Kyle hardly paused. "Zoe, this is all so fascinating. You find the answer to one question, and it leads to another. This Sutherland connection to Lester McGrath- no one else has that. It's new material. She named one of the most famous villains of the twentieth century after someone she knew."
"For whatever reason," Zoe added.
He hunched his skinny shoulders against another cold, hard gust of wind, which tangled the ends of his longish tawny ponytail and made Zoe think twice about kayaking today. But Kyle was into his topic now. "I talked to Bruce Young's grandmother. She's in her nine-ties-she remembers hearing something about a scandal involving Posey Sutherland, but no one would discuss the details. That's provocative, don't you think?"
Zoe wondered how bored J.B. was, but, to his credit, he didn't try to change the subject. She angled Kyle a look. "Is this why my sister was out of sorts this morning, because you kept her up talking about the mystery of Posey Sutherland?"
Color rose to his cheeks, whether from the wind or self-consciousness Zoe couldn't be sure. "Yeah," he said. "She's a good sport when I get going. You know, this would all have been easier if I could have started when she was still alive-"
Zoe inhaled sharply. To his credit, Kyle realized what he'd said. "I'm sorry-I didn't mean to imply it was inconvenient of her to die when she did. I-" He stopped, peering across Zoe and looking sideways at J.B. "There must be a reason Olivia named her evil nemesis McGrath, too."
"McGrath's not an uncommon name," J.B. said.
"Yeah, but I'm thinking if Lester's from a real person, so is-"
"Stop!" Zoe groaned but tried to keep any sting out of her voice. "Kyle, I just had a huge breakfast that I need to walk off. I have no idea where Aunt Olivia came up with the name for Mr. Lester McGrath. I can see you're serious about this documentary, but I loved Olivia-I still miss her and think about her every day. This is all fun and interesting for you, but for me-"
"I understand," Kyle said quickly, almost sheepishly, and dropped back and shoved his hands into his pants pockets, his nose red now. But he was sullen, too, insulted. "I don't pretend I had the connection to her that you do, but she knew my family for decades-"
J.B. cut him off. "You've got a famous grandfather. Why don't you do a documentary about him?"
Kyle shook his head, taking J.B.'s question seriously. "That'd be taking on too much too soon. I'm not ready to touch my grandfather." He seemed to have no idea that anyone might consider his comment offensive and moved along. "There's something else. Christina said I'd have to ask you-she's unbending on the subject and won't give me permission herself. She says it's your house now. If you'll let me, I'd like to take a look in Olivia's attic."
"There's nothing up there," Zoe said, refusing even to glance in J.B.'s direction.
"Maybe as far as you're concerned, but she died only last year." Kyle's tone was formal, as if he were in a real negotiation and not just asking a favor of a friend. "Given the circumstances, I'm guessing you haven't had a chance to go through all her belongings yet. The house has been sitting empty for the better part of a year. If I can just go through-"
"Kyle, I know it must be so tempting for you, but you have to realize that Aunt Olivia took great care to make arrangements for when she was no longer around. She left nothing to chance. If there's anything in her attic, it'll only be what she wanted her family and any ghouls to find-"
He stopped dead in his tracks. "Is that what you think I am? A ghoul? This is a serious documentary."
"Of course it is," Zoe said. He looked so hurt. "I didn't mean to imply you were a ghoul. Look, let me think about it, okay?"
"Fair enough." He grinned suddenly, cuffed her on the shoulder. "Hey, it's good to have you back. I'll see you around, okay?"
He turned and trotted back down toward the docks, apparently delighted with her response. Zoe had the feeling agreeing even to consider his request was more than he'd expected. Feeling the cold, she knotted her hands into fists and slipped them up inside her sleeves again, picking up her pace as another cold breeze gusted off the water. She hadn't counted on the wind.
"That kid isn't doing a scholarly documentary," J.B. said. His tone was matter-of-fact, not critical. "He's looking for drama, titillation, scandal."
Zoe nodded. "You're probably right, but I hope not. Christina isn't worried-she knows him better than I do."
"Blinded by her feelings for him."
"That's cynical."
"Just stating the obvious." He wasn't argumentative, and he looked at her without expression. "Your father's death will be in it."
"It has to be, doesn't it?" She didn't mean for him to answer, and he didn't. "Aunt Olivia died the next morning."
"You blame yourself?"
"I shouldn't have told her." She pictured her great-aunt that afternoon, her thin white hair sticking out in soft white waves, like angels' wings, as she tried to remember the name of whoever it was she believed had killed her only nephew. Zoe pulled her lips between her teeth, fighting for self-control. "I thought she'd find out and it'd be better to come from me, but I should have had her doctor with me-"
"Everyone says her doctor told you it wouldn't have made any difference. That wasn't what killed her."
I know who killed Patrick. Oh, Zoe, why can't I remember anything anymore?
"Damn."
She shot ahead of McGrath, then started to jog, her legs aching almost immediately, the wind whipping tears out of her eyes. She'd been on a run on a morning just like this a year ago, an incredible future ahead of her, everything she wanted, everything she'd worked so hard for, at her fingertips. All of it had evaporated the moment she'd spotted her father's body in the wet, cold sand.
J.B. fell in beside her. He wasn't running, hadn't made a sound. He was just suddenly there, inches away from her as she slowed to a walk. "I thought I could handle being back here." She was breathing hard, not just from running but also from the tension and swirl of emotions-grief, fear, anger, frustration. An FBI agent in Goose Harbor, the break-ins, Teddy Shelton. Did they have any connection to her father's murder? Crazy to think so. Yet she couldn't stop herself. "I've been away a year and haven't resolved anything-I know that. But I thought-I thought at least I could get up this morning and have a nice breakfast, go out kayaking-"
"You had a nice breakfast. You can still kayak." A hint of humor came into his tone. "Might want to wait for the wind to die down."
She stared down at the gray, jagged rocks, a short stretch of pebble-and-gravel beach. The tide was out. Two seagulls picked at an exposed clump of dark green, slimy seaweed.
She'd gotten to her father before the gulls had. She remembered that.
J.B.'s calm was a counter to her sense of frenzy, her uneasiness. "How many people knew you liked to run in the nature preserve?" he asked abruptly, quietly.
She didn't hesitate. She'd answered this question before, at least a dozen times. "I don't know. Everyone. No one. I never thought about it."
"No way someone would mistake your father for you."
She shook her head as if he were asking a question. "No. I can't believe that. There's no evidence-nothing to suggest whoever killed him was gunning for me. Technically-" She broke off, shaking her head. "Technically it's possible, but it doesn't seem likely."
"Any leftover cases from your state police days?"
"CID looked into it, and I've racked my mind for months. No, there's nothing." She breathed out, smelling the low tide now, wondering how she'd stayed away for as long as she had. "You'd think there'd be a record if my dad was investigating Teddy Shelton. You sure that guy was keeping tabs on me?"
"No. Could be a coincidence."
"But you don't think so."
"I'm keeping an open mind."
Her own smile took her by surprise. "You're on va-cation-you don't need to keep an open mind."