In the Waning Light by Loreth Anne White

before things got public. Tara was convinced that someone who knew all about your father’s past told him where to find Ty Mack that day. They said something to Jack that heated his blood—maybe they told him Ty Mack would walk free if he was charged, and it riled Jack enough to turn him to the bottle and make him buy those bullets.”
    Meg’s heart thumped soft and fast against her ribs. Her mind reeled, things that had always puzzled her about her father’s past slowly slotting into place.
    “Who ? ” Meg said. “Who all in Shelter Bay knew this stuff about Dad?”
    “It’s all in there. In Tara’s notes,” Irene said. “I never knew about her journal, or those files. I had no idea what she was doing before she died . . . until the fire, until we found the safe.” She rubbed her brow. “I never knew.”
    “You read her journal, you read all this and never called to tell me?”
    “I didn’t know what to believe, Meg. I can’t even be certain that your mother was well in the head when she wrote that diary. And you’d put the past behind you.”

CHAPTER 7
    Blake dropped the orange sack full of squirming crab into the boiler. Steam roiled up into the cool winter air. Rain pecked outside the deck cover and pocked the waters of the bay. He set the timer. Frank and Harry were enjoying a lunchtime beer under the awning on the deck of Crabby Jack’s. The gas fire pit sent flames spitting into the drizzle. A second table housed two intrepid Asian tourists who’d netted a good catch as well, and had opted to have Blake cook the crabs up, and show them how to clean the crustaceans.
    He checked his timer, glanced at his watch. Noah would be home any moment.
    While he waited for the crab to cook, he dialed his brother on his cell. A male voice answered.
    “Geoff?” Blake said.
    “It’s Nate. Hang on—I’ll get Geoff. He’s in his studio.”
    Gulls screeched. Crows beaded the line up near the highway, watching for bits of discarded crab guts.
    “Hey, bro, what’s up?” came Geoff’s voice. “Haven’t heard from you in years.” Then, a shift in tone, a deepening wariness. “Everything okay? Noah all right?”
    The buzzer sounded and Blake pulled the net from the boiling water with his gloved hand. Steam clouded the air under the awning. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed the yellow of the school bus through the berry scrub up on the coast road. Emotions churned through him. He and his brother used to get off that bus daily. He hadn’t spoken to Geoff in . . . how long now? Probably not since Geoff had returned for their father’s funeral two and a half years ago. Theirs were not just philosophical differences, but lifestyle choices. His brother had quit Shelter Bay and the marina for the warmer climes of SoCal the month after Sherry’s murder. He’d gone to study art and classics, leaving Blake to man the marina with their dad. The unease between all three of them was rooted in complex places.
    “Meg Brogan is back in town,” Blake said. “She’s doing a book on the Sherry Brogan murder.”
    Silence hung for several beats.
    “What’re you saying?”
    Blake waved to Noah, who appeared at the top of the driveway. Noah didn’t return the salute. He scuffed his way down the drive. Damn. Something had happened again at school.
    “She’s going to be interviewing everyone, and she’ll probably call you, too. Just a heads-up.”
    Another beat of silence. Blake carried the cooked crab over to the stainless steel cleaning station, phone pressed to his ear. Gray coastal drizzle kissed his skin.
    “Listen, what happened on the spit that—”
    “I won’t lie to her, Geoff. Not by omission. Not this time. Not after—”
    “You didn’t lie. There was nothing to tell. It wouldn’t have changed a damn thing.”
    “I know you were on the south beach, at the point that afternoon. I found the sack you dropped with your beachcombing shit. What happened? Why’d you leave your bag?”
    “