and I had missed my one chance—No wonder she was so undone. Instinctively, impulsively, I reached out to her.
“Get away from me! I can’t go on with this. First he just leaves, leaves me to deal with everything. And now all this.”
I grabbed the door. “He grew up here, right?”
She looked terrified.
I didn’t care. “Let me see his room.”
“No! No, I’m not letting you in to see anything. Let go of my door.”
“Wait, I’m the only person you know who cared about him . . . Or maybe I’m not. Do you have sisters, other brothers? Are your parents still here? Other relatives? Who were his friends? Give me their names and I’ll leave you be. Or one, just one person to tell me about him. You’re his sister; you have to know someone!”
“People move.”
“But parents, sisters—”
“It was only us two.”
“Just one name! Now that I know he grew up here, I can check his yearbook and track down friends. My brother’s a cop so he’ll have resources, but that’ll all take time and—”
“Okay. Okay. Pernell Tancarro. I’ll call him. Wait here.”
I pulled my hand back just in time before she slammed the door.
Pernell Tancarro? Why was that name familiar?
A six-foot wall surrounded the grounds on both sides of the walk. I hoisted myself and peered over. The yard was a field of weeds. It looked like she hadn’t considered mowing since he’d left. As I lowered myself back down I shot a glance across the street and noted the patrol car waiting. In the back of my mind I’d planned on being invited inside, on taking tea and talking of Guthrie, holding my position till the patrol shift changed. Now I was going to have to come up with another escape route.
I moved closer to the street and hoisted myself high up on the fence on the other side of the walk. The yard on this side of the walk was a different world from the mess I’d just seen. It was a garden with potted geraniums and a camellia bush in the corner by the street. Surely there would be a gate in the back, leading somewhere. I leaned in, took my time peering toward the back. Let the cop wonder if I’d make my exit from the side or back. If he took the bait and drove around the corner, I could sprint across the street into the park and vanish—all perfectly legal. Or, if I could get Gabriella’s friend to let me go through the house or the yard somehow, better yet.
I dropped back down on the path.
A hand grabbed my shoulder.
13
“WHAT THE HELL are you doing?” A man pulled me off the fence from behind.
I turned, shoving free of his hands. I was expecting to be face to face with an enforcer, but what I found was a solid guy with dark hair gone gray around the temples and a pissed-off expression. “I’m trying to find out about Gabriella Guthrie’s brother.”
“Behind the fence?”
“Touché. Look, Guthrie was murdered across the street from her house and she’s carrying on like ‘so what?’”
“There’s plenty here besides her house—the park where he played as a kid, the temple pillars where grass, and who knows what all, was sold. There could be people on the next blocks he knew. Lots of connections beside a sister who hasn’t seen him since the earthquake.”
“If you’re Tancarro, you’re the only one she gave me. She said you’d tell me about him. How could he be here less than a day and end up dead?”
“I don’t know! Look, I’ve barely thought about anything else since I saw the police over there. I haven’t seen him in twenty years, and . . . He was gone for so long, he was nothing but a memory and then, suddenly, he’s here again, but dead. It’s unbelievable.” He stood, slowing shaking his head. “Tell me again who you are?”
“Darcy Lott. And you’re Pernell Tancarro, the poet! We read you in high school. I’ve been out of the loop a lot since, but I remember you’re a native San Franciscan, right?”
“Fourth generation.”
“And you’re still writing?”
He hesitated
“Get away from me! I can’t go on with this. First he just leaves, leaves me to deal with everything. And now all this.”
I grabbed the door. “He grew up here, right?”
She looked terrified.
I didn’t care. “Let me see his room.”
“No! No, I’m not letting you in to see anything. Let go of my door.”
“Wait, I’m the only person you know who cared about him . . . Or maybe I’m not. Do you have sisters, other brothers? Are your parents still here? Other relatives? Who were his friends? Give me their names and I’ll leave you be. Or one, just one person to tell me about him. You’re his sister; you have to know someone!”
“People move.”
“But parents, sisters—”
“It was only us two.”
“Just one name! Now that I know he grew up here, I can check his yearbook and track down friends. My brother’s a cop so he’ll have resources, but that’ll all take time and—”
“Okay. Okay. Pernell Tancarro. I’ll call him. Wait here.”
I pulled my hand back just in time before she slammed the door.
Pernell Tancarro? Why was that name familiar?
A six-foot wall surrounded the grounds on both sides of the walk. I hoisted myself and peered over. The yard was a field of weeds. It looked like she hadn’t considered mowing since he’d left. As I lowered myself back down I shot a glance across the street and noted the patrol car waiting. In the back of my mind I’d planned on being invited inside, on taking tea and talking of Guthrie, holding my position till the patrol shift changed. Now I was going to have to come up with another escape route.
I moved closer to the street and hoisted myself high up on the fence on the other side of the walk. The yard on this side of the walk was a different world from the mess I’d just seen. It was a garden with potted geraniums and a camellia bush in the corner by the street. Surely there would be a gate in the back, leading somewhere. I leaned in, took my time peering toward the back. Let the cop wonder if I’d make my exit from the side or back. If he took the bait and drove around the corner, I could sprint across the street into the park and vanish—all perfectly legal. Or, if I could get Gabriella’s friend to let me go through the house or the yard somehow, better yet.
I dropped back down on the path.
A hand grabbed my shoulder.
13
“WHAT THE HELL are you doing?” A man pulled me off the fence from behind.
I turned, shoving free of his hands. I was expecting to be face to face with an enforcer, but what I found was a solid guy with dark hair gone gray around the temples and a pissed-off expression. “I’m trying to find out about Gabriella Guthrie’s brother.”
“Behind the fence?”
“Touché. Look, Guthrie was murdered across the street from her house and she’s carrying on like ‘so what?’”
“There’s plenty here besides her house—the park where he played as a kid, the temple pillars where grass, and who knows what all, was sold. There could be people on the next blocks he knew. Lots of connections beside a sister who hasn’t seen him since the earthquake.”
“If you’re Tancarro, you’re the only one she gave me. She said you’d tell me about him. How could he be here less than a day and end up dead?”
“I don’t know! Look, I’ve barely thought about anything else since I saw the police over there. I haven’t seen him in twenty years, and . . . He was gone for so long, he was nothing but a memory and then, suddenly, he’s here again, but dead. It’s unbelievable.” He stood, slowing shaking his head. “Tell me again who you are?”
“Darcy Lott. And you’re Pernell Tancarro, the poet! We read you in high school. I’ve been out of the loop a lot since, but I remember you’re a native San Franciscan, right?”
“Fourth generation.”
“And you’re still writing?”
He hesitated
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