Tell Me You're Sorry

by Kevin O'Brien

Genres: General Fiction; Thrillers

Synopsis

A family is wiped out after a burglary gone wrong. An executive accused of embezzling kills himself and his loved ones. A house fire claims the lives of all its inhabitants. Separate incidents with two common threads-a first wife who took her own life, and a secret the victims took to their graves.



Stephanie Coburn has barely recovered from her sister's mysterious suicide before her brother-in-law and his new wife are murdered, her face disfigured beyond recognition. Stephanie never met the bride, has never even seen a clear photograph. But she knew her sister, and she knows something is desperately wrong.



The police won't listen. Her only ally is another victim's son. Step by step, they're uncovering a trail of brutal vengeance and a killer who will never relent-and whose forgiveness can only be earned in death.

Release date: April 29, 2014

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 544

Sample

It was the only handwritten envelope among the letters on his desk. There was no return address.

Scott Hamner, a 43-year-old ad executive with the Whetsell-Lombard Agency, had just returned from a long business lunch. He was chewing Orbit gum to combat the aftereffects of two vodka gimlets and linguine with clam sauce. Dressed in a black suit and a white shirt with no tie (it was casual Friday), he looked dapper. Though not necessarily handsome, Scott did the best with what he had. He kept his receding brown hair trimmed to a quarter of an inch to give it that balding-is-sexy look, and he visited a tanning bed weekly. He had a slight potbelly, but was in better shape than a lot of guys his age.

Whetsell-Lombard occupied the thirty-third floor of a building in Midtown, across from Bryant Park and the Public Library. From his office window, Scott had a covetable view of the skyline—with the Chrysler Building as the star.

His assistant had set the mail by his computer keyboard while he’d been out.

Scott left the other letters on his desk, and tore open the hand-addressed envelope. He stopped chewing his gum for a moment as he took out a card. On the cover was an illustration of a man’s shirt with a loud, jazzy tie. Over the shirt pocket it said in script: For a Very Special Dad . . . Fashions come and go . . .

Scott opened the card, and read the inside:


The card wasn’t signed.

Scott frowned. With Father’s Day coming up, he should have known what to expect when he’d seen the anonymous, handwritten envelope. Every year for the last three years, he’d received an unsigned Father’s Day card at work. The first one had been postmarked from New York City. He’d figured one of his kids must have sent the card and forgotten to sign it. The children had been seven and ten at the time. But when he’d asked them, neither his son, Ernie, nor his daughter, CC, had known a thing about it. He’d asked his wife, Rebecca, if maybe she’d sent it on behalf of the kids.

“Somebody sent you a Father’s Day card and didn’t sign it?” she’d countered. “Are you trying to tell me that you might have a kid out there I don’t know about?”

They’d almost had a huge fight about it. He’d insisted he’d never been unfaithful to her, which was a lie. Still, Scott was 99 percent certain he hadn’t gotten any of those women pregnant. And as far as he knew, he hadn’t knocked up any of the girls he’d dated before Rebecca. Scott had quickly dismissed it, telling his wife that the anonymous Father’s Day card must have been a prank or some mistake. He’d hoped the sooner he stopped talking about it, the sooner Rebecca might forget about it.

Scott had decided to forget about it, too. But another unsigned card had come to his office just before Father’s Day the next year. The postmark had been Phoenix. He didn’t know anyone in Phoenix. And last year, the card—a syrupy Hallmark card with a father and his kid in silhouette walking along a beach at sunset—had been from St. Louis.

For a while, he’d figured Rebecca’s younger sister, Stephanie, might have been sending the cards. She was an airline pilot, and always traveling. Maybe that explained the cards coming from different cities. Stephanie had moved in with him and Rebecca back in their Portland days when they’d practically been newlyweds. Considering the circumstances that necessitated her living with them, Scott couldn’t really object to the arrangement. But it hadn’t been easy putting up with Rebecca’s kid sister and all her late-teen traumas. They’d moved to New York while Stephanie had been attending the University of Oregon in Eugene. That had been twelve years ago. Stephanie was still single, and she visited them frequently—too frequently as far as Scott was concerned. The kids adored her. She and Rebecca were still extremely close. Scott couldn’t help feeling like a third wheel whenever Stephanie was staying with them. He’d managed to tolerate his sister-in-law’s visits for the sake of Becky and the kids. And he always sensed the feeling was mutual from Stephanie.

He would have asked her if she was the one sending the unsigned Father’s Day cards, but good God, what if she wasn’t? She was so fiercely protective of her older sister. Scott could just imagine her reaction—so much worse than Rebecca’s, all the questions and accusations and bitch bites. No, thank you.

He’d decided long ago not to say anything about it to his sister-in-law. And he hadn’t told Rebecca about the follow-up cards. It had become something unsettling and irritating that happened every Father’s Day, a secret between him and the anonymous creep sending the cards.

Scowling at the envelope for this latest one, Scott saw the postmark was Croton-on-Hudson, New York, where he lived.

“Damn it to hell, what’s going on here?” he muttered.

He liked it better when the cards had been mailed from hundreds of miles away. Sure, the first one had been postmarked from New York City, but that had been before the sender had started making the cards a yearly ritual. And besides, the city was a whole hour away from Croton-on-Hudson.

This new card had been sent by someone just minutes from his house.

He remembered Rebecca mentioning to him last night that someone had called the house three times. “I could tell they were listening to me when I answered,” she’d said. “And each time, they didn’t say a thing. They just hung up. It was strange, creepy . . .”

Scott couldn’t help wondering if it was the person who had been sending the Father’s Day cards. Maybe they’d called Rebecca again today—only they hadn’t hung up this time. They could have even stopped by the house. They could be talking to Rebecca right now.

Scott didn’t want to find out from his wife who this person was.

Reaching for the phone on his desk, he speed-dialed the landline at home. After two rings, it went to voice mail. “Hey, hon, it’s me,” he said. “Just checking in. I—um, I was wondering if you want to go to Tino’s tonight. Let me know as soon as you can, okay? Give me a call. I’ll try you on your cell.”

But when he called her cell, it went to voice mail, too. Scott left another message about going to Tino’s, an old-style Italian steak house in Hawthorne they both liked. He’d had no such plan for dinner until he’d desperately blurted it out while leaving the first message. He just needed an excuse to have her call him back. And he needed to make sure everything was okay. All these alarms were going off inside his head because of this goddamn card. His stomach was in knots.

An hour later, Scott left another message on her cell as he finished up at the office. Then on the crowded, hot, noisy Metro train to Croton-on-Hudson, he tried texting her.

Still no response.

He started to imagine Rebecca sitting at a table in Black Cow Coffee, getting an earful from some woman he’d unknowingly impregnated five or six years ago. He tried to think of who it might be. He remembered the brunette from Buffalo with the rocking ass, Marcia. He’d met her on the plane to Miami for a business trip. They’d spent three nights together at the Marriott Marquis. He remembered her saying he didn’t need a condom, because she was on the pill. She’d been dynamite in the sack, but kind of clingy-crazy, too. He’d been somewhat relieved when it had ended. But he’d faked a sad good-bye to her the morning he’d caught his plane home. He’d never heard from her again.

Was Marcia the one sending him the cards? Or was it someone else? There had been a few one-nighters around that same time, women he’d met in hotel bars while out of town. But he’d always been pretty careful and discreet. He’d kept track of his wallet, too—after taking off his pants. Sometimes, he hadn’t even used his real name. Could one of those women have somehow gotten pregnant with his child? It seemed impossible.

But our family ties last forever. Happy Father’s Day.

He tried to remember the women’s faces and wondered which one might be talking to Rebecca right now.

From the train station, Scott practically sped home. Their house was a brick, mid-century split-level on a woodsy, winding road. His wife’s SUV was in the driveway. As he hurried toward the front door, he noticed through one of the lower level windows that the family room’s big-screen TV was on. Scott let himself in, and paused on the landing. “Honey?” he called, over the blaring TV. “Honey, are you home? Becky?”

He took a few steps down toward the lower level. He found Ernie ensconced in the recliner chair and CC sitting on the sofa. On TV, two women with bad perms, a lot of makeup, and gobs of jewelry were screaming at each other. It must have been one of those Real Housewives shows. His two teenagers were barely watching it. They seemed deeply focused on their respective iPads. They didn’t even look up at him as he came down the stairs.

“Well, don’t both of you greet me at once,” he groused. “I couldn’t stand all the attention.”

“Hey,” said CC, eyes glued to her iPad.

“Hi,” Ernie muttered, glancing up for a moment.

Scott felt a little disappointed in how CC and Ernie were turning out. At least CC’s complexion was starting to clear up, and thanks to six thousand dollars’ worth of orthodontia, her teeth were finally straight. But she still hadn’t lost her baby fat, and the tight, black tee and black shorts were hardly flattering. She was going through a punk-goth phase and had recently dyed her brown hair jet black. CC probably thought she looked cool, but Scott was almost embarrassed to be seen with her. “Next time Steffi comes to stay with us,” Rebecca had promised, “we’ll both sit CC down and talk to her about her fashion choices. She’ll listen to Steffi.”

Skinny and pale, Ernie was a sweet kid, but a hopeless nerd. Scott had been a jock in high school. But his son had absolutely no interest in sports—or girls, for that matter. He liked antique cars, and decorated his bedroom with model cars and framed illustrations of every kind of automobile from the Tin Lizzie to the DeLorean. He had a pet cockatiel named Edsel. The stupid bird couldn’t talk—and it smelled up Ernie’s bedroom, even though Ernie cleaned out the big cage pretty regularly.

Scott heard the parrot squawk down the hallway. “Where’s Mom?” he asked, taking off his suit jacket.

“I dunno,” Ernie shrugged, eyes still on his iPad. He was probably in some antique-car-lovers’ chat room.

“Haven’t seen her,” muttered CC.

“Well, the car’s out there,” Scott said, exasperated. “Was she here when you guys got home or what?”

CC looked up at him long enough to roll her eyes. “I said I haven’t seen her. God!”

Ernie shook his head. “Neither have I, Dad. Sorry.”

They both went back to their iPads.

With a sigh, Scott threw his suit coat over his shoulder and treaded up the stairs to the main level. He poked his head in the kitchen, which Rebecca hated. It was small and outdated. The tiny built-in breakfast booth couldn’t even accommodate the four of them—which would have been pretty inconvenient if they’d been one of those families who ate breakfast together.

Scott noticed the Mr. Coffee machine on the counter was still on. Beside it sat Rebecca’s favorite mug with an old Rosie the Riveter illustration of a factory woman flexing her muscle, and the slogan: We Can Do It! Switching off the coffeemaker, he noticed the pot was still half full—exactly how he’d left it this morning. Her mug had some cream in the bottom of it—as if she’d dispensed the cream first, but hadn’t gotten around to pouring the coffee.

Frowning, Scott set the mug in the sink. It wasn’t like Rebecca to leave an appliance on. She always double-checked that the stove was off and the coffeemaker was unplugged whenever she left the house in the morning. She had a bit of OCD that way.

Scott stepped out of the kitchen and glanced down the hallway toward the bedrooms and the bathroom. Ernie’s domicile and antique car shrine was downstairs off the family room. Scott’s eyes scanned the open doors to the bathroom, the guest room, and CC’s bedroom. Then he squinted at the closed master bedroom door at the end of the narrow hallway.

“Becky? Honey?” he called, heading down the corridor.

He opened the door, and saw she’d made the bed. On top of it she’d laid out a pair of jeans and a black sweater.

Scott looked toward the master bathroom. The door was closed.

“Becky?” He tapped on the door and opened it.

The light was on. The first thing he noticed was one of the blue Ralph Lauren bath towels in a heap on the tiled floor. Then he saw the words scrawled in lipstick on the medicine chest mirror:


The blue and white striped shower curtain was closed. Along one white stripe near the edge, Scott noticed a red smudge. It didn’t look like lipstick.

He heard the faucet dripping steadily behind the curtain. The sound echoed off the bathroom’s tiled walls.

Moving toward the tub, Scott pulled the curtain aside. The shower curtain rings clanked against the rod. “Oh, Jesus, no,” he whispered.

Rebecca was lying in the tub with her head tipped back against the tiles. Her eyes were open, and she looked so forlorn. She wore her white terrycloth bathrobe. Blood soaked the front of it.

By Rebecca’s hand—in her lap—was an old straight razor that had been her grandfather’s. They kept it on a knickknack shelf in the bathroom—along with a shaving brush and cup. It was just a silly, sentimental decoration.

Scott had never thought of the antique razor as functional.

But now he knew the old blade was still sharp.

It was sharp enough to carve a deep crimson slit across his wife’s throat.

The only other person at Boarding Gate 6 in the A Concourse was a skinny, sixty-something Asian janitor with bad posture. He had a miserable look on his face as he swept around the rows of empty seats. His slumped state had probably come from years and years of working that pint-sized broom and the short-handled standing dustpan. He ignored CNN, playing on the TV bracketed near the top of one wall.

Stephanie Coburn figured this was as good a place as any to eat her Thanksgiving dinner.

She had a Frappuccino and a clear plastic container that held a Starbucks Turkey Rustico Panini. The least they could have done was slip a little dish of cranberry sauce in with the sandwich—for the holiday.

Stephanie had spent the last seven hours in and out of airports, surrounded by people and families making their last-minute treks home for Thanksgiving. They were on their way to see loved ones for reunions, lavish meals, and celebrations. Stephanie was on her way to Pocatello—and then to Salt Lake City, where she’d spend the night alone in a room at the Holiday Inn, before starting a reverse route back to Portland in the morning.

In her blue uniform, the pretty, slender, 33-year-old brunette was often mistaken for a flight attendant. But Stephanie was a pilot. It struck her as weird that some people—men and women—still felt squeamish about a female commanding the plane they were on. But it was something she’d learned to shrug off and not take too personally. Stephanie had been chalking up flight hours as a co-pilot for a small regional carrier, Pacific Cascade Skyways. Usually, pilots had to pay their dues, so to speak, for five to ten years before they would be considered by the major airlines. Stephanie was in her sixth year with Pacific Cascade.

She could think of worse airports in her territory to have Thanksgiving dinner alone. Some of them only had vending machines, where stale peanut butter crackers were haute cuisine. So she was way ahead of the game here with her Starbucks delicacies.

With about forty minutes to eat, she settled down in one of the seats, balanced the container on her lap and the Frappuccino on the armrest. She started eating her sandwich. Past the floor-to-ceiling windows, planes slowly taxied by. A mound of dirty slush and snow bordered the wet runway. The sky was gray, promising white-knuckled turbulence for even the most seasoned pilot. She flew a 74-seater Bombardier Q400, and it could get pretty bouncy even with just a few cloud-hurdles. Stephanie knew she was in for a choppy flight to Pocatello.

But that wasn’t why she felt the awful pang in her stomach right now.

It was because she suddenly missed her sister, Rebecca—more than ever.

Stephanie put the turkey panini back in the container. Even if she forced another bite of the sandwich, she couldn’t have swallowed a thing, because her throat was tightening. She did her damnedest to hold back the tears.

She caught the janitor staring, and turned her face away. She took a few deep breaths and tried to look interested in CNN. It didn’t help that over the airport loudspeaker they were playing “Silver Bells”—broken up every few moments by a flight announcement.

Some Thanksgiving, Stephanie thought. And Christmas promised to be equally pitiful.

After losing someone, the first holidays without them were the worst. Stephanie had learned that at age sixteen when her parents had been killed. She’d survived those first holidays without her mom and dad, because Becky and Scott had taken her in, and she’d still felt like part of a family. She’d had her older sister sharing her grief.

But now she was alone.

It had been almost six months, and she was still trying to understand why Rebecca had killed herself. Stephanie hadn’t seen it coming at all. She’d talked to her sister on the phone the day before Rebecca slit her own throat. They’d been laughing and planning Stephanie’s visit at the end of June.

Stephanie wound up going to Croton-on-Hudson two weeks ahead of schedule—to bury her sister.

Scott had been devastated. He’d asked her again and again if Rebecca had given her any indication that she was depressed or discontented. “How could she do something like this—and not leave us a note or any kind of explanation?” he’d asked.

In their mutual grief, she’d never felt so close to her brother-in-law. Scott had insisted she stay with them while she was in town for the funeral—even though it meant his mother had to stay at the neighbor’s. He’d said CC and Ernie needed their Aunt Steffi. He’d tried to give her several pieces of jewelry that had been in her family. Rebecca kept them in the safe-deposit box at the bank, taking them out only for special occasions. Stephanie had told Scott to keep them there—for CC when she got older. Scott had cried and given her a fierce hug when he’d dropped her off at the airport. It had been the first time she’d ever stayed with her sister’s family that Scott had seemed genuinely sorry to see her leave.

That was why what he’d done just a few months later had come as such a shock. When Stephanie had found out, they’d had a huge blowup over the phone and hadn’t talked since. Her sister’s funeral had been the last time she’d seen Scott and the kids. She kept in touch with CC through e-mails and texts. She’d spoken to Ernie on the phone and sent him a fifty-dollar iTunes gift card on his birthday the month before. But that was about it.

She used to feel so close to them.

Over the airport’s music system “Winter Wonderland” was playing, and it had started to sleet outside.

Stephanie managed a few more bites of her turkey sandwich, washing it down with some Frappuccino. Then she took her cell phone from her overnight bag.

Scott probably didn’t want to talk with her right now, but Stephanie clicked on their home phone number anyway. She had every right to wish her late sister’s children a happy Thanksgiving. The phone rang twice before the answering machine clicked on. “You’ve reached the Hamners,” Scott announced on the recorded greeting. “No one can come to the phone right now, but leave a message and we’ll get back to you . . .”

It used to be her sister’s voice on that greeting. She ached to hear it again.

Straightening up in the steel-and-vinyl chair, Stephanie waited for the beep. “Hi, you guys,” she said. She hated the little quaver in her voice. “I just wanted to say Happy Thanksgiving. I miss you. I—I’m between flights, calling from the Spokane airport . . .” She looked around the empty gate area. The janitor had wandered off. “Ah, not much going on, just thinking of you, that’s all. I hope I’m not interrupting your dinner. I’m not sure when you’re having it this year. Anyway, I—”

There was a click on the other end. “Aunt Steffi?”

“CC?”

“Did you get our message?” she asked. “Ernie, Dad, and I—we left you a voice mail on your home line about three hours ago. Happy Thanksgiving . . .”

Stephanie smiled wistfully. At least they’d thought of her. “Happy Thanksgiving, sweetie,” she said. “I haven’t checked my messages yet today. I’ve been flying since Monday, lucky me. In fact, I head off to Pocatello in a few minutes. I didn’t interrupt your dinner, did I?”

“No, we already ate.” Her voice dropped to a whisper: “Halle tried to cook a Turducken—you know, a chicken inside a duck inside a turkey? Talk about disgusting. This was along with soggy Stovetop Stuffing and instant mashed potatoes, which she somehow managed to screw up, too. I guess she didn’t read the directions right on the Hungry Jack box.”

Stephanie glanced at the remainder of her turkey panini in the container on the seat next to her. Suddenly, she didn’t feel so bad.

“I was trying to tell Halle about the stuffing Mom made every Thanksgiving. That was so incredible. What was in it again?”

“Italian sausage and cornbread,” Stephanie said. “I can’t imagine Halle wanted to hear about it.”

“Yeah, at just about that time, she kicked my ass out of the kitchen. Anyway, I’m going vegan after this. I really miss Mom’s cooking.” Stephanie heard her sigh on the other end of the line. “I miss Mom.”

“You and me both, honey,” Stephanie murmured. “Her culinary expertise aside, how’s it working out with your new stepmom?”

There was a silence on the other end. “Okay, I guess,” CC finally replied.

Stephanie had first found out about Halle through CC—in an e-mail, three months after Rebecca’s suicide.

Stephanie had wondered the same thing.

She got the story in bits and pieces. Apparently, Halle had come to New York for a job offer that fell through. While out pounding the pavement for work, she’d ducked into the lobby of Scott’s office building to ditch some creep who had been following her. She asked Scott if he’d act like they were together. They stood there and talked for a few minutes. That had been the start of it. He’d rescued her.

“Really, I was the one who got rescued,” Scott had maintained when Stephanie had talked to him on the phone about his new girlfriend. “And for the record, CC’s got it all blown out of proportion. There’s nothing going on. Halle and I are just friends. She’s a terrific person—and an incredible help to me right now. . . .”

Scott married her two months later, near the end of October.

Stephanie wasn’t invited to the wedding. In fact, no one was. Apparently, CC found out about it when her dad and new stepmother returned from an Atlantic City weekend, and sprung the news on her. “At first, I was really PO’d,” CC wrote in her e-mail to Stephanie. “But I guess if he has to marry someone, it might as well be Halle. She’s pretty cool, and lets me do pretty much whatever I want. I really shouldn’t bitch & moan. But the way Dad did it was just so sneaky. . . .”

CC’s e-mail had come with an attachment: a photo of Scott with his bride. Decked out in a wraparound purple dress that clung to her shapely figure, she nuzzled up beside Scott. Arms entwined, they posed on a balcony overlooking the beach, and she gazed up at him with a dreamy smile. But her face—in profile—was partially obscured by her windblown flaxen hair.

Bimbo, Stephanie thought, reviewing the photo and wishing she had a clearer image of her sister’s replacement.

She was furious with Scott. Her sister had been dead less than five months, and he’d already gotten married again—to someone she’d never even met. It had to be one of the shortest grieving periods on record. He barely knew this Halle woman, for God’s sake.

“Well, of course, you disapprove,” Scott had grumbled when she’d once again grilled him on the phone—this time about his fast-track marriage. “You think no woman is good enough to replace Rebecca. But just ask the kids about Halle. They adore her. I’d like you to meet her. But first, you need to be on board with this, Steffi. I mean, if you can’t be supportive—well, you’re still family and we all love you. But you’re so judgmental. . .”

“You know something, Scott? You’re a real asshole.”

The conversation—their last—had gone downhill from there.

Again, Stephanie had relied on her niece to fill in the blanks. Why had he been in such a hurry to marry her? “Beats me,” CC had told her on the phone a few weeks back. “Something to do with Halle getting a job offer in Philadelphia, and Dad didn’t want to lose her . . .”

But he didn’t seem to mind losing his sister-in-law. Stephanie couldn’t help feeling as if she and her sister were no longer part of his life. CC and Ernie were her only family, her last link to her sister. Now those kids had a new stepmother.

Part of Stephanie rejoiced knowing the woman couldn’t cook worth shit and they’d all had a lousy Thanksgiving. Another part of her felt sorry for them. She watched the frozen rain slash at the gate area’s floor-to-ceiling windows and listened to the misery in CC’s voice.

“Does your dad seem happy?” she asked.

“I guess so, I don’t know,” CC replied. “Why don’t you ask him? HEY, DAD!”

“Oh, no, listen, don’t bother him—”

“He wants to talk to you,” CC said. “He told me to call him when we finished. He’s right here. I miss you, Aunt Steffi. Happy Turkey Day. Fly safe.”

“Thanks, honey,” she said. She heard some murmuring on the other end.

“Close the door, will ya, CC?” Scott said, his voice a bit muffled. There was a beat, and then he came in loud and clear: “Steffi?”

“Hi, Scott,” she said, trying to sound pleasant. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“From what I heard on the answering machine before CC grabbed the phone, I gather you’re in the airport between flights. Can’t be much of a holiday for you, huh?”

“No, not much,” she admitted. She thought he sounded a bit drunk. Scott always took on a nasally tone whenever he’d had a few drinks.

“Listen, Steffi,” he whispered. “I feel crappy about the last time we talked. You had every reason to be pissed off at me. In fact, go ahead with the ‘I told you so.’ I have it coming. You were right, you know. I shouldn’t have married so soon after . . .”

He fell silent for a moment. Maybe he expected her to say something.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he continued. “Halle’s wonderful. But it’s been a challenge. I constantly test her patience, because I still miss Rebecca. I miss her something fierce. It’s crazy, I know. Anyway, go ahead and say, ‘I told you so.’ ”

“No, I don’t think I will,” Stephanie murmured. It wouldn’t have given her much satisfaction. And it wouldn’t have brought her sister back.

“I don’t know why I was so hell-bent to marry Halle so quickly,” he said. Stephanie thought she heard ice rattling in a glass—and then him slurping. “Guess I just wanted to feel normal again—and I didn’t want to lose her. She was the first decent thing to happen to me since Rebecca. But like I say, I’m just not over her. As much as I’ve tried, I can’t wrap my head around what she did. It still gnaws away at me.”

Stephanie found herself nodding over the phone. “Not a day goes by that I don’t ask myself why . . .”

“Did she ever say anything to you about a Father’s Day card?” he asked.

Stephanie frowned. “What Father’s Day card?”

“Nothing, it’s just Father’s Day was that same weekend, and I—well, never mind. If she got some upsetting news that day, she would have called you, right? I mean, you two talked about everything. You two didn’t have any secrets from each other.”

“Well, that’s what I used to think,” Stephanie said. She and Scott had been through all this before. It was actually a relief to know she wasn’t the only one still haunted by what her sister had done.

“What did you start to say about Father’s Day?” she asked, her grip tightening on the cell phone. “If you know or suspect something, tell me. I don’t care how far-fetched it seems, any theory you have—any possible explanation—”

“Rebecca scribbled something on the bathroom mirror in lipstick,” he said, cutting her off. “I—I wiped it clean before the cops or anyone else could see.”

“What?” she whispered. She couldn’t believe he hadn’t said anything about this before. “Becky wrote something on the mirror—you mean, like a suicide note? You’re just telling me this now?”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“What did she write?”

More silence.

“Scott, for God’s sake, what did it say? Why did you erase it?”

“All it said was, ‘Hate you,’ ” he muttered. “I’m assuming it was meant for me, but I’m not sure why—or what it means. I couldn’t face anyone asking