness a contrast to her usually reticent younger brother. “By the time of Lucy’s hospital ‘stint,’ my uncle was married,” Mike said. “To a divorcée with a little girl. They moved to Texas, where the wife was from. My mother phoned and berated him on his answering machine for what he did. The next day his number was disconnected. My mother refused to call the cops on her brother and, anyway, it would have been hard to get results across the border.” Paula washed down a lump in her throat with espresso. “That little girl...” She set the empty cup on the table. “My uncle disappeared. Never heard from since. Good riddance.” Mike drained his espresso cup. “Correction. I wish my mother had tried harder to find him. Her priority was Lucy getting well, but I should have done something.” “You were a teenager, Mike.” “I did try to locate him later. Zilch. Like you, I keep thinking of that little girl, of Lucy and the other children he might have molested.” Mike gritted his teeth. “So, yes, I am prejudiced against pedophiles.” “Who wouldn’t be?” Mike stroked the cup with his other hand. “But I’m also sufficiently convinced your man, Francis Odell, was driving his car that night. I think he killed Denise Young on purpose. Perhaps that was his plan from the start. Or perhaps he turned the wheel in a moment of rage. But I’ll do my best not to let prejudice influence my course of action against him.” “That’s fair.” If anyone could separate emotion from actions, it was Mike. He cleared his throat. His jowls relaxed. “Another espresso?”

* * *

Paula stopped for takeout at her favourite Korean restaurant and arrived home to find Ron already there. While they made salad, he recounted his exciting day helping their mother wash curtains and driving David and her to a city park for a walk at tortoise speed. Paula chuckled. “Be glad they can walk at eighty. Which park?” “Beats me. Along the Bow River.” He dumped the celery he’d chopped into the salad and grinned. “Mom is so excited I’m staying the extra week that she’s giving me the day off tomorrow.” “What will you do?” “Kill time until Cheryl’s finished work.” Their mother might be less thrilled about Ron’s extended stay if she knew he’d be having dinner with the daughter of a man under investigation for homicide. Sam showed up as they were setting the table. Paula was halfway through her honey-grilled pork chop when a flood of emails dinged on her phone. Isabelle had written that her cold symptoms had progressed to dizziness and vomiting. She’d dragged herself to a walk-in clinic. A doctor called it the flu and told her to stay home from work. Despite this, she’d managed a few hours on social media researching the persons of interest in the Odell claim. She had attached documents for each one, with asterisk notations on items to pursue further. Paula couldn’t wait to review the results. She asked Ron and Sam if they’d mind if she stole an hour for work after dinner. “We’ll occupy ourselves flipping through sports channels,” Ron said. Sam picked up the bottle of wine. “After we finish this and clear the dishes, of course.” Paula smiled gratefully. What could be better than her brother and partner bonding and also taking care of the chores? An extra week of bonding might even outweigh the Ron-Cheryl development. In her den, Paula scanned Isabelle’s cover note, which restated her assignment to focus primarily on Kevin, the bodily injury claimant. Isabelle had begun her research by sending friend requests on Facebook to everyone on the list Paula

had given her. This didn’t include Francis, who wasn’t on any social media. Not unusual for someone aged eighty-five. Nor was it surprising that Isabelle’s Google search of his name had turned up the most pages, all related to the hitand-run accident and adding nothing to the existing information. Isabelle had also found internet pages for Denise, Jeffrey, and Kevin. These were detailed in their individual Word documents. Denise’s and Jeffrey’s pages referenced their psychology business websites, LinkedIn profiles, and conference presentations. All professional and boring, Isabelle wrote, but she’d marked them with asterisks. Kevin’s single page linked to a recent YouTube interview about his work deg a computer game that featured a quest with wizards, dragons, and elves. Isabelle wrote, It will be cool to play when I stop getting dizzy after an hour at the screen. Kevin and Cheryl were also on LinkedIn, Isabelle reported, but didn’t do anything with it. None of the persons of interest were on Twitter, which Isabelle found odd. Paula didn’t, since she didn’t tweet her hourly thoughts either. Cheryl and Gloria were the only ones on Instagram. Cheryl’s most recent post was a selfie with friends at a restaurant. Gloria used Instagram to post inspiring photos and messages related to yoga, Pilates, and mindfulness. Denise and Jeffrey weren’t on Facebook. Isabelle wondered if they considered it unsuitable given their professional images. Kevin, Cheryl, Gloria, and Troy hadn’t yet confirmed Isabelle’s friend requests, although Ron was friends with Cheryl. Shit. One more step in the Ron-Cheryl relationship. Since Isabelle was already friends with Ron, she could read Cheryl’s posts on his page. So far, all Cheryl had done was like Ron’s friend’s rant about President Donald Trump. Isabelle noted that her access to the various Facebook pages depended on their security. Kevin’s was the least secure, despite him being the computer person. His friends were mainly other gamer geeks who shared comments on his and other fantasy games. Kevin didn’t post often and had posted nothing since the hit and run, but he’d come online when Isabelle was scanning his timeline. She rechecked his list of friends and found a new name: Gloria Odell Wilson. Weird to be there when they connected online, Isabelle had written. Not unexpected, as Gloria was now ing Kevin on dog walks and providing

advice on skin ointments. Isabelle offered a final point of potential interest. While she’d searched for Troy on Facebook, a Trina Mendes had popped up. Both showed the same basic details regarding elementary and high schools. On impulse, Isabelle sent Trina a friend request and was accepted right away. Trina lived in Vancouver and had tons of friends. Most of her posts were about going out and doing fun activities with her friends, but occasional posts related to her brother, Troy. When Trina shared his high school soccer team photo, Troy commented, with a smiley face, that he’d spent most of those games getting outrun by the faster guys. Isabelle planned to post comments on Trina’s site, pretending to be a former school friend, in the hopes of gleaning more information. Paula hoped Isabelle’s internet trawling wouldn’t get her into trouble. Since Isabelle had provided the highlights, Paula could save the detailed Word documents for later. She reminded herself to discourage Isabelle’s tendency to be obsessive, especially when it involved the net. Paula replied, Thanks for this. You’ve done way more than enough. Now rest and stay away from work until you’re over the flu. She left the den and headed through the kitchen toward the sound of Sam’s and Ron’s voices in the living room. Ron muttered something unintelligible ending with “Cheryl.” She ed Sam on the sofa. Ron sat on the armchair drinking a can of beer. On a television sports channel, announcers babbled about football. Paula asked what they’d been talking about. “I asked Sam what’s new with your case against Cheryl’s father,” Ron said. Both looked at Sam, who held the remote control. Sam’s gaze didn’t leave the football player huddle. “I pled your professional confidentiality.” She was glad he did, even though her professional territory was limited to insurance. Ron raised his beer can. “Cheryl thinks the cops are out to get him on of her sister’s claims, which happened years ago and are a pack of lies.” Paula started. “You and Cheryl discussed this?” Most people would be slow to

reveal something so personal and dreadful to a stranger. Cheryl and Ron had become closer than Paula had thought. “You’ve only heard Cheryl’s version.” “It makes sense to me. Although, as Sam said last night, no doubt my own experience colours my view.” Ron downed his beer. Paula looked at Sam, who still stared at the screen. “You discussed this at the bar?” “Typical guy talk,” Ron said. “Now, do I need another beer or not?” “I’d say you’ve had enough drinking these last few nights.” “Yes, Mom.” He grinned. She scowled at him. The program switched to poker, which wasn’t even a sport in her view. “What experience?” Ron glanced at the TV and back at her. “Last year, like I told Sam, a customer at the dealership complained I touched her inappropriately. I didn’t. And I didn’t tell you or Mom because you’d have both got on my case.” Damn right they would. Paula leaned forward. “Why would she make that up?” “In the end, the manager offered her an extra five hundred dollars off the car she bought. She accepted on the condition I not get the commission.” Paula crossed her arms, annoyed that he’d ignored her question. “Good for her.” “For selling out her principles?” “For speaking out. Ron, you’ve said before that your sales style tends to be flirty with female customers.” Ron squeezed the aluminum can. “I came this close to losing my job. The manager said if he hadn’t settled, the owner would have pressured him to let me go.” Paula looked at Sam for , but he was watching the poker game as though human survival depended on the outcome. Typical Sam, avoiding the conflict.

“Most of them like the flirting,” Ron said. “Not all, evidently.” “So, we go back to Victorian times and spoil the fun for the sake of a few wet blankets?” Paula glared at his smirk. She hated to think her brother a creep. “Did you touch this customer, Ron?” “No.” His smirk faded. “At most, I lightly brushed her arm.” “That’s touching.” Ron stood and looked at the crumpled can. “I’m overdue for a next beer. Can I get you one, Sam? Paula?” “No thanks.” Sam flicked off the screen and eased to his feet. “I’m off to bed. Early day tomorrow.” “Me too.” Paula leaped up. “What do you think of this, Sam?” Ron headed between the TV and coffee table. “He agrees with me that women are no more truthful than men.” “And men no more truthful than women.” Sam faced her. His expression grew sombre. “My point to Ron, in the bar, was that it’s natural for him to relate to someone in a similar hotseat, like Cheryl’s father.” Paula thought of Mike and his experience with his sister that painted Francis in a different shade. Ron paused under the arch to the hall. “Cheryl’s version of her father might be right.” “It’s as likely to be wrong,” Paula said. “Fifty-fifty odds. Not bad.” “Not good when he’s facing criminal charges. Ron, be careful.”

“That’s no fun.” He left for the kitchen. Paula called after him to turn off the main floor lights before going to bed. “Sure, Mom,” he said again, making her bristle all the way upstairs with Sam. “You’re right,” Sam said in their bedroom. “Ron probably contributed to his situation.” “Only probably?” “No one’s perfect.” Sam flashed a wan smile. He always teased her for expecting too much of others and herself. “For what it’s worth, I got the sense Ron’s learned from his near-miss experience.” “Let’s hope,” Paula said. But her hope for a quick breakup between Ron and Cheryl was gone. “Now I know why he connected so well with Cheryl.” “I’m sure that’s not all they have in common.” She stared into Sam’s hazel eyes, which varied in colour with different lighting. “I should be glad you love your work so much that you don’t look for distractions on the job, like Ron.” “One sin I’m not guilty of. Lucky for me and you.” Sam’s crooked smile made her kiss him. She loved his vulnerable side that juxtaposed his pride in his work. His self-deprecation and confidence were both genuine. She drew him close, before the work Sam loved pulled him away from her, across a continent and an ocean.

* * *

March 1990 Gloria stared out the kitchen window. Falling snow blanketed the trees in the backyard and golf course behind it. Lower branches sagged under the weight.

Arthur came up beside her. “This damp snow is great for building snowmen and forts. What say we drag the girls away from their cartoons and hustle them outside?” And, incidentally, drag her away from her walk with Kevin. Arthur still claimed to be ive of their friendship. “Kevin will be here any second.” “He’s driving in the storm?” Arthur’s raised brow suggested doubt. Gloria glanced at the phone. “He hasn’t called to cancel.” She prayed he wouldn’t, when she especially wanted to discuss her fight with Cheryl. It wasn’t something she could bring up in the group with her mother present. Arthur picked up the newspaper from the table and carried it to the family room. Gloria went to the hall to put on her heavy coat, hat, boots, and mitts so she’d be ready when Kevin arrived. He tended to be awkward at the front door, blurting out uncharacteristic remarks that Gloria knew Arthur judged as stupid, such as, “Super-duper day for a hike” and “I’ll have your missus back for lunch.” “Missus?” she’d asked Kevin last week, while they walked down her front stairs. “My dad’s word,” he had said. “Your husband is the kind of confident, professional man who makes me nervous.” “A geologist is no more professional than a software developer.” “I work mostly alone on my coding,” Kevin had said. “He’s used to holding his own in group mega-projects.” Gloria opened the front door as Kevin’s car pulled up in front of her house. Perfect. Then her mother appeared in the hall. Gloria shared most of what she and Kevin talked about during their walks with her mother, but not everything. It occurred to Gloria now that her mother might be curious about any parts withheld. Brittany skipped into the hall and past her grandmother. Gloria hugged her daughter, said goodbye to them both, and left the warm house for the storm. She met Kevin on the sidewalk. Snow coated his jacket and tuque. “How was the driving?” she asked. “Slick and getting worse.”

“You’ll need to be careful on your way home.” “Good thought,” he said. “Let’s keep the walk shorter today.” Her heart sank. “I want to check out the house,” he continued. “We signed the lease yesterday.” “You and Denise decided to rent it?” Gloria wanted to hug him, but they weren’t on a hugging level. That might change when they became neighbours if it led to them seeing each other more. Her walks with Kevin had become more important to her since her mother ed the group. Initially, Gloria had thought this would help resolve their issues, particularly Gloria’s hurt that her mother hadn’t protected her when she was dependent and vulnerable. Denise often said, “We can forgive, but not forget.” Gloria longed to forgive her mother, who was genuinely repentant. She had to it the group seemed to improve her mother’s understanding of what Gloria was going through, but Gloria couldn’t talk completely freely with a parent in the circle. “The place is vacant.” Kevin’s voice startled her. They’d reached the sidewalk by the fence along the golf course. “We can take possession right away,” he said. “I brought the key to have a look around.” A peek at his next stage in life. “It’s really definite, then?” “Denise and her husband are still negotiating some details, to make things fair and reasonable.” Gloria had thought Arthur the most rational person she knew, but she couldn’t imagine him being that cool about her leaving him. It was equally hard to picture Kevin with children. “Will Denise have custody of her daughter?” “They decided it’s best for the girl’s stability to remain in her home, close to her school and friends. We’ll take her on weekends and holidays—and evenings when Denise’s husband has work or is away at a conference. It will amount to about half the time.” Gloria felt a pang of sorrow for the girl, who’d have to deal with this broken home. “What’s her daughter’s name?”

“Morgan,” Kevin said. “Denise will miss her terribly but understands it’s normal for children to want the status quo—familiar home, school, friends. They’ll still have quality time, maybe better than before because they’ll be aware it’s limited.” Denise might have a point, but it sounded to Gloria like a justification. Would she concede Arthur primary custody of her daughters for Kevin? No. They stopped at the corner. Traffic crawled down the snow-covered street toward the shopping mall. Gloria blinked snow from her eyelashes. How would the custody arrangement impact their weekly walks? “Will Denise reschedule her Saturday morning clients?” Kevin shook his head, making Gloria exhale in relief. “We’ll pick up Morgan after lunch, do whatever it is you do with kids, and drop her off Sunday. Do girls play video games?” “Sometimes.” Her daughters were more into board games. Gloria was less keen on them than Arthur, but Saturday games night with popcorn was often their best family time together. They waited for a bus to rumble by before they crossed the main street. Since their time was short, Gloria couldn’t delay bringing up her fight with Cheryl. As they turned onto Kevin and Denise’s new street, Gloria described the hateful words she’d exchanged with her sister. “When Arthur told me about catching Cheryl’s husband cheating, I thought I should tell her. Arthur convinced me to keep quiet. He said Cheryl would take her fury out on me—kill the messenger. Whether it was right to tell her or not, I’d wanted to do it kindly, not in anger. Should I apologize to her?” Kevin walked a few paces before answering. “From what you said, she started it and was just as hurtful.” Gloria flushed as she recalled Cheryl crowing that Gloria had been jealous of her greater popularity and her athletic skills when they were kids. Did Cheryl think Gloria had grown up pining to be her lazy, insensitive and less intelligent sister? “My mother wants me to apologize,” Gloria said. “She likes us being loveydovey on the surface and knows Cheryl is too stubborn to make the first move.”

“You said you told the group you’re done with being the good sister.” If Gloria shared her new issue with Cheryl in group, her mother would insert her opinion and turn their family matter into a spectacle in front of the others. Gloria regretted the loss of her safe place. “Even if I extend the olive branch, it won’t make a difference with Cheryl. She’ll brush me off to avoid facing the truth about her husband, like she did with all the creeps she dated before him, and project more venom onto me. I refuse to bear the brunt of it anymore.” “Good for you,” Kevin said. They stopped in front of the house, which still displayed the For Rent sign. Kevin said they’d signed the lease for a year and had budgeted money for painting and minor renovations that Denise felt were needed to make it a home for them, however temporary. Temporary because it was a rental? Or because Kevin and Denise might split up? Gloria’s flutter of hope surprised her. She’d thought she wanted this to work out for them. Inside, the home’s emptiness was stark—no furniture in the hall or the combined living and dining room, which extended from the front to the back of the house. Its peach walls were bare; bright rectangles remained from removed pictures. Kevin led her through the dated kitchen with its particleboard cupboard s and U-shaped work area. The mottled green laminate counter reminded Gloria of a 1960s diner. She guessed it was original to the twenty-five-year-old house, which was larger than it looked from the street. An eating nook opened to the family room, which led to a bathroom, bedroom, laundry alcove, and a farther bedroom that would be Kevin’s private space. “When I want an escape from domesticity,” he said. Gloria glanced at his profile. No grin to suggest he was joking, but also no grimace to hint he feared domestic chains. “The room’s too small for a TV,” he added. “I’ll set up my video games in the basement. Denise likes playing them to relax.” Gloria’s stomach knotted. This was more jealousy than she felt about Cheryl’s achievements when they were younger.

Back in the family room, Kevin paused at the patio doors. The home backed onto the same golf course as Gloria’s, but her yard was open to the green space while this one had a snow fence. “You can get a dog,” she said. “I’m working on it.” He smiled. “Denise says they tie you down and shed hair all over the place.” A point of conflict? Gloria’s heart raced. She followed Kevin to the finished basement and liked his easy lope down the stairs. They stopped in the huge open area. “I’m thinking of getting a ping-pong table,” he said. “Do you play?” “A little.” She’d tried it at a cousin’s house and hardly hit any balls. Cheryl clobbered her in the game. Jealous of my skills. Cheryl would know how to handle this situation alone in a house with a cute guy. And those pale freckles on Kevin’s nose were cute. Gloria hadn’t noticed them before. He held out an arm, as though gripping an imaginary paddle, and whacked an imaginary ball. “You could come over some Saturday morning when it’s too rainy to walk.” An invitation into Kevin’s new life. Did Denise love his playfulness as a contrast to her serious nature? Gloria would love it too, for the same reason, if Denise were out of the scene. As Gloria followed Kevin to the top floor, she imagined her life-separated-from-Arthur. He’d move to a house in the same neighbourhood and share custody of their girls. After his initial resistance, Arthur would be reasonable for the sake of Melissa and Brittany. The girls were pushing for a dog, which would make them eager for their times with Gloria, Kevin, and their shedding puppy. Kevin would be the fun stepdad who played ping-pong and video games with her daughters, while Gloria vacuumed dog hair. “These’ll be for Morgan.” Kevin jolted Gloria out of her reverie. He pointed to the front bedrooms. “Both rooms?” “One for her toys, so they don’t mess up the family room downstairs.”

Was Denise a neat freak? Her office was orderly, the décor classy and minimalistic. In Gloria’s fantasy future life with Kevin, she’d let her girls litter this home’s family room to bring their stepfamily closer together. They entered the empty master bedroom. “The one disappointment of the house,” Kevin said. “Too narrow for a kingsized bed, no walk-in closet. The en suite bathroom’s small.” The two-storey split style meant the upper floor was half the size of the main floor. The last bedroom, up two stairs, contained a sofa—the one piece of furniture remaining in the house. “We think the owners found it too cumbersome to haul down,” Kevin said. “This will be Denise’s den. I joked it was fate that they left her a psychologist’s couch.” As he expounded on their plans to remove the shag carpet, Gloria studied his boyishly handsome face. What would he do if she grabbed him and kissed him and coaxed him down to the ugly carpet? Making love in Denise’s future den would blow them all to the moon. Kevin and Denise, Gloria, Arthur, Melissa, Brittany. Her children. Her innocent girls. “Well, that’s the house,” Kevin said. She could still lunge for him. But what if he resisted, or their lovemaking fell flat, or she regretted it afterward, or he regretted it, or they both did, and it ruined their friendship? Her weekly walks with Kevin, the best thing in her life next to her children, vanished. She gripped the sofa arm for . “I-I think... this house is right for you and Denise,” Gloria said. She’d been smart not to risk a lunge. And stupid not to go for it.

* * *

The snowfall increased on their walk back to Wintergreen Close. Gloria spotted her father’s car parked in front of her house. Her stomach twisted into knots again. “What is he doing here?” she said. “You want me to come in or something?” Gloria shook her head. She appreciated his offer but had to deal with her own opposition. They said their goodbyes, and Gloria tramped up the snowy driveway. Through the window, she saw her father sitting at the dining table, which was used only for formal occasions. Arthur sat to his right. She stormed into the house. Arthur stood as she entered the dining room. “I’ll go check on the kids.” He slunk past her to the hall. Gloria pushed the end chair aside so she could step onto the carpet and not damage the hardwood floor with her wet boots. She faced her father at the head of the table. “What were you and Arthur talking about?” “He was keeping me company after your mother went upstairs in a huff. She refused to listen to any sense.” “You drove here in blinding snow to harass her?” “She’s hired a lawyer.” “I know.” “He served me with papers for a legal separation.” “Yesterday. Mom told me.” Gloria sweated in her down coat, which dripped snow onto the carpet. Right now, standing felt like the weaker position. She pulled the chair back to the table and plunked down, facing her father over the candle centrepiece. “Mom needs her independence. She can’t live with Arthur and me forever. Her part-time job helps, but she deserves her rightful share of your family income to herself.” “I’m happy to give her an allowance.”

“An allowance?” Gloria’s voice cracked. “Like a little kid? Mom should control all of her own money.” She laid her mittened hands on the table, palms down. “Arthur agrees there’s a good chance this will blow over.” Gloria boiled with rage at Arthur for talking behind her back, for siding with her father. “By ‘this’ do you mean Mom striking out on her own?” She squinted at the centrepiece. “Or are you talking about a truth? Hers and mine?” She stared at the candle, preparing to face the truth about her husband. “What do you mean ‘Arthur agrees?’ What exactly did he say?” “I can read between the lines.” Her father pressed his hands to the table, fingers linked. “Gloria, why are you going out with this man every week? Arthur says he’s simple.” She inhaled deeply, struggling to calm her breathing. “For your information, he has a university degree and works in computers.” “That doesn’t mean he has common sense.” “Who are you to define what’s sensible?” “Arthur is a good man. Don’t throw him away.” “I’m not.” “You have a beautiful home.” Her father looked at the china cabinet glistening with crystal, most of it wedding gifts used only a few times a year. “Don’t think you can afford to live here on half your family income. You and Arthur will be forced to move to cheaper residences.” Her fantasy had assumed she and the girls would keep this home, but it was bigger and fancier than they needed. She yanked off her sopping mitts. Her father’s jaw tightened. “Don’t assume he won’t fight you for custody of the girls. Arthur’s not the pushover you believe. He’d have no trouble proving you’re unstable.” Gloria glanced over her shoulder, wondering if Arthur had overheard. Well, she didn’t care. She grabbed her mittens and heaved herself up. “This is my house. I

want you to leave right now.” She folded her arms to her bulky coat, steaming inside it. Her father strode beside the china cabinet. She dug her feet into the carpet, waiting for him to attack. He continued to the hall and entrance. Arthur and Melissa emerged from the living room. He stooped and raised his granddaughter to kiss her goodbye. Don’t touch my child! Gloria edged forward, to yank Melissa from his arms. His grip loosened and her daughter slithered down his body to the floor. If Gloria were to leave Arthur, he’d get visitation rights, shared custody, or more. Would he let the girls be alone with their grandfather? Gloria could plead with her husband to err on the side of safety, but Arthur would be skeptical about her warnings, and he’d be free to dismiss them.

* * *

Gloria fumed through lunch, which was filled with the usual banal talk. Even her mother chatted as though nothing had happened earlier. After cleaning up, Arthur suggested they go outside to make a snowman. Melissa and Brittany dashed down the hall to put on their outdoor wear. Gloria decided to stay back and talk to her mother. Both offered to help get the girls dressed. When Arthur went out ahead to shovel the driveway, Gloria seized the opportunity to catch him alone, outside of when they went to bed and were too tired for serious discussion. She threw on her coat and left her mother to pull on the kids’ boots and tie their hats and scarves. Arthur came out of the garage with the scoop shovel. Wind and snow whipped Gloria’s hair. She raised her hood and stopped in front of him. “What is wrong with us, Arthur?” “Honestly, Gloria, I said nothing important to your father.” He pushed a scoop of snow to the side of the driveway. “I’m neutral on this issue.” “Which means you aren’t on my side.” Her father had “read between” Arthur’s lines. “You made it clear to him you don’t like my Saturday walks with Kevin.”

Arthur leaned on the shovel handle, looking over her shoulder at the front porch. The girls would be here in minutes. “At first, I thought the walks were good for you, or at least harmless,” he said. “They’re exercise, and I trust you with a male friendship. But lately, it feels like you’ve drawn away from me, from our family, even the kids.” “I’ll be back when I work this through.” “Will you?” he said. “Or is it a sinkhole? Kevin, the group, your psychologist, all of them sucking you into a place the rest of us can’t reach. And now your mother’s gone with you. Who’s next?” She swallowed a lump. “You, I hope.” “I can’t.” She peered through the falling snow. “If you loved me, you’d try for my sake.” “Not if I thought the sinkhole was bad.” Squeals and voices made her whirl. Melissa and Brittany ran out onto the porch, bundled in their snowsuits. Her children, her girls, her life.

Chapter Sixteen

January 2020

Paula’s kitchen brightened with the morning sun. She savoured her coffee, alone. Sam had left for work, and Ron wasn’t up yet. His story last night still disturbed her. Ron’s female customer probably had been troubled by his flirting, but Paula didn’t believe her brother would touch someone inappropriately. But how could you know? She skimmed the newspaper. No report on the Francis Odell case. She checked her phone messages. Isabelle reported Cheryl accepted her friend request on Facebook. A whiplash claimant emailed to ask if she could change their afternoon meeting to this evening. Paula texted Sam to see if he’d be home for dinner. With Ron out, she’d like the time with Sam to dig deeper into his feelings about the Hamburg situation. Since she’d kept the morning free for Ron’s original departure from Calgary, she had time for a second read of Isabelle’s notes on her social media sweep of the persons of interest in the hit-and-run case. The only new point Paula picked up on was that Cheryl Odell and Trina Mendes were Facebook friends. Not surprising. Cheryl had said they were long-time friends in real life. Both had readily accepted Isabelle’s friendship request, which made Cheryl’s Facebook friendship with Ron less meaningful. Paula could see Cheryl being careless about connecting with strangers. At the court hearing, she’d taken off with Ron, whom she’d just met. And from Isabelle’s descriptions, Trina might welcome an online following for her posts ing her causes. She’d attended the first four Women’s Marches in Vancouver, including the one two weeks ago. Cheryl had commented, Good for you. I skipped Calgary’s this year. Too cold. Paula returned to her email inbox. Finally, a reply from the owners of the property damaged in the hit and run. They explained they’d come off a two-

week cruise through the Panama Canal and were spending the next week in Florida. They’d prefer to deal with the claim when they returned, if this were okay. Their son, who periodically checked their house, had told them repairs weren’t critical. Paula agreed the damaged obelisk and hedge could wait. And later worked better for her, since their property damage shouldn’t be paid until she was certain Denise’s and Kevin’s bodily injury claims wouldn’t exceed Francis’ policy limit. While this was highly unlikely, injury settlements could spiral out of control. Paula emailed the Florida vacationers, No rush. me when you return and enjoy your warm weather. Two new messages appeared. Her daughter, Erin, who shared a house with Isabelle, wrote, Isabelle says to tell you the computer screen’s making her too dizzy for typing and research. But she posted a comment on Trina’s Facebook page and asked how long she and Cheryl had been friends. Trina joked, “Long enough to know she’s trouble.” Trouble for Ron? Paula’s chest tightened at the thought. She replied, Thanks, and tell Isabelle take it easy on computer work. The second message from Connor, their office , concerned a vandalism claim reported to their office minutes after he arrived at work. During the night, vandals had spray-painted and trashed a convenience store. Paula emailed the store owner to set up an appointment. Footsteps pounding up the basement stairs announced Ron’s arrival. He poured himself a coffee and bowl of cereal and ed her at the table, showing no awkwardness after their argument last night. She asked how he planned to occupy his day before his dinner with Cheryl. “Cheryl thinks we should eat in tonight with her father.” Ron looked at his phone and scrolled through messages. “I’m meeting her for lunch at the hospital where she works.” Paula’s phone pinged a text reply from Sam. Have to work late. Sorry. She sighed and confirmed the whiplash claimant for that evening. Outside, thin clouds blew to the east. Temperatures were supposed to rise above freezing later in the day. “How about a walk after your lunch with Cheryl?” Paula asked Ron. “Fish Creek Park is in between here and the South Hospital.”

“Is this so you can grill me on what I learn about the case from Cheryl?” Ron mock-grimaced. Paula raised her hands, palms toward him in surrender. Time out for a truce. “We’ll limit our talk to complaining about Mom and how you picked on me when we were kids.” “And how you pestered me so I’d get in trouble for pestering back.” “And Mom favoured you.” “And you were Daddy’s girl who could do no wrong.” “Yeah, right.” Except it was all pretty close to true. After Ron left, Paula checked the fridge for dinner ingredients and discovered a dozen containers of leftovers. She decided to combine a cleanup with a good deed and give some of the food to her next-door neighbour. In the fall, Walter and his wife had decided they could no longer handle her chronic obstructive pulmonary disease at home. She’d moved to a long-term care residence. Paula hadn’t seen Walter since Christmas, although Sam talked to him when he went over to help him shovel his driveway. Walter had itted his cooking hadn’t progressed much beyond opening cans. On her way out to Fish Creek Park, Paula stopped at the house next door. Walter was on his front porch rocking chair, smoking a cigarette. “Even though the wife’s not here,” he said, “I feel guilty about smoking inside, after all those years with her. Can’t kick the habit.” He chortled. Walter wore a jacket and scarf wrapped several times around his neck. He looked more shrivelled than Paula ed, about half the size of Francis Odell, a man close to his age. She stood at the bottom of the porch stairs holding the large container to her chest and asked Walter how his wife was adapting to her new residence. “Better,” he said. “They know how to look after her. It’s a change for us both.” The sadness in his voice made her resolve to invite him to dinner after Ron left.

Walter drew on his cigarette. As he spoke, smoke flowed from his nose and mouth. “Sam says he’s considering moving overseas. I’m surprised, after the huge renovation you did.” She glanced at their house, which she’d bought a month before meeting Sam. When he had moved in, they’d added a second floor to the bungalow, gutted half the inside to create the kitchen/dining room and replaced the exterior trim. Walter was right that they wouldn’t have gone through the sawdust and expense had they known Sam might only stay for a few years. “He didn’t expect this opportunity,” she said. Walter flicked ash onto his porch floor. “Same thing happened to me, not long after we married. The railroad offered me a foreman’s job in Northern Ontario. The wife didn’t want to leave her family here. We fought about it for a week until I gave in.” He took a last drag on the cigarette. “Did you ever regret your decision?” “Sometimes.” He leaned forward, butted his cigarette out on the railing and let the butt fall to the floor. “Sam’s a good man. You won’t do better than him, Paula. You’re no spring chicken anymore.” She ed now why she avoided Walter and would rethink that dinner invitation. Sam said Walter was simply blunt, but she was sure he got a kick out of needling her. She stepped up to the porch and told him about the leftovers. Walter took the container. “This is a lot for one person. Care to me for lunch?” “Can’t today,” she said, grateful for the excuse. “I have to meet my brother.” Walter nodded. “Sam said he’s visiting. I’d wondered whose car was out front. How long’s he here?” “Another week.” Unless Cheryl enticed him to stay longer. Paula’s chest tightened again.

* * *

Paula kept her end of the bargain with Ron in Fish Creek Park and steered the talk away from the Odells. She and her brother padded on snow-covered paths through prairie landscape, scouting for deer between the bare-limbed trees ri from the hillsides. They parted with a hug. Ron said he’d enjoyed the break from heavy topics. She smiled her agreement. Refreshed from the outdoor exercise, Paula drove to her meeting with the vandalism claimant. Blue swirls of spray paint marred the whole front of his convenience store. Inside, products had been swept from the shelves and littered the floor, along with broken glass and liquids. The place reeked of pickle juice. The vandals had done a lot while the burglary alarm raged loud enough to attract a witness. “Far as I can tell, they didn’t take anything,” the owner said. “Why would they do something so senseless?” At the nearby police station, an officer provided the witness’ name and confirmed the incident details. They viewed the case as random mischief. “Milder weather brings out the crazies,” the officer said as their meeting ended. “I’m looking forward to the deep freeze this weekend.” “When icy roads will cause more traffic accidents,” Paula said. “It’s an endless loop.” He grinned. When she was young like him, she’d found the loop stimulating. Now, after thirty years in the business, maybe it was time for her to break out of the loop— into a new lifestyle with Sam. She continued to mull the question at home, alone with her dinner of leftovers.

* * *

After her evening meeting with the whiplash claimant, Paula returned home satisfied. The claimant was a reasonable man who appreciated that inflated claim settlements hurt everyone by contributing to higher insurance s. She locked the garage door and stepped into the backyard, which was illuminated by the natural gas lamp. Light shone from Sam’s studio above the garage. His last text had said he’d had a breakthrough idea for his current project and wanted to keep going while he was on a roll. The studio, detached from the house, was his place to focus on work. Paula made a point of respecting his privacy and rarely dropped in unexpectedly. She walked along the snow-speckled paving stones, entered the kitchen, and crossed through the dining area to the front window. Ron’s car wasn’t parked on the street. He was still with Cheryl and Francis Odell. Paula’s shoulders tensed with her annoyance, although 9:35 p.m. was hardly late to be out on a date, if that’s what Ron and Cheryl were calling it. Her thought of Francis inspired Paula to make a mug of hot chocolate while waiting for Sam to appear. A watched pot never boils. Almost as soon as she thought it, the studio window went dark. She looked out to the dimly lit yard. Sam’s silhouette trotted down the studio’s exterior staircase and scurried to the house. The side door burst open. Sam wrapped his hands around his bare arms. “What happened to our Chinook?” “The warm weather’s left for a winter vacation. How did your breakthrough idea pan out?” “Pretty good.” His hazel eyes glowed. “I’m getting excited about this project now.” Excited enough to believe he could find work satisfaction in Calgary? She raised her mug to him. “Hot chocolate or coffee?” He shook his head. “They’d keep me awake. So, what have you been up to all day?” “I dumped some leftovers on Walter.” She glanced at the fridge. “He gave me advice about your Hamburg move.” Sam laughed. “He had some for me, too.”

“What did he say?” Sam moved toward her, his eyes tired but bright. “He said he guessed you’re worth keeping.” She smiled. “High praise, given how you two rib each other.” She set her mug on the counter island. “Maybe Walter isn’t so bad.” “Has Ron really left us alone tonight?” She glanced back at the front door. “I don’t expect him soon.” Sam ran his hand along her arm to her shoulder and stroked her neck, sending tingles to her core. She rested her hands on his firm chest. He leaned into her ear. “Making out here would be risky but fun.” She pulled back from him. “Are you out of your mind? My brother could walk in any minute.” “Now I know why Walter likes pulling your leg.” Sam grinned. She grabbed her mug, annoyed at herself for falling for it. “You guys.” She met his gaze. “Am I too serious, Sam?” “Not always,” he said. “When you are, it’s endearing.” She finished her drink and loaded the mug in the dishwasher. Sam ed behind her and patted her butt on his way to the hall. He brought out her fun side. She needed that Paula to balance out the one who took care of everything. Sam waited for her at the foot of the stairs. She sashayed by the dining table and turned off the kitchen light, avoiding a look at the front door. Ron could take care of himself tonight.

* * *

While falling asleep, Paula heard the rattle of a key in the door downstairs. Ron was safely home. She snuggled closer to Sam and drifted off. She wakened to Sam crawling out of bed, trying not to disturb her. He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Off to pursue my brainstorm.” She fell back to sleep until the first rays of light filtered through the bedroom blinds. After showering and dressing, she went downstairs and halted at the sight of Ron seated at the table dressed in a bathrobe and pyjamas. He stared out the front window, his uncombed hair sticking up on the side of his head. “This is early for you,” she said. Ron turned toward her. “Francis died.” “What?” A rush filled her ears. “When? Last night when you were there?” “He was fine, then. In great spirits during dinner, much better than he was after the hearing.” Shadows underlined Ron’s eyes. She took the chair beside him. “It happened during the night,” he said. “In his sleep. Cheryl’s phone call woke me up this morning. She’d looked in on him before leaving for work and found he wasn’t breathing.” Paula pictured Francis tapping his chest, talking about his by surgery. His death shouldn’t be unexpected but felt impossible. “Was it a heart attack?” “Cheryl thinks so. She blames the stress from the accident and the cops’ harassing him.” “They were doing their job.” “If their job was to nail him well and good,” Ron said, his tone bitter. “Cheryl spent a lot of time with them at the police station. They were against him from the start. At least he enjoyed his last night or seemed to.” Ron’s voice lightened. “Francis spent the meal regaling us with stories of his union fights for workers’

justice and growing up on a farm with all his siblings in northern Alberta, where kids spent their days outdoors, not staring at computers and phones. We had some good laughs until he got tired and went to bed.” “Tiredness could be a sign that his heart was giving out.” “Cheryl said it was normal for him to turn in early these days. I stuck around to talk with her, not thinking he could be dying in the next room.” His voice trembled. “But it likely happened after I left. Cheryl says they often go in the morning.” Paula touched Ron’s knuckles gently. “What’s she doing now?” “Waiting for the paramedics to arrive. She doesn’t want me or anyone else at the house yet and said she’d call me later.” “What about her sister?” “She didn’t say.” Paula’s phone chimed. She took it out of her pocket. Mike had texted, Francis Odell dead. Apparent heart attack. Evidently, Cheryl had phoned the police. Paula typed her reply, What happens next?

Chapter Seventeen

April 1990

“My husband itted to cheating without a flash of hesitation,” Cheryl told Troy in the coffee shop. This time, she’d accepted his offer of a cigarette. One smoke wouldn’t harm Zach, now that she’d weaned him down to nursing halftime. “Wayne’s excuses were clichés, like his, anxiety over his fatherhood, even though it was our second kid. He swears nothing’s happened since the summer, which might really mean no one’s caught him at it yet.” She drew on the smoke. Acrid, but so good. She had to credit Wayne for not retorting that she’d lost interest in sex when she was pregnant. Their sex life still hadn’t gotten up to scratch thanks to a lack of sleep, the constant demands of a baby, and her botched episiotomy. She’d joked to her mom friends that the doctor’s cut was okay, but he was no seamstress. Troy might not appreciate that image. Cheryl stared at him through the cigarette smoke. His neutral, nonjudgmental gaze calmed her. She believed Wayne when he’d said that seeing Arthur in the bar had shaken him up so much that he broke off the fling and hadn’t been tempted to stray again. “The problem is,” she told Troy, “I see Wayne’s side, although he doesn’t need to know that. I’ll probably give us another chance, in hopes our life will get back to a new normal after I return to work.” “Sounds sensible to me.” Smoke flowed from Troy’s nose with his words. “But what do I know about relationships?” Cheryl inhaled, savouring the taste of her cigarette. “While I think of it, something my mother said made me wonder—was your therapist Denise

Young?” “Nope.” She hadn’t thought it likely, since Dr. Young practiced in the south part of the city and Troy would probably have chosen a psychologist closer to his apartment in the north. “You and my mother used the word survivors. I thought Szabo and you might have got it from his colleague, Young, who turns out to be my sister’s psychologist. I wheedled that detail from my mother.” “Survivor’s a buzz word. All of them say it.” Both sipped their lattes. Troy asked if she was following the trial of the Calgary daycare owner accused of molesting numerous children at his centre. Cheryl had read the daily newspaper s this past week and watched reports on TV. The children’s memories were recent ones, not buried and recovered. Today’s paper reported that some of them described ritualistic dances that ended with burying dead babies in the daycare’s yard or basement. “Gloria’s book talked of Satanic rituals,” Cheryl said, her stomach queasy at the thought. “There’s a connection, somehow, between the movement and the daycare case.” Troy butted his cigarette in the ashtray. “Feel like a field trip to the courthouse? Anyone can attend a public trial. I’m free Wednesday to the end of the week.” Wednesday was Cheryl’s usual day for visiting her mother, who now worked Thursday to Saturday at the bookstore. But a field trip with Troy would be more fun than an afternoon in Gloria’s kitchen with their mother, commiserating about Cheryl’s tattered marriage. When she got home, Cheryl dug out the recent newspapers from the recycling bin to refresh herself on the trial. The husband and his wife had said they started the daycare centre in their home so they could earn a living while looking after their own children full-time. The accusations began with one child telling his mother about inappropriate touching in the basement. Further investigation brought more stories forward. Now seven children had reported clear recollections and others had fuzzy ones. Details of Satanic rituals were sufficient for the police to hire contractors to excavate the yard. They found no bodies aside from the skeletal remains of a cat, presumably buried by the home’s

previous owners. This wasn’t proof of the daycare couple’s innocence according to a Saturday newspaper columnist, who noted that the police delay after the first allegation would have given the couple time to dispose of the evidence. Was there evidence of prior digging? Wouldn’t the ground be frozen? Whose babies would they bury? Their own? Stolen ones? Could the police tie this to reports of missing babies? The newspaper didn’t say, but if the children’s stories were true, the guy was a monster.

* * *

The courtroom was almost full. Cheryl and Troy found seats in the middle, behind two women who looked about their age. Cheryl guessed they were mothers of kids at the daycare centre. She’d certainly be here if she thought someone had done those things to Heather or Zach. Today’s newspaper recounted the details of yesterday’s trial proceedings. The court had heard statements taken from the children, who said the daycare owner had stroked their genitals, exposed his own to them and, in one instance, guided a boy’s hands to his penis and balls; although the newspaper shied away from those words. All the children who had been “disciplined” were boys. The defendant’s wife had stated this was because boys tended to be more disruptive in the group activities and she handled any problems with girls, sensing it would be inappropriate for her husband to take girls downstairs alone. It hadn’t occurred to her he might have a predilection for boys or would abuse any children. She was a co-owner of the daycare centre and operated it with him, without other staff. The charges against her had been dropped in lieu of her testimony. The judge, jury, lawyers, and the defendant, Larry Quinn, entered the courtroom. Quinn, dressed in an orange jumpsuit, looked around the room and sank to the defendant’s chair. He stared downward as the various officials detailed court procedures. The proceedings began with the prosecution calling an expert witness, the psychologist who’d examined the children: Dr. Denise Young. Cheryl gasped. The women in front of her turned around. Troy stared at her. Denise Young took the stand dressed in a navy suit, white blouse, and paisley scarf. Cheryl recognized her blue-rimmed glasses from her brief look at her in

the psychology office. The receptionist had told her Dr. Young was shifting her practice toward children. Impressive that a court would view her as an expert so quickly. The prosecutor listed Denise Young’s qualifications: Doctor of Psychology, ten years of clinical practice with children, numerous publications on the topic of child psychology, lecturer at the University of Calgary. While Denise swore the oath to tell the truth, the defence lawyer tried to catch his client’s attention. Larry Quinn looked up, perhaps ing his lawyer’s instructions to appear innocent. The prosecutor questioned Dr. Young. Her answers sounded well-rehearsed as she explained her interview method of letting the children speak with the aid of anatomically correct dolls. After listening to each child individually, she was certain they all were telling the truth. Yes, children were by nature imaginative, but the minimum age at the daycare was three years old. By then, children understood the difference between fantasy and reality. They wouldn’t make up stories outside their realm of experience and describe them with consistent details. Cheryl’s gaze kept ing between Dr. Young and Larry Quinn, his face ashen, arms pressed to his sides, body rigid. He stared blankly at the expert witness and seemed to shrink with each statement she made. Then Quinn’s lawyer rose for his cross-examination. He asked Dr. Young how she could be certain the children’s stories were accurate. “Children this age don’t lie,” she said. “Never?” Cheryl frowned. Heather had lied last week about pushing down a playmate. Young raised her chin. “They might attempt a falsehood, but I know when they’re doing this. These children believed what they said.” Wasn’t a falsehood lying? The lawyer referred to the three boys and one girl who had talked of Satanic rituals with the defendant dressed in a devil costume. “Two mentioned dances in darkness, although the centre only operated during the day.” Young’s gaze remained steady. “Calgary in winter is dark in the early morning and late afternoon, when the children are at daycare. Basements are dark when

the lights are turned off.” “How did the girl learn about the rituals, since girls weren’t taken to the basement?” “We only have the defendant’s and his wife’s word on this,” Young said. “The girl observed the rituals and corroborated the boys’ s.” “The alleged rituals included burials in the basement and yard, yet the police found no evidence of human bodies. How do you explain this?” “There were irregularities in the police search, as detailed in court. The digging could have been symbolic.” The lawyer cocked his head. “Is that the same as imaginative?” “No.” Young’s chin rose again, confident, smug. Larry Quinn stared at his lap. The lawyer turned from the witness to the judge. “No further questions, your honour.” Cheryl balled her fists. Why didn’t he badger this so-called expert? ‘Symbolic’, what did that mean? Children never lie? Come on. But seven children, interviewed at the police station, had told stories remarkably similar in details, freely and independently. The police stated they took precautions to ensure no collusion. Larry Quinn stared beyond his lap at a spot on the floor. The back of Cheryl’s neck bristled for the mouse trapped in a corner; the cat’s paw, Dr. Young’s damning testimony, batted him, playing. She tore him to shreds. The judge called a recess. “They’re going to hang him,” Cheryl said to Troy. “Lucky for him we abolished the death penalty.” The woman in front of them whirled around. “I’d vote to bring it back for him.”

“How do you know he’s guilty?” Cheryl asked. The woman’s mouth dropped. Cheryl understood her anger and fear. If Zach were in daycare and if he took after her and Wayne, Zach would be among the boys needing “discipline” in the basement. And, like this woman, she’d be too terrified the stories were true to scrutinize them objectively. Through the next week, Cheryl devoured the newspaper s of the trial. The more she read, the more she thought everyone had already judged Larry Quinn guilty. “A radio talk show discussion I heard was just as bad,” she told Troy in the coffee shop. “The host and callers didn’t care if the evidence made sense or not.” Troy wasn’t surprised by the public’s bias. “No one is more despicable than a child ab.” “Alleged.” “Doesn’t matter. Even if Quinn gets off, the trial will stick with him forever.” Cheryl took out a second cigarette. “I don’t know why I care about someone I don’t know.” Troy smiled. “A shrink might say you identify with this ordinary-seeming guy on trial because he reminds you of your accused father.” Cheryl finished her cigarette and recalled the woman in the courthouse audience. Similar to her, Cheryl’s anger at Gloria was mixed with fear that there had to be some truth behind her sister’s accusations. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Gloria had always been sensible, intelligent. Cheryl couldn’t see how or why she would make such things up. Perhaps, as Dr. Young might say, Larry Quinn’s acquittal would symbolically acquit her father. After the trial’s final arguments, Cheryl kept the radio on through dinner to catch the verdict. “Seven women and five men on the jury,” she said to Wayne as they cleared the table. “The judge is female too. They’ll go against him.” “What’s this guy to you, anyway?” Wayne said.

“You’re in no position to criticize.” She slammed a glass in the dishwasher. The glass broke and cut her finger. Blood spread over the dishes. “I’ll be glad when you’re back at work and don’t have time for obsessions.” He was probably right but deserved a little punishment. She let Wayne clean up the dishwasher mess. After deliberating for two days, the jury said they were unable to reach a verdict. The judge ordered them to reconsider. Cheryl wished she were a bug in the jury room. The following day, when Cheryl was dicing chicken for dinner, the radio newscaster announced the top story, the verdict in the trial of former daycare owner, Larry Quinn. Cheryl gripped the knife, her heartbeat in her ears. Not guilty. Cheryl couldn’t believe it. She phoned Troy and got his answering machine. He called back an hour later and said he’d heard while he was in his car. “Too bad you start work next week,” he said. “It would be fun to get together at the coffee shop and hash over what went down.” “How about a bar instead?” she found herself saying. “Are you free evenings?” “Can you get a babysitter?” “My husband.” “He won’t mind you going out?” “Wayne has no hold on me these days.” At a dance pub the following Thursday night, she and Troy danced a saucy salsa. The song segued into a waltz and she clutched his back, sniffed his aftershave. They barely moved, an endless hug. She breathed into his ear, “Let’s go to your place.” He leaned back from her. “You’ve been drinking too much. I can’t take

advantage. You’ve got to figure things out with your husband.” “Don’t be so fucking decent.” His arms let go of her body but stayed wide around her in case she started to fall down. “If only all men could be like you,” Cheryl said. She grew steady on her feet, grateful and disappointed.

* * *

April–December 1990 Work turned out to be a better tonic than Cheryl and Wayne had hoped. Cheryl loved being with her friends and colleagues at the hospital and devoting her days to concrete medical testing rather than fuzzy beliefs. Meanwhile, sex with Wayne improved with her mood. The hurt from his betrayal faded, although never left. Her mother’s weekly visits to babysit at her house meant Cheryl could avoid Gloria, who was too busy with work to her. Cheryl saw her father about twice a month, with Wayne, Heather, and Zach present to mute the unsolvable issue. Except, every few days, the media dragged Cheryl back into the muck. The newspaper would run an article or letter to the editor ive of repressed memories of childhood sexual abuse. Or Dear Abby would answer a question from someone who’d recovered them. One day, while eating a sandwich in the hospital neurology waiting area, Cheryl spotted a magazine with a cover story titled “Is Incest Epidemic?” She stole it to read at home. The article skirted the inflammatory question but cited a case of a daughter in the United States suing her father for molesting her twenty years earlier, when she was a child. Cheryl started. Her father really could go on trial, like Larry Quinn. This shoddy side of her family’s life would be plastered over the media, dissected by everyone.

The secret created barriers with her friends. Sometimes she wanted to spill it out to colleagues, but mostly she liked keeping work a place to escape the nightmare. Whenever she raised the subject with Wayne, he told her Gloria was being an idiot, so why waste her breath? He didn’t understand why Cheryl couldn’t shake the fear that her sister’s memories and feelings of abuse were true. No article, newspaper column, or radio program questioned the validity of recovered memories. Troy remained her sole refuge for venting. Her job and family commitments limited their get-togethers to drinks at a bar every few weeks. She made sure not to get drunk and foolishly throw herself at him again. His friendship was worth far more than a roll in bed. Even if she and Wayne didn’t patch up their problems, Troy wouldn’t be her type. He was too unfocused, still drifting, living off unemployment insurance. No career grabbed him, no girlfriend on the scene. One night at the bar, Cheryl suggested he see a doctor about antidepressants. “I want to work on my issues unmedicated,” Troy said. “Aside from smokes and booze?” she joked. He switched the topic to their mutual concern. “Be glad you’re at work so you can avoid the daytime talk shows. They’re into the recovered memory thing bigtime.” “Favouring the survivors?” “Always.” The next day, Cheryl bought a copy of TV Guide. She started reading it religiously each week, circling all the potentially relevant programs and taping them on the VCR. She watched the shows Tuesday evenings, when Wayne was out playing hockey. Or screwing around, her inner voice said. Cigarettes and beer made the programs bearable. Children accusing foster parents. A daycare case in the United States eerily similar to Larry Quinn’s. She’d thought Satanic rituals had died with the last century. Who knew there was an underworld of adherents in 1990? One woman spoke of her grandfather raping her during a candlelit mass. Incest was epidemic, an expert said,

answering the magazine’s question on a show about survivors suing their fathers. There had even been a case in Canada. The daughter interviewed said she was prompted to take this step by her psychologist, as part of her recovery process. “If you do that to Gloria, Denise Young...” Cheryl shouted at the TV screen one boozy night. “You stink of smokes,” Wayne told her later in bed. He’d given up cigarettes with her seven years ago. Fortunately, he still drank and didn’t seem to notice her upping her one glass of wine per evening to two or three. She switched to vodka on Tuesday nights, so he wouldn’t notice the smell when he came home, and wondered if she was grabbing onto booze, smokes, and a ionate issue to avoid getting past her husband’s cheating. How was that for shrinking herself? She’d also seen enough TV shows to realize that addictions could be coverups for denial. In the fall, TV host Sally Jessy Raphaël devoted her hour-long talk show to survivors of childhood sexual abuse. The young women on the stage spoke of their experiences through tears. Most appeared to have recovered their memories in therapy. Weeping audience asked sympathetic questions and shared their own stories. Her hand shaking, Cheryl replenished her glass of vodka and orange juice and lit another cigarette, absorbing the program’s message that every case must be believed, however unbelievable. Toward the end, the camera zoomed in on a survivor whose wide-set eyes reminded Cheryl of Gloria. The woman spoke directly to the camera. “I have never met anyone with this story who wasn’t telling the truth.” Cheryl rose from the sofa. “What the fuck do you know? Are you a mind reader? Can you even read your own mind? What makes you a fucking expert?” She raised her hand to hurl her glass at the condescending face and ed her children asleep upstairs. What if Heather heard the crash against the screen? How would Cheryl explain her behaviour, and the broken TV, to Wayne? She lowered her hand. Maybe she should see a therapist, if there were any to trust. Toward late November, Cheryl noticed the media ea on the subject. Troy speculated this was due the public’s reduced taste for ghoulish personal stories during the holiday season.

“It will heat up again in the new year,” he predicted in the bar. Cheryl butted out her cigarette. “My early New Year’s resolution—I go cold turkey on these TV shows, articles, smoking, and liquor.” “Is that realistic?” “Okay, I cut back, seriously.” She succeeded reasonably well and used the money she saved on cigarettes and booze to buy her family better Christmas gifts. On Saturday, December 22, Wayne offered to take Heather and Zach to the zoo so Cheryl could wrap their presents. After they left, she put on her Christmas CDs. While wrapping, she hummed along to the songs that had been with her since she and Gloria were kids. Cheryl had sung louder, but Gloria could keep a better tune. For fun, they’d change words. “Hark, the Cheryl angels sing. Gloria the newborn king.” Cheryl’s mind wandered back to Christmas Day at her parents’ house the previous year, when she was ignorant of her sister’s memories. Now their parents were separated. Her mother would celebrate Christmas with Gloria’s clan. They’d invited Cheryl and her family to them. “We can’t leave Dad alone,” Cheryl had told her mother. “Your father reaps what he sowed.” Since Wayne’s parents were hosting a large family gathering, Cheryl invited her father to Christmas dinner with her in-laws, expecting him to scorn the pity invitation. He hadn’t. One problem solved. Cheryl finished the wrapping with “Good King Wenceslas,” her favourite Christmas carol because it wasn’t overtly religious and the king was the good, kind person she’d like to be, but wasn’t. She sang along. “Mark my footsteps, good my page. Tread thou in them boldly. Thou shall find the winter’s rage freeze thy blood less coldly.” Her task done, Cheryl ired the pile of brightly packaged gifts. She hid the “Santa” presents in the basement, placed the others under the Christmas tree, and

treated herself to a fresh coffee and a leisurely read of the newspaper. Most weekends she was too busy for more than a skim. After a glance at the frontpage stories, she turned to page two. A headline near the bottom jumped out. “Accused Daycare Owner Dead.” Cheryl raced through the first paragraph, her heart thumping. “Larry Quinn... charged with ritual abuse of children... acquitted at trial... found dead in his apartment... apparent suicide. His body was discovered by a neighbour.” She slowed for paragraph two. “After the trial, Quinn’s wife obtained a court order barring him from with their children. She moved with them to Ontario. Relatives say Quinn ed himself on welfare in the low-income apartment. A neighbour stated she hadn’t seen him in recent months and assumed he’d moved.” Cheryl’s telephone rang. She knew who it was before answering.

* * *

January 2020

Paula microwaved eggs while wondering if homicide would close the case now that their confessed murderer was dead. Mike might be satisfied, since he was sufficiently certain of Francis’ guilt; for her, this ending would be naggingly inconclusive. Ron returned from the basement, his hair damp from the shower. Paula took the English muffins from the toaster, filled them with the eggs, along with bacon and cheese, and microwaved them until the cheese melted. Then she and Ron settled at the table. She evaded more sad discussion about Francis Odell by asking Ron what he and Cheryl talked about after her father went to bed the previous night. “The usual.” Ron picked up his breakfast sandwich. “Our pasts. Plans for the

future. But you want the dirt on Cheryl.” “No more than I would on anyone you spend time with.” When the case formally closed, she’d have to stop thinking of Cheryl as a police person of interest. Ron bit into the sandwich, chewed, and swallowed. “She separated from her husband about twenty years ago. Since then, she’s had a few boyfriends and lived with a couple of them. Broke off her last serious relationship about six months ago. For now, she’s had it with men.” Ron smiled. “We’re just friends at this point.” “No making out on her father’s couch?” “Only a little.” Paula squinted at him. “Doesn’t ‘a little’ mean you did?” Ron laughed. “Apparently not in the dating world today. I’m still new to the scene. It’s a learning curve.” Paula ate a piece of cantaloupe, deciding not to push Ron on where he thought, or hoped, things were going with Cheryl or if he was happy to go with flow. Odds were that he didn’t know yet. “She has a son, who finally moved out of her basement,” Ron said. “Her daughter, who’s in her mid-thirties, had Cheryl’s first grandchild before Christmas. Cheryl’s excited about this.” “I imagine.” “Cheryl wasn’t terribly into motherhood with her own kids and surprised herself by falling in love with this new little girl. She views it as her second chance.” He winked at Paula. “How’s that for offering you insight on Cheryl?” She smiled back. “Pretty deep for you.” “As for her future, with her children launched, Cheryl sees this as the time for herself. She’s changed jobs after forty years. At the new hospital, the neurology department is starting from scratch. She has input into the setup and likes her

new colleagues.” Ron took a sip of coffee. “She plans to work past the usual retirement age. She’s put her house in the northwest up for sale and is looking for a condo in the south.” “I wonder if she’ll take over her father’s house now that he’s gone,” Paula said. “It’s a reasonably short drive to her hospital.” “She’d prefer something closer, so she can walk or bike to work in summer. She’s got her eye on a lake community, since she loves swimming.” Ron sipped again. “About her father’s house. She did say that if something happened to him —her words—she’d consider buying out her sister and keeping the place as a rental so Troy, the basement tenant, could stay. She said this all before something did happen.” Ron paused and pressed his lips together. Paula’s chest ached at the thought of Francis, lying dead under the covers. What a shock for Cheryl to find him. “She and Troy are old friends.” “I asked her, in a joking way, if there’d ever been anything between them.” Ron set his mug on the table. “Cheryl says she prefers guys with more spark.” He wriggled his eyebrows. “Do I have spark?” She studied the stubbled jaw that he hadn’t got around to shaving. “Not at the moment.” Ron lowered his brows. “I shouldn’t joke, with Francis dead. I gather Troy doesn’t earn a lot in his part-time jobs. He does maintenance and repairs around the house in return for reduced rent.” “And checking in on Francis, taking him food and to appointments.” Francis wouldn’t need this assistance anymore. “If Cheryl decides to buy the house, I could rent the upper floor, if I move to Calgary.” Paula started. “You’re thinking of moving here?” “What’s to keep me in Montreal?” “Your work?” she said, incredulous. “Your children and grandchildren?”

“Here I’d be closer to you and Mom.” “Do you want to be closer?” He grinned. “Gotcha.” She glowered while he chewed a slice of cantaloupe. But was there a morsel of truth behind his teasing—like “a little” making out? “Littles” could build to bigger things. She’d like having her brother in Calgary if it weren’t for Cheryl. They finished their breakfast, cleared the dishes, and checked their phone messages, both standing by the island. Ron read from his screen. “Cheryl says they’ve taken her father’s body away. She expects to be busy with arrangements most of today but suggested I drop by around four.” He typed a reply. “I’ll ask if you can tag along.” “Why?” Paula said. “Her father’s car insurance must be the last thing on her mind.” “So you can learn more directly from the horse.” Paula batted his arm. Ron’s phone chimed, and he read the text. “Cheryl says you’re welcome to come.” “She’s being polite.” Or has an agenda. “Does Cheryl ever act out of politeness?” Paula glanced at the clock. She’d love to follow up on his remark, but she had to leave for her meeting with the liability claimant who’d broken her wrist in a fall on a driveway. The evidence so far suggested the building owner was responsible for not properly clearing the ice. She was about to tuck her phone into her purse when a text arrived. Home after lunch, Mike Vincelli wrote. Can you swing by?

* * *

Mike’s sister answered the door. Lucy wore a quilted jacket and a hat with earflaps and braids for ties. Eli sat on the floor, struggling to put on his boots. Paula leaned down to him. “How’s your ear?” “One-hundred percent improved since Wednesday,” Lucy said. “The antibiotics kicked in right away.” She explained her work was slow today, so she’d left early and was taking Eli out for fresh air. “Mike’s in the kitchen, getting acquainted with his new assignments.” Lucy squatted to help Eli with his boots. She had one of the toughest jobs Paula could imagine, and Lucy came across as positive and in control of her life. Yet, in childhood, she’d endured horrific abuse, which had led to her breakdown as a teenager. She was proof people could overcome cruelty and go on to thrive. But they shouldn’t have to overcome it in the first place. Lucy pulled Eli to his feet. Six feet tall, she looked down at Paula. “Homicide’s wrapping up the hit-and-run case. I can’t say I’m particularly sorry about your insured driver’s death.” Paula nodded, her stomach tight. They said goodbye. Lucy left with Eli, while Paula made her way through the living room to the kitchen. Mike looked up from his laptop on the table. “Case closed?” Paula said. “We can’t charge a dead man. Unfortunately.” He shut the laptop. “Can I interest you in an espresso?” “I can’t say no when yours are the best.” Mike went to the machine. “Your guy Odell is one lucky bastard.” “I wouldn’t call death good luck.” “We were this fucking close to laying a murder charge.” Mike raised a hand; his thumb and index finger a sliver away from touching. “The media would have been all over the case, with its sordid details, telling the world what he did to his

daughter and, for all we know, other little girls.” “Would Gloria want those details made public?” Mike’s hand dropped to his side. “True. But she might, to help others. Lucy pointed out that predators rarely stop at one child. Were you aware that when Gloria and Cheryl were eight years old, their father coached their softball team? Once the murder story hit the media, their former schoolmates might have come forward about Coach Odell. If he were alive, his reputation would be mud. For many, that’s worse than death.” Paula shared the thought that had struck her on her drive over. “Could Francis have realized this and chosen death from an overdose of his heart medicines? Ron said he was in especially good humour last night.” Mike’s eyes flickered. Was it a note of sympathy? He’d be aware that elevated mood was common in people who’d made up their minds to end the misery by suicide. Francis’ despair a few days ago had been dark enough to concern both Paula and Cheryl. “Has the toxicology report come in?” Paula asked. “Not yet. Odell was taking a pharmacy of medications, many with short halflives that won’t show as abnormal a few hours after death. If he wanted to die undetected, that would be the way for him to go.” “Will there be an autopsy?” “Probably not. Death wouldn’t be suspicious, given his medical condition.” Paula frowned. “It wouldn’t hurt to order one, to rule out foul play.” “By whom?” “If he has life insurance, someone gains. Most likely Cheryl and Gloria, unless he cut Gloria out.” “He didn’t.” Mike handed her an espresso. “, we have his confession.”

“What if it’s false? If someone crushed a pill into his drink, his death sets that person free. Cheryl, for instance, works in the medical field. She’d know how medicines work. If Francis lived, there’d always be the chance he’d renege on a false confession or the truth would come out in a trial.” “What’s your reason for thinking it false?” She sipped her espresso, unable to think beyond speculations. “I’m sure you’ve brainstormed many plausible scenarios with your team.” “None worth spending police resources on.” Mike took a sip. “Look, Paula, I respect that your hunches have paid off in the past, but the majority of homicide cases are straightforward.” “What if this is another one that’s not?” she asked, tightness returning to her chest. “We’ll live with it.” She had to pursue this for Francis, even if it hurt Mike. “I understand your negative feelings toward him.” “That doesn’t affect the facts.” His tone was firm. “Since you’ll continue to deal with Kevin, you should know we told him about Odell’s death, with the implication Kevin no longer needs to worry about a stalker.” She finished her espresso and clunked the cup on the counter. “You won’t listen to me at all.” “Like I’ve said, we have appreciated your help. Sorry about this one.” “Oh fuck off.” Mike blinked. He gaped. Good, if she’d shocked him. She struggled to calm down, to appeal to his sense of fairness and justice. “You were always the homicide cop willing to question the obvious. That’s why you brought me into your work—to help you think outside the party line.” “In this instance, the line is right.”

“You aren’t sure, one-hundred percent.” “Close enough.” He finished his espresso. Paula turned down his offer of a second. She got her phone from her purse to check her messages before leaving. “If it’s any consolation,” Mike said, “I’m more disappointed than you are. I truly wanted to nail that bastard in court.” Paula turned away from him to read an email from Isabelle, who was still at home with the flu. Despite her dizziness, Isabelle had spent an hour playing the computer game Kevin developed—fun and challenging, with tons of twists—and hanging out on Facebook with Trina Mendes, whose post around noon said, Saddened by the loss of my friend, Francis Odell, recently jailed and charged by the police. They harassed an old man with a weak heart to death. Dozens of Trina’s Facebook friends, including Isabelle, had pressed like or offered ive comments, some citing other instances of police brutality. But while composing her email to Paula, Isabelle had returned to Facebook and found a new comment on the thread stating that Trina’s friend Francis was a filthy pedophile. The next commentator asked, Did you know, Trina? What’s that about? Isabelle wrote, at the end of her message. Paula looked at Mike. “Did homicide tell the press they were investigating Francis?” “Not that I’m aware. Traffic announced his death.” He sat down and opened his laptop. Paula called up the news feed on her phone. “Man charged in hit and run dead.” She skimmed the first paragraph, which mentioned Francis’ death, the traffic charges and his confession to driving the car. She read aloud. “A source revealed that Calgary homicide became involved in the case after police learned the victim, psychologist Denise Young, treated Odell’s daughter for problems stemming from Odell’s sexual abuse when she was a child. Odell had itted to stalking the victim in his car on prior occasions, which was confirmed by witnesses.” At the table, Mike studied his laptop screen. “My guess is whoever leaked this to

the media saw no point in our continuing to withhold the information now that the investigation is closed.” “Aside from the effects on Gloria, Cheryl, and their families. It was thoughtless.” “Or intentional.” Mike rose from the chair. “I’m not the only one there who wanted to get him.” She stared up at his face. “Did you leak this?” “You know I wouldn’t.” “I don’t know anything anymore, not one-hundred percent.” She stashed her phone in her purse and couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. “Trina is right. The police have no heart.” Mike looked down at her, his gaze immobile. There was no point in her arguing anymore. One thing she’d ired about Mike in the past was his conviction when he believed he was right. The trait was less appetizing when they disagreed. She decided to take Cheryl Odell up on her invitation.

Chapter Eighteen

January 1991

When she and Kevin drove onto his street, Gloria noticed her mother on the sidewalk, on her way to her job at the bookstore. Gloria waved, but her mother kept her gaze lowered as she navigated the ice. Kevin pulled into his driveway and released the dog from the car. Teela bounded in circles. He’d named her after his favourite “badass” comic character. Gloria was mentally energized but physically drained, having chased the tenmonth-old golden retriever through the off-leash park by the Bow River. Teela loved her canine-kind. Kevin and Gloria frequently had to yank her away from dogs who misinterpreted her friendliness as aggression. Since Denise preferred regular dog walks to the free-for-all at the park, Kevin treated Teela to the Bow River park on weekends with Gloria, or Denise’s daughter. Kevin grabbed Teela’s collar and led her squirming into the house. Gloria trod carefully down the driveway to greet her mother. “Did you three have fun?” her mother asked. “A blast, and wild, like always.” “If I stop, I’ll be late for the bookstore. Say hi to Kevin for me.” Her mother continued to the boutique shopping centre with the bookstore that specialized in personalized service. The job had turned out to be perfect for her. She loved meeting customers and helping them select the right book. Several timed their trips to the store to arrive during her shifts. The owner had increased her hours to almost full-time. The job worked equally well for Gloria. Her mother was out of the house on Saturdays, giving her, Arthur, and the girls their private family time. Weekdays, Gloria and her mother worked similar hours, and

her mother was there to help get the girls off to school in the morning and into bed at night. Her mother’s presence in the house also acted as a buffer. Arthur hadn’t questioned Gloria’s Saturday morning outings in months. She wondered if he’d decided that voicing his concerns risked pushing her closer to Kevin. Arthur might see it as “swallow my problems with this and wait for Gloria to come to her senses.” She also suspected he appreciated her mother’s buffer role, as well as her contribution toward household expenses. He’d stopped asking when Marilyn planned to get her own place now that she had enough money from her salary and alimony from the legal separation. Kevin came out of his house and told Gloria he’d finally got Teela settled. “Next time, I won’t pick the most active pup in the litter.” Gloria smiled, knowing he loved the dog’s liveliness. Teela, along with pingpong and video games, had bonded him with Denise’s daughter. From Kevin’s descriptions, Gloria deduced that Morgan viewed him as a fun big brother. This was probably more than Kevin had expected of himself in the role of stepparent. “Group will be interesting this Monday,” Gloria said, sad that their time together for the week was ending. She’d adopted the Arthur approach of swallowing her growing attraction for Kevin and attendant jealously toward Denise but wasn’t always successful. “I suppose we’ll discuss the article. Laurie will have a few opinions.” Kevin nodded. Denise had withdrawn from the leadership of the group to devote more time to her regular therapy practice, which focused increasingly on children. “I want to catch their problems before they mushroom into worse,” she’d said. Gloria was grateful to have been one of Denise’s last new adult clients. The original plan had been for Jeffrey to lead the group, which he did for a month. Gloria liked him, and her mother loved him, but a few of the women felt uncomfortable with a man at the helm. Laurie offered to take charge. Her counselling practice was taking off and she had three years of experience as a group member. The others dismissed Gloria’s comments, made privately and during coffee breaks, that Laurie might be too pushy and closed-minded for the role.

“We need someone strong, given the opposition,” Gloria’s mother had said. “Wishy-washy, like me, would be worse,” Brenda had said with a giggle. At the meetings, Gloria stayed quiet when Laurie made statements like “forgiveness of abs offers no benefit to survivors.” Gloria thought it would be worth discussing if forgiveness might help some survivors move past the hurt. She hadn’t heard of the newspaper article until Kevin mentioned it during the drive to the dog park. He said Denise had been expecting something like this to appear. Backlash was inevitable when the abs lost power. Gloria hadn’t had time to look at the newspaper that morning before dashing to Kevin’s house. They’d moved their Saturday walks an hour earlier to accommodate Teela’s schedule. After they’d said goodbye, Gloria trudged to Wintergreen Close, shifting her thoughts to everyday life. Perhaps for lunch she’d get one of her mother’s homemade soups from the freezer. On her street, Arthur was playing hockey with their daughters and some local kids. Saturday mornings when the weather was good, he’d started dragging the girls from their cartoons to play outside. Arthur wacked a slapshot, which bounced off the net. The game paused so the goalie could chase the puck onto a neighbour’s lawn. Arthur invited Gloria to the fun. “Tempting,” she said jokingly. “But I got my exercise at the dog park.” While her family was outdoors, she’d see what this article was all about. Inside, she stripped off her outerwear and padded to kitchen. Newspaper sections lay scattered on the island. On top was the feature written by the woman who’d recanted. Gloria scraped her fingernails against her palm. Arthur had displayed the piece there to make sure she wouldn’t miss it. Proof, once more, he didn’t her views. Why did they both bother to pretend? Luckily, her talk with Kevin that morning had prepared her for this newspaper attack. She made coffee and carried her mug and the paper to the family room. Her legs propped on the footrest, she read the full-page article written by a woman who worked as a technical writer. She’d used a pseudonym to protect her family. Denise had pointed out to Kevin that an anonymous writer could easily be an accused parent or someone else motivated to fabricate lies.

“Abigail’s” story started out similarly to Gloria’s, Kevin’s, and those of the others in the group. When Abigail was in her late twenties, she experienced persistent anxiety and problems in her relationships, prompting her to seek therapy. A girlfriend recommended a psychologist. Abigail found him sympathetic. From the start, he tended to shift the talk away from Abigail’s current problems to her childhood, which she’d expected, given her understanding of the roots of psychological issues. The sessions got her thinking about her childhood memories—ones she’d always ed but was now seeing in a new light. But after her third session, while walking through a park, she recalled being at her grandparents’ farm, alone with her father. A wave of fear shot through her body. He was molesting her. During the next weeks, more forgotten memories surfaced. Gloria drank some coffee, warming her throat. She still had only a single memory, despite more than a year of treatment. Denise attributed the lack of additional memories or details to Gloria’s living with a man who didn’t believe her. “What can I do?” Gloria had asked Denise. “I can’t leave my children.” Denise’s eyes narrowed. Gloria hadn’t meant the remark as a dig at Denise for leaving her daughter with her husband. Or maybe she had, ive-aggressively. “If I left,” Gloria had quickly explained, “Arthur would get visitation rights or demand t custody. He doesn’t really think my father is a molester and I can’t take the chance he’ll leave them alone with him. My first duty is to protect my girls.” Unlike her mother, who hadn’t protected young Gloria. She glanced at the armchair, where her mother usually sat during their family TV viewing. Sometimes Brittany cuddled on Grandma’s lap. Gloria had cuddled with her mother at that age, but she mainly ed times with her father on his favourite chair, him reading her books. She returned to the article, which Keven had summarized for her. Abigail’s story unfolded as he’d described. She talked of the encouragement she received from her psychologist and group, her family’s shock and denial of her memories, and the problems and rifts this caused. Then one afternoon, while visiting her parents, she was in their backyard filling the bird feeder when a

sparrow flew toward her and she knew her memories of abuse were false. From there, Abigail said, it was an ongoing process to mend the damage caused by her false memories. She switched to another psychologist, who used the term recant in a way that implied there were others with her experience. Abigail’s conclusion was that her first psychologist had a preconceived notion that most women’s problems stem from childhood sexual abuse. Unconsciously, the therapist employed subtle expressions, gestures, and comments to guide Abigail into imagining memories of being a victim. Each new case of a person with memories “uncovered” proved the next one right, creating a domino effect. Abigail ended the article by saying her goal in speaking out was to urge families and individuals involved in repressed memory therapy to be wary of perceived truth and not rush into taking stands from which they might never recover. It would take years to mend the rifts in her family. As she finished the piece, hairs rose on the back of Gloria’s neck. If Arthur thought she was like Abigail, he had much to learn. Gloria took the newspaper section to her office and buried it in the bottom drawer of her desk. She returned to the kitchen to dump the rest of the paper into the recycling bin. One person recanting didn’t mean the others were wrong. And, as Denise had told Kevin, if Abigail was a survivor, her recant was false, influenced by family pressure. Gloria spent the rest of the day waiting for Arthur to mention the newspaper piece. When he didn’t, she wondered if his game was to force her to bring it up, to make her the aggressor. Midafternoon, Cheryl phoned to say she was taking their father to a restaurant on Monday, his birthday, so he wouldn’t be alone that day. Did Gloria want to come? “Monday night’s my group,” Gloria said. “You can’t miss it the one time?” “No. Arthur, the girls, and I will see him tomorrow.” Arthur insisted they cook dinner at her father’s place every second Sunday. Gloria went along because, as Denise had suggested, part of Gloria’s healing might involve reconciling her “bad” and “good” father. With Arthur and the girls present, they kept the conversation on work, sports, books, politics, the kids’ activities, and everything else except the main issue. Sometimes her father asked how her mother was doing. Gloria’s answers ranged from “fine” to “thriving at

her new job.” “By the way,” Cheryl said on the phone. “Did you see the newspaper today? A woman wrote—” “I read it,” Gloria said. “It means nothing.” “I thought—” “Nothing.” Silence on the line. “Okay,” Cheryl said. Toward suppertime, her mother breezed in from work. The only shoppers at the bookstore today had been ones returning or exchanging their Christmas gifts, so she wasn’t too tired to help prepare dinner. While her mother chopped vegetables, Gloria smeared butter on the chicken to bake. “Did you read that article I set out for you?” her mother asked. Gloria looked at her. “That was you, not Arthur?” She felt herself flush at her wrong assumption, but wasn’t her mother on her side? “I found it fairly balanced.” “It was biased,” Gloria said. “Balanced in what way?” Her mother continued chopping, not looking up. “As I see it, the woman was like me in that she found her old way comfortable. There’s so much that draws you back in, even though you know it’s not a healthy place. Now, in her denial, she feels better temporarily. I’m sure she wrote the article more to convince herself than others. Sadly, for her, it won’t work in the long run and will turn around and bite her.” Gloria shoved the baking dish into the oven, mulling over this explanation of Abigail’s recant. “What about people, like Cheryl, who read it and feel encouraged in their denial?”

“That’s unfortunate, but the article will probably only convince those already against us.” “Are you still part of us, Mom?” Gloria forced herself to face her mother and this truth. “Do you believe Dad abused me?” “Absolutely.” Her mother’s eyes watered. She wiped them with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry, Gloria, for my part in overlooking it.” “I understand why you’d repress something too horrible to deal with.” Gloria had discussed her mother’s frequent apologies with Denise, who agreed that her mother was fishing for forgiveness. “Am I childish to withhold it from her?” Gloria had asked Denise. “Forgiveness is as much for yourself as it is for the person who wronged you,” Denise had said. “The words only have meaning if they come from the heart. Inside, you’re still hurt by your father’s and mother’s deeds. You’ll forgive freely and easily when you’re ready.” Gloria turned away from her mother’s pleading eyes. She wasn’t ready yet.

* * *

On Monday night, Gloria and her mother arrived early for group. Denise’s car was parked out front. In the reception area, Brenda told them Denise was in her office with a client; Laurie was making coffee in the kitchen, and no one else had arrived yet. Gloria set the newspaper article on her usual chair. “Denise said her dog bit her daughter on the weekend.” Brenda giggled. Her dog. Gloria felt that annoying stab of jealousy. She usually thought of Teela as Kevin’s dog, but he and Denise were a couple. Their life was shared. “Nothing serious.” Brenda added, with another inappropriate laugh. “A nip on

her arm. They took her to emergency, in case.” “Teela has to get used to children.” “That’s why Denise doesn’t blame her,” Brenda said. “She hopes the dog will learn after spending the rest of the day isolated in her cage.” Poor Teela. Kevin’s anecdotes about Denise at home usually portrayed her as the disciplinarian. Gloria supposed she had to be, since it wasn’t a natural role for Kevin. Laurie emerged from the kitchen. She went into leadership mode by asking Gloria and her mother how their weeks had gone. “Tonight’s my father’s birthday,” Gloria said, “and the anniversary of my confrontation that shocked him out of his mind. I still wonder if I should have picked a neutral occasion.” “Was it effective?” Laurie asked. “Hell yes.” Gloria glanced at her mother, whose eyes had widened either at her daughter’s swearing or at the memory of that wretched birthday dinner. “I see Gloria’s brought the newspaper piece,” Brenda said. Gloria followed Brenda’s gaze to the chair. “I wanted to refer to it during our discussion.” Laurie scowled. “Why give that drivel an ounce of our attention? It’s a plant by a vindictive parent.” “How do you know?” Gloria asked. “Or someone who buckled under family pressure,” Laurie said. “One reason I stay away from mine.” Gloria’s hands shot to her hips. “What kind of counsellor are you, to advise people to shut family out, when we need to gain their most of all?” She

realized her challenging pose was a cliché and dropped her arms to her sides. “Assuming a survivor wrote this, she was hurting.” Gloria paused for breath. “Maybe she caved, or she is actually the one in a hundred people whose recovered memories are wrong.” “One in a thousand, more like, if that,” Laurie said. “How do you know?” Gloria asked. “Have there been studies?” Her voice trembled, but she continued. “If we don’t acknowledge that some cases might not be true, aren’t we burying our heads in denial as much as our family are?” Now her voice sounded calm to her ears, and reasonable. “Will we discuss the article tonight?” “If the group wishes.” “I wish it.” Laurie raised her brow. “It isn’t your show, Gloria, just because you have your cheerleaders standing behind you.” Gloria glanced back at her mother to her left, Brenda to her right. Was Laurie jealous of her? Brenda and most of the others were friendlier with Gloria than with Laurie. From what Gloria could tell, they all respected Laurie, but none had warmed to her. Gloria strode to her chair and snatched the newspaper. “I’m leaving.” “Gloria,” her mother said. “Of course, the group will discuss the article. I want to.” “You do that, Mom,” Gloria said. “I’ll pick you up later.” “I’ll go home with you.” Home. Gloria’s home, not her mother’s. “Stay,” she said as if she were talking to Teela.

* * *

“My mother stayed. I stomped out,” Gloria told Denise at her Tuesday session. “I was childish. Brenda gave her a ride home.” Denise’s face remained placid, revealing no clue about what she thought of Gloria’s outburst. Abigail had blamed her therapist’s subtle expressions and gestures for leading her in a particular direction. Since reading the article, Gloria had racked her brain but couldn’t recall Denise offering more than a blank slate in response to her ramblings. Perhaps there were therapists who guided their clients to conclusions. Laurie could be one of these, without the subtlety. Gloria was sure Denise hadn’t led her to feeling she’d been abused. Kevin had recovered his memories months before entering therapy. Abigail’s story didn’t relate to them. Gloria relaxed into her chair, facing Denise. “I have to it, it felt good to let my anger out, to express myself honestly to Laurie and my mother.” Denise rested her pen on her notepad. “This could be a step toward growth.” “You don’t mind that I quit group?” Gloria said. “I’m not going back.” Denise nodded. “I expect it’s time for you to move on.” “I’ll miss it,” Gloria said. “Group has been my home for a year. I love the people, even Laurie. Some have become friends.” But none had become as good a friend as Kevin. Thinking her decision through, she’d realized she no longer got nearly as much from the group as she did from her walks with Kevin. Laurie often irritated her, and she couldn’t relate to the newcomers, especially the one who ed her parents engaging in Satanic rituals. Gloria found it unlikely that half of the neighbours on their street had participated. Her mother agreed but noted anything was possible. “A healthy anxiety is normal with progress,” Denise said. “I’m proud of you, Gloria.” Gloria stiffened. She’d previously liked it whenever Denise had said this. Now the praise felt condescending. Gloria had bristled at Arthur, her mother, and the group holding her down. It hadn’t occurred to her before that Denise could have this effect on her too. Gloria stared into Denise’s imive eyes

behind her glasses. If you stayed forever in therapy, did this mean it wasn’t working? Would moving on from her psychologist at the right time be necessary for growth? A wave of loneliness engulfed Gloria. When will I be ready to leave you? She couldn’t ask Denise until she was ready to accept the answer.

Chapter Nineteen

January 2020

Paula arrived at the Odell house seconds behind Ron. They got out of their cars and met on the sidewalk. “I didn’t expect you to show up,” he said. “Neither did I.” But Cheryl didn’t look surprised by Paula’s appearance at the front door. Paula expressed her condolences for Francis’ death and said she’d be available to discuss his auto insurance whenever Cheryl was ready. “I can’t say insurance is at the top of my agenda today.” Cheryl took their coats to hang up in the closet. Troy rose from the sofa in the living area. Cheryl offered Ron and Paula coffees. Before Paula could reply, Ron said he’d get the drinks for them both. “Thanks,” Cheryl said, but still accompanied him down the corridor to the kitchen. “Have a seat.” Troy motioned Paula toward the armchair, where Francis had sat on all her earlier visits. She remained standing. “I’m sorry for your loss.” Troy nodded and dropped to the sofa. “It is a loss for me in many ways.” He picked up a mug from the coffee table. “Cheryl and I were talking about their plan for the house. It’s not good for me.”

“Will she and Gloria be selling?” Paula didn’t feel right about sitting in Francis’ chair, but she edged toward it for a better view of Troy’s face. He took a sip. “You can’t blame them. Why tie up money they can use to improve their lives? Gloria wants to retire, and Cheryl can buy a better condo and travel. Francis also left them life insurance. He did well for them both.” If you ignored Gloria’s memories of what he did to her as a child. “Cheryl’s going to check her finances to see if it makes sense for her to buy out her sister, but I don’t want her charity.” Troy scowled. “Until now our arrangement benefited Francis and the family. I earned my keep. I told Cheryl, ‘You don’t have to take care of me.’ I’ll look for a full-time restaurant job, even if it means I have to drop the math tutoring I enjoy more. It pays peanuts.” “With luck, they’ll sell to a buyer who’ll keep the basement suite for a rental.” “Cheryl says she’ll try, but Gloria won’t lower the price a penny to accommodate me. Why should she? I’m not family or her friend. In fact, Gloria told Cheryl she half expected Francis to leave the house to me, implying I’d wormed my way into his good graces. That hurt.” Troy’s eyes flashed. Inheritance could bring out a lot of hard feelings. The telephone rang in the kitchen. Someone picked it up. Troy stroked his mug. “The irony is, last summer my girlfriend and I were starting to think about living together. Her income’s higher than mine, and if we hadn’t broken up, we could have bought this place and covered the mortgage with the basement rental. I’ve become a handyman from working on repairs for Francis. It would have been perfect.” “I’m sorry.” Paula glanced toward the kitchen. Ron was taking his time with the coffee. “I called my girlfriend over Christmas, to see if she’d give us another chance,” Troy said. “She told me she couldn’t.” His voice quivered. In sympathy, Paula sat down on the sofa beside him. She scanned the fireplace and mantel display of photos of Francis’ happier days. Little Francis with his siblings rising like steps, he and his union buddy, his wedding, his daughters

holding hands when they were young, in a moment of closeness. Except, Francis was a child molester according to the shorter girl in the yellow sundress. Did Troy know about that side of him? Troy looked over his shoulder, toward the kitchen. “It might be the funeral parlour that called. Francis once told me as a joke that he wanted a service even if no one comes.” “His daughters and grandchildren will attend.” “So will I, and the odd acquaintance or former colleague who made it to old age, maybe a couple of neighbours. When you think of it, Francis generally preferred solitary activities, like skiing and cycling when he was healthy, plus reading. Cheryl thinks someone could read a few lines from Dickens at the service.” Paula glanced at A Tale of Two Cities, still resting on the side table. She quoted the famous opening line, although she hadn’t read the book. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” “The age of wisdom, the age of foolishness.” Troy paraphrased next lines of the story opening. “The epoch of belief, the epoch of incredulity.” He grinned. “I looked it up in case Cheryl conscripts me for the reading. But there are likely better ages for a funeral.” The four mantel photos represented Francis’ best of times. Paula hoped that Troy would be able to retain his untarnished memories of his benefactor and friend. Troy didn’t look like he could handle another blow. She turned toward the sound of footsteps entering the corridor. Cheryl stopped at the china cabinet and took out some wine glasses. Ron carried a mug to Paula. “Do you want a glass of wine too?” he said. “Cheryl and I decided we could use it.” “Me too,” Troy said. “This has been one day from hell.” Technically, Paula was here for a social visit, not work. “Count me in.” She set her mug on the coffee table and slid to the cushion at the end of the sofa for a view of the dining area.

Cheryl rounded the table to the wine rack. “Is red good for everyone?” She slid out a bottle without waiting for a reply. Paula preferred red anyway. “Ron and I were checking Facebook and Twitter,” Cheryl continued. “Trina’s posts are getting more and more likes and comments.” “Pro or con?” Troy asked. “Both.” “Shit,” he said. “It was stupid of her to blow this up on social media.” “I don’t know about that.” Cheryl looked at Paula. “I explained to Ron, but you don’t know what we’re talking about.” Paula stood so she could face Cheryl directly. “Do you mean the leak to the media that homicide was brought in to investigate your father’s connection to Denise Young?” “My wacky sister is now posting about the psychologist being a fraud,” Troy said. “She stopped short of saying she got what she deserved for ruining people’s lives with her therapy.” Cheryl popped the wine cork. “Others have jumped in, blaming the whole profession. And others spout filthy names for my father.” “‘Fucking child groper’ is a milder one.” Ron carried a dining chair to the end of the conversation nook and set it in front of the TV. Cheryl poured wine into four glasses. “Maybe it’s time the shit hits the public fan,” she said. “Trina might have derailed us to the right track.” “I don’t follow,” Troy said. Cheryl handed each of them a glass of wine and raised her own. “Cheers. To what? Dad, I guess. May he finally rest in peace.” They all sipped. Cheryl padded on bare feet to Francis’ armchair. She sat, her back straight, and stared at them one by one, like a queen on her throne. “The shrinks who created the recovered memory mess know their profession screwed up. People like Dad and I let them shove it under the carpet because we didn’t

want everyone knowing about this accusation, which sticks to you forever, even if there’s no shred of evidence. I bet most of those retweets and likes of Trina’s comments are from people like us, hurting in private.” Her chest heaved. Troy frowned over his wine glass. “So, you and Trina are sacrificing Francis for your cause?” “His cause too.” Cheryl turned to Ron. “You Dad’s talk last night— was it only last night? He went on about his glory days when his actions made a difference?” She looked at the burning fireplace. “By Trina shining a light on what happened to families like ours, his death won’t be pointless.” “I disagree,” Troy said. “Nothing good comes from shit stirred up on social media.” Cheryl swirled her glass in circles. “If we’d had social media thirty years ago, I’d have found people online who opposed the therapy or, at least, were skeptical, like me. Instead, I was alone with the traditional media, the experts, the public, all of them riding the repressed memory bandwagon. Troy was my lifeline.” Troy stared into his wine glass, his neck and face red. “I was alone too. One of the rare guys who got sucked in by that crap. Trina was my from day one, and half went along with my new truth. Then, one day, it hit me—my memories were false.” “How is that?” Paula asked. “I can’t explain. It was almost magical,” Troy said. “It took years for my family to get over the pain I’d caused them.” “You were the lucky ones,” Cheryl said. “Gloria persists in her fantasy. We deal with it by avoiding each other and tiptoeing around the elephant squatting on this coffee table.” Paula looked at the maple table. “Perhaps now you and she will start to discuss your differences.” “There’s no room for discussion,” Cheryl said. “My mother understood this. She knew she’d lose Gloria if she didn’t the cult, which it basically was. That’s

how cults operate. They isolate you from contrary opinions, calling it . Honest to God, there were times I could have strangled Gloria.” Cheryl’s eyes flashed at Paula. “You think my father purposely drove onto that sidewalk to kill Denise Young, the woman who led Gloria onto that destructive path?” Paula met Cheryl’s gaze. “I don’t know.” That was true, especially since she wasn’t certain Francis was driving. “The police are convinced.” “I’m not the police.” Had Cheryl invited her here to find out what she knew about homicide’s plans? “They’ve closed the case, since they can’t charge someone who’s dead.” Cheryl drank some wine. “Do they believe my father died from natural causes?” “If they had doubts, they’d order an autopsy.” “They haven’t yet.” Cheryl drained her glass. “What’s it to them if he killed himself with his heart medication?” “Do you think he did?” “I’m almost sure.” Paula started at the blunt ission, but Cheryl didn’t need to hide her speculation about her father’s suicide. It wouldn’t affect his car insurance settlement, and no doubt he’d taken out his life insurance policy more than two years ago and a suicide exclusion wouldn’t apply. Paula saw no reason to withhold homicide’s current action, or lack of it, from Cheryl. “They ordered a toxicology report,” Paula said, “but they don’t expect it to be conclusive.” Cheryl nodded. “His medications will likely show in the expected range.” She stared at her empty glass. “Dad was old and sick and tired. He knew his life was over no matter how the police case went. He’d rather die than go to prison.” A thought struck Paula. The immediate effect of Francis’ death was the police closure of the case. If his original statement were true, and he hadn’t been driving his car, Francis might have guessed that Cheryl had been the person driving. Her anger and motive to kill Denise Young equalled his. Paula could be

reading too much into this, but she’d sensed Cheryl looked relieved to hear the police were likely to conclude Francis died of natural causes. A cell phone rang on the dining table. Cheryl rose. “Death brings nothing but phone calls.” The ringing stopped. She held out her glass. “Anyone up for a refill?” “Not me.” Troy stood. “I’ve got to make us dinner. Cheryl, can I use Francis’ kitchen? It will be easier to serve from here.” When Cheryl nodded, he turned to Ron and Paula. “Are you guys staying?” “If we’re welcome.” Ron looked across the room at Cheryl. “The more the less misery,” Cheryl said. Ron leaped to his feet. “I’ll get the bottle. Do we continue with red?” “Whatever,” Cheryl said. “As long as it gets me sloshed.” Paula didn’t want to stick around for the slosh-fest, even though a drunk Cheryl might spill a clue about what was really going on in the Odell house. But what could Paula do with it? Run to Mike and say Cheryl itted to driving her father’s car to stalk and kill Denise Young? Mike might go as far as questioning Cheryl, who’d claim she was pulling Paula’s leg or deny she’d said anything. And there was no guarantee Ron would back Paula as a witness against Cheryl, assuming he was sober enough to catch the clue. Paula declined the offer, saying she had to get to a meeting. Ron would ridicule her for playing ‘Mom’ if she told him to take a taxi home or spend the night on Cheryl’s sofa—or in her bed—if he drank too much. She was done with looking after her older brother. While Cheryl and Ron were occupied with pouring themselves drinks, Paula headed to the front entrance. Troy followed her. “I have to get some ingredients downstairs.” She’d expected him to take the shorter route through the kitchen, especially since he wasn’t wearing an overcoat. Did he want to talk to her? They exited to a biting wind and a sky growing dark. Troy wrapped his arms around his chest for warmth. His face shimmered in the porch light.

“Good of you to make dinner for Cheryl,” she said. “Francis would want me to take care of her.” “Does she need taking care of?” But perhaps any grieving daughter did. “Cheryl can be a loose cannon.” Troy smiled. “Not unlike my sister.” “Siblings,” Paula said in mock exasperation, to forge a little bond. “More trouble than they’re worth sometimes.” Troy’s smile faded. “Trina means well, but her campaign won’t give people back their lives. It was too long ago. They’re all old or dead, like Francis.” “Do you think he purposely killed Denise Young?” “I think the police are right; intent or accident doesn’t matter now. I intend to him as a good person.” Paula hadn’t settled on her memories of Francis. Perhaps Troy’s motive for talking was to nudge her in a positive direction, a last act of loyalty to a man who’d treated him well. “You have my phone number,” she said. “Give me a call if Ron drinks too much and needs me to pick him up.” “Sure thing. Now I’ve got to escape this brutal wind.” He jogged across the yard and rounded the house to his door. Paula got into her cold car, turned on the ignition, and checked her phone. She had messages from Sam, Isabelle, and Mike, but her car was taking ages to warm up. A restaurant would be more comfortable for reading.

* * *

Paula ordered an appetizer—yam fries and chipotle dip—so she could have another glass of wine without it going to her head. Then, she read Sam’s text. Working till 9 or 10. Don’t hold dinner. Mike’s text was almost as brief. With my

workload reduced, want to meet for coffee? Your convenience. His offer to patch their disagreement implied that homicide hadn’t changed its mind about closing the case. She had to it that, from their perspective, police time was money, while she had the luxury of spending hours on tangents if she wanted. She accepted Mike’s olive branch and replied, Tomorrow 10 a.m.? Isabelle emailed that she’d spent her non-dizzy moments absorbed in Trina’s Facebook and Twitter threads. The posts and retweets are going viral. Some yell at Trina in CAPS and call her ers misogynists and worse. A few who like and agree with her say they were also victims of recovered memory therapy. What’s that? I’m too dizzy to look it up. Paula searched “recovered memory therapy” and found pages upon pages about the method commonly called RMT. The first entry called the therapy techniques controversial, unproven, and not recommended by mental health associations. It stated that proponents claimed traumatic memories could be buried in the subconscious yet affect behaviour and be recovered. What was controversial about that? Kevin suffered from traumatic amnesia, his recall of the car accident buried, and yet the event affected him. His memory could resurface any day, real and beyond question. The accident had happened. That was a fact. She continued reading. In 1992, individuals who claimed they were falsely accused of past child abuse coined the term ‘false memory syndrome’. Some people treated with RMT later retracted their claims. This would include Troy, but he was in the minority according to a study that determined most people with recovered memories found outside proof the memories were real. The entry concluded that recovered memories were as accurate as memories that were always there. The next entry cited a 2007 article in Scientific American that was critical of RMT, especially for its contribution to the widespread Satanic-ritual-abuse panic. What panic? Paula had been twenty-something in the early 1990s, had more or less followed the news, and recalled no panic that bizarre. A leading psychologist criticized the article for its use of the term “RMT.” He claimed it was a pejorative term coined by the False Memory Syndrome Foundation. There

was a foundation? The server appeared with her Merlot and fries. Paula munched a fry. A mysterious moral panic, disputes within the psychotherapy profession, this was getting too complicated. It would be easier to have an expert explain. Maybe Jeffrey Szabo? His office was nearby. He’d treated Francis Odell’s wife in the early nineties and had to be familiar with RMT. When they’d met at Kevin’s house, Jeffrey had given her his business card, inviting her to phone for any reason. She took a sip of wine. Her questions about RMT were beyond her insurance boundaries, although one of the entries had mentioned flashbacks. Kevin’s injuries included flashbacks, and she should understand them to properly settle his claim. This would justify a call to Jeffrey. She found his card in her purse and phoned his office number. The receptionist said Dr. Szabo was with a client but would return Paula’s call shortly. While she finished her wine and fries, Paula dived into a third entry on RMT and got lost in the medical jargon. Her phone rang. Jeffrey. “Kevin told me about your car insurance owner’s death,” he said. “Does this mean the end of the police investigation?” “Probably. It won’t affect my dealings with Kevin.” “That’s good. What can I do for you?” Her request felt less relevant now that she had him on the line. “I’m about five minutes from your office and have a few questions you might help me with. No rush if you’re busy tonight.” “I’m occupied for the next hour. Would six-thirty work?” “Perfect.” She’d have dinner here but not another glass of wine, so she’d be alert enough to wrap her brain around the complex issue.

Chapter Twenty

January 1991

Cheryl took a swig of beer. “It didn’t occur to me that ‘Abigail the technical writer’ was you until the part about your epiphany at the bird feeder. Why didn’t you tell me you were writing this?” “I wrote it in a frenzy over the holidays,” Troy said. “After that newspaper article about Larry Quinn’s suicide, I had to do something. It poured out of me. I showed it to a friend, a journalist. She fixed it up, basically rewrote it. We agreed it would have more impact coming from a woman, the more usual case, and one with a good job rather than, well, an unemployed nobody.” Troy still drifted through jobs that didn’t require his business degree. The latest was taking tickets at the Calgary Tower, temporarily replacing a friend on maternity leave. “Abigail fed a sparrow, not a magpie,” Cheryl said. “I changed a few details to make her less like me.” “I wish she weren’t you,” Cheryl said above the din in the bar, “so there’d be another person who’d discovered their so-called memories weren’t real.” “Did you see the letters to the editor in today’s paper?” Cheryl nodded. A woman had criticized the newspaper for running a piece that might turn the public against psychotherapy, which she said had saved her life at a dark time, while a man praised Abigail’s story as a warning about the profession’s dangers. “They missed the point,” Cheryl said. “Not all therapy is bad. God knows I could use some myself.”

“Tell me about it.” Troy sipped his beer. Cheryl looked at her near empty stein. “I drink too much, Doctor. Three or four glasses on an average day, more on evenings when my husband is out. I tell myself it’s time to quit then open another can or pour a shot.” She signalled a server delivering glasses to an adjacent table. “See what I mean?” “You can quit or cut back if you want to.” “I don’t want to, I guess.” The server came over. Cheryl ordered them each another drink. “None for me,” Troy said. His beer was only half-finished. “Ignore him,” Cheryl told the server. “I need the drinking company.” The server gave them a thumbs-up and left. “I can’t stand being alone in my head,” she said. “Booze mutes the angry, miserable thoughts.” Troy took out his pack of cigarettes and offered one to Cheryl. She shook her head. “I owe you dozens. Put yours away. My treat this time.” She grabbed her purse. “Maybe you should see someone,” Troy said. “Can’t hurt.” “It can. Didn’t you read Abigail’s article?” “I mean a decent therapist.” He accepted a smoke from her pack. “Do they exist?” “In theory. I’m off therapy now and don’t have one to recommend.” The server brought their fresh beer steins. Troy held his first beer to his lips so the server wouldn’t take it away. Cheryl licked her drink’s frothy top. “When I was snooping on my mother’s and

sister’s psychologists, I picked up some business cards.” “You don’t want to go there.” “A stranger might trick me into dredging up memories I don’t have. With these therapists, I’d know where they’re coming from and be on the alert.” His brow furrowed. “That won’t help with your problem, though.” “I might learn why my mother and sister are so enthralled with them.” Troy finished his first beer. “In other words, you’d be researching your mom and sis, so you won’t have to it to yourself you need a shrink.” She smiled over her beer stein. “You know me better than any therapist could.” “I’m serious, Cheryl. It’s too easy to sink into a serious depression. I know from experience—before you realize it, you’re there. Ask dead Larry Quinn. You want a therapist who’ll haul you out before the crash.” “The trouble is,” she said, stroking her stein, “if I go there as myself, they’d connect me to Gloria or my mother. But if I’m anonymous, like Abigail, I can’t claim from insurance.” Troy nodded. “They charge extortionist amounts. One reason I’m off them. No benefits on this temp job.” “Their receptionist recommended a counsellor,” she said. “No psychology degree, but she’d be cheaper.” Troy peered over his fresh beer. “And very likely a ‘survivor’ on the prowl for new ‘survivors’ to confirm her worldview.” “I’m also more curious about the ones treating my mom and sister. Gloria’s shrink is Denise Young. Larry Quinn’s killer, in effect.” “I wouldn’t go that far,” Troy said. “She didn’t intend it.” “Second degree or manslaughter, then.” “Ultimately, he’s responsible for his own actions and thoughts.”

Cheryl smiled again. “You have seen a shrink or two.” “Three or four, but who’s counting?” She stared into her beer. “The receptionist told me Denise was shifting her practice to destroying children and not taking on new adults, which leaves my mother’s young whippersnapper. He’s a keener, the receptionist implied.” “If you must do this research, give Whippersnapper your real name and grab your free health benefits.” She shook her head. For professional reasons, Whippersnapper might be unwilling to treat a relative of his existing patient. “Would you mind if I stole Abigail’s name for my alias?” “Sorry, ‘Abigail’ is taken.” Cheryl savoured her drink. Names were easy to come up with; lying to a psychologist would be harder, but Whippersnapper was young and inexperienced. She was up for the challenge.

* * *

As she shook hands with Dr. Jeffrey Szabo, Cheryl realized she’d expected him to fit her image of a young shrink, suit, business haircut, glasses, and goatee. Instead, he had a full, but trimmed, beard and just-got-out-of-bed hair, draping at the back, past his shirt collar. lenses rimmed his irises. His cashmere sweater and blazer suggested classy taste, which he could well afford at the hourly rate she was paying out of her pocket. “Have a seat Ms. Mendes.” He motioned her toward a chair angled in front of his desk. “Call me Sherry,” she said. He smiled. “We prefer a first-name basis. I’m Jeffrey to most of my clients.”

Her mother had referred to him as Jeffrey from the start. Cheryl had thought her mother would go for a more formal, cliché shrink. Did she have an old-lady crush on Jeffrey? He sat in the chair facing Cheryl, crossed one leg over the other, and rested a notepad on his lap. “How do we begin?” Cheryl asked. She fingered the scarf she’d worn to conceal her long neck, the most noticeable physical trait she’d inherited from her mother. Luckily, she looked more like her father. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?” “Of my life or my problems?” “Your choice.” Her life was too long for the fifty-minute assessment, and she’d planned to stay away from her problems caused by Gloria’s therapy. “Drinking,” Cheryl said. “I come by it honestly, as people say. My grandparents on my mother’s side were alcoholics, although none of their family used that term.” Jeffrey jotted a note. “Did your parents drink?” “My dad enjoys a beer a few times a week. My mother barely drinks at all, a reaction to her parents’ boozing.” He wrote another note so quickly that he must use a form of shorthand. “When did your drinking become a problem?” “Off and on, at different times in my life. I partied and drank too much in my early twenties, then married and settled down. The recent bout started after I learned my husband cheated on me while I was pregnant.” Jeffrey’s eyebrows rose. “It wasn’t a shock, really,” Cheryl continued, as Jeffrey’s brows returned to their normal height, close to his eyes. “He’d cheated on me while we were first

dating. It was part of what drew me to him, my usual creep with no possibility of commitment. You probably find that weird of me.” Jeffrey’s expression remained unchanged, as though he’d heard it all before. No doubt he had heard worse, including from her mother. “Once he roped me in, he became a great guy and convinced me the good Wayne was the real one.” Careful of given names. It was unlikely her mother discussed Wayne with Jeffrey, but she might mention Arthur, since she was living in his house. “You seem to understand your and your husband’s motivations well.” Jeffrey tapped the pen on his notepad. “Have you been in therapy before?” “It’s my first time. I have lots of friends to talk things over with.” “But they aren’t enough for this current problem?” She shook her head, annoyed at her watering eyes. This wasn’t going as she’d expected, whatever that was. Jeffrey wrote longer notes on his pad. “Tell me about your childhood.” His gaze met hers, seemingly sympathetic. “Any siblings?” “One sister.” “Older or younger?” “Twins.” A mistake. Twins were relatively rare. Her mother must talk endlessly about her twin daughters. Cheryl touched her scarf. She should have prepared her story better. “Identical?” Jeffrey asked. She could lie, to distinguish herself from her mother, but Troy had a point—she should be doing this partly to help herself, and she was paying big bucks for it. Even “fake” therapy might be useful. “Fraternal,” Cheryl said. “Linda and I aren’t at all the same. She was born first, but my dad joked that I kicked her out of the womb. I was the pushier one, more

dominating, occasionally bullying I realize now. My mom was always on my case for my behaviour and protected Linda. Dad kind of viewed me as the son he never had.” She averted her gaze from Jeffrey’s, which was fixed on her. He’d stopped writing notes. Did he scribble detailed ones during his ten-minute interval before the next patient? He was evidently waiting for her to go on, giving her his full attention, making her think he cared. Was this how shrinking worked, to get you to spill things? But how could this plant memories, as Troy alleged? Where had she left off? Her father viewing her as his missing son. Don’t mention Mom’s miscarriage, or her subsequent depression. Too specific. “My parents wanted another kid after Linda and me but didn’t have one, for reasons unexplained. They insisted we were more than enough, both in the rewarding and being a handful sense.” “Did your differences create problems between you and sister?” “Nothing exceptional. Our parents treated us pretty well.” She decided to throw Jeffrey some fodder. “Dad cuddled Linda more and called her Princess, while he roughhoused with me, his bud.” Was she imagining the glint in Jeffrey’s eye at the prospect of cuddling and roughhousing turning inappropriate? It might be light from the window bouncing off his lens. “Do you feel you missed out on cuddling?” “Not really.” She paused to consider if that was true. “I liked who I was, the lively sister. I still like who I am, aside from the drinking and the husband who cheats.” “Do you want to change these things?” “Of course, but I can’t control him, and drinking is my way of coping. Some people respond with headaches, like my mother.” A falsehood about Mom. Brilliant. “Drinking might be in my genes.” “And beyond your control?”

“My mother handled it by abstaining. I’m not going to do that.” “Why?” She stroked her scarf, reflecting. “Because I like the taste. It’s a social activity. I should be strong enough to stay on top of my drinking.” “This bothers you, that you aren’t being strong?” She folded her arms. Strength was part of her self-definition, but she refused to give Jeffrey the satisfaction of itting he’d got her right.

* * *

Was that her problem with Gloria’s accusation? Cheryl’s mind churned on her drive home. Gloria’s claims kept Cheryl off-balance. She couldn’t get on top of them, control them, bully them into submission. There was nothing, not one Goddamn thing, she could do to change this situation. A good therapist might help her accept that her father was a pervert, might help tuck this revised view of him into her head, much as it grated, a perpetual pebble. She had to it that Jeffrey was a decent shrink. She felt better about her mother being in his hands. Jeffrey had ended the session by saying the assessment was about them both seeing if they were the right match. “No shame on either side if it doesn’t work,” he said. “Struggling with a bad fit won’t do either of us any good.” “Do you find you benefit from these sessions?” she asked. “Almost as much as my clients.” “I doubt that.” He smiled. “You’d be surprised.” “Then maybe you should be paying me.” He blinked a few times and laughed.

She liked his modesty. And they’d covered a lot in fifty minutes. Therapy might help her, if she could be honest with her psychologist. But she couldn’t be honest with Jeffrey Szabo. Pity. The next evening, Troy phoned and asked how her assessment had gone. “Worth the money, for various reasons.” “I’ve got a psychologist for you. A friend highly recommends her.” Cheryl took the details but doubted she’d call, partly because she wanted it to be Jeffrey or no one. She also didn’t want that pebble in her brain. “Our friend Abigail is getting tons of mail,” Troy said. “Letters from readers touched by her article, most of them people with a family member accused. They thanked Abigail for showing them there is another side, and they don’t have to let the recovered memory crowd set the agenda.” Cheryl’s heartbeat skipped with the same hope she’d felt when reading Abigail’s story. “Maybe the tide is turning,” Troy said.

* * *

March 1991-April 1994

It turned, sooner and faster than Cheryl could have imagined. Newspaper and magazine articles appeared, questioning the premise that recovered memories were true in every case. She learned a new term—'false memory syndrome’, the mind’s process of creating memories that feel real but never happened. “Do Satanic cults exist?” a magazine writer asked. “Or are they products of imagination?”

Columnists compared the climate of accusations to that of the Salem witch trials in the 1600s and the McCarthy persecutions of alleged communists in the 1950s. They slammed the legal system for convicting defendants solely on the basis of a recovered memory and abandoning the presumption of innocence. One writer cited cases of accused fathers forced by courts to prove their innocence, which was virtually impossible to do regarding matters that had taken place in private decades earlier. ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Cheryl thought, each time she read an article or watched a talk show on the subject, their hosts forgetting they once were the movement’s champions. A father in the United States sued his daughter’s psychologist for malpractice. When he won, Cheryl pumped the air with her fist. She phoned her father and Troy. “Good for him for beating them at their own game,” her father said. “What humane professional encourages a daughter to sue her own family?” Troy agreed. “Gives the shrinks a taste of their own medicine.” “But don’t expect this to change your mother’s and Gloria’s minds,” her father had added. “Brainwashing is called that for a reason.” During her mother’s weekly babysitting visits, Cheryl had given her the articles to read. Her mother accepted them with no comment. When Cheryl ed her a video of a taped television show skeptical of recovered memories, her mother handed it back. “Don’t worry, Cheryl,” she said. “I’m aware of the media and have discussed this with Jeffrey, Gloria, and my group. Backlash for any movement of change is predictable.” “You could at least listen to what they’re saying.” “We do, as much as you listened to Gloria.” “I listened.” “That wasn’t her impression.”

“Only because her head was stuck up her ass.” Her mother’s lips tightened. “I’m not going to talk to you if you can’t be reasonable.” “I could say the same to you.” Cheryl gave up on trying to reach her mother and sister and revelled in the media’s scrambling onto the new bandwagon. She combed TV Guide each week for programs critical of recovered memories and stories of lives damaged by accusations that were almost certainly false. One show referred to a False Memory Syndrome Foundation in Philadelphia, started by family of persons accused. It claimed a hip of ten thousand people. Ten thousand North Americans burned by this therapy, and these were only the ones who’d heard of the foundation and had taken the trouble to . Cheryl sent a cheque to the address on the bottom of the TV screen. A package of information arrived in the mail. She pored over the details but paused at a declaration by a psychologist on the organization’s board that traumatic memories were always vividly recalled and never buried. At the hospital, Cheryl had done magnetic resonance tests on people affected by traumatic events they had forgotten. Their MRIs showed nothing abnormal, but one man had told her he knew the incident had occurred because it was corroborated by objective evidence. But that had been a single traumatic event. Had the foundation’s psychologist meant that repeated abuse spanning years couldn’t be repressed? This psychologist was a witness at trials involving recovered memories. Recent verdicts seemed to be moving away from accepting them as evidence. Cheryl felt the tide peak when a Doonesbury cartoon joked about a pop psychologist planting false memories. “This gave me a chuckle,” Cheryl said, when she handed Troy the cartoon in the bar. “Thanks to this tidal change, my drinking’s shrivelled to less than half. I might give up smoking again. But nothing else is solved. My mother and sister are still firmly entrenched in their camp. How can they be so blind to what’s going on?” Troy drew on his cigarette. “They thought the same of you when their star was high. We all bury our heads in comfortable delusions.”

Normally Troy boosted her spirits. Wayne had agreed her friendship with Troy was good for her. Once, she’d flirtingly asked Wayne why he didn’t view Troy as a threat. “From the way you describe him, he sounds kind of gay,” Wayne said. “Still in the closet to himself.” Cheryl had laughed. “Troy would have figured that out by now, with all his therapy and self-pondering.” But Troy had turned her down that drunk night she’d come onto him. “You’re a downer tonight,” she said to Troy now. “What’s up?” Her gaze strayed to a man in a booth along the side wall. He looked familiar. A regular at the bar? She and Troy landed here every few weeks. No, she thought she’d seen him elsewhere, in another context. Maybe she’d given him an MRI? “What are you staring at?” Troy twisted around. “See that guy in the booth, under the spotlight. Do you recognize him?” “Which one?” “On the left, sitting apart from the others. I can’t tell if he’s with them or not. Something about his hunched posture.” Cheryl squinted for a better look. “Oh... Troy, this is impossible. It can’t be him.”

Chapter Twenty-One

January 2020

Three closed doors faced the entrance to Dr. Jeffrey Szabo’s waiting room. No one sat behind the receptionist’s desk. Paula ired the colourful abstract paintings on the walls. A children’s zone scattered with building blocks occupied one corner of the room. Dr. Denise Young’s former patients would be grieving the loss of their therapist. How did parents explain this to a child? The middle door opened. Jeffrey strode out dressed in a blue suit and shirt open at his neck. As they shook hands, Paula thanked him for giving her his time. “My six-thirty client cancelled due to the flu,” Jeffrey said. “I have to wait for the next client, although I had considered slipping out to check on Kevin.” “How’s he doing?” “He’s stressed by the homicide aspect of the investigation going public.” Jeffrey’s tone was sharp. “Was that necessary, now that the case will be closed?” “No, in my opinion.” She glanced at the door to the right of his, closest to the play area. “Was that Denise’s office?” “Yes.” His brow creased. “I’ll be looking for a new associate. After over thirty years with her, it will be hard to find someone equally compatible.” He turned toward the coffee maker beside the reception desk. “Our machine isn’t as elaborate as Kevin’s but makes a decent brew. I’ll have one myself one to tide me through the evening.” “In that case, I’ll you.” While he made their coffees, she debated how to raise the subject of recovered memories. Over dinner at the restaurant, she’d continued wading through the

controversial issue on the internet. The one certainty was that around thirty years ago psychologists like Jeffrey and Denise had encouraged a wave of accusations, most commonly daughters recalling forgotten childhood abuse perpetrated by their fathers. Some reviewers praised the movement for raising awareness of incest and child abuse; others condemned it as a witch hunt. Jeffrey handed her a Styrofoam cup full of coffee and ushered her into his office. He motioned her toward a chair in front of his desk, angled toward a second chair. She supposed this was how he sat with his clients. They settled on the chairs. Paula decided not to circle the issue. “Did your profession get it wrong about repressed memories in the late eighties and early nineties?” Jeffrey’s hand tightened on his Styrofoam cup, but he stared directly at her, his gaze unwavering. “Are you asking because you think Gloria Odell recovered her memories of abuse in the course of her therapy with Denise?” “I got that impression from her sister.” He sipped his coffee. “I can’t speak for everyone practicing then. Most of us employed the best knowledge at the time, with the best intentions.” “But mistakes were made?” “In a handful of cases,” he said. “Our mistake, if there was one, was to assume memory is infallible. I was new to practicing therapy at that time and, perhaps, a little zealous. Today, I accept my clients’ memories as true for them and work from there.” “Even memories of Satanic rituals?” “They are less likely to be real in the literal sense.” He took another sip. True for them but false in reality? Paula wondered how clients and their families dealt with the contradiction, but she shouldn’t get sidetracked by psychological theory when Jeffrey’s professional clock was ticking. “So, a handful of people and their loved ones would have reason to be angry with Denise Young? Families broke up over this; reputations were shot; some fathers went to jail.”

Jeffrey glanced at his bookcase, filled with psychology tomes. Paula was angled toward his wall of diplomas and certificates. Both walls would impress his clients as much as they impressed her. “The justly accused, or their loved ones, could also be angry for those reasons,” he said. “People are inclined to convince themselves they’re innocent, or less guilty, especially over time. We all forget and distort details and refashion memories to put ourselves in a favourable light.” She had to wonder if he was refashioning his memory of his past therapy methods. Jazz music sounded from the cell phone on Jeffrey’s desk. He leaned sideways to look at the phone screen and frowned. “Excuse me, I have to take this call.” He picked up the phone. After a minute of listening, he told the caller, “It’s no trouble.” To give him a sense of privacy, Paula looked over his shoulder at the framed certificates. Any expert could get it wrong, including Jeffrey, the police, and her. No doubt over the years she’d made judgment errors in her insurance-adjusting work and decisions that angered claimants. She’d denied claims on fine points and technicalities, negotiated low settlements with people too timid to fight for more. One claim that disturbed her to this day involved an uninsured motorist who’d lost control of his car and injured three engers she represented. After settling their whiplash claims, fairly, she assigned a collection agency to recover the payment from the uninsured driver. She approved the agency’s action of garnishing a low-income man’s salary effectively for life. Each month a portion of his wages would go to a big insurance company, for whom the money was a drop in the pail. Money he and his wife could have spent on better-quality food, a vacation, their children. Technically, Paula had been in the right. But if she could do it again, she’d have dropped the matter and let the insurance company suck up the loss. Jeffrey wasn’t the only person who’d been overzealous in his early career. Paula finished her coffee while Jeffrey listened to the caller. His periodic words were soothing. “I can see you here tonight at eight,” Jeffrey said, just before ending the call. “Don’t forget to drive carefully.” He returned his cell phone to the desk and

apologized to Paula for the interruption. “Where were we?” “Talking about how we distort memories to make ourselves look better in hindsight. I can see this might lead to blaming those we feel wronged us for our current problems.” Jeffrey nodded. “A person who feels his life is failing can come to focus blame on someone else or an outside event rather than assume responsibility. Instead of working to fix what they can control, they stew inside for years and, on occasion, become dangerous. I assume this is what happened with Gloria’s father.” “We’ll never know, since this won’t go to trial.” “That’s unfortunate, in of Kevin finding closure. Are you in a hurry to go somewhere?” “Not especially.” Sam and Ron would both be out for a couple of hours, or more. Jeffrey crossed one leg over the other. His pants leg rose, revealing a patterned sock. From this distance, the design looked like tiny people. “I was uncomfortable leaving Kevin alone tonight, but I have an obligation to my next client, who is only available on Friday evenings. Now this other one will keep me later. Are you aware of the social media fervour surrounding Francis Odell?” “A little.” She’d been too busy researching RMT to check the latest developments on Facebook. “Kevin called me before you arrived. The intensity of the posts disturbs him, but he can’t tear himself him away from them. Do you have an insurance reason to visit Kevin?” “There’s nothing pressing.” But she wouldn’t mind an excuse to see him and possibly learn more. Jeffrey uncrossed his leg. “Kevin appreciates your attention and almost views you as a friend. As long as this doesn’t negatively impact his insurance claim, I encourage it. Kevin can use all the social he can get, and I’m not able to be there all the time.”

This would explain why Jeffrey hadn’t advised Kevin to hire a lawyer to handle his claim, as Paula had expected he would. Jeffrey stole a glance at his watch. She guessed their time was up. Both stood and faced each other. “If you’re free now, checking in on Kevin wouldn’t hurt,” Jeffrey said. “He won’t question a phone call from you asking if you can drop by with whatever reason you come up with.” His lips twitched, presumably suppressing a smile at their shared ruse.

* * *

The wind whipped through Paula’s coat on her way up Kevin’s driveway. He welcomed her into the warmth of his house. Zelda wove between their ankles in figure eights and tilted sideways each time her sore leg hit the tile. Paula patted the retriever. “I’m sure she recognizes me.” “She’s smarter than some humans,” Kevin said. “After you called, I held off on her walk.” Paula ed their last walk was in mild Chinook sunshine. She’d agreed then with his suggestion of a future walk. “It’s turned colder than forecast today. I didn’t dress for spending long outside.” “I’ve got warm stuff you can borrow.” He went to the closet, handed her a pullover, and pointed to bins of gloves, mittens, and hats. “Have your pick.” While Kevin dressed Zelda in a jacket and booties, Paula pulled a man’s fleece top over her sweater and selected a tuque that fit snugly over her ears. Kevin ed her a scarf. “This was Denise’s favourite.” Uncomfortable as it was to wear the clothes of a woman dead less than two weeks, this was better than freezing. Paula buttoned her coat over the fleece, wrapped the maroon wool scarf around her neck, and put on a pair of fur-lined mittens, glad she’d worn pants instead of a skirt. Kevin threw on a down jacket,

hat, gloves, and boots and secured Zelda’s leash. They set out into the darkness and snow that had started to fall. At the end of the driveway, Zelda turned in the direction of Wintergreen Close. Paula wondered how well Kevin had learned to handle his return to the traumatic location. Zelda led them down the street. “It’s not so bad out,” Paula said, although the north wind chilled her exposed cheek. She pulled Denise’s scarf higher. “My mother always said the weather’s fine if you dress for it.” “Mine says that too.” “Mama died last summer.” “I’m sorry.” Kevin stopped to let Zelda sniff a snowbank glistening yellow under the lamplight. “We got to Nova Scotia in time for a few quality days with her at the end. She and Denise hit it off so well Denise wished she’d gone home with me more.” From her dealings with people from the Maritimes, Paula had learned they often referred to their birthplace as home years after they left. Kevin had been away at least thirty years. “How often did you get home?” “A few times a year for me, Denise went every couple of years. She preferred to use her minimal vacation time for our more exciting trips. Maybe, too, she liked the breaks from me.” “What makes you think this?” “She more or less said it.” Kevin’s jaw tightened, possibly from thinking of the words that had hurt him. Their marriage, like all relationships, can’t have been perfect. Zelda stopped at the main street. Several cars rumbled past, blowing clouds of engine exhaust. Snow blew in her face, and Paula pulled the scarf up over her nose, catching a whiff of perfume.

“But you want to talk about insurance,” Kevin said. “Why are you here, again?” She shifted to business mode. “How is your concentration and anxiety?” “The same,” he said. “Worse today, on of the craziness on Facebook and hearing the police won’t go to bat for Denise. Can’t they charge the guy in absentia?” “A deceased person can’t stand trial.” Once the street was clear of cars, they walked diagonally across it to Wintergreen Close. Zelda yanked Kevin ahead, and Paula hurried to catch up. She skidded but regained her balance. She was on the curb side, Denise’s position that night. She couldn’t think of more “business” and returned to the personal, avoiding the sensitive subjects of Denise and her final walk with Kevin and Zelda. “Didn’t Gloria live on this street thirty years ago?” “Until she and her husband separated and they both moved to smaller places.” “Did you continue to see her after that?” “For a while, then we drifted apart. People get busy.” Paula wanted to clarify the time gap between their past and present relationships. “Did you ever run into her, living in the same neighbourhood?” “You’d think so, especially since it turns out we go to the same gym. But I’m into weights and machines. She teaches yoga and Pilates.” A gap of ten to twenty-five years would be long for Gloria to carry a torch for Kevin. Zelda tugged them to the end of the fence by the golf course. They ed the first house on the street, and then the second. At the third house, Zelda crouched on the snow. Ahead, a streetlamp illuminated the hedge and remaining chunk of the obelisk struck by Francis Odell’s car. Kevin took a plastic bag from his pocket and scooped up the turd. Zelda slipped on the sidewalk.

“She’s lost her shoe,” Paula said. “Weird. It always stayed on before.” “Could be due to her awkward gait.” Kevin kicked up sidewalk snow. “I don’t see it.” Paula looked back at the snow-covered sidewalk receding into darkness. “She must have dropped the shoe along the way. We’ll find it on the way back.” Kevin let go of the leash, like he’d done the last time. Zelda limped toward the hedge and broken obelisk. She’d freeze if she were out too long. Since Kevin remained immobile, Paula leaned forward to grab the leash, slipped, and steadied her boots on the ice. Zelda picked up speed. Paula edged toward her and fumbled for the leash. She managed to grasp the handle and haul Zelda back. Kevin stared into the beam of streetlamp light shining on the smashed hedge and rock. Zelda rubbed against Paula’s legs. “I heard the car behind us.” Kevin’s voice cracked. “Roaring, speeding up. I turned around. Denise didn’t hear. She kept walking; she didn’t know.” His tone grew shrill. “I looked back at her and the metal crashed into me, knocked me down.” He leaped into the snowy yard. “If I’d run, pushed her away from the car...” He was ing what happened, at last, and blaming himself for Denise’s death. “There wasn’t time.” “I’d have saved her.” He rubbed his head. Paula moved toward him. “You couldn’t—” “One thing I could do for her. One single thing, and I didn’t.” His arm shot out, shoving Paula forward. She gasped, skidded, tumbled over Zelda. Paula rolled her shoulder to break the fall and hit rock.

* * *

January 2010

Gloria drove onto Kevin and Denise’s street, delaying her return to her silent home after the funeral visitation. The sky was pure blue. Fresh snow glistened on the evergreen trees. She steered her car to the right to let an approaching SUV in the rut that was carved in the middle of the street. She hadn’t detoured to their street since the summer. As always when she did, she wondered if she’d see a For Sale sign or something else at the house to indicate a change in their situation. During the first years she’d thought there might be a baby carriage, but Denise was over fifty now. Gloria slowed in front of the house Kevin and Denise had bought after a few years of renting. They’d gutted the inside and created a great room on the main floor. Dumpsters and renovation trucks had sat in the driveway for months. Gloria would have loved a peek at the finished result, but her Saturday-morning outings with Kevin had ended by then. The renovation had accelerated their decline. Too often, Kevin had cancelled because he had to stay home for a workman or delivery. Gloria had wondered if Denise purposely scheduled them on Saturday mornings to sabotage his friendship with Gloria. It would be flattering to think Denise had viewed her as a threat. Continuing to indulge her nostalgia, Gloria crossed the main street to Wintergreen Close for a look at her former home. On this most expensive street in the neighbourhood, several owners had expanded the already big houses into mega-homes that filled their yards’ maximum footprints. The people who’d bought her home ten years ago had replaced the siding with stucco, brick and stone. It looked classier, but Arthur had said it was a waste of money for a cosmetic improvement. When they’d separated, he’d moved a few blocks away to be close to their daughters, who shuffled between their parents’ homes and kept Gloria up to date on Arthur’s activities. A month ago, during the Christmas holidays, his girlfriend had moved into his house. Gloria refrained from spying on him since he might recognize her car. From Wintergreen Close, she drove north to the bungalow she’d bought with her

mother after Arthur told her he was leaving because he’d had enough. “Enough of what?” she’d asked, leaning into the piano for . “If you don’t know, it’s too late to explain,” he said. “Let’s start the new century right.” She stood straight, her arms crossed. “You could never accept the new me.” He shook his head. “I had hopes for a while after you quit therapy and your walks with that guy.” Sometimes Gloria wondered if she’d stopped therapy partly in retaliation for Denise taking Kevin from her. “You want to know the worst of it?” Arthur had turned to the family room. “All those years, I held back on hugging the girls, touching them, conscious of what you said about your father. We all missed out on that closeness.” Gloria had stormed into the hall, up to her bedroom, regretting her choice to tell the truth ten years earlier. She could have bottled it up, lived a lie, been the compliant wife, daughter, and mother. Died inside. But, as had happened with her mother, the separation had jump-started Gloria into taking action for her mental, physical, and vocational health. She’d signed up for Pilates and yoga classes at the gym and started a group in her new living room. Business cards, notices, and word of mouth drew so many incest survivors that she planned to form a second group now that she’d be less busy looking after her mother. She’d also discussed with current the possibility of charging a nominal amount to cover the cost of coffee and cookies and her preparation time. All agreed the meetings were worth it. Gloria gained as much from them as the other survivors and told them this from her heart. She also planned to inquire at the gym about teaching yoga and Pilates. She was as skilled now as some of her instructors. This would bring in a little cash, but she’d still need her ing practice to pay the bills. Her mother had willed her money to Cheryl to compensate for Gloria getting her mother’s share of the bungalow. Gloria found herself on her street, having got there on automatic pilot. Her marriage separation had worked out well for her mother and her. Both instantly

relaxed in the smaller house, without Arthur present, although her arguments with her teenage daughters increased. They challenged her on curfews and other rules, while generally toeing the line with Arthur. The girls blamed her for the marriage breakup, although technically Arthur was the one who had left. Despite this new step with his girlfriend, he hadn’t mentioned divorce to Gloria, and her probing of the girls had drawn blanks. Why postpone the inevitable? Why let him be the initiator again? She’d pre-empt Arthur by bringing it up soon. She parked in her driveway, went inside, and defrosted a container of vegetable soup to warm for dinner. The afternoon visitation had worn her out; people her mother had known through her work, church, and knitting group had swarmed Gloria for two hours. She envied Cheryl’s knack for deflecting them. Gloria couldn’t shake her old desire to please. Denise might disagree, but Gloria was glad, in the end, she’d pleased her mother. Gloria ate her soup and stared out the kitchen window at the late-day shadows on the snow. She’d never forget those last moments, seated beside the hospital bed. Her mother reclined on the pillow, tubes threaded up her nostrils, thin from the cancer that had spread through her body. Her frail fingers reached for Gloria, who placed her palm on her mother’s hand, all bones. “I’m sorry, Gloria,” her mother rasped. Forgive when you’re ready, Denise had counselled years ago. Gloria had discussed the issue with the group she led and shared her inability to forgive her mother for closing her eyes to her husband’s abuse. The group agreed that forgiveness was more for the one who was hurt, to enable her to move on with life; its role of easing a perpetrator’s guilty conscience was secondary, or unimportant. Forgiveness had to be genuine to do good. But would her mother, fading from life, know if Gloria’s forgiveness was real or not? In the hospital, Gloria had stood and leaned over the figure in the bed. “I forgive you, Mom.” Her mother’s lips had quivered, and a wave of relief had washed through Gloria and flooded to near joy. Gloria finished the soup, which her mother had prepared sitting at the kitchen table because she was too weak to stand. Her group had been right. Gloria’s letting go of the hurt had cleansed her more than it had her mother, who didn’t

need forgiveness anymore.

* * *

Gloria arrived at the funeral parlour ten minutes early for the evening visitation. Cheryl was already in the lobby, scanning the condolence cards the afternoon visitors had left in the basket. A man Gloria didn’t recognize stood off to the side. Cheryl introduced her friend. “Troy’s moved into Dad’s basement.” “I hope you work out better than his previous tenants,” Gloria said as they shook hands. The man blanched, perhaps interpreting her remark as a criticism. “Good of you to come for my mother,” she added, to be positive. “Francis and I stopped by on our way to buy window blinds and curtains.” Troy looked at the visitation room door, which was ajar. “Is Dad here?” Gloria glared at Cheryl. “I thought we’d agreed he’d only come to the funeral. That’s what Mom wanted.” “He asked for a few minutes alone with her before people arrived,” Cheryl said. “I didn’t see any harm in that.” Gloria stalked into the visitation room. At the far end, her father leaned over the closed casket. He turned around as Gloria marched toward him. “I know she can’t hear me,” he said. “But I talked about some of our good times together, alone, and with you girls. They were mostly good, I think, before she left.” “Because she was blind to who you really were.” His lips narrowed. “This isn’t the place for that.” “You brought it up by coming here.”

“I keep hoping you’ll change your mind.” His lips softened. She crossed her arms. “You can hope forever.” He stared down into her eyes. “If you do reconsider, after I’m gone, Gloria, I want you to know that I don’t blame you or your mother.” “Blame us? You’re the one to blame. I don’t care what you think about any of it.” “You might, when it’s too late to tell me.” She hated that he, and probably Arthur and Cheryl too, still thought this was a phase she’d get over. “Are you leaving now?” “I truly believe, Gloria, that you and your mother were victims of ignorant psychologists. They should be held able.” “Leave.” She pressed her folded arms to her abdomen and followed his gaze to the walnut coffin. On top was a portrait of her mother, taken the summer she turned fifty. Gloria, Cheryl, and their father had hosted a surprise party for her, and she’d been touched by the turnout of people from all areas of her life— family, neighbours, church, knitting club. Gloria and Cheryl agreed that the portrait photographer had captured their mother’s genuine warmth and comion. Now she lay inside this box, the focus of a party she couldn’t attend. Gloria’s eyes stung with tears, but she refused to cry in front of her father. “I’m on my way,” he said. “To spew my misery with Troy at the windowcovering store. He and I have zero interest in curtains and blinds.” Gloria was still in a sour mood when the next visitors arrived, two coworkers from the travel clothing and accessory store where her mother worked after the bookstore closed. They reminisced about how she enjoyed outfitting people for overseas trips despite her disinterest in travel. Her one exotic trip was beach holiday with Gloria in Mexico. Both had loved getting tipsy from their afternoon margaritas in the lagoon-style pool and had giggled like girlfriends. Gloria thought she might like to travel more now that she was on her own but couldn’t on her budget. Her inheritance was tied up in her house, and she’d no longer have her mother’s contribution to the ongoing expenses.

Gloria struggled through the rest of the evening, greeting people she knew, didn’t know, or had briefly met. Cousins. An uncle from Edmonton, last seen ten years ago—a heavy drinker, like all his siblings except her mother, who’d escaped that family curse. More visitors from the knitting club and church. Neighbours. A former customer from the bookstore, who had seen the newspaper obituary notice. “Mom would be tickled you ed her,” Gloria said, her spirits momentarily lifted. Wayne, Cheryl’s ex-husband, showed up. He said he’d also attend the funeral. “Arthur’s going too,” Gloria told him. Wayne grinned. “We can commiserate on how we screwed things up with the Odell sisters.” Gloria turned away. Wayne’s humour had often annoyed her. She spotted a man entering the room. Despite his grey hair, she recognized the psychologist her mother had continued to see to the end, every few months, “for a booster,” she’d joked. Jeffrey Szabo made a beeline for Gloria. He held her hand and expressed his sorrow for her loss. “Marilyn was a great lady,” he said. “I’ll miss our conversations.” Gloria knew from her mother’s reports that Jeffrey and Denise’s practice had moved from the bungalow to a traditional office building. “How is Denise?” she asked. “I haven’t seen her around the neighbourhood.” Or seen Kevin, in years. “She and Kevin are living in the same place,” Jeffrey said. “They’re on vacation now. Hiking in New Zealand. My partner and I meet them regularly for card games.” Gloria felt a stab of jealousy. This could have been her life if Arthur had hit it off with Denise and Kevin, and they’d all become couples’ friends. Gloria told herself to let that hurt go. She was over Kevin. She really was. After Arthur left, she’d told herself, “I am worth more than this,” and her lingering ion for Kevin shrivelled to ash. Denise might say, “It left easily because you were ready.”

Jeffrey apologized for having to miss the funeral the next day due to appointments he couldn’t reschedule. Gloria nodded but felt hurt on her mother’s behalf. While Jeffrey cared about her mother as a client, they weren’t friends any more than Gloria had been friends with Denise. Gloria had been needy and unrealistic to wish for more. After everyone had trickled away, Cheryl came over to Gloria. They stood by the casket. “I wasn’t keen on these visitations,” Cheryl said. “I went along because Mom wanted them, but they’ve made me see she had a life outside of us.” “I knew that.” Cheryl touched the casket. “You spent more time with her these past years.” “We became friends, in a sense. More than mother and daughter.” “You were lucky that way,” Cheryl said. “Thanks, too, for all you did when Mom got sick.” Warmth rose up Gloria’s neck at the unexpected compliment. “You did your part.” “Less than I could have.” It was rare to hear humbled reflections from Cheryl. Gloria pictured them together in a lagoon pool, giggling and drinking margaritas—friends, sisters, twins. Cheryl’s hand left the casket. “I couldn’t help resent that she picked you over Dad and me.” Gloria bristled. “She loved us equally.” “I know, but I think she understood early that Dad and I would have each other. She didn’t want you to be alone.” Gloria’s warmth turned to heat at Cheryl’s implication their mother’s of Gloria had come from comion rather than belief. Cheryl getting drunk on

margaritas fit; the rest of Gloria’s lagoon fantasy was impossible.

* * *

January 2020

Gloria drove north on Deerfoot Trail on her way home from her daughter’s house. She couldn’t get rid of the nagging questions that had plagued her through dinner. How was Kevin taking the news of her father’s death? What did he think of the media announcement about the homicide investigation into the accident that injured him and claimed Denise’s life? And how would this affect his renewed relationship with Gloria? Crack. A vehicle speeding by had thrown up a stone, creating a star-shaped chip on the windshield’s enger side. Shit. She’d have to get it repaired before the chip spread and broke the glass. Who could have predicted that meeting Kevin at the courthouse would rekindle her interest in him? Their talks and walks had resumed as though the previous years hadn’t existed. And she sensed their reunion had lit a spark in him—she prayed it was more than a rebound after Denise. She’d hate if these new developments extinguished the fragile flames, to come so close and lose him a second time. She took the exit to their neighbourhood. It was only 7:46 p.m., not too late to stop by Kevin’s place. He was expecting her, sort of. She’d told him she might have time after dinner. Kevin had said he’d appreciate her company, since Jeffrey was at the office. Oddly, for someone who worked at home, Kevin didn’t seem to like being alone outside of his work, one reason he enjoyed having a dog. He was impressed that Zelda had taken to Gloria right away. According to Kevin, the dog and Jeffrey despised each other. Gloria chuckled. If this prompted

Jeffrey to move out soon, there’d be more space in Kevin’s life for her. She turned onto his street, bumped down the rut, and noticed a vehicle parked in front of his house. Not Jeffrey’s BMW, she saw as she drew closer. Good. He was still at work and wouldn’t get in the way of her questions for Kevin. Earlier today, another one had popped into her head, but she wasn’t ready to raise it with Kevin yet. While they were making funeral arrangements, Cheryl had said she believed their father had purposely overdosed on his heart medication, feeling beaten by the police pressure. “I can’t see Dad giving up,” Gloria had said. “He’s too stubborn and always sure he’s in the right.” “He’s old and tired and sick. That changes a person.” Gloria sensed a hollowness in Cheryl’s tone. Had she been talking about herself? Tired, sad, beaten. Then it hit Gloria—a flash of intuition. Cheryl thinks the police toxicology tests will point to suicide, and she’s spinning a line to make us think Dad killed himself because he was depressed, to steer us all away from the real reason. But what was the real reason? Gloria kept returning to the same answer—to shut down the police investigation. Her father was scum in several ways, but he would die to protect Cheryl. Gloria parked across the street from Kevin’s house. The sedan in front must belong to someone visiting Kevin’s neighbour. She navigated the ice on the street and driveway, the north wind pounding the back of her head, and rang Kevin’s doorbell. No answer or barking dog. Kevin and Zelda must be out for their walk. If she knew the route they’d taken, she’d go to meet them. Kevin was still freaked by Wintergreen Close. After dark, he only went there with Jeffrey. She braced herself against the wind on her way to the sidewalk and peered east and west and east again. A couple appeared from around the corner, a dog pulling ahead of them. Gloria’s heart rose as she recognized the man’s saunter. Kevin. The pair walked under a streetlight. The woman looked up at him; she was Denise’s height. Gloria shivered. Denise? She was alive? A ghost? That was stupid. The woman was real.

Zelda limped but managed to drag Kevin forward. The woman caught up with them. She wasn’t Denise, but her gait looked familiar. Gloria squinted and realized it was the insurance adjuster. What was her name? Paula. Why was she with him on a Friday night? Dog-walking wasn’t insurance work. With the criminal part of Paula’s work settled, had she and Kevin moved from business to personal? So quickly? It had happened quickly between Denise and him too. Gloria waved at them, her heart a knot. It was unfair, Kevin connecting with another woman. Just when Gloria was finally rid of Denise.

Chapter Twenty-Two

January 2020

Pain shot through Paula’s right arm as she took off her coat in Kevin’s house, but in that moment of hurtling through the air she’d thought her head would strike the obelisk. Better it was her shoulder. Zelda limped to the living room and settled beside the vase with daffodils. Kevin apologized to Paula again for knocking her down during his startling recovery of his memory of the hit and run. While he described his experience to Gloria, Paula carefully pulled the fleece sweater over her shoulders and head. “When the car knocked me onto the ground, I craned my neck up.” Kevin repeated the details he’d told Paula on Wintergreen Close. “I saw the brake lights. It made a three-point turn and sped back on the other side of the street. I was helpless, like a turtle on its back.” His voice trembled, but less than it had before. He’d managed to handle Zelda’s leash all the way home. “Could you tell who was driving?” Gloria’s hand paused on her zipper, which seemed to have stuck part way down the jacket. “A man or woman? Old or young?” “It was too dark.” Paula had confirmed there was no streetlight directly across the street. At most, Kevin would have seen the silhouetted head of the driver. Gloria struggled with her zipper, looking down, her expression obscured by her hair. She’d naturally be concerned that Kevin might have identified her father as the driver. “Was the driver wearing a hat?” Paula said. “Any details, however vague, would help.” Kevin shook his head. “At the time, I must have focused on phoning 911.”

“That probably saved you from hypothermia,” Gloria said. “It didn’t save Denise.” Kevin’s voice choked. “Your phoning gave her the best chance.” Paula said. “And without your quick thinking, Zelda’s leg might have needed amputation.” “She’s right,” Gloria said. “Kevin, you have to focus on the positives.” He rubbed his head. “Did I block it out because I failed Denise?” “You didn’t,” Paula and Gloria said at the same time. “I need to talk to Jeffrey when he gets home.” Kevin paced to the kitchen island and back. Gloria frowned and gave up on the zipper. “It always gets caught on the material.” She removed the jacket over her head and draped it over the banister’s newel post. “All this has exhausted me.” Kevin looked from Paula to Gloria. “If you don’t mind, I’ll go up and lie down. Don’t let that stop you from waiting here. Make yourselves coffee.” He shuffled up the stairs. Paula turned to Gloria. “Waiting for what?” Gloria shrugged. “Him to come back down or for Jeffrey to arrive?” “I won’t stay, but I’ll check my messages before heading out in the cold.” A couple of text and email notifications had chimed during the walk back with Kevin. Paula fished her phone from her purse. She winced as pain pulsed through her shoulder. “I’ll check that he’s okay before leaving.” Gloria trotted upstairs. Paula’s phone showed a few new emails from insurance claimants and one from Isabelle, who reported that her meds were kicking in “awesomely.” Her dizziness had improved enough for her to keep tabs on Trina Mendes’ Facebook thread about Francis, the alleged pedophile. Eighty-six comments, fairly evenly split for and against Francis. One negative commentator called Trina a sick tranny.

Isabelle added a string of question marks. Is Trina trans? You didn’t tell me this. Did the commentator mean transgender? Paula recalled watching Trina and her brother take down Francis’ exterior Christmas lights, Trina’s ponytail wagging. She was taller and more muscular than Troy, but so was Cheryl. Isabelle added that Trina’s cousin had replied to the “tranny” comment, saying Trina had denied her father his only son. Isabelle commented on the reply, saying Troy was his other son. Trina wrote, Half brother, different fathers. The cousin remarked, That’s one way of looking at it. More question marks from Isabelle. Paula didn’t know what the cousin had meant either, but it was time to haul Isabelle away from her beloved social media. Paula replied, Thanks for all this. It’s a big help. Now, you rest and leave Trina’s posts alone, so you’ll be well enough for work on Monday. Paula scrolled to Mike’s earlier text message. He’d confirmed their coffee meeting for tomorrow morning, but she didn’t want to wait that long to try to convince him to question Kevin again on the chance that he’d recall some details about the driver. She could get to Mike’s by nine tonight, which wouldn’t be late for either of them. Gloria returned. “Kevin’s asleep already. I think he’ll be fine until Jeffrey gets here.” Paula agreed. She texted Mike to change their meeting time. Gloria grabbed her jacket from the banister, threw it on over her head, and left it semi-zipped. Paula put on her coat, slowly, her shoulder in agony with each movement. They left the house together. The north wind had grown so strong that Paula quickly told Gloria she’d her later to settle her father’s collision claim and scooted to her car. Gloria crossed the street to her parked Cube. Huddled in her driver’s seat, Paula checked her phone while the frost on the windshield cleared. Mike had texted back, OK. My home. Gloria did a three-point turn and drove down the street, in the direction of her house. Paula followed. She’d take Deerfoot Trail to Mike’s place in the northeast. Both stopped at the red light at the entry street into the neighbourhood. But instead of turning right toward her home, Gloria turned left. To do some shopping, Paula guessed, but she’d been surprised Gloria hadn’t stayed with Kevin. Gloria might have a more interesting reason for leaving him

and Paula could afford a short diversion on her way to Mike’s. She turned behind Gloria. On Macleod Trail, Gloria crossed to the farthest lane. She made a left turn, which would take her toward her father’s home. Paula maintained a reasonable distance behind her to Francis Odell’s street. Gloria parked behind Ron’s car. Paula stopped farther back and watched Gloria get out and stomp to the front door of her father’s house. After a few minutes, Gloria returned to the sidewalk, her shoulders hunched. Paula inched forward, parked behind Gloria, and got out. Gloria started. “Paula? You didn’t say you were coming here.” “My brother’s spending the evening with Cheryl.” Paula drew closer to her on the sidewalk. Gloria glanced at Ron’s car, which was parked behind Cheryl’s. “I wondered who that belonged to. Troy didn’t mention him.” She pulled her opened jacket over her chest. “Did Troy answer the door?” Gloria nodded. “He said Cheryl went to bed, tired from the day.” And three or four hours of drinking with Ron. “Troy told me he was cleaning up after dinner,” Gloria said. “I don’t know where your brother fits into this. Maybe helping with the dishes.” She stamped her boots. “I’m freezing and need to think about what to do next. Let’s talk in the car.” She darted between Ron’s bumper and her car’s snub nose to the driver’s side. Paula touched Gloria’s enger door handle. Wind whipped through her coat. Mike was expecting her, but whatever Gloria had to say might add to Paula’s case for requestioning Kevin. She got into the car’s front enger seat. Gloria started the engine and turned up the heat and fan. “Who cares if Troy sees the lights and wonders what I’m doing here. His excuse about Cheryl is fishy.” She stared at Paula. “I know Kevin left us to go to bed, but that’s Kevin. Cheryl wouldn’t leave the party if they had to prop her up.”

“I was here a few hours ago,” Paula said. “She was drinking a fair bit when I left.” “Am I surprised?” Gloria’s eyes narrowed. “How does your brother know Cheryl?” “My mistake for introducing them.” “All I can say is he better watch out. Cheryl’s up to something.” Paula tensed. “What do you mean?” “She dropped a hint this afternoon while we were taking care of funeral stuff. It confirms a feeling I had that she took our dad’s car and ran down Denise and Kevin.” Paula’s heart beat quicker. “What did Cheryl say?” Gloria removed her gloves and placed them on the divider between the split bench seat. She rested one hand on the steering wheel. “I’ve never believed my father, with his health problems, was up to all that driving,” Gloria said. “Hours of stalking Denise at her work and then on her walks with Kevin. Do you accept Dad’s confession and the police verdict?” “I don’t know,” Paula said, truthfully. Gloria hadn’t answered her question about Cheryl. Paula felt the outer pocket of her purse for her phone, to be prepared to call 911 if needed. For all she knew, Gloria had been the driver, and her objective was to steer suspicion onto her sister. Gloria’s right hand fiddled with her gloves. “I worry that Kevin thought the driver was a woman and was afraid to say, because who else could it be but Cheryl?” Gloria squeezed her gloves. “I had a hunch Kevin was holding something back. He’d know that seeing a driver who wasn’t my father would complicate the verdict. That might be why Kevin left us to go to bed, so he wouldn’t say too much before getting Jeffrey’s advice.” This seemed plausible. “He should tell the police anything he knows and let them take it from there.”

“What if it’s not enough for them to make an arrest? Then Cheryl goes free, and Kevin will always worry she’ll go for him to shut him up. He’ll steer clear of everything to do with her, which includes me.” Gloria wrung her hands together. “I’m not losing him twice, and certainly not for Cheryl.” “Why are you so certain she was driving?” “I’m not.” Gloria’s hands dropped to her lap. “That’s why I drove here from Kevin’s, to confront her. But how can I, with no more evidence than a hunch? Cheryl will lie, anyway, and Troy, her lapdog, will back her up.” She paused and shifted her gaze past Paula. “There’s someone looking out the window.” Paula twisted around. Light shone through the drawn curtains. “He’s gone now,” Gloria said. “I only saw him a second. Could have been Troy or your brother.” Paula looked at the snow falling on Troy’s Beetle, which was parked in the driveway. “Why did you call him her lapdog?” “When he was hanging around today, he was going out of his way to do things for Cheryl.” Paula returned to Gloria, who was rubbing her hands. “Wouldn’t that be to help her through her grief?” “I got the sense he was trying to butter her up.” That could be to encourage her to buy Gloria’s share of the house, so he could stay as a renter, but he could have a more sinister motive. Paula glanced at the living room windows flanking Francis’ fireplace. If Cheryl had taken her father’s car, she might have confided in Troy, or he’d guessed. They were long-time friends. He’d know what she was capable of, or she’d let it slip while drinking. If Troy’s “buttering up” was a form of blackmailing Cheryl into keeping the house, that was a dangerous strategy. “Are you here to check up on your brother?” Gloria asked. Paula looked at Gloria, debating how much to share. Gloria might tell Cheryl too much during their confrontation. “I’d like to get him out of there.”

“I want to talk to Cheryl, even if I have to drag her out of bed.” Gloria put on her gloves and smoothed them over each finger. If Cheryl had gone to bed, Paula might be able to entice Ron to leave by inviting him to her at Mike’s house. Ron would love the involvement in police work. “I’ll go alone,” she said. Gloria turned off the car engine. “I want to see for myself what’s going on there. If nothing else, I’d like to know if my sister had Troy turn me away. And why.” Paula reconsidered. Gloria wasn’t a wild card like Cheryl, and it also seemed Gloria would do anything to protect Kevin. “Okay, but make sure you don’t give away that Kevin re the collision now and might provide new evidence.” Gloria grimaced. “You can trust me on that.” Paula took out her cell phone to text Mike she’d be late. On the chance things went sideways while she was in the house, she typed, Delayed 15 minutes at Francis Odell’s. I’ll text when I leave. If Mike didn’t hear from her by then, he’d follow up. They got out of the car and walked up the sidewalk, heads bent into the fierce wind. At the doorstep, Paula pressed the buzzer. A minute later, Troy opened the door. His eyebrows shot up. Paula edged into the house, forcing Troy to step backward. “Can I talk to my brother?” Savoury aromas from their dinner wafted into the entranceway. “Is that Paula?” Ron called from the living room, his voice faint. Gloria nudged into Paula and closed the door behind them. “Come up and us for a hot toddy,” Cheryl said. Her head jutted above Francis’ armchair. “Troy’s concocted a tasty brew.” “He told me you’d gone to bed.” Gloria’s tone was sharp. Troy flushed. “When the doorbell rang before, Cheryl said to get rid of whoever was there. That was the first thing that popped into my head. Sorry, Gloria.”

He padded to the living room. Paula removed her boots and coat, her arm tortured by the motion. While Gloria pulled her jacket over her head, Paula unlocked the front door, in case they needed to make a quick getaway—like Gloria, she had a hunch something was happening she didn’t understand. She clutched her purse and followed Gloria to the conversation nook. Cheryl sat in the armchair, Ron across the room on the dining chair, as though neither had moved in the past four hours. Troy leaned over the coffee table collecting empty wine and beer bottles, used glasses, and plates of half-eaten dessert squares. The fire burned in the fireplace. Paula glanced at the mantel clock and reminded herself to text Mike in about ten minutes, to not cause a false alarm. She moved behind the sofa, to make space for Troy on his way to the kitchen with the loaded tray. “What do you want to talk to me about, Paula?” Ron asked. Since Cheryl wasn’t in bed, Paula decided not to mention Mike or the police. “I finished my meeting with a claimant and stopped by to see if you wanted a ride home.” “Thanks, Mom.” He saluted her with his glass mug. “I’m old enough for a driver’s licence.” Cheryl laughed and looked at Gloria. “What brings you here, sis? Ron, aren’t we both lucky to have sisters so concerned for our welfare?” Her gaze shifted between Paula and Gloria. “Troy will have your drinks in a sec.” Gloria squinted at Cheryl. “Unlike you, I don’t need alcohol to dull my pain.” Cheryl smiled. “Our parents’ toddy recipe is Shirley Temple liquor-free. Ron and I are drinking them to sober up.” Paula looked at Ron. How drunk was he? His nose and cheeks were red, but he hadn’t slurred any words. There seemed to be no way get him out of the house. As he’d said, he was a big boy and would have to fend for himself. Her cell phone pinged in her purse. Mike? She took out the phone. A text from Isabelle. Urgent. Sent email. Chills ran up Paula’s arms. She clicked onto Isabelle’s email. Searched Denise

Young. She was an expert witness in a couple of old trials that might be important. Details attached. Troy emerged from the kitchen. He set the tray and a glass mug for Paula on the dining table, continued to the nook with two mugs, and gave one to Gloria. Paula felt her brow knit and didn’t want the others to see her concern. She edged to the dining area, opened the attachment, and skimmed. February 1990 trial, foster parents charged with sexually abusing three children in their care... Denise Young, psychologist, and witness for the prosecution, interviewed the children... testimony pivotal in their conviction... Sentenced to jail... appealed... lost. Troy returned to the age between the dining table and china cabinet and sipped his toddy. Ron and Cheryl sat on their chairs, drinking in silence. Gloria stayed behind the sofa, holding her drink. “Why are you here, Gloria?” Cheryl asked. “To observe,” Gloria said. Paula continued with Isabelle’s attachment, conscious of Troy, who now was staring at her. April 1990, Larry Quinn, daycare owner, charged with sexually abusing seven children. Alleged Satanic rituals and burial of babies in the yard. Denise Young interviewed these children and confirmed their statements at trial. Jury acquitted Quinn. Paula looked up at Troy. He placed his empty mug on the table. The foster parents and daycare owner on trial would have motives to hate a prime witness who’d testified against them. Troy was about sixty now. How old were the foster parents and daycare worker thirty years ago? Paula scanned the document for their ages but couldn’t concentrate with Troy watching. The trial defendants’ fingerprints would likely be in the police records. Had the police checked Troy’s prints in connection with the recent hit and run? In any case, they would naturally be in a car that he drove occasionally, and he’d have probably worn gloves if he took Francis’ car to stalk Denise. Paula returned to her text messages, avoiding a glance at Troy to not clue him in. She texted Mike, Possible trouble. Send help. Her next task was to get Gloria out to her car. Paula tucked her phone in her purse, looked up and caught Troy’s stare. Troy marched to Cheryl. “She knows,” he said. “That’s why she’s here.”

Paula moved toward Gloria to shove her to the front entrance, if needed. “Don’t be stupid.” Cheryl stumbled to her feet. “There’s nothing to know. Troy, we’ve all had a wretched day. Don’t let it get you.” Troy spun around and jogged to the corridor. “Stay,” Cheryl said. Troy halted beside the china cabinet. “You’re being paranoid.” “I’m not going to jail.” He lurched forward. Cheryl jumped up and chased him into the kitchen. Gloria gaped at them. “I thought it was her.” “What’s this about?” Ron said. His voice steady, sober. Paula felt oddly calm. “Mike, or a police car, should be here soon.” She took out her phone to make sure. No reply from Mike to her text message for help. Cool air flowed down the corridor toward them. Cheryl appeared in the kitchen doorway. “He barrelled out the door before I could catch him. I looked outside and saw him running to his car.” Ron dashed to the front window and drew the curtain aside. “His Beetle is gone.” Paula looked down the corridor at Cheryl. “Do you have any idea where he’ll go?” “Don’t phone your cops.” Cheryl stomped toward her. “All they’ll do is make the situation worse.” Paula pressed Mike’s phone number. Cheryl stopped in front of her. “Troy’s panic doesn’t prove he’s guilty. You’d understand if you knew his background. People panic for all kinds of reasons.”

“The police will investigate and reach a conclusion.” Paula tapped her foot while Mike’s phone rang. Why wasn’t he answering? “They aren’t interested,” Cheryl said. “They wanted my dad. They got him. Case closed.” But now there was a witness, Kevin, who might have recognized Troy driving. Isabelle had found information that gave Troy a motive, and Gloria, Ron, and Paula had all witnessed his guilty behaviour. Finally, Mike picked up and confirmed he’d sent the closest police vehicle to the house. Paula summarized the situation. Mike said he’d put out a search on Troy’s car, told her to keep everyone inside, lock the outside doors, and keep an eye on Cheryl. Paula looked at Cheryl, who stood in front of the fireplace, poking the burning logs. Ron was at the far window, peering out. Gloria sat on the sofa, staring at Cheryl and the fire. No one spoke. After she signed off, Paula went to the front entrance to bolt the door, unsure if the point was to lock Cheryl in or lock Troy out should he return to shoot them all. To her knowledge, the police hadn’t checked for a gun in his car or basement apartment. She rounded the china cabinet to check the kitchen door. “Are you going to get coffee?” Cheryl said. “I could use a wallop of caffeine.” “Me, too.” Ron ed Paula in the corridor. He grabbed the tray from the dining table. Paula didn’t want to leave Gloria alone with Cheryl and a hot poker. “You make coffee,” Paula told Ron. “First, make sure the outside door from the kitchen is locked.” “Don’t worry,” Cheryl said. “Troy won’t come back here.” “He has a key to the place,” Paula said, suddenly ing. Locking doors wouldn’t protect them from him. Cheryl stabbed the poker into the iron rack. “This is the last place Troy will want to be. Escape’s his only option now. He’ll run until he’s trapped.” She glared at Paula. “Why didn’t you leave things alone? The police took care of it. You’re out

of your depth and have no fucking idea what went on.” “I’d like to know,” Gloria said. Paula walked to the sofa. Getting Cheryl to talk would keep her occupied until the police showed up. Anything Cheryl revealed to them likely wouldn’t compromise the police investigation, and, as Gloria had said, Cheryl would probably lie. “Denise Young was a witness against Troy at a trial,” Paula said. “Was he the foster father or daycare owner?” Cheryl stared at the corridor to the kitchen and sighed. “Daycare. I went to the courthouse one day to watch the trial and saw this poor man cowering in the defendant’s box. Later, I heard he’d got off. Later still, the newspaper reported he died by suicide. Then, a few years after that, I was in a bar and recognized him.” Ron appeared with a tray of mugs. “All clear in the kitchen and the door is locked.” Cheryl settled in the armchair. “You all might as well hear the whole story. Troy’s lost, gone, however this plays out. The idiot.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

April–December 1994

“Larry Quinn?” Cheryl said to the man sitting in the booth. He turned toward her, stopped partway, and looked back at his companions, who were getting up. Cheryl was sure, now, he was the man she’d seen that day in court and then for weeks on the news. From the distance between him and his tablemates, she guessed they were people he’d met tonight, not friends he’d come with to the bar. Troy leaned over the man. “Larry.” He looked at them both, his face red. “Name’s Howard Beltzinger. Howie to my friends. You’ve mistaken me for someone else.” “I don’t think so,” Cheryl said. As Larry’s companions said goodbye and left, Troy dropped to the bench seat. Cheryl sat on the other side of Larry, trapping him, and clunked her beer glass on the table. Larry jumped at the sound. His gaze darted between the two of them. Troy extended his hand to Larry. “I’m Troy Mendes.” Larry recoiled into Cheryl, bounced forward into Troy, and settled on a spot not touching either one. “What are you guys up to? You’ve got the wrong person.” “We’re on your side,” Cheryl said. “The newspaper said you were dead.” Larry looked down at his stein of beer. “We watched your trial at the courthouse,” Troy said.

“It was the day that psychologist, Denise Young, took the stand,” Cheryl added. “She declared that all those children were telling the truth, that you’d engaged in Satanic rituals and buried babies in the yard.” Larry’s head jerked up. His eyes flashed. “Their so-called expert. I’ll never forget sitting there, on display, listening to her and knowing, with absolute certainty, I was sunk.” “Yet, you weren’t,” Troy said. “The jury acquitted you.” “That was the shock of my life,” he said. “Second only to being arrested in the first place.” “But why did the newspapers say you died?” Cheryl asked. Larry stared across the bar, at a dartboard on the wall. “The acquittal was like a weight lifted off my shoulders. I thought, now I can move on with normal life.” He squinted at the board. “But it keeps dragging me back. I can’t even have a drink in a bar without two strangers harassing me.” Cheryl signalled the server. She told him to move their tab to this table and ordered another round for the three of them. “We’re your friends, Howie,” she said. “We also aren’t leaving this booth until you explain.” Larry drained his mug of beer, slowly, and then set it on the table. “You really aren’t going.” “Nope,” Troy said. “Nothing’s waiting for me at home. I can stay till closing hour.” The server brought their fresh beers. Larry stroked the handle of his glass and stared into the froth. “The hours after the verdict were a blur,” he said, as though talking to himself. “My lawyer babbled about the prosecution launching an appeal. When they didn’t, I thought I was home free. Ha.” He described how his wife, who had been his partner in the daycare centre, left him shortly after the verdict. She obtained a court order barring him from with their children, because the trial had made her doubt his behaviour at the daycare had been completely innocent. She couldn’t take a chance with their daughter and son, aged four and two at the time, and moved with them to Ontario, to be close to her family.

Larry went for job interviews. He didn’t dare try for the work he loved most, involving children, which made his degree in early childhood education useless. Repeated rejections involving other types of work discouraged him. His lawyer advised him he wasn’t obligated to tell companies about the charges, since he’d been exonerated. He didn’t, but several interviewers commented on his name. One said, jokingly, that he hoped he wasn’t the famous pedophile. Larry had joked back but blushed so much that he was sure the guy knew. “Ask twenty people on the streets of Calgary ‘Who’s Larry Quinn?’” he said. “I bet even today more would recognize me than their city alderman.” “Why didn’t you move to another city?” Cheryl asked. “I thought of it, a few times,” he said. “Then I’d get some hope for another job, or I’d be too depressed to make the effort. Packing up and moving’s hard without a car.” He swigged some beer. Cheryl wondered how much beer he’d had before this. If he were still carless, he’d have walked or taken transit or a cab to the bar and wouldn’t be driving home drunk. The liquor might be prompting him to talk. In his place, she’d find it a relief to unburden a secret to strangers she’d never have to see again. “My savings ran out,” Larry continued. He went on welfare, found a cheap apartment, and lived on canned ravioli. His main recreation was smoking in the hall with his neighbour, a man as down as he was. Howard Beltzinger had attempted suicide twice. “I was too chicken to take that step,” Larry said. “My one way out of the pit. But I spent hours on suicide fantasies.” He set his glass on the table, raised his hand, and jabbed two fingertips to his forehead. “Guns. Pills. A knife across the wrists, blood oozing into the bathtub water.” Cheryl looked at Troy, his face in shadows. Her friend was still drifting and jobless. In drunken moments at the bar, Troy had mused that his life was pointless, a waste of the universe’s efforts. She hated leaving messages on his answering machine for fear his sister would call back and say they’d found Troy hanging at the end of a rope. When Howard heard a two-bedroom unit in their building was available, he suggested they save rent by sharing the place. Larry’s mood perked up with the

company of a roommate and more money to spend on better food. In those days, he had a beard and shaggy hair like Howard. The few neighbours they spoke with couldn’t tell them apart. Larry answered to Howard’s name, rather than bother to set people straight. One afternoon Larry returned from a depressing job interview and found Howard’s body on the floor, blood all over, a rifle jammed up his mouth, his head blasted apart. Cheryl shuddered. “That’s enough detail.” “I didn’t know he had a gun,” Larry said. “After I reeled from the gore, my first thought was, ‘The lucky bastard, he’s succeeded at last. He’ll disappear and no one will know or care.’ Howard hadn’t been in touch with any relatives or friends for years, for various reasons. Same as me.” Larry had lost with his entire family. Most abandoned him before or during the trial. He hadn’t spoken with his wife and children since their move and knew that situation wouldn’t change. His kids would be better off with their infamous father dead than a living embarrassment. What if Larry disappeared and became Howard? A fresh start. Their clothing style was as similar as their hair and beards, and he doubted his neighbours paid enough attention to notice the difference. Most of the building’s residents were transients, alcoholics, or druggies. He took the precaution, though, of putting on clean clothes from Howard’s drawer. Then, he phoned 911 and identified the mutilated body as his roommate, Larry Quinn. Larry picked up his beer glass. “It wasn’t real for me until I saw a TV reporter announce my death.” “The newspaper said a neighbour discovered you,” Cheryl said. “The media got that part wrong on their own.” Larry smiled, more a grimace. “I sweated for weeks that some official would figure out the truth. The police questioned me. I guess they took my nervousness for shock or grief, or they didn’t care much about a derelict’s death.” He sipped his beer. “Problem was, nothing changed when I became Howard Beltzinger. Same job rejections. The stink must have got used to clinging to me.”

Cheryl instinctively shifted away from him and chided herself for “avoiding the stink.” “Give it time,” she said. “The trial was only four years ago.” “I can’t shake it.” Troy sipped his beer. “I’m like you, Larry/Howard. Searching for myself.” He glanced past Larry at Cheryl. “Are we good for another round?” When they finished their last drinks, they invited Larry to them at the bar the next week. Within a few months, their duo was a trio. Troy convinced Larry to see a doctor about antidepressant medication. Then one night in the bar, Troy appeared, dressed in a sheer top. “Do I see cleavage, Troy?” Cheryl’s gaze moved from his chest to his face. “Are you wearing makeup?” “ the first time we met?” Troy said. “I told you I was looking for the giant elephant that was the root of all my problems.” “You thought it was recovered memories.” He stared squarely at her. “Finally, I’ve found the real shit that was buried and eating at me without my knowing. My counsellor says to try it out by playing the role in public.” He touched her hand. “Sorry I kept this from you. It’s been hard for me to talk about, and I wanted to be sure this wasn’t another of my dead-end solutions.” At subsequent bar nights, Troy arrived looking increasingly feminine. “When I eventually go under the knife, I’m going to be Trina,” he told Cheryl and Larry. “Same first-name initial and close enough to my original Troy that I won’t forget to answer people.” “I’ll miss Troy,” Cheryl said as a joke, partly. “I won’t.” Troy’s tone was firm. “But I’ll be glad to him along to someone who needs him.” He turned to Larry. “Want another fresh start? I’ve got a friend who can set you up with some fake Troy Mendes ID. You and I will be siblings.”

* * *

January 2020 “Larry Quinn became our project,” Cheryl said. She gazed at their stunned expressions. Gloria and Paula on the sofa, Ron in the chair across the room. “We coaxed him through cooking school, job interviews, restaurant layoffs, dating, and broken romances.” She paused to remind herself not to implicate Larry Quinn/Troy, who hadn’t itted, even to her, that he’d taken her father’s car to stalk Denise. When she’d asked him directly, he’d turned and walked away. “Did Dad know who his tenant was?” Gloria asked. “I told him everything. He sympathized.” Gloria’s lower lip jutted out. Cheryl decided this wasn’t the time to antagonize her by saying their father had identified with Troy as a fellow victim of Denise Young, Gloria’s therapist. That’s how her father saw it, rightly or wrongly. He couldn’t get his wife or daughter back, but he could help Troy have a better life. Cheryl sipped her cooling toddy. Strange how these past years, she’d come to think of Larry as Troy, maybe because he was like her old Troy, drifting through life. An identity change had helped but hadn’t solved Larry’s problems. But it had worked for her old friend Troy. He’d become his true self—Trina. “Troy drives a Volkswagen Beetle.” Paula sat up straight. “That’s why he’d have taken Francis’ less noticeable car. I should have thought of this.” Her brow furrowed. Cheryl and Ron shared a smirk. He’d told her his sister set herself high standards and got annoyed when she fell short. Ron stood and went to the window, presumably to look out for the police, who’d be arriving any minute. Paula leaned toward Cheryl. “Troy mentioned a breakup with a girlfriend last fall. He tried again with her last month and failed. Do you think that drove him over the edge?” Cheryl looked at her, keeping her expression neutral. Last summer, Troy told her

he was going to ask his girlfriend to move in with him. Cheryl encouraged him to tell her about his past. “You can’t have a strong relationship based on lies,” she’d said. Troy took her advice. His girlfriend tried to be understanding but said she couldn’t feel comfortable with him anymore. It didn’t matter that a jury had found him innocent; the courts let guilty people off all the time. In hindsight, Cheryl wished she’d told Troy to lie. “They’re here,” Ron said from the window. “Two officers are running to the side of the house. They’ll need to be let in.” He headed for the kitchen. “They’ll check for Troy in his basement apartment first,” Paula said. “Larry, I mean.” She stared at Cheryl. “It all makes sense to me now. After your father took sick last fall, he and Troy spent a lot of time together. I’m sure Troy helped with his computer search of Denise Young, when they found out where she worked and lived. I don’t think Francis suspected Troy at the start, but he figured it out at some point. Then, he confessed to take the rap for Troy but was afraid he’d give it away under further questioning, so he...” Paula glanced at Gloria. “What?” Gloria eyes grew wide. “You’re saying Dad overdosed on his heart medication to protect his tenant?” “Who was his helper and friend,” Cheryl said. “Also, twenty-five years younger, with more years ahead than Dad could expect.” Gloria crossed her arms. “It was a stupid thing for Dad to do.” Cheryl agreed, but since it was done, her best move now was to help Troy go free, as her father had wished. Francis probably understood Troy wouldn’t survive in jail, tortured by his fellow inmates as an accused pedophile, the lowest form of criminal. Voices and rumblings sounded from the kitchen. Ron and a police officer entered the corridor. The officer edged ahead. “He says you’re all okay here. I have to search every room.” Ron followed the officer to the hall. She entered the bathroom, re-emerged, and

disappeared into the master bedroom. Ron peered into the bedroom doorway and returned to the living room, his eyes bright. “She’s checking windows, to see if they can open. Your dad’s window is frozen shut. She looked under his bed, in the closet.” Cheryl scowled at his enjoyment of the drama. For Troy, this was life and death. Paula rose from the sofa and looked down at Cheryl. “Don’t you care about clearing your father’s name?” Cheryl finished her cold toddy, wishing Paula would give it a rest. The criminal charges wouldn’t hurt her father in his grave. His priority had been Troy’s life going forward. Paula continued, “You don’t worry that Troy on the run will get desperate again and harm someone else?” “Like Kevin,” Gloria said. Cheryl stood, so she towered above them both. “The system failed Troy in the past. You can’t blame him for not trusting it now.” “The system judged him innocent,” Paula said. “It gave him the chance to start over. Yes, that was hard, but people face worse challenges.” “And it doesn’t excuse him for killing Denise,” Gloria said. “There’s no proof he was driving.” Cheryl stopped herself from adding “yet.” Footsteps behind her made her turn. The officer had finished checking the bedrooms and den and raced to the front entry. She rifled through the coat closet. “I’ll go out by here. Bolt the door after me.” Ron trotted over to take care of the lock. He returned to the living room. “I’ll make sure she locked the kitchen door.” Cheryl needed a refill of coffee and walked down the corridor with him. They entered the kitchen. While Ron confirmed the door was locked, Cheryl got milk from the fridge. She heard a thump beside her, from inside the pantry, and glanced at Ron. He gave no sign he’d noticed the sound. Her father had caught

the occasional mouse in the pantry, which was a walk-in closet large enough to hide a person. She set the milk jug on the counter and dumped the old coffee grounds into the sink. “I’ll make us a fresh carafe. Ron, I wonder what the police are doing out front now.” “I’ll go look.” Ron dashed out of the kitchen. Cheryl crossed to the pantry. “Troy, are you there?” she stage-whispered. She pressed her ear against the door, keeping her gaze on the kitchen entry. A muffled noise. “Cheryl?” “We saw you take off in your car. Why did you return? The cops didn’t see you?” “I drove back by the lane,” he rasped. “Parked in the garage. From there, I watched the cop go into the house and came in after.” The officer would have checked the pantry and left the kitchen before Troy entered. “You want to turn yourself in?” “I did. That’s why I came back. I couldn’t bear the thought of hiding the rest of my life, not seeing any friends, always worrying the cops will find me.” Cheryl saw his point but didn’t think jail would be an improvement for him. “If that’s your choice, I’ll you all the way. We’ll get you a good lawyer.” “No,” he said. “While I was standing in Francis’ kitchen, I realized another trial would be worse than hiding. They’ll find me guilty this time. I’ll die in prison. So now I need to duck out again, get my car and drive as far as I can.” Stupid, indecisive Troy. “Where will you go?” she asked. “No, don’t tell me.” Her chest ached for Troy, caught between two intolerable choices. “Is the cop still in the house?” Troy asked. “She’s gone, but more will be here soon. You have to get out now. There’s a small window left for escape.” Footsteps pounded in the corridor. “Someone’s

coming.” Cheryl drew away from the pantry door. Paula entered and held up two mugs. “Ron said you were making a new pot. Gloria and I could use a fresh hit of caffeine.” “Did the police car leave?” Cheryl asked, her voice raised and steady. Paula nodded. “I’m glad the cops have left,” Cheryl almost shouted. “They get on my nerves.” “Detective Vincelli says he’ll be here in about ten minutes.” Paula looked at the coffee maker and frowned. “You haven’t started it yet?” Cheryl turned toward the counter, which was covered with dirty glasses and dishes. “I got distracted by cleaning up.” “I’ll make the coffee then.” “I’m the host. You go keep Ron occupied.” Cheryl motioned toward the doorway. Paula ignored her. “Where are the filters?” In the cupboard, not the pantry, thank God, and the can of coffee sat on the counter. Cheryl placed the filter in the basket and measured the coffee into the filter, willing Troy not to breathe a word. Paula ran tap water into the carafe. How to get her out of the kitchen to give Troy a chance? “You really don’t have to shadow me,” Cheryl said. Paula poured the water into the coffee maker. “How about we wait in the living room while it drips?” “You go. I’ll clean up.” Paula looked at her, head cocked. “All right, I’ll do it later.” Cheryl risked a glance at the pantry. She kept her voice loud. “The coffee will take about five minutes. We’ll both go wait in the living room.” She stomped behind Paula, to reinforce the message to Troy. Run.

Now. They met Ron behind the sofa. “Where’s Gloria?” Paula asked. “In the bathroom,” Ron said. To calm herself, Cheryl rounded the sofa and plumped the cushions. “Mike will probably prefer we sit at the table,” Paula said. The doorbell made Cheryl jump. “That will be Mike,” Paula said. She and Ron went to let the detective in. At the entrance, Vincelli removed his coat. His navy suit didn’t hide his broad shoulders. If that bulk of a cop caught Larry, he’d pulverize him, physically and mentally. Paula offered Vincelli a coffee. When he nodded, she headed down the corridor and into the kitchen. Cheryl squeezed a pillow, her body tense even though there had been plenty of time for Larry to get from the pantry and through the backyard to the garage. Then he’d drive down the lane to the highway. And her debt would be paid. What debt? To her father, she supposed, who’d died to save Larry, his friend, his helper, and, in his mind, a man beaten by society. Or maybe to Larry. She’d done everything she could to give him his life back, and, somehow, in the process of helping him, she’d got her own life in place. She’d quit smoking and given up excessive drinking, at least most of the time. She’d challenged her husband about his cheating and ultimately decided she couldn’t trust him again and was better off on her own. Her one problem that no one could fix involved her sister, now coming out of the bathroom. Gloria stopped in front of Vincelli. “I’m so relieved you’re here.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

January 2020

In the kitchen, Paula decided to prepare fresh mugs of coffee for everyone. As she arranged the mugs on the tray, she ed her first time here, making hot chocolate with Francis Odell. Now, less than two weeks later, he was dead. She felt both sad and unsettled, because it looked like she would never know the truth about him. The drip coffee maker burbled to a stop. She picked up the carafe, inhaling the rich aroma. Behind her, a door clicked—the door to the pantry. Her hand shaking, she set the carafe on the counter. Someone grabbed her around the chest. A hand clamped over her mouth. “Scream and you’re dead.” The man squeezed her between his torso and the counter. She smelled garlic and onions. Peripherally, she glimpsed his nose. She reached up to grab his finger to bend it back, but his hand shot away and seized a knife from the butcher block. She opened her mouth to scream. He pressed the blade to her neck. “Quiet.” His voice hoarse. “Do as I say.” Troy’s voice. If he forced her to the side door and fumbled for the lock, she’d try a run for the living room while he fumbled for the lock. The knife jabbed at an artery. The blade could slice through steel, Francis had said, during her first visit. Her knees sank. But Troy had escaped. Why had he come back and when? Troy swivelled her toward the exit to the corridor. She gagged on the odour of

garlic and sweat. His hand slid from her chest to her wrist and twisted her arm behind her back. The left arm, thank God, not her injured right shoulder. He nudged her ahead to the doorway, his garlic breath hot in her ear. His damp palm clutched her wrist. If he was nervous, there might be a chance. The knife left her neck. She stepped forward, but Troy yanked her back. The knife prodded her waist. Down the corridor, Cheryl, Ron, and Gloria stood, talking. Mike spoke on his phone. Paula couldn’t hear any of them through the rush in her ears. She longed to cry out but didn’t dare. Cheryl turned toward them. Her mouth dropped. “Troy.” Mike lurched in front of Cheryl. “Stay back, all of you.” Troy pushed Paula ahead, her arm pinned behind her back. The blade’s tip pressed into her kidney. She cringed and gulped for breath. “Let her go, Troy,” Mike said. Cheryl advanced and stopped beside him. “What are you doing, Troy?” “Back, Cheryl,” Mike said. Ron drew up to Cheryl. He touched her arm. “Let the cop handle this.” “He doesn’t understand.” Cheryl shrugged Ron off, knocking him into Gloria and a dining chair. Gloria steadied herself and gripped the back of the chair at the end of the table. Ron stayed beside her. Troy edged Paula forward, between the table and china cabinet. If I can reach Mike... The knife dug into her side. She whimpered. Troy pulled her into him and stopped moving. Mike planted his legs apart and stared straight at them. “You don’t want to hurt her, Troy. Drop the knife to the floor, and there will be no trouble.” The blade poked at Paula’s kidney again. She winced.

Mike extended a hand. “It will help your case, Troy, that you returned to give yourself up voluntarily.” In a soothing voice, Mike was calling Troy by his first name to simulate friendship. Please, Troy, fall for it, drop the knife. Another jab. Paula felt Troy squirm behind her. “You’ll be treated fairly, Troy,” Mike said. “That’s a promise.” “Bullshit,” Cheryl said. Troy shoved Paula. She gasped and stumbled but regained her footing. He grabbed her again and pressed the knife firmly to her waist. What was he doing? Was he uncertain? Could she take advantage of his doubt? His foul breath was hot in her ear. Cheryl remained next to Mike. She held out her hands, palms up. “Troy, give me the knife. I don’t trust the cops either, but you can trust me.” “Get back, Cheryl,” Mike barked. Cheryl stayed put, her gaze fixed on Troy. “I’ll be with you, all the way. We’ll make it work this time. I promise. That’s a real promise. Not a bullshit cop promise.” She nodded at him, her face pale. Paula sensed Troy’s body relax. He was falling for Cheryl’s plea. The knife withdrew, slightly. A chance. Paula lunged but banged into the china cabinet. Dishes rattled. Pain seared her right shoulder, radiated to her arm, her chest. Mike stood in front of Cheryl; his gun drawn and aimed at Troy. Cheryl moved toward Ron and Gloria. Troy seized Paula’s right arm, just below the shoulder. “Move an inch and I’ll kill her.” She clenched her teeth to suppress a scream. The agony subsided, but Troy gripped her like a shield. She felt his knife on the left side of her neck. Confusion overwhelmed her fear. Was he left-handed? He’d initially held the knife in his right hand. Mike aimed the gun above her left shoulder, at Troy’s head. Cheryl, Ron, and

Gloria formed a pyramid between the sofa and dining table. They blocked Paula’s escape in that direction, and if she ran that way, she’d put them in danger from Troy, who would certainly chase her. But the other direction was clear. She’d beeline to the armchair in the conversation nook if Troy dropped his guard again. Mike resumed his attempt to talk Troy down. “It’s not too late, Troy. Let her go and put the knife on the table.” Cheryl edged up to Mike. “I agree, Troy. This isn’t the solution you want. There’s a better one, and I’ll do whatever it takes to help you find it. You know I won’t give up.” The knife wavered against Paula’s neck. She eyed the armchair. Troy’s grip on her right arm loosened. She wrenched herself from him and ran. His footsteps pounded behind her. “Don’t, Troy!” Cheryl shouted. A woman’s shriek. Paula heard shuffling and thuds behind her. Footsteps closing in. She sensed the knife hover over the back of her neck, its blade bearing down. “No, Troy, no!” a woman cried. Noise, thumps, footsteps behind. Paula dove to the armchair. She crashed against the armrest and hit the floor. Pain tore through her shoulder and neck. The room spun. “Paula.” Ron’s voice. He crouched beside her. She raised her head from the carpet and blinked until the sofa came into focus. Her shoulder pain subsided. Mike squatted between the sofa and china cabinet, his back to her. Two legs protruded from beneath him. Cheryl towered above behind Mike and the twisted legs. “Are you okay?” Ron asked. “Yes.” Paula cleared her throat. “What happened?” Ron eased her to a sitting position. “Troy attacked Mike.”

“What do you mean?” The legs jutting out from under Mike must be Troy’s. “But he chased me here.” “No, Paula, when you escaped, Troy rushed at Mike.” “I heard him behind me, felt the knife.” She shuddered. “I saw,” Ron said. “Mike dropped his gun when Troy jumped him. They wrestled. Troy fell.” “He’s gone.” Mike rose to his feet. Blood pooled beside the bent body on the carpet. Cheryl moved toward Troy, muttering. Mike’s arm shot in front of Cheryl. “Everyone, stay back.” “Stop saying that.” Cheryl pummelled Mike’s arm. “You killed him.” “He was defending himself,” Gloria said, her voice faint. She sat on a dining chair. “Troy had a knife.” Cheryl whirled toward her. “You’re as guilty as the cop.” “Me?” Gloria squeaked. “Troy stood there and watched your accusing face condemning him.” “That’s a stretch, Cheryl.” Ron stood up. Cheryl marched toward him. “You’re not so innocent.” “What did I do?” “Nothing. For you it was all fun and games.” “It sure as hell wasn’t,” Ron said. “Not when he had Paula hostage.” Cheryl brushed past him and glared down at Paula. “Why did you take off? I almost had him. Troy was seconds away from giving me the knife. Why couldn’t you let the cops do their job and leave things alone?”

Paula glimpsed the knife lying on the carpet, saw the blood draining from the man’s neck, his body contorted into an unnatural shape. She shrank back, unable to answer, because Cheryl was right.

* * *

February 2020

A week later, Paula helped Ron load his luggage into his rental car. The movement made her right arm ache. Exercises had helped heal the tear in her rotator cuff, but the physiotherapist had said it could take months before her shoulder returned to normal. Ron closed the trunk. His eyes crinkled. “Give me a call when you plan your next adventure.” “Never again.” He grew sombre. “Paula, no one blames you for Troy’s death, not even Cheryl anymore. She was upset at the time and took it out on us all.” Paula’s arm muscle tightened. She wouldn’t let Ron or Cheryl let her off the hook. Ron had spent a good part of the past week with Cheryl, who’d told him his presence at the house that evening had ruined any prospects of romance between them. She wanted the entire mess behind her. They would remain friends from the distance between Calgary and Montreal, and this was more than enough connection to Cheryl for Paula. Ron glanced at Paula’s house. “Your turn next to visit me,” he said. “How about bringing Mom this summer? We could rent a cottage in the Eastern Townships.” Paula was still too mired in last week’s events to muster enthusiasm for the future. “If I can get the extra vacation time.”

They hugged goodbye. Ron left for the airport. Paula watched her brother’s car drive down the street and disappear around the corner. In May, she and Sam were going to Hamburg. He would settle into his new job while she’d see if she’d like living in Europe part-time. Weekend getaways to Copenhagen, Berlin, and fairy-tale-esque German towns sounded more appealing to her now than negotiating whiplash claims, but how would she fill the rest of her days when Sam was absorbed in work? That would be her question on the trip. From her home, Paula drove to Mike’s house. His sister was at work, his nephew at the babysitter’s. Mike was on leave pending an investigation into the circumstances of Troy’s death. While Mike made them espressos in the kitchen, she asked if he’d received the result. “Not officially,” he said. “But my staff sergeant says the committee has reviewed all the evidence and determined I made the best choice in the situation.” Paula completely agreed. When the officers arrived at Francis’ house, Mike told them that everything had happened so fast, he wasn’t sure of the details. When Troy jumped him, Mike tried to wrest the knife from his hand. Troy then turned the blade on his own neck. “I’m convinced Troy achieved his goal,” Mike said. “Suicide by cop. I knew when he switched the knife to his non-dominant hand.” “I should have realized that.” Instead, she’d thought she had got the better of Troy and ran. “You aren’t trained for it.” Exactly. Cheryl was right, Paula should have left things to the cops. She was out of her depth in homicide cases. One reason she had to quit them. While they’d waited for the officers to arrive, Cheryl had sat in her father’s armchair, her gaze fixed on the fireplace. “I don’t think Troy understood, at first, why he came back to the house. Even when he took Paula hostage he was acting subconsciously. I think he decided when he stared down the corridor at the four of us, his jury. Two hostile faces, Gloria and the cop, Ron neutral, and me—and I wasn’t enough for him.” “You were,” Paula said. “I blew it by running.”

“Yes.” Cheryl swivelled toward the sofa. “And earlier, when you refused to let the cops rest their case.” “Paula was right they’d got the wrong man,” Ron said. Cheryl turned to him. “And what did that accomplish?” Paula’s actions had led to Troy’s death. And what would have been point of sending him to jail, to be tormented for the rest of his life? Punishment wouldn’t make up for Denise’s death. The odds were that Troy wouldn’t harm anyone again, much less kill, although it was possible. Before, Paula had no doubts it was wrong for a killer to go free. Now, justice on principle felt hollow. She sipped her espresso, which Mike had, apparently, handed her. One more indication of her muddled mind this past week. They sat at the table. “It was risky for you to drop your gun,” she said. “I’d never forgive myself if it had gone the other way.” Mike, not Troy, dead on the carpet. Her arrogance had put Mike at risk. She’d put Ron at risk, too, by introducing him to Cheryl, and Isabelle might have got into trouble with her social media research. “I’ve been second-guessing myself all week too,” Mike said. “What could I have done differently?” She’d put Mike through that agony, a blot on his career. “You made the smart move, to save yourself,” he said. “The bold move.” She winced at his flattery. She’d read the situation wrong, and Troy was dead. It had haunted her each night this week. She’d take hours to fall asleep or jolt awake once, twice, three times from dreams of Troy chasing her, his knife inches from striking her neck. Yet, by all s, Troy had let her go, turned on Mike and leaped to his death. At the scene, Gloria said that Paula’s certainty Troy would go after her had caused her to believe it was happening. “Homicide has officially closed the case,” Mike said now, as they finished their espressos. “Your insured, Francis Odell, is exonerated. Kevin still hasn’t ed any details about the car’s driver, but we’ve accepted Troy’s behaviour as a confession of guilt. Based on all the evidence, we concluded it was unlikely the car skidded accidentally onto the sidewalk. But despite Troy’s

stalking, we couldn’t determine if he planned to murder Denise or if he impulsively swerved into her and Kevin in a brooding rage.” Paula looked at Mike. Both knew the question was irrelevant.

* * *

On her drive to Kevin’s house, Paula mulled over the dilemma she’d avoided sharing with Mike. Even if her sleeplessness, nightmares, and self-blame disappeared and she regained her in faith in justice and her confidence that she could contribute value to homicide investigations, this would still be her last suspicious death case. She refused to take the chance of involving a family member, friend, or colleague ever again. But the murder cases were the ones that fired her up. They made her insurance work worthwhile. A steady diet of ordinary whiplash, burglary, and fire claims struck her as boring after the excitement of tracking potential killers. She’d discussed her dilemma with Sam. His solution was easy, on the surface. Cut her insurance work in half and find her excitement the rest of the year with him in Europe. Except she wasn’t ready for semi-retirement. Her mind spun with the circular arguments. She arrived at Kevin’s street. Jeffrey’s BMW was parked in the driveway. He answered the front door, as he’d done on her first visit. She entered to the sound of Zelda’s barking. “I drove over during a gap between afternoon appointments,” Jeffrey said. “I love the convenience so much I’m working on my husband to sell our place and move to this neighbourhood.” Kevin had alluded to problems between Jeffrey and his spouse. Evidently, these were being resolved. “Are you still staying with Kevin?” she asked. “For a while, and then I’ll leave him to the women.” He looked down at Zelda, who growled at him. Zelda wove around Paula’s ankles, her hobble improved since last week. Paula bent to pat the retriever’s head. “Zelda, I hope my shoulder recovers as

quickly as your leg.” She returned to Jeffrey’s level. “I arranged with Kevin to stop by to talk about the progress of his injuries.” “He didn’t mention it.” Jeffrey’s forehead creased. Paula silently agreed that Kevin’s forgetting wasn’t a good sign. “Kevin’s in the basement playing video games with Gloria,” Jeffrey said. “I’ll get him.” Jeffrey left the hallway. Apparently, Gloria had walked here since her car wasn’t parked out front. Paula draped her coat over the banister’s newel post and removed her hat, her shoulder straining from the stretch. She scanned Kevin’s living room—the leather and glass furniture, the paintings and prints from his vacations with Denise. Kevin’s favourite print was the samurai warrior brandishing his sword. Paula’s waist and throat contracted. She felt the blade jab at them. When would those memories fade? Footsteps in the kitchen announced Jeffrey’s return with Kevin and Gloria. “Sorry to keep you,” Kevin said. “We got carried away with the game.” Jeffrey brushed dog hairs from his pants, took his coat from the closet, and told Kevin he’d be back for dinner. “Come on, Zelda,” Gloria said. “Let’s get you a treat.” She led the dog to the kitchen, presumably to leave Kevin and Paula alone to discuss business. To avoid looking at the samurai sword, Paula stayed in the hall. She asked Kevin if his symptoms were improving. “Better than I’d have thought,” he said. “I tried working the last couple of days and can do a few hours at the computer. Jeffrey thinks I’m calmer. I don’t get antsy if I’m in one place for more than ten minutes.” “That’s great,” she said. “How about your lower back?” He rubbed his right flank. “Gloria’s massages help. Her medicine is also shrinking the frostbite.” He touched his cheek below the grey area.

Paula leaned closer but couldn’t detect a diminishing in size or intensity. “I’m glad you’re doing well,” she said, and not because this would reduce the insurance company’s payout. “Is there anything more you’d like to bring up?” Kevin glanced at Gloria, who watched them from behind the kitchen island. “Nothing for now, except to thank you for helping catch the guy who killed Denise. Gloria and I are glad it wasn’t her father.” Paula was too, but that felt unfair to Troy. His pain had been real, and it had eaten away at him for thirty years. “While I’m here, Gloria can look over the appraisal of her father’s car. The police have released the vehicle.” “Sure thing. I’ll see if I can do a little more work.” He went up the staircase, two stairs at a time. Paula took the documents from her briefcase and set them on the island. While Gloria scrutinized the vehicle-damage estimate, Paula stared out the kitchen window. The white sky foreshadowed snow. “Looks okay to me,” Gloria said. “I’ll have Cheryl review it too.” “I doubt she’ll have a problem with it,” Gloria said. “One thing we can agree on.” Her wide eyes darkened. “It still bugs me Cheryl was prepared to cover for Troy and help him escape. At best it was thoughtless of her not to realize what that would have meant for Kevin. Among other things, he and Denise deserve closure.” This was one positive of Paula’s pushing the case to the end. She faced Gloria. “I hope, now that this is over, you and Cheryl can put your differences behind you.” Zelda brushed against Paula’s leg and hobbled to Gloria. “That’s up to Cheryl,” Gloria said. “Right now, she’s furious and resentful.”

* * *

From the end chair at Francis Odell’s dining table, Paula kept an eye on the kitchen doorway, even though Troy couldn’t reappear. She slid the appraisal to Cheryl, who ignored it. “Gloria wins,” Cheryl said. “She has everything she wants, including the dweeb she’s been in love with for years. Kevin has money, too, and Gloria gets her inheritance from Dad. She plans to retire from her ing work to lead more yoga and flakey groups.” Paula turned away from Cheryl’s bitter smile, toward the empty shelves lining the wall under the side windows. Cheryl had removed the family pictures to prepare the house for resale. The ones on the mantel were also gone. Francis’ four grandchildren had each taken one, along with any china they wanted from the cabinet. Cheryl told Ron she’d have no room for fussy stuff in her new condo. He’d helped her remove the carpet—easier than cleaning the bloodstains, he said. Plus, buyers would prefer the gleaming hardwood floor, protected for sixty years. Paula blinked away a mental image of Troy twisted on the carpet, his body bleeding out. She picked up her mug, wishing she’d turned down the offer of coffee so she could escape the second her business was done. Without a glance at the estimate, Cheryl slid it back. “Repair the damn car for whatever you want.” She looked out the window. “I’ve been thinking of Gloria all week and decided I never want to see her again. What do I need her for? I have a job I love, coworkers I get along with, friends, my kids, a grandchild, and soon, a new place to live. I’ll get back into swimming, take up biking, travel on Dad’s money. To be honest, my life will be easier without having him to look after, easier too without Troy.” Her gaze shot to Paula. “But I wouldn’t, for one minute, wish either one dead.” Paula sank back in her chair. While Gloria had benefited from her meddling, Francis and Cheryl hadn’t. Paula couldn’t change that, but she had to push one last time. She forced herself to sit straight. “I hope you’ll reconsider about Gloria. She’s your sister, your twin, the last close relative you have left from your childhood.” Cheryl stroked her mug handle. “I can’t look at her without thinking of Troy, dead, and Dad ending his life in sadness.” Her fingers paused. “I’m doing Gloria

a favour. The rift will be my fault, and she won’t have me around as a nagging reminder she’s dancing on a shaky foundation. Win-win for Gloria.” Paula gulped her coffee, to finish it. “You’ll both have a hole in your lives.” “That’s my choice, not yours.” Cheryl scraped her chair back on the hardwood. She rose and glared down. “Paula, you swoop into our lives, mess everything up, and think you can fix our family like a broken china plate. That’s not going to happen.”

* * *

“When she said that, my mind went blank,” Paula told Sam, as they prepared dinner. “I stuffed the appraisal into my briefcase and beat it out of the house.” “Don’t let her rattle you,” he said. “Be glad she dumped Ron, so you won’t have to deal with her after the insurance claim is settled.” “What was it you wanted to discuss, before I hijacked the conversation?” Sam gave the vegetables and shrimp a stir. “Looks ready.” The rice cooker pinged. Paula tossed the salad, her shoulder stiff. She hoped Sam didn’t have bad news to share. She couldn’t handle another upsetting discussion today. They filled their plates, sat at the dining table, and clinked their wine glasses in the habitual toast. Sam took a sip and placed his glass on the table. “The guys in Hamburg think I shouldn’t wait until May to start work there. One of them has a brother who’s high up in the German medical profession. He thinks this coronavirus from China will hit Europe soon and shut down international travel by spring. No flights from Canada to Europe.” Paula stared at him. “That’s impossible.” “I know,” Sam said. “But I’m close to wrapping up my work in Calgary and

could go as early as next month.” “So soon?” Outside the front window, snow fell through the darkness, illuminated by the streetlight. Images flashed through Paula’s mind. Troy twisted on the floor. The knife in his hand. Blood pooled on the carpet. “But if you need me to stay,” Sam said, “that’s more important.” She stiffened her shoulders to keep them from shaking. “I know you’re still restless at night.” “My sleep’s improving,” she lied. “The flashbacks are almost gone.” Sam touched her hand. “You’ll get through this with your usual resilience, but I’ll put the guys off to March.” “I’ll be back to normal long before then.” She forced herself to sound upbeat. “Even if your guys are right about a travel ban, flights will have to be up and running by May for the tourist season. It will be better for me to go after you’ve settled in for a couple of months. You’ll be able to show me Hamburg’s sights.” “I’ll have some favourite restaurants by then.” Sam flashed a smile she knew was meant to encourage her. “Picture us in an outdoor café in spring...” She pictured Troy’s motionless body, blood oozing out, his legs bent as they could never be in life. Her throat closed so tightly it hurt to swallow her mouthful of rice. Shudders tore from her shoulder to her neck and chest and down her arms. Could she deal with this before Sam flew overseas? Afterward, for two or three months on her own? Yes. No. Maybe. She didn’t know. The End

\

Susan Calder is a Calgary writer and the author of three novels: A Deadly Fall, Ten Days in Summer and To Catch a Fox. Winter’s Rage is the third book in her mystery series featuring insurance adjuster Paula Savard. Susan’s short stories, poems and articles have appeared in magazines and anthologies. Her work as an insurance claims examiner inspired her mystery sleuth Paula. Susan is a member of the Alexandra Writers Centre Society, Crime Writers of Canada, and the Writers’ Guild of Alberta. She loves hiking in the mountains near Calgary and looks forward to travelling next year. Website: www.susancalder.com Facebook: Susan Calder Author Twitter: @Susan_Calder BWL Author Page: Calder, Susan - Digital and Print EBooks (bookswelove.net)