“I know,” I said. “But if you can’t come up with anything by tomorrow night, it looks like we’re going in.”
“Why the big hurry?”
“Well, for one thing, it’s a weekend, so half the staff won’t be there,” I said. “And, for another, I don’t know how much longer my father’s going to hold together. This is putting a hell of a strain on him—more than we realized.” More than I realized, that’s for sure.
Parker was quiet again and I didn’t hurry him. We’d drawn the curtains, but they were more for decoration than effect, made of thin material, so I saw the lights sweep across the front window. I heard the sound of an engine pulling into the driveway, the Camry’s motor sounding a lot more mundane than Terry’s Porsche. The garage door clanked upwards again.
“Who’s going in?” Parker asked.
“I will—with my father,” I said, mentally crossing my fingers and hoping I could talk Sean into staying on the outside.
“At risk of repeating myself, is that wise?” Parker said mildly. “Taking your father with you, I mean.”
“I don’t have much of a choice,” I said. “We need complex medical information and I wouldn’t have a clue what I’m supposed to be looking for. I don’t like the idea either, but this is a one-hit deal. We only have one chance to get it right and we have to move soon.”
“Okay,” Parker said at last, the reluctance sounding like a bad taste in his mouth. “But keep me informed, Charlie—I mean it. Every step of the way. I don’t know how much cavalry I can rustle up if you get yourselves into trouble, but I’ll do what I can.”
By the time I’d finished the call and reached the bottom of the stairs, Sean had brought my parents into the house from the garage and was conducting awkward introductions with Terry O’Loughlin. She’d pushed the cat aside and jumped to her feet as soon as she heard the handle turn on the connecting door between the house and the garage, and waited awkwardly until the three of them walked in.
My father barely seemed able to bring himself to acknowledge Terry, but my mother smiled at her with every appearance of sincerity.
“I so glad we’ve met because I wanted to thank you,” she said, “for all the support you gave Miranda after Jeremy died. You didn’t have to do that, I know, but she was so grateful.”
Terry looked flustered, but my mother gave her hand a gentle pat and moved on into the living room, looking round. Her eyes were bright with curiosity. “What an interesting space,” she said, although I heard the reservation in her voice. “Shall I make us a nice cup of tea?”
Sean glanced hopefully at her. “I’m sure we could all do with some food.”
“Of course,” my mother said. “If you’ve no objections?” she added politely to Terry, who was regarding her with confusion. “I’d hate to interfere. I know I don’t like anyone else in my kitchen. You must be terribly unsettled to have strangers in your house like this.”
She made us sound like distance relatives who’d unexpectedly dropped by, rather than fugitives from justice who’d ambushed Terry and were almost—but not quite—holding her at gunpoint.
“Sure,” Terry said, suddenly aware that my mother was still pinning her with an inquiring stare. “Why not? Knock yourself out.”
My mother beamed at her and bustled out to the kitchen. We could hear her opening the fridge and the cupboards to take a quick inventory, talking to the cats while she did so. The black-and-white one stayed on the sofa near Terry, but the others had decided to see if they could con a second meal out of this new arrival.
“I could do with a drink,” my father said, with an intensity that rang all kinds of alarm bells. He moved over to the bottles Terry kept by the TV set. I glanced at Sean, found him watching my father with narrowed eyes.
“Why don’t you wait until you’ve had something to eat, Richard?” he said, his voice so calm and reasonable it sent shivers down my spine. “Elizabeth’s a wonderful cook. You wouldn’t want to spoil your appetite.”
“I’m quite aware of my wife’s abilities,” my father snapped, slipping on his glasses to inspect the label on a bottle of Scotch. He clearly found it to his satisfaction. “But I think you’ll find that a good single malt would never spoil one’s appetite.”
For a moment Sean didn’t move. He and my father locked gazes, and somewhere in the back of my mind I swear I heard the crack of bone and muscle as they silently struggled for supremacy. Terry’s eyes darted between the two of them. I felt the sudden mortification that can only be brought on by the embarrassing behavior of a close relative in front of strangers.
Sean let the challenge drop with a shrug, like it was no big deal, his expression carefully neutral. My father eyed him uncertainly for a second, then his gaze shifted to Terry. “Would you mind, Ms. O’Loughlin?”
She made a kind of “whatever” gesture, which he took to mean assent. He saw me still staring, though, and waved the bottle in my direction. “Will you join me, Charlotte?” he asked. Then, before I could answer, added with a definite taunt, “Ah, no. Best not to mix alcohol with what you’re taking, hm?”
I hid the flinch under a flare of anger. Sean stepped between us.
“Back off, Richard,” he said pleasantly. “This isn’t the time or the place to give your daughter a hard time.”
My father opened his mouth to respond, took one look at Sean’s face and, uncharacteristically for him, shut it again. He settled for sweeping out in his best superior consultant’s manner, taking the whisky with him—presumably in search of a glass. So, he hadn’t quite lowered his standards far enough to swig straight out of the bottle.
I turned back and found Terry watching me, her face thoughtful.
My mother appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was drying her hands on a tea towel, her movements slowing as she registered the level of tension.
“You don’t keep much in stock do you, dear?” she said, smiling nervously at Terry. “I’m going to need a few things.”
“I eat out a lot, but I could run down to the store,” Terry offered quickly. “There’s a Randalls about two blocks east of here.”
Sean threw her a swift glance that said Oh, please, and turned back to my mother. “It’s okay,” he said, reaching for the car keys again with a resigned sigh. “Give me a list.”
My mother cooked mountains of lasagne and insisted we eat at the dining table with due ceremony. My father was halfway down his third shot of whisky by the time we sat down, and he was starting to show the effects. His speech was straight and his mind seemed as sharp as ever, but he was edgy and restless, his hands fidgeting with the cutlery, like he couldn’t keep them still. It scared me more than I liked to admit.
I could have done with a drink myself, but I’d stuck to water and promised myself one Vicodin later, just to ease the dull background ache in my leg. Over the past few days I hadn’t been able to exercise it at all, and spending hour after hour sitting in a car had a cumulative effect. The pain was grinding me down, I realized, dulling my responses when I couldn’t afford for them to be anything but scalpel-sharp. I was doing my best to hide it from Sean, but I knew I wasn’t succeeding, even if he had yet to confront me with it. And if my father had been on form he would have seen it, too.
“So,” Sean said when we’d cleared our plates with a single-minded speed that was probably both gratifying and insulting to my mother’s culinary abilities, “what’s the plan for tomorrow, Terry? How do we get in?”
Terry sat with her forearms resting on the glass tabletop. She frowned. “I think the best idea is going to be the same way I go in every day,” she said. “Through the front entrance.”