grabbed his hands, two blocks of ice, but that could be because fire was running through her veins. He stood granite-still, his gaze transfixed on the girl in the white dress. His sister. Who was linked to the bomber. “Where’s Abby?”
His hands tightened around hers, two frozen manacles. “She’s dead.”
Chapter Twelve
Saturday, October 31
12:42 a.m.
W hen it came to doing business, boardrooms were overrated. Jack slid back the front passenger seat of Evie’s red convertible Beetle, slipped his knotted hands behind his head, and stared at the sky.
“Are you ready to talk?” Evie’s voice was unusually soft, almost whispery, like the breeze blowing off the Pacific. In a brilliant tactical move, she’d dragged him from LAPD and that computer screen with a portrait of his dead sister and images of all of those suns.
He pulled in a long breath of briny air. “Yes.” He hadn’t planned on having this discussion with Evie because he thought Abby and his personal quest had no bearings on the case. He ran a hand down his face. “I have no idea where to start.”
“The beginning.”
He closed his eyes and pictured his hometown in Pennsylvania fifteen years ago. That was the winter of snow drifts that closed highways, ice that toppled trees, and a sun that refused to shine. That was his last winter at home, his last winter with Abby. “The story begins with ice cream.” Something hard and heavy settled on his chest. He opened his mouth, but pressure trapped the words.
“I love this story already. What flavor?” Evie leaned toward him, so close he could feel the warmth of her breath on his cheek. “Is there cake?”
A scrappy laugh crawled up from under the boulder on his chest. The sound must have dislodged the tangle of memories. “Vanilla.” He attempted a half smile in Evie’s direction. “No cake.”
“I’ll survive.” She slid back, resting her cheek on the seat and giving him her full attention. Because Evie didn’t do anything half-assed. Which meant he’d have to give her the full story.
He stretched his neck, trying to loosen the muscles along his throat. “When I was seventeen and Abby was sixteen, we drove to town to get a pint of vanilla ice cream. Crazy thing to do on a sunless, below-freezing day in February in Pennsylvania, but my sister had this crazy idea. She wanted to make root beer floats and sit on the front porch pretending it was the Fourth of July and that the air was hot and steamy and filled with smoke from barbecues.
“Abby hated the cold. She hated our small steel-mill town in southwestern Pennsylvania. But most of all, Abby hated the weeks we’d go without sun. Mom never had Abby diagnosed, but looking back I’m sure my sister suffered from some kind of seasonal depression because she craved the sun.” He slipped the silver sun from his pocket, the half moon setting it aglow.
Evie ran her finger along the silver smile. “So you bought your little sister her very own sun.”
He nodded. “She saw the jewelry set at a local craft fair that summer but couldn’t afford it. We didn’t have money growing up. Dad died in a car accident when we were young, and Mom worked in the office at our elementary school. I’d been working odd jobs since I was twelve, saving up money to get out of a dark and dying town, but I dipped into my savings and bought the jewelry set for Abby. She loved the necklace and earrings, swore she’d never take them off. She even used a version of this sun on her signature. She was an artist. Worked mostly in oils. Lots of landscapes, many of oceans and beaches. She was wearing the jewelry set the day she died.”
When his throat tightened, Evie said softly, “Ice cream.”
He breathed in the two sweet words. “On the way home from the grocery store with that pint of ice cream, the sun came out. Abby was giddy, literally bouncing in the seat. She begged me to drive down to the river where the sun set the ice on fire. I’m not an
His hands tightened around hers, two frozen manacles. “She’s dead.”
Chapter Twelve
Saturday, October 31
12:42 a.m.
W hen it came to doing business, boardrooms were overrated. Jack slid back the front passenger seat of Evie’s red convertible Beetle, slipped his knotted hands behind his head, and stared at the sky.
“Are you ready to talk?” Evie’s voice was unusually soft, almost whispery, like the breeze blowing off the Pacific. In a brilliant tactical move, she’d dragged him from LAPD and that computer screen with a portrait of his dead sister and images of all of those suns.
He pulled in a long breath of briny air. “Yes.” He hadn’t planned on having this discussion with Evie because he thought Abby and his personal quest had no bearings on the case. He ran a hand down his face. “I have no idea where to start.”
“The beginning.”
He closed his eyes and pictured his hometown in Pennsylvania fifteen years ago. That was the winter of snow drifts that closed highways, ice that toppled trees, and a sun that refused to shine. That was his last winter at home, his last winter with Abby. “The story begins with ice cream.” Something hard and heavy settled on his chest. He opened his mouth, but pressure trapped the words.
“I love this story already. What flavor?” Evie leaned toward him, so close he could feel the warmth of her breath on his cheek. “Is there cake?”
A scrappy laugh crawled up from under the boulder on his chest. The sound must have dislodged the tangle of memories. “Vanilla.” He attempted a half smile in Evie’s direction. “No cake.”
“I’ll survive.” She slid back, resting her cheek on the seat and giving him her full attention. Because Evie didn’t do anything half-assed. Which meant he’d have to give her the full story.
He stretched his neck, trying to loosen the muscles along his throat. “When I was seventeen and Abby was sixteen, we drove to town to get a pint of vanilla ice cream. Crazy thing to do on a sunless, below-freezing day in February in Pennsylvania, but my sister had this crazy idea. She wanted to make root beer floats and sit on the front porch pretending it was the Fourth of July and that the air was hot and steamy and filled with smoke from barbecues.
“Abby hated the cold. She hated our small steel-mill town in southwestern Pennsylvania. But most of all, Abby hated the weeks we’d go without sun. Mom never had Abby diagnosed, but looking back I’m sure my sister suffered from some kind of seasonal depression because she craved the sun.” He slipped the silver sun from his pocket, the half moon setting it aglow.
Evie ran her finger along the silver smile. “So you bought your little sister her very own sun.”
He nodded. “She saw the jewelry set at a local craft fair that summer but couldn’t afford it. We didn’t have money growing up. Dad died in a car accident when we were young, and Mom worked in the office at our elementary school. I’d been working odd jobs since I was twelve, saving up money to get out of a dark and dying town, but I dipped into my savings and bought the jewelry set for Abby. She loved the necklace and earrings, swore she’d never take them off. She even used a version of this sun on her signature. She was an artist. Worked mostly in oils. Lots of landscapes, many of oceans and beaches. She was wearing the jewelry set the day she died.”
When his throat tightened, Evie said softly, “Ice cream.”
He breathed in the two sweet words. “On the way home from the grocery store with that pint of ice cream, the sun came out. Abby was giddy, literally bouncing in the seat. She begged me to drive down to the river where the sun set the ice on fire. I’m not an
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