Stranger on the Shore, стр. 11

Nothing.

A blank page.

In an odd way the stark creamy emptiness after pages and pages of dreamy thinking aloud and chatty commentary seemed to say more than any words could have.

There were several blank pages and then Gemma’s narrative picked up on July 4.

Ikeep thinking about how much Brian loved the fireworks last year.If I close my eyes I can hear his excited laughter and see his little hand reaching up, pretending to snatch the gold and purple and green bursts from the sky.

Griff was not sentimental, and his mental image of Gemma Arlington was of a spoiled, pampered woman who, until her child was taken from her, probably believed tragedy was another woman wearing the same dress to a party. But something in the painful simplicity of that recollection made him clear his throat.

The next entry was two days later. This was a longer passage, two or three pages.

Ihear myself saying such stupid things.It’s impossible, it’s wrong, it’s unfair...

Griff sat down in the nearest chair and began to read. After a time he was distracted by sounds from down the hall. It sounded like a herd of wildebeests had arrived complete with luggage and entourage. A couple of small dogs were yapping and a lot of voices seemed to be raised.

He lifted his head, listening.

Footsteps were approaching. A woman’s voice called, “I don’t give a shit what Daddy said. I want to see this so-called journalist for myself.”

Chapter Five

“What do you think you’re doing?” The woman standing in the doorway to the library was small and slight with white-blond hair cut austerely short. Like all the Arlingtons her brows were black, her eyes a brilliant blue. She wore biker boots, skintight jeans, and one of those short motorcycle jackets. As Griff studied her weathered face, he thought the biker boots and jacket might not be just affectation. She looked like a woman who had traveled more than a few rough roads. He recognized her—barely—from the news photos taken around the time of Brian’s kidnapping. Michaela Arlington. Jarrett’s second daughter. The youngest of the Arlington offspring.

“I’m looking through these photo albums.” Griff had had the presence of mind to return the journal to the table when he’d heard footsteps coming his way. It wasn’t hard to guess how someone already hostile to the idea of his inquiries would react to the sight of him reading from her sister-in-law’s private journal.

“You have no right to be here.”

“Well, the thing is...” he began apologetically.

“If you had any decency, you wouldn’t be here.”

“I intend no disrespect, Miss Arlington.” It was a phrase he’d got a lot of use out of through the years. One person’s news story was another’s intimate secret—sometimes worth a punch or two in the nose. Or worse. Except Brian’s kidnapping and murder was not a secret. It had been big news from practically the moment it happened.

Michaela said, “You don’t think digging up the dead is disrespectful?”

“I don’t plan on—” The rest of Griff’s speech was lost as Chloe also appeared in the doorway. She wore an ice-blue dressing gown, and she looked tousle-haired and harassed.

“Mother, this isn’t helping. You’re just embarrassing yourself.”

“Hello to you too, Chloe. Nice to know you have my back.”

“Seriously?” Chloe raked her talons through her hair, ruffling it further. “Your back is all I’ve ever had.”

Michaela’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Don’t start with me.”

“Then don’t start with me!”

Griff wisely kept his mouth shut while they went at it.

“You’re just going to piss off Grandy.”

“Grandy deserves to be pissed off if this is the kind of thing he does when my back’s turned.” Michaela turned back to Griff, did a kind of double-take as though she’d only then really gotten a good look at him. Her lip curled. “Oh. I see now. I get it. Sorry, kid. It’s not going to work.”

“Miss Arlington—”

“Save your breath. And for your information, I am not Miss Arlington. Miss Arlington is my sister. I am Mrs. Shelton.”

What was the old quote attributed to P.T. Barnum? I don’t care what the newspapers say about me as long as they spell my name right. But maybe he was being unfairly cynical. She did seem sincerely and utterly pissed off.

“Of course. Sorry,” Griff said.

Chloe tried again to drag her mother away. Michaela shrugged her off. She pointed her finger at Griff. “Pack your bags. You’re going to be out of here by lunch. No way am I about to allow this to happen.” She turned and stalked away down the hall.

No sooner did she depart than a pair of bow-legged brown-and-white spaniel-type dogs appeared in her place and began barking at Griff. They seemed to be taking turns, one yapping furiously, then pausing to let the other get a few observations in.

Chloe shook her head. “I hate my mother,” she told Griff. She bent, scooped up the dogs, and also withdrew.

Griff waited, but when no further interruptions materialized, he picked up the nearest and smallest photo album and sat down again. He wasn’t sure if he was about to be booted out or not. He assumed not. He assumed Jarrett had a pretty good idea of what he was dealing with when he’d confidently said he’d deal with objections from his kinfolk, but families were tricky. Even Griff knew that much.

Either way, best not to waste any time. He opened the album. These were all photos of Brian. Baby photos looked pretty much the same—not hugely interesting, in Griff’s opinion. He flipped through pages of Brian the infant, Brian the toddler, Brian the scrawny little kid. Snub-nosed and tow-headed. Cute enough, if you liked kids. Griff had no strong feelings either way.

He made quick notes regarding photos he’d like copies of for the book, used his phone to snap a few pictures as reminders and reference, and put the album aside. Remembering Pierce’s theory on why Jarrett had agreed to cooperate with Griff’s project, he hunted for the album dated 1993.

It wasn’t hard to pick Matthew Arlington out from all the other fading images, and yes, there was a superficial resemblance. At Griff’s age, Matthew had also been tall and fair, slight and boyish. But it wasn’t doppelganger time or anything. It probably hadn’t hurt Griff’s petition that he was the same general physical type as Matthew had been, but Jarrett seemed like a shrewd old duck. His decision to work with Griff had probably been based on a number of factors, including the supposition that being inexperienced, Griff might be easier to control. Even manipulate.

You didn’t work the crime beat, even in a little town like Janesville, without developing a mildly jaded outlook. Griffin grimaced inwardly and went back to looking for suitable photos for his book.

Thinking of which, sooner or later he was going to have to come up with a title. He’d been toying with a couple of possibilities. Little Boy Lost was his current favorite, although a quote from A Midsummer’s Night Dream might work too. It would be nice to work in something from Fitzgerald, but no. Probably not. He was sincere about not intending to deliberately cast the Arlingtons in a bad light. Of course, it might work out that way in the end, depending on what he learned over the next few days. Assuming he learned anything.

Griff continued to scrutinize pages of photos. It was like looking at magazine advertising. Lots of shots of beautiful people amusing themselves in expensive ways. Didn’t these people ever take a bad picture? Or a candid picture? Of course this was before the days of Instagram and selfies. Heck, it was before the days of cell phone cameras. Even so, it seemed like Matthew and Gemma might have kept a stash of private photos. He and Levi certainly had. Griff wasn’t looking for anything sensational, just something more...human.